Young & Beautiful

to live the night, it’s Louis and Harry.
It’s Louis and Harry drifting to sleep on Zayn’s couch as they swig the dregs of their drinks and
clink crystal during toasts they make in their slurred exhaustion, the candles burning down and
their voices lowering.
It’s Louis and Harry sitting in silence when Harry’s had a bad day and the boys were just too
much—and Louis could sense it the whole time as he watched the stiff line of his shoulders, the
quiet distance in his eyes, could sense that it was all just too much—and they sit together in peace,
Harry staring out the window and Louis breathing beside him.
It’s Louis and Harry laughing into their teacups when Liam’s newspaper has a deadline and he’s
running around like a headless chicken, with Zayn at his side, purring calming words.
It’s Louis and Harry shaking their heads fondly when Niall’s reading the latest review of “Certain
Things” on his iPhone, giving special emphasis to the bits where they mention “solid drums” or
“energetic beats” or any such compliments that he can attribute to himself.
It’s Louis and Harry being the last ones to answer whenever the lads propose to go out for the
night again, looking at each other in a sort of wistful ‘but we’d rather just stay in and be cozy’
manner that Zayn is always, always watching, a gentle smirk playing upon his lips.
It’s Louis and Harry when Louis goes to Harry’s rooms to study every day after his courses, to
sometimes do actual work and to sometimes not, instead opting for little ‘getting-to-know-allabout-you’s
that Louis likes to slip in when Harry’s not paying attention. He’ll offhandedly sneak
in a “Where were you born?” or “What are your favorite things?” or “Why do you have so many
cat figures?” The typical things.
Sometimes Harry catches on, stops himself from answering if it’s too personal, focusing a squinted
look at Louis as if inspecting him with caution.
“Why are you asking me this?” he’ll say, brow dark and creased, lowering his violin.
Louis will beam, tilting his head happily. “I’m gonna ask you everything, Curly. Every question
that I can think of.”
“But why?”
“Because I want to know everything,” he’ll say simply, and Harry will turn away quickly, going
back to his music, perched on the edge of a beautiful wooden chair as Louis lazes in plush velvet
and pours himself another glass of champagne, watching Harry over the rim.
Because another thing Louis’ learned about Harry is that he’s fucking brilliant—especially
musically. And he’s passionate about it. He’s constantly creating, constantly practicing, filling the
silence of the room with the most beautiful sounds and Louis always watches him, mesmerized by
what’s being made right in front of him, lost in the atmosphere that Harry creates so seamlessly.
But when Louis asks him about it, tries to touch foot on some ground—“You quite love music,
don’t you?”—he’s met with a solid wall with no give.
“Not really, no,” Harry will say before ceasing immediately. Because he would rather empty his
veins than reveal the seriousness he holds in regards to it, and would still rather die poor than
admit the inspiration he seeks from it.
Louis is beginning to discover that Harry Styles is a vase, filled to the brim with the most beautiful
treasures, but demands to be empty, wishes to be barren. No matter how much the world wants to
be part of him, wants to fill the hollowed out corners. He’s wants to feel nothing, wants to have