Young & Beautiful

“A little party never killed nobody,” Harry smiles pleasantly before bringing a teacup to his lips
and sipping daintily, pinky up.
Louis feels his insides grinning. Utter sap.
“Perfect,” Niall beams. “Because I’ve already invited everybody.”
Zayn’s laughter, intertwined with the curls of smoke, bounces around the room.
So tonight it is.
**
The party is…incredible.
Far too many people arrive of course and it gets very stuffy and hot very soon, but in the heart of it
all are Zayn, Liam, Niall, Louis, and Harry, and they never stray too far from each other through
the chaos, so it’s fun.
Louis is trepid at first—him and Harry at parties has proven to be a recipe for disaster in the past—
and he’s even preparing himself to be ignored, as is custom, while Harry adorns his mask and
shags the guest list, but…
It doesn’t happen.
Harry doesn’t put on his mask. He doesn’t change or charm emptily or pretend Louis isn’t there.
He stays with Louis, laughing at his jokes and pouring him drinks and toasting the world,
announcing to the room, “The whole world is our playground!” while he looks at Louis and when
they drink, neither dares to break eye contact.
It’s sort of intoxicating, really. A lot, really.
And as people press against Harry and try to subtly push Louis away (because who is Louis?
Who’s his family? His name doesn’t sound familiar), Harry ignores them. He smiles charmingly
and flicks their buttons and says something coy in his syrupy voice and then he leaves them
behind to seek out Louis, standing so, so close to him. He smiles down at him, his breath perfumes
Louis’ face, the warmth of his body saturates Louis’ clothes, and he follows him and they pass
cigarettes back and forth and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh as they drink, drink, drink.
At one point, Harry showers them all in champagne and rose petals—“Where the fuck did you get
roses?!” Niall laughs drunkenly, tackling him in a bear-hug—and they all laugh because they’re
young, wet and drunk and warm, petals sticking to their skin as snow swirls past their damp
windowpanes.
“With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?” Harry shouts, red grin
plastering his face, as the room stares at him reverently, guests laughing like hyenas and snapping
Instagram pics; which would normally send Louis into fits of rage and annoyance because he
hates the harpies, hates them, but now all he can do is watch Harry and the way he smiles as he
presses sloppy kisses to Zayn and Liam and Niall.
“I adore you, Harry Styles!” Louis shouts because he can, because his veins are hot with alcohol,
and Harry turns to him with a wide, sparkling grin and a dimple fit for a thumbprint and
everything is gold.
Because if Harry seems to be sticking to Louis, following him around, Louis sticks to Harry
harder.