Young & Beautiful

Louis’ chest pings.
“Harry,” he says, his voice regaining its sense of normalcy. “Harry, c'mon, mate. Look at me.”
“Why are you even here?” Harry asks darkly, stepping out of Louis’ reach and still not facing
him. Why won’t he look at him?
Louis swallows. “I-I wanted to study.”
“It’s the end of term. You don’t need me to tutor you anymore.” Harry, head bent, is now walking
towards his bedroom.
So Louis follows him.
“I just want to study. Here. Like I have been,” he says, and his voice is quiet now, uncomfortable
and upset because what is happening? Something’s wrong.
“Just go, Louis.”
It pings again, but Louis ignores it.
“Harry. Look at me?”
“Go,” he says more forcefully.
Pings harder.
“Look at me please?” Louis asks, and he doesn’t even care that he’s begging, now standing close
behind Harry who has stopped, having entered his room, the dusty light from the windows
illuminating his side.
Harry’s shoulders tense and his fists clench. But slowly, ever so slowly, he turns around, slowly
lifting his head.
The beginnings of a smile form on Louis’ lips as he’s met with the familiar sight of Harry’s face—
and then it’s gone and hot, pulsing anger grips at his veins instead.
Because bruises.
Dark, shining, metallic bruises.
One by Harry’s temple, muddled and purple. One at the corner of his eye, almost black, etched in
red. One—Louis swallows his own bile—pressed into his neck. It looks alarmingly like a
thumbprint. And there’s a swollen edge of the lip. And a small cut beside it.
And the air has become suffocating.
“Harry,” Louis cracks out, immediately reaching his hand to touch, to soothe, but Harry winces
away, his eyes nearly fearful and his brow scowling.
“They’ll go away soon enough,” Harry snaps, voice gravelly, “They’re not permanent.”
“Yes they are.”
Louis wants to cry. He wants to punch someone. But his brain can’t catch up and he doesn’t
know who to punch or why or what or how or—