Young & Beautiful

**
It’s late in the evening on a Friday night. It’s freezing cold and a bit snowy, the school grounds
quiet, icy, and white.
Zayn’s gone to the library. Niall and Liam had to do something with the rowing club—Louis can’t
be bothered to remember what.
So Louis opted to join Harry in his rooms, bringing his bag full of books and a promise of “We’re
going to do homework tonight, Sir Styles.”
They’re sitting in the candlelit room watching a cold rain fall, Harry fiddling with his violin on the
couch beside Louis. They’ve put on the film “Wilde” in the background—Harry claims it should
be playing always—and the stars are visible through Harry’s wide windows, as are the clusters of
white fluff that descend from the heavens. Harry’s eyes wander to the picturesque scene, but
Louis watches Harry instead as he always ends up doing somehow, watches the practiced ease
with which he slides the bow along the strings, eyes occasionally flitting to the movie in bored
pleasure.
Their books lie untouched around them, opened halfheartedly (Louis really did try), a Victorian
china set being the only thing that’s been put to use since today’s study session began those three
hours ago.
Niall keeps texting Louis to “come party wit me wanker” but Louis ignores him, because
watching Harry is fun and watching Harry is mesmerizing, and their quiet conversations and silly,
unexpected laughs are worth far more than any over-indulged Uni party could offer.
Harry’s skin is smooth, burning soft amber from the flickers of candle flames. His deft hands
continue to slide the bow, his fingernails clean and perfectly formed. “I CAN’T CHANGE”
flashes harsh against the soft glow of his wrist. He isn’t wearing his watch. The inked words are
loud and Louis can’t take his eyes off of them.
Harry’s eyes are on the film, silent and watchful.
Louis’ eyes are on Harry’s wrist, intense and burning.
The movie prattles on and there’s a gaping space between their bodies on the couch, but the space
is filling up with the words screaming from Harry’s wrist and the weeping notes of the music. And
it’s all really sort of entrancing, really. Louis feels like he’s high and he’s hasn’t even smoked in
weeks. There’s just something about the moment, with the snow and Harry’s wispy curls that
tickle his cheeks and the whine of the violin, that makes everything feel dream-like and unreal,
makes it all seem hazy and poignant. And there’s Harry, without his watch, the watch he always,
always wears because he hides that tattoo, hides it, and--
And before he realizes what he’s doing, Louis’ clasping his warm fingers around Harry’s cool
wrist, rubbing his thumb along the words.
The violin stops immediately.
“Why did you get this if you always hide it?” Louis mumbles inquisitively, favorite teacup nestled
between his thighs, bare feet tucked beneath him.
Harry’s eyes flash down to their point of contact, dark and muddled. Slowly, he sets down his
violin, before extending his arm closer to Louis, who inspects it closer, thumbs still rubbing along
the cold flesh.