Young & Beautiful

have vanished, his shoulders now slumped and hands quiet. He merely stands there, adorned in
his long, leopard print t-shirt that last for ages (which…the fuck?) and painfully tight trousers, his
hair curling around his ears. His eyes look greener today.
“Why did you leave so early last night?” he asks, voice quiet, childlike. The words are soft and
raspy, catching in the winter air and settling on the crisp remains of dead leaves. His lips are pale
and his skin is porcelain and marred in a sleepless night filled with excess. Naturally, it’s fucking
beautiful. He looks fucking beautiful.
The asshole.
“Because I didn’t want to be there, obviously,” Louis answers sharply. He folds his arms over his
chest, ignoring the way the breeze tumbles Harry’s curls and how one flutters in his eye, tangling
with his lashes.
Harry’s eyes widen still more. “You didn’t like it?” he asks in a small voice and it’s like Louis’
just knocked down his ice cream cone, the boy’s lips one step away from quivering.
Fuck. Just fuck.
“Of course I liked it, you curly haired cunt,” Louis sighs, his voice far less fierce than he’d
intended. “But next time you choose to ignore my general existence, don’t expect a fucking
parade for it.”
There. Brute honesty. Its feels good, just seeping it out into the air. Relieving.
The words cause Harry’s stare to morph from hurt to confusion as he observes Louis closely. “I
wasn’t—I just—I didn’t do it on purpose—“ is all he can muster out, his words stumbling over
themselves. His head drops when he gives up his attempts at articulation, and he paws at the
ground.
“Well,” Louis says, feeling his anger dwindle (which is just terribly inconvenient), “That’s not
really an excuse, is it?” But his throat is really dry now and fuck, it sort of does feel like an excuse.
Ugh.
Once more, Harry falls silent, his eyes cast to the ground. His ebony lashes cut across the ivory
planes of his face, which is poetic enough in and of itself, not to mention unfairly endearing.
Bastard.
“I didn’t want you to go.”
Fuck.
It’s said quietly to the ground, only so that the cobblestones, the ancient stone, the dead ivy, and
Louis can hear. And Louis’ heart, which promptly splits in two. Or has it been mended?
Fuck.
FUCK.
Louis might fall down.
He swallows. “Then why did you act that way? So…indifferent, like? Cold,” Louis asks, his
voice bathed in total honesty, and as he stares, hard, at Harry, he allows his face to assemble into