Young & Beautiful

‘Oh how I love a bit of classical fruit in the morning’ Louis texts back, before almost immediately
receiving every fruit emoji in the damn book and, no, he really can’t explain it.
**
It’s four in the afternoon, the sun is out, the weather is cold but very bearable, and Louis is
walking through Harry’s door, straight from his last lecture, dumping his bag in ‘Louis’ Bag’s
Chair’ (“That’s a priceless antique, you know,” Harry will say icily whenever Louis calls it such;
Louis will just smile and flick his hair and say, “I wouldn’t expect anything less for my bag”
which makes Harry glare and laugh at the same time) and toeing off his shoes, beaming as Harry
looks up from his desk where he’s writing something in his journal—and that alone sends a
warmth dripping down Louis’ spine, the thought that his quote is still in there, secret and hidden
and unspoken—with his quill and ink.
“What took you so long?” Harry asks, brow furrowed, mouth set in a pout, the sun setting fire to
his hair.
Flickers of that fire alight within Louis’ skin cells. Because Harry’s pouting because Louis is late
and…and Louis’ skin cells are on fire.
“Spoke to the professor after class,” he smiles, slipping off his jacket. “Wanted him to look over
my paper.” He smirks, sliding off his beanie and smoothing his hair. “Think he’s got a crush on
me though—he took forever and he barely helped at all. Think he just wanted me to sit next to
him, to be quite honest.”
Harry’s brow furrows all the more. “You should’ve asked me,” he says, voice childlike and so
very pouty. It’s ridiculous, or at least it should be. But for some reason it just makes Louis warm.
Harry returns his attention to the paper before him, dipping his quill in the ink carefully. “I’m
brilliant, you know.”
At that, Louis walks up to him, pinches his nose as the sunbeams soak into his skin. “You’re
cheeky,” he says, looking down at him not fondly. Nope.
The touch immediately melts any pout away from Harry, leaving him to smile sunnily up at Louis,
face bright and open like a children’s book.
“Have you a lot to study tonight?” he asks, setting his quill down and just smiling from his chair,
sunlight shimmering on the contours of his quirked lips.
“Nothing to study, actually,” Louis says. “So.” He grazes his fingers along the top of the desk,
skims his eyes over the sheets of paper before Harry. “I was figuring we could ride bikes. I terribly
miss bikes.”
Harry’s smile quirks into a smirk before he rises from the desk with a sigh. “I only ride antique
bikes, I’m afraid.”
Louis narrows his eyes, unimpressed. “Of course you do,” he remarks flatly.
Harry shoots him a glare. “Luckily,” he says icily, before his smile returns, undeterred, “I have
some. Shall I have Burns drop them off?”
“Oh, indeed-lio,” Louis says in his poshest voice, and Harry throws him another glare as he
saunters towards his bedroom, looking narrow and endlessly long in his tight black trousers and
blackest black button-up shirt, pushed to the elbows and revealing his scribbled tattoos. His hair is
dark and clustered high and his skin is translucently white and he’s…beautiful. It’s just a fact.
Harry is beautiful. Louis doesn’t think about it, Louis doesn’t care about it but, yeah, Harry Styles