Young & Beautiful

dripping down the back of his neck and giving him goosebumps. Their breath fogs before them as
quickly as it fades and it pours from them in waterfalls as they laugh and taunt and sing their way
through the night.
It’s like this that Louis loves seeing Harry the most.
When Harry forgets that he doesn’t want to feel, forgets that he doesn’t know how, forgets his
demons, and just is. It’s like watching a bird that’s been caged its whole existence and is suddenly
released, overwhelmed with freedom and life, filling its lungs with what it never dared breathe and
filling its eyes with what it never dared see.
Harry, wild-eyed and bushy-haired and just so free and happy. Giggling manically as he speeds
down the cobbled streets, his flesh pigmented, his blood-red mouth wide and gaping in laughter
and joy and…reckless abandonment, really.
Harry, who stops his bike to wait for Louis even though it’s supposed to be a race, looking back
over his shoulder at him, his eyes instinctually seeking him out, excited.
Harry, who tugs Louis along by his cold hand whenever he gets distracted by a sign or the sound
of an owl.
Harry, who insists on having Louis take photographs of him in his flushed glee because “This is
an artistic moment, Louis, we must immortalize it.”
Harry, who sits happily on his bike as they rest atop a hill overlooking the town, the sky
swallowing them whole as they catch their breath. Who stares at the stars that alight his face and
who quietly smiles as he looks up.
Because Harry’s looking up a lot lately.
And as Harry watches the sky, Louis watches Harry. Side by side, antique bike by antique
fucking bike (because really, eyeroll), Harry watches the moon fade and fall, and Louis watches
Harry and the delicate lines of his profile that’s bathed in serenity and soft, blue glows, perched
atop the hill, atop their bikes, feet planting them on the ground, the tips of Louis’ right shoe
touching Harry’s left.
“I should like to be the sky,” Harry breathes in plumes, lips slick and painfully red.
‘It’s got nothing on you,’ is what Louis wants to say. Which. Is… Yeah.
“I should like to be the sun,” Louis replies instead, before finally ripping his gaze away from
Harry and looking up as well. “And you can be the moon.”
“But then we’d never see each other,” Harry says, hurt, and Louis looks over to him. He’s staring
at Louis with a kitten-like disappointment, a sweet pout on his lips.
Fuck.
“Not so, young one. The moon shines because of the sun, you know. Because the sun’s always
there. Just like me,” Louis says happily. “And don’t even get me started on those eclipses.”
He can feel Harry’s grin grow into a beam. A moonbeam.
“Okay. Then I don’t mind,” Harry hums, and when Louis looks back to him, his chest tightening
and his throat dry, Harry’s already looking back up at the sky, his smile wide and unyielding.