Young & Beautiful

He’s tired, he’s cold, he’s a bit sick from eating so much and doing absolutely nothing, and he
certainly doesn’t want to get up from the couch, even for Niall. Doesn’t he have Rory for this kind
of shit?
“Coming, you knob!” Louis grumbles as he gets up, ripping the blankets off of him and stalking
forward. Why does he have friends again?
He opens the door forcefully, painting his face in unabashed annoyance as he greets Niall with,
“Well, what took you so fucking long?”
Except.
Harry.
It’s. Harry.
It’s not Niall.
It’s Harry.
Harry’s standing at the door. Harry’s there, with his long black jacket and white shirt and tight
trousers and black boots and wilted curls and a face that’s pink from the wind, a face that look
lost, and it’s Harry that’s standing at his door and not Niall.
“Harry,” he manages, his whole demeanor shifting, hand immediately dropping from the door and
falling limply to his side. “What are you doing here?” he asks, everything buzzing. Questions are
pelting his skull, his fingers itch, there’s so much confusion and relief and anger in him… But all
he can do is stare.
Harry stares back, breathing heavy, eyes pained and scared and kissed with exhaustion. He looks
like an abandoned kitten, dark and shadowed and abysmally alone, and somehow so small despite
his height and prestige. Despite his long limbs and neverending torso.
“I didn’t want to go home,” is all he says quietly. He’s not blinking, just staring at Louis.
“Come in, you idiot,” Louis says, but his insides are panicked, flashing with worry as he tugs him
inside, shutting the door behind him.
Harry looks around, a bit lost, a bit fearful, just standing still. Almost as if not daring to move.
Louis notes the state of the room—the crumpled crisp bags strewn about on the couch, the crumbs
in the cushions, the paraphernalia that litter the coffee table beside half-drunk bottles of beer and
whiskey.
“Er, this way,” he says, leading Harry to his room and away from his nest of shame.
As soon as they enter, Harry sits on the edge of the bed, stiff and rigid. His hands are buried deep
in his pockets and he drops his head, stares down at his feet. He’s flushed and Louis wonders how
cold his skin is to the touch, wonders how long he’s been outside. He brings a hand up to his
cheek—freezing.
Harry doesn’t move away, just closes his eyes at the contact.
“You’re so cold,” Louis says quietly, but he doesn’t remove his hand. He can’t.
Harry nods, but remains silent, eyes still closed.