Young & Beautiful

It’s heartbreaking, really. And Louis knows, knows he shouldn’t care, knows he shouldn’t feel
bad for Harry when Harry just doesn’t care about him in return or want him in his life at all… But
he can’t help it.
So he watches Harry scramble around looking for answers, his face slack and perfect and the very
portrait of a Shakespeare tragedy. It’s like watching the final scene of Hamlet, all within his
features. A mass murder, a total destruction, a bloodbath.
Except Louis thinks Harry is probably Ophelia and he’s probably already drowned.
**
It’s later now, past midnight, but the party only grows louder, more bodies stuffed into the space,
and the elegance is slipping into something more familiar—debauchery. And Niall’s probably at
the heart of it all and Louis should probably find him soon if he wants a ride back to their flat, but
all Louis can do is notice that Harry is gone.
He’d gone missing while Louis had went to the loo—and narrowly avoided a cluster of very
insistent men who looked as if they were about to gobble Louis up whole—and he’s searched
every damn corner of the building, only to come up with absolutely nothing. And he’s about to
give up, about to just say ‘fuck it’ and bury himself in distraction and pleasure, when a niggling
thought makes its way to his brain, and suddenly, Louis knows where Harry is. He just does.
Quietly, he makes his way outside. He wanders around the outskirts of the building, searching
with squinted, determined eyes in the darkness against the icy breezes, the moon dim and bitter,
until he sees a lone figure perched on the grand stone stairs leading to the balcony.
He knows immediately that he’s found him.
He doesn’t bother approaching timidly, doesn’t waste time in wondering if this is okay or if this is
a mistake. He just walks to Harry, walks up to him, and as soon as his footsteps begin crunching
against the frozen grass within Harry’s range of hearing, the boy’s head snaps up. The darkness
hides his face. All Louis can see is the outline of his body and his mess of curly hair that glows
blue.
Wordlessly, Louis sits beside him. The stone is freezing under his bum, instantly sending a shiver
through his body. It’s also hard as fuck.
Good thing he drank so much champagne.
Harry’s staring at him, wildly and confused, almost fearfully, his face fully turned towards him
and his brow pinched to the point where it looks downright uncomfortable. His features are lit up
by moonlight from this angle, and everything looks fragile, like it’s made from porcelain or
delicate pottery. Truth be told, Harry probably really is made of delicate pottery. With tiny, tiny
cracks covering the surface. Cracks that show in Harry’s face at this very moment.
Louis ignores the cracks, just clasps his hands together and stares up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” Harry finally asks, voice low and raspy. He hasn’t blinked.
“Sitting with you. Obviously.” Louis smirks a bit, ignoring the butterfly conservatory that’s just
sprouted inside of his stomach, trying to make the situation light.
There’s a heavy pause.