Young & Beautiful

“Who did this to you?” he demands, his voice stronger than he intends, and his fury shakes his
voice. “Was it that piece of shit?”
“No,” Harry immediately replies, and he’s turning his back to him again, walking straight towards
his piano and lifting the cover. He sits down heavily, the bench squeaking in the dusty afternoon
air that feels too cold and too hot and it might be killing Louis.
“Who did it,” Louis repeats, and he wants to remain soft and gentle, doesn’t want to scare Harry,
but his emotions have lain siege to his brain and he can’t think or act properly, can only feel.
“Who?”
“Well it doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?” Harry snaps, body fully tensed, and his head
inclines towards Louis but never turns to face him. And then suddenly he’s shuffling through his
sheet music.
Louis stares, helpless and so, so fucking angry. And so, so fucking scared.
“Harry,” he attempts, voice now succumbing to his body. It’s brittle and broken and evaporates
quickly into the air.
Harry begins tapping at the keys of the piano. Almost manically.
“Harry.”
The keys plonk harshly in the air, jumbling together, and Harry’s head is bent over. His shirt is
still open. Louis wonders if he’s cold and can only think of wrapping him in a blanket—
something soft and warm and luxurious. Something that will soothe him and protect him and heal
him.
Louis wants to cry.
“Harry.”
Immediately, a mess of piano keys are crashed down, furious and frustrated, as Harry slams his
hands down, shooting himself upwards in a standing position and knocking the bench to the
ground. “I’m fucking busy, Louis. Can you just go the fuck away?!” he shouts. He’s breathing
heavily, his arms are shaking, and the echo of the piano resonates ominously within the room, low
and haunting.
And fuck.
Louis’ vision blurs. Actual tears are thick in his eyes and they’re threatening to spill over and
Louis hates this part of the crying process. That in-between bit where you’ve already teared up but
nothing’s fallen, nothing’s spilled down your dry cheeks, and you’re just balancing between
composure and chaos.
He evens his breathing—which shakes betrayingly—and stares upward, willing his eyes to absorb
the tears back where they belong—far, far away from the world outside.
“I don’t want—“ he finally begins once he’s had a sense of composure, but then Harry’s whirling
around, his own eyes glassy and red and almost excruciatingly pained.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want,” he bellows, fists clenched. A stray sheet of music falls from
the piano, where it’d been perched haphazardly. It settles on the ground, somewhere near Louis’
stomach. Maybe his heart, too. “I don’t need your fucking concern, Louis fucking Tomlinson. I
don’t need your pity or your intrusiveness or your fucking presence in my life at all. You don’t