Young & Beautiful

**
He feels so fucking stupid.
Stupid because he dressed for that stupid fucking party—and proceeded to get ignored.
Stupid because he was the one that introduced Harry to the goddamn gingerbread and he’s the
reason it’s Harry’s new thing—he practically fucking inspired the party—and received no credit
whatsoever. Rather, Harry lied about it.
Stupid because he had thought, after two successful, drama free days with Harry, that maybe
things were going to be okay. That this was how it was going to be from now on.
Stupid because he had made Harry laugh and he thought that changed the world.
Stupid because he was ready to beat the masses off with bats if they so much as displeased Harry
tonight—and yet Harry chose them over Louis.
Stupid because all of this upset him so much that he couldn’t even enjoy himself, and instead
ruined his fucking night and made him leave early because it all just felt so fucking shitty.
Stupid because here he is, standing in front of Harry’s door—which is probably locked—and
ready to go inside to get his goddamn eggnog or whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called suit jacket, and he’s
just always standing outside of Harry’s door, isn’t he?
He just feels so fucking stupid.
Still though, he turns the doorknob, his face set into a scowl that hurts, his body itching to crumble
onto his bed as soon as this is done, and is only mildly disapproving when he finds it open—what
does he care if somebody busts in Harry’s rooms and knicks his shit? Those creepy-ass cat
figurines need to go anyway.
It’s dark inside, the moonlight casting silvery shadows on everything, and the stark bleakness and
emptiness feels very representative of everything right now. Where earlier, just hours before, these
same rooms were filled with the sounds of Harry’s laughter and the uneven sounds of Louis being
taught piano, there is now nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Because it’s all gone. And Louis was wrong about everything.
Very representative.
Stone silent and defeated, Louis flicks on the light, immediately spotting his jacket lying carelessly
on the surface of Harry’s desk. He doesn’t dilly-dally, just strides over and plucks it up, and is
ready to slide it over his cold shoulders and flee back to his flat when he catches sight of a small,
leather-bound book that had been lying hidden underneath.
Huh.
He didn’t know Harry kept a journal.
He’s not going to read it—he’s not an intrusive fuck, after all—but he does brush his fingers
against the worn cover, his heart fleetingly pinging at the thought of the mad scribbles and bits of
heartfelt poetry that he’s sure litters the insides. The jumbled compositions and music notations
and little glances into Harry’s soul…
It’s lightly reassuring, really. In some odd way, it’s reassuring to know that Harry does have that