Young & Beautiful

together and nobody questions that, do they?) that there’s another knock at the front door.
Louis blinks.
A visitor? At this hour? They don’t even get visitors.
He opens it suspiciously, slowly, before he’s practically bowled over by a ball of blonde energy.
“Heya mate! Good morning!” Niall booms, thundering into the flat and breaking the quiet
serenity. “Sorry I didn’t come home last night—figured you’d be sleeping anyways. But here I am
now! I’ve really got to make another spare key and have Rory keep a set.” His clear blue eyes and
pale, golden hair look like the morning, his smile shooting forth the rays of the sun, his rumpled
green jumper and black suede jacket soft and clean like fresh grass.
But Louis still wants to kill him. With a shovel.
“Shh!” he reprimands, glaring. “Keep your damn voice down will you, man? He’s still sleeping!”
It’s just as Louis is inwardly beating himself with a shovel (he absolutely did not intend to inform
Niall of Harry’s choice of sleeping quarters because that is going to turn into a whole thing) that
Niall’s confused eyes skim clear past Louis, settling somewhere over his right shoulder.
Fuck.
Louis’ stomach plonks a bit as Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, spinning around almost fearfully despite
fully knowing what to expect.
And yep. There, in the frame of Louis’ bedroom door, is Harry Styles, sleep rumpled and crinkly,
his whipped curls lying in glossy chunks, his eyes wide and puffy, blearily blinking into the
golden light that streams through the windows and cloaks his limbs. His clothes are sloppy and
unkempt—his white shirt (adorned in tiny embroidered rabbits which Louis isn’t endeared by at
all, except he absolutely is) is almost completely unbuttoned, displaying his scribbled tattoos and
smooth chest. His trousers are zipped, not buttoned, and look a right state.
Basically, he looks like he’s been thoroughly fucked.
And Louis is the main suspect. He wants to stick his head under the sink and run the water for
seven hours.
“Oh,” Niall says, surprised, eyes widening almost as much as his grin. “I wasn’t aware we were
keeping Harry Styleses here now. Good morning, mate. Nice shirt.” Niall speaks easy, almost
smug, his eyes occasionally glancing victoriously at Louis—who currently wants to throw a
blender at the little shit—and moving forward to muss up Harry’s curls even further.
Louis feels his lips twitch at Harry’s kitten scowl, batting away Niall hands with the most childish
pout known to man.
“I wouldn’t worry, Curly, just let him do his thing,” Louis says with a fighting smile. “It can’t look
any worse than it already is.” He looks pointedly at his hair and he feels his smile intensify as
Harry brings a self-conscious hand to it.
He sifts his fingers through the tangled clumps, his eyes cast to the floor. He doesn’t respond,
doesn’t laugh, just glides his fingers across his scalp, his feet pressed together, his other hand fisted
loosely at his side.
He seems…off. Harry seems off.