Young & Beautiful

Louis is lying atop his tattoo, protective and gentle.
It’s sort of like Louis’ being electrocuted. That’s what it feels like.
Harry’s sort of brushing the back of his thumb along Louis’ fingers and it’s a nearly impossible
angle and should be awkward, but it’s…
Louis wants to live in this, wants to dig a hole in this and bury his bones and his fibers in it
forever.
But of course he manages to ruin it.
“You need to stop living with your father,” is what his mouth decides is the best thing to say in
this moment, and just like that, Harry’s hand is snatched away.
“Pardon me?” he asks, shutters closing.
Louis’ heart sinks, crashes through the floorboards. Because he's a fucking idiot.
“How can you live with a man who wants to fix you?” he implores gently, maintaining his calm
beneath the small stabs of panic and frustration as Harry scoots away from him, scowling.
“Everything you just said—that’s not right, Harry. He didn’t see you? You, of all people? You
should be seen by the world, Harry, your name should be written in bloody textbooks, for fuck's
sake, and—“
“He’s still my fucking father,” Harry snaps, standing up. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“So tell me!” Louis begs, standing up as well. “Tell me and maybe I can help—“
“What? Help me? Maybe you can help me? What fucking right do you have to insinuate that I
need help?” Harry asks, voice icier than the ground outside.
“Help the situation,” Louis amends, and now Harry’s stalking to his room, angry and closed off,
so Louis trots behind him.
“I’m not leaving him,” he snarls as he suddenly whips around, finger pointed in Louis’ face—who
almost walks into him, startled. “And this is the last time I’m going to tell you that, do you
understand?” Harry’s angry breath is puffing in Louis’ face. The atmosphere has been smashed,
sending shards of glass everywhere.
And Louis stares at Harry, swallowing because he just…can’t.
Slowly, he shakes his head, never breaking his eyes away from Harry’s burning, dull ones.
At that, Harry seems taken aback, his countenance immediately changing. He drops his hand, his
anger seeping from his face as he stares at Louis, searching and lost. They remain this way for
awhile, Harry staring, bereft of speech, while Louis stares back unblinkingly, softly.
And then Harry walks away, sits on the piano bench, and sinks his shoulders, his head hung ever
so slightly as he stares out the windows by his bed.
So Louis sits beside him.
Silently, they sit, watching the snow drift, watching the shadows of candle flames against the
walls as the movie continues in the other room, nearing its end.
Harry is so shadowed and worn beside him, struggling in ways Louis may never understand, so