Young & Beautiful

Depart. Louis tries not to roll his eyes at his uppity cordiality, despite his intense feelings of…
whatever it is he’s feeling.
And then the words sink in.
Zayn? Luncheon? Tomorrow? Huh?
“Funny,” Louis says, furrowing his brow, “he never said anything.”
There’s a quiet moment then, where Harry doesn’t reply but just merely studies Louis’ face in the
quiet, amber light of the limo, the icy drizzle creating metallic clunks as it collides with the metal
of the roof.
At last, he speaks, lips slow to form the words. "Until tomorrow then, Louis.”
Louis nods, feeling a smile form. “Indeed, Harold.”
And Harry smiles again, small and beatifically despite the red rims of his eyes and the exhaustion
that pales his skin. It’s sort of like when there’s a wildflower that sprouts from an errant crack in
concrete—a small, glorious splash of color that struggles through the mundane and changes the
world with its simplistic perfection. That’s what Harry’s smiles are like.
… Too much champagne. Simplistic perfection? This is just getting extremely embarrassing.
“Goodnight, Curly,” Louis forces himself to say before he starts mentally comparing Harry’s lips
to rose petals (because of the champagne, obviously), and is just climbing out of the car when
Harry’s hand lands on his wrist, warm and solid against the icy breezes that are now slinking
through the open door.
“No. Stay. Burns will drive you to your flat.”
“Harry,” Louis protests, feeling sudden, flooding warmth bloom within his ribs because his body
is an over-sensitive sap. “It's no big deal. It’s not even a five minute walk—“
“I insist,” Harry presses, hand still clamped on his wrist. “It’s freezing outside. And raining.
Please. Let him drive you back.”
And maybe it’s because Harry Styles said ‘please’ or maybe it’s because it really is freezing
outside and the walk is absolutely more than five minutes, but Louis begrudgingly closes the door
of the limo and sits back inside, unable to resist a light roll of the eyes.
Harry almost beams, pleased and relieved.
Louis thinks he really needs to stop drinking, given the way his chest feels a bit caved in and
irreparable.
“Thank you. Now. Goodnight, Louis.” With one last lingering press of his hand upon Louis’
wrist, Harry climbs out of the vehicle, Burns already at his door and holding an umbrella. Louis
watches as his blurry, darkened form disappears into the night.
Until tomorrow, then.
**
It’s as Louis is lying in bed, safe and warm (and Niall still isn’t home, which is of no surprise
whatsoever) that Louis decides to send the most useless text he’s ever sent.