Young & Beautiful

edge of a precipice, and there’s about twenty pounding, silent seconds of indecision before, at last,
Harry drops his hand.
Slowly, he turns around.
“I’m not really…” he begins, and his eyes are cast aside. He’s biting his lip. “I don’t feel like…”
he tries again, sliding a hand over the back of his neck with unease.
“Not tired?” Louis supplies, all bright eyes and pounding heart.
Harry reveals a tiny smile, glancing up at Louis. “Not tired,” he confirms.
Something unravels in Louis’ stomach. He beams, patting the space beside him.
“Well, then. You might as well keep me company because I’m not tired either.”
Harry’s grin blinds the room, sending it into white light, and as he makes his way over and sits
down carefully, Louis feels like singing. He tucks his feet under him, sitting cross-legged, and
folds his hands neatly in his lap, suddenly wishing he was more sober and less sweaty, that his
hair wasn’t tangled with alcohol and paint and hair product. Oh well.
“I’m never tired, you know,” he says conversationally as he observes Harry who has suddenly
become something resembling shy. Which is new.
“Why?” Harry mumbles without looking up, studying his hands.
“Because I’m immortal,” Louis says simply, and the calm naturalness of it erupts a laugh from
Harry.
“You’re not like anyone I know,” Harry comments after a few moments of chuckling, amused.
He’s looking at Louis now, smile small. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ll wear that label proudly, my friend.”
Harry chuckles again.
There’s a few moments of silence, calm and quiet. It’s peaceful, it is, but Louis’ drunken mind is
procuring questions—important questions—startlingly fast and he can’t think of any reasons not to
ask them, not when Harry is choosing to be here, not when Harry is happy, not when they’re
finally mates.
So. He asks.
“Does your father hurt you, Harry?”
And it drops like a boulder into the room, solid and loud and final. But Louis won’t take it back.
He watches as Harry’s smile wipes clean from his mouth, watches his gaze avert and his hands
clench. His brow immediately furrows and, just like that, Harry is distant.
Louis sits up a bit straighter, palms sweaty. “I know that’s…I know. I probably shouldn’t have
asked it like that. I know. I’m sorry. But it’s worrying, yeah? You don’t have to tell me, you don’t
have to acknowledge the question at all, but, like… I have to ask. I have to. I’m sorry,” he
bumbles, slurring a bit, and he really, really wishes he were more sober.
At that, Harry eases some, his hands unclenching, and he shuts his eyes tightly as a sigh escapes
him, wracking his body. Louis can’t stop watching him.