Young & Beautiful

Then:
“Why?”
But it’s not cold, it’s not angry. It’s confused. It’s guarded. It’s…hopeful?
Or maybe Louis’ just imagining that.
“Because.” And now Louis turns to face Harry, sets his eyes on him, and it’s the closest he’s been
to him in what feels like ages, years, centuries. Millenniums. “I want to make sure you’re all
right.”
And it’s there.
It’s then that Harry’s face actually physically breaks, his furrowed brow releasing and his eyes
flooding with something and his lips parting ever so slightly. He’s shaking his head, shaking his
head with disbelief, and his voice is agitated, confused, and so worn out.
“Why do you care?” he asks desperately, but he doesn’t move away from Louis and he doesn’t
look away.
Louis inhales, exhales, and is so cold he might actually die of hypothermia, but he stares at Harry
unflinchingly and all he wants to do is press the pads of his fingers to his skin, to make sure
Harry’s all there and nothing’s broken. That the cracks really aren’t there. He clenches his fist on
his thigh to fight the urge.
“Because, Harry. I do. Even if you don’t care about me in return, I care about you. I just do.
Simple as that. And I need to know if you’re all right,” he says quietly, in the most honest tone he
can manage.
It’s like the surface of the earth actually cracks then. That’s what it feels like.
Because one minute Louis is staring at Harry as if he’s behind glass, distant and untouchable, and
then suddenly everything that’s hanging in the air just bursts, and Harry crumples. He starts
sobbing—openly, unashamedly, and bluntly—and he’s slumped, hugging himself around the
middle as tears just pour down his face, and Louis watches this, startled, watches Harry’s eyes
press tightly closed, watches his mouth go slack, watches as he breaks in front of him and sobs.
“Harry,” Louis can only barely manage, shocked and startlingly affected, his voice cracking, and
fuck, this hurts, this is painful. And he doesn’t care, he has to fucking touch him, to comfort, so he
wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulls him to his chest, his own eyes glistening.
Harry doesn’t protest, doesn’t fight one bit, just lets himself be engulfed as he clutches Louis' shirt
tightly within his fists, too many tears spilling freely over the cotton, and his shakes rack through
Louis’ body and soul and so Louis clutches him tighter as the moon watches them. It's a lot.
“Louis,” Harry manages amidst his sobs, and it’s said so broken, so ruined, so destroyed and
pitiful, that Louis thinks he might just die. He might actually die.
Because in that one voice, he can hear every broken bit inside Harry. He can hear every single
thing that went wrong in his life, every struggle, every ounce of pain, and suddenly he just
understands it all. Understands how fucked up this all is. He can hear everything in Harry that’s
clung to his soul and his very makeup—like stepping onto glass, imbedding shards and leaving
scars, too delicate of incisions to ever properly heal or smooth over.
It’s then that he lets his own tears fall—and fuck, he hates crying, especially hates it when the tears