Young & Beautiful

teacup in lazy circles, and his eyes are dazed, staring sightlessly forward.
And that’s. fucking. it.
That’s all that Louis can take.
“Right. If you’ll excuse me, lads,” he breathes, breaking free of Zayn and Liam’s grips. They look
to him, watchful and a little hesitant, but they let him go all the same. Doing his best to remain
calm, Louis pushes past Harry, brushing his body against his sharply, and stalks forward into the
crowd.
**
It doesn’t get any better.
The night is a fucking shambles.
It’s not at all how Louis envisioned it. There’s no laughing or joking with Harry. There are no
secret jokes or Louis defending him from harpies or Harry finding his eyes from across the room
and smiling. There’s no cohosting and no memories and no photos taken and, worst of all maybe,
Harry’s wearing his goddamn watch. Even after he said he wouldn’t.
It’s like Louis’ just watched his tower of cards tumble to the goddamn ground and now it’s being
trampled on by ignorant passerby and everything is just shitty. It’s really shitty.
The music is festive and beautiful, the violin croons out ghostly melodies, and the lads are in their
typical form, laughing and dancing, consuming drugs and alcohol like there’s no tomorrow. And
Louis tries, he does, tries to have fun and dance and gulp down everything that will put a smile on
his face, but everything only makes him angrier, and no matter what he consumes, he can’t
prevent his eyes from sliding to Harry, the picture perfect host, who cascades around the room and
poses for photographs and presses wine-stained lips to person after person, all in the name of
‘mistletoe.’
It’s pretty unbearable.
And Louis attempts to forget. He willingly falls into conversations he normally wouldn’t, pretends
to bond with anybody that will have him, laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, and allows overprimped
boy after over-primped boy to chat him up and press against him on the dancefloor.
But it never lasts for long.
Not when Louis’ insides squirm and Harry’s very presence is a constant, stabbing reminder of
why he feels angry.
So it’s not very surprising when, at around quarter after eleven, Louis begins to dial a cab on his
phone, ignoring Liam’s gestures to join him and Zayn on the dancefloor, and instead focuses on
the way Niall is currently chanting an Irish folksong with several unidentifiable lads, their arms all
slung around each other’s shoulders as they stomp on tabletops and slosh beer out of the pints that
they raise into the sky.
The last thing he sees, as he’s silently winding his way through the crowd and out the door, is the
sight of Harry, grinning and happy, wrapped up in several pairs of arms, being fed biscuits and
punch, his bow tie being plucked undone by a boy with magenta hair.
It reignites the flames Louis had spent the night trying to stifle, and he exits out the door, never
looking back.