Young & Beautiful

amongst the candles and crystals, a neat fedora resting atop it. They both look gorgeous, look even
better together, shrouded in their charcoals and ebonies, their shoes shiny and sleek and so fucking
pristine. Everything about Zayn and Liam is pristine.
And it makes Louis smile as he enters, wearing his own indecently tight black trousers, Oxfords,
and patterned blue button-up (“Blouse,” Niall named it bluntly. “Not blouse,” Louis countered
hatefully), flicking his hair out of his eyes as Liam paws at Zayn who just holds him all the closer,
adoration imbedded in the fibers of his smile.
They’re so fucking adorable.
“You’re so fucking disgusting,” Niall gags almost immediately, shaking his head and immediately
picking up a cigar and a bottle of Hennessey. “Isn’t it exhausting, being so up each other’s arses
all the goddamn day?”
Zayn’s smile widens, but he never takes his eyes off of Liam. “Never.”
Liam giggles more, delighted, burying his face in Zayn’s neck.
This is the point Louis would normally respond, throw back some amusing comment that
simultaneously slanders both the happy couple and Niall, but.
But.
But, unfortunately, Louis’ eyes are caught somewhere else.
Because Harry is here.
And Harry’s not alone.
“Harry,” Louis says immediately upon seeing him, the name sitting in the air, dead.
Harry—who is currently in a chair beneath a pile of scantily clad bodies—looks up instantly, his
hair mussed from several different hands, a few specks of glitter flecking his cheeks. His eyes are
hazy.
“Louis Tomlinson,” he sing-songs, before grinning and returning his attention back to the tiny
blonde girl who is currently biting his cheek.
Biting. His. Cheek.
The bitch is actually biting him. Like a chew toy. And Harry is…laughing? Harry likes being
gnawed on? Like yesterday’s newspaper? Like a bit of chicken that won’t unstick from the bone?
He’s just letting this tart glaze his face in her mouth and this is a worthwhile experience?
Fuck shit fuck shit.
In this moment, Louis feels very connected to Zeus. Hurling lightning bolts at humans seems like
a very plausible and pleasurable past time. Fire engulfs Louis.
“Hello,” he greets, his voice already an octave lower, an odd feeling clawing at the back of his
throat as he watches the pile of bodies cover Harry’s own, laughing and simpering and pouring
back glasses of champagne. Cigarettes are passed between them all, lipstick and spit marring the
ends, and Louis watches as a young boy with feathery golden hair slides it between Harry’s lips,
his eyes intent on his face.