Young & Beautiful

**
After Louis is nice and scrubbed and his feet have been soaking in bleach water, he emerges from
the bathroom pink-cheeked and clad in the coziest clothes he possesses in hopes to cushion the
emotional trauma. Because Louis Tomlinson has been vomited on, and how does one move on
from that experience? Part of him dies inside if he gets a bit of wee on himself—vomit’s in its own
category entirely.
Thoughts back-and-forthing between “I hate Zayn fucking Malik” and “I am finding my inner
peace,” Louis crawls in to bed, brings his textbooks with him, puts on the calming sounds of
nature on his iPod, lights his candles, and shuts every curtain and door in the flat. He’s never
opening the windows again.
Eventually, Louis achieves his inner peace, feeling snuggly and cozy as he does his homework,
swaddled in blankets. He’s just beginning to wonder where Niall is when he begins drifting to
sleep, book propped open, angry, revengeful doodles of Zayn Malik drawn into the margins.
Because how had Louis thought he looked fucking innocent? The boy’s a puking machine.
It feels as if he’s only just shut his eyes when he is suddenly awoken by the sound of a door
slamming, accompanied by a slew of laughter and shouted farewells coupled with some inside
jokes.
Groaning with all the misery that is his life, Louis lifts his head off of the book, paper crusted to
his face, thoroughly dazed and confused.
“Louis! Mate!” Niall’s voice calls through the void.
And no, Louis is not feeling sociable. All he can manage to process right now is that his light is
still on and needs to be shut off if he’s going to fall back asleep—which he most certainly is going
to do.
So Louis sits up, limbs groggy, rubbing his eyes, about to shut the light off, when he suddenly
hears:
“What the fucking cunt is this pile of shite??”
And then Louis remembers.
He clears his throat, sleep-voice already set in. “You’re not looking at a pile of vomit by chance,
are you?”
Without another word Niall comes into the room, eyes dilated, hair far more mussed than Louis
had styled it to be, clothes hanging off of him in sweaty droops.
“What the—are you all right, mate? Are you ill?”
Louis groans, sinking his head as he rubs his hands over his face. He cannot comprehend this
situation right now, doesn't even want to touch on the topic of Zayn Malik and his regurgitation.
“Nope. How was the party, then?”
And luckily, Niall has the attention span of a goldfish.
“It was fuckin’ incredible! It was at some hotel, there was this huge room, and it was the craziest
thing I’ve ever been at! I mean, I knew they said it was good, but I was not expecting that,” he
laughs, leaning against the door frame with a dazed expression. He considers for a moment. “But,