Young & Beautiful

scene before him.
It’s Harry.
And a boy.
A boy who has Harry pressed against the wall, devouring his body with guiltless, hungry hands
and a hideous wet mouth, as Harry’s eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling, head tilted back. His shirt
is unbuttoned and pushed haphazardly off his milky shoulders, revealing his broad expanse of
tattoo-scribbled chest. His trousers are unzipped, the stranger’s hands now slinking into them,
apparently unaware of Louis’ presence, and the scene is ghastly and sickening because the
stranger is just taking and Harry is just allowing it, hands pressed against the wall almost patiently,
and he can’t even get a good look of Harry’s face because this fucking person is just crowding
him, suffocating him, drowning him, and fuck—
“The fuck is this?!” Louis snaps without being able to control himself. He realizes his whole body
has begun to shake, his fists clenched, and he’s debating which textbook of his is the heaviest (and
would provide the most damage when thrown forcefully at another’s head) as he storms forward,
dropping his shoulder bag, his eyes desperately trying to seek out Harry but being blocked by the
fucking stranger who is now upright and swiveling around wildly, shocked and angry.
At hearing Louis’ voice, Harry immediately turns away, his face hidden, his shoulders tiny, and he
looks so unkempt and picked apart and beautiful and disassembled and tragic and fuck, Louis is
going kill someone.
He sets his fury on the stranger before him, a boy with dirty blonde hair and cutting blue eyes,
chiseled from stone and glazed in want, the very portrait of something that would look excellent
on the receiving end of Louis’ fist. Or a pitchfork. Which this kid probably possesses, because
isn’t it Satan who carries one around?
Louis’ pores might be steaming.
The boy glares at Louis, haughty and perturbed, already beginning to reach for Harry again.
“It’s not your turn,” is all he says in his uppity, posh voice.
And Louis punches him in the face.
“THE FUCK?!” the boy shouts, clutching his face, blood already beginning to leak out of his
nose and, fuck, if that isn’t satisfaction, then Louis doesn’t know what is.
“Get the fuck out!” Louis shouts, his whole body shivering with adrenaline, and he doesn’t care if
this is out of line or if Harry’s going to get mad at him—he just needs this kid gone. And gone
now.
Luckily Louis must look as scary as he feels because without another word the boy is scrambling
out the door, hand still covering his face, hastily grabbing his jacket on the way out.
As soon as the door slams, Louis spins around to Harry who is still averted from him, cowering
against the wall.
“You didn’t have to do that, Louis,” his says, his voice harsh and cutting through the air.
“Yes I fucking did,” Louis responds, breathing through his nose, his chest heaving, and he dares
to reach out a hand, placing it gently on Harry’s shoulder. He flinches and shoves it away.