Young & Beautiful

fucking pretentious.
And Louis, standing in his ridiculous eggnog themed garb, feels like a fucking fool. He also forgot
his jacket at Harry’s. So there’s that as well.
“Let’s say hi to Harry,” Zayn breathes in his ear, ushering him forward by the elbow, and then
Liam’s on the other side of him, smiling in that clean, practiced way of his and taking his other
elbow.
It only serves to irritate Louis more.
“I can say hi whenever I like, thanks,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t protest any further than that,
his eyes focusing on Harry as he comes into closer view.
Like clockwork, the guests around him begin to dissipate, kissing his cheeks and sliding
manicured hands over his broad torso. Only a few stick around, skulking on the outskirts of
Harry’s personal space, dragging eyes over his beautifully dressed figure—crushed ginger velvet
with a silver bow tie and mistletoe corsage which is not one of the outfits Louis had selected—and
drinking punch hungrily though it never quenches their thirst.
Louis feels homicidal.
“My darling guests!” Harry greets winningly as soon as he sees them, Niall ambling up behind the
trio, open bottle pressed to his lips. Harry’s eyes are wide with delight, genuinely pleased to see
them, and they flit to Louis repeatedly, holding his smile, but it’s still not enough, and Louis’ pride
prevents him from returning it.
“Harry,” Zayn breathes and Liam smiles, while Niall thunders a, “Mate!” and claps him thickly on
the back.
“You came early,” is all Louis says, and Harry nods, curls bouncing.
“I did. I had to make last minute adjustments.” He takes in Louis’ suit. “I normally don’t approve
of such blatant disregard for my rules”—Louis scoffs as the word ‘rules’—“but I quite like what
you did. Eggnog?” he asks with a smirk.
Louis nods.
“How charming,” Harry says, and it’s smooth and luscious and Christmas-y and just…strange.
Cocky, maybe. Or hollow. Or all of the above.
In any case, it feels ingenuine and posed, and if there is some genuine sentiment lying beneath the
surface, Louis doesn’t really care because Harry ‘s eyes are skimming across the sea of heads for
familiar faces and he’s…just…
Louis doesn’t know.
But he doesn’t like it.
Still though, he tries. “I’ve seen that you really do like the whole ‘gingerbread’ thing,” Louis
attempts through a smile that feels tight on his cheeks. “I’m glad.”
“How did you come up with it, Harold? It’s so odd,” one of the hanger-ons inquires, her golden
hair curled and sprayed, her lips alarmingly red and pulled over too-white teeth.
“It’s just something that came to me,” he responds lazily, running his fingertips over the rim of his