Young & Beautiful

is beautiful.
Obviously.
“I want to play you something,” Harry says conversationally, words monotonous, creeping into
the air at their slowest pace. “I’ve written some songs. Tell me how good they are.”
“Who says they’ll be good?” Louis teases, following him.
“They’re always good,” Harry smirks, but it falls as he sits on the piano bench, Louis sitting
beside him without hesitation, intent as he props his chin on his hand, blinking expectantly. Harry
glances down at the keys before bringing his gaze back up, his features trepid, his hands still. “But
tell me, yeah? Be honest?”
Louis chews on the inside of his cheek, his chest prickling at Harry’s wide, hesitant eyes and—
“I’m always honest,” Louis promises, hoping he sounds flippant but knowing he sounds
pathetically gentle and it sends a wave through him, through the room, even. Through the
universe? Maybe he’s being dramatic.
But he can be dramatic if he damn well pleases.
Harry watches him, stares at him, and then smiles softly.
“You’re a good friend,” he smiles quietly, and it warms Louis still more—even though Harry has
a habit of saying little things like this lately, when the sunlight catches him just right—and makes
him press just that bit closer to him.
“I am,” Louis agrees with a sigh and angelic smile. “And I guess you are, too. You sentimental
sap.”
Harry beams and then brings his hands down upon the piano keys.
The song’s gorgeous—they always are—and Harry plays Louis every song he’s written, and even
the unwritten ones, and Louis applauds and smiles through them all, very much swept away in a
wave of sound. He sings along and makes up ridiculous, awful lyrics “Harry ate a banana that he
found in his cabana,” etc., and Harry tries not to laugh or roll his eyes as he concentrates, but he
always does, and he never gets mad at Louis.
“You’re ridiculous,” he always says, and he laughs as he continues to play, elbow brushing Louis’
side, smile brushing Louis’ eyes.
**
Before too long, they ditch the piano and Burns brings the antique bikes.
They’re tiny and ornate and look like they’re about to crumble apart—“And, pray tell Curly, just
how is my ass supposed to fit on this seat?” “The same way it manages to fit into this room—
suspend your disbelief, Louis Tomlinson.”—but they clamber on them anyway and they’re not
nearly as uncomfortable as they look. And after shooting a text to Niall saying that he won’t be
home till later and not to wait for him for dinner, Louis rides along with Harry into the night, the
tires of the bikes slick against the wet pavement in the cold, frigid air.
They laugh as they race through the empty streets, the sound echoing and bouncing off of the
timeless, creaky buildings and cold, frosty glass of the darkened shop windows, and soon their
cheeks are burning red and their eyes are glass and a cold sweat has formed on Louis’ body,