Young & Beautiful

It’s going to be a long night.
**
When they finally arrive at the club, it’s absolutely packed.
The first thing Liam does is guzzle down a row of shots, passing every other one to each of the
lads as they toast. Louis hears one of the girls in Harry’s harem whisper a, “Can I drink mine out
of your dimple?” with a little giggle and Louis almost smashes the tiny glass in his hand instantly.
It wouldn’t even matter if he did, in all honesty. He already feels shards of something cutting him
up.
Everything sucks.
“Let’s dance!” Niall roars, eyes on Louis (he’s still worrying, still pitying, can probably see the
tension in Louis’ grip, the frustration in his eyes) and grabs his hand and flings him into the mass
of gyrating bodies.
So Louis dances, leaving Harry behind.
**
An immeasurable amount of time goes by, and all Louis is familiar with is the sound of a thick,
steady beat that presses against his ribs and heart, clogging his throat, and the continuous flash of
neon lights that saturate the sweaty limbs of the bodies pushed all around him. The shadows cast
on the walls are eery, everyone’s arms looking like snakes. His hair is wet and hot, his skin moist
and sparkling, and his jeans feel suffocating and tight, splattered in beer and martinis. He feels a
bit like he’s drowning, drowning in lava or color or maybe just plain water—boiling water—and
he’s been bought several drinks by a very pretty boy with good hair and clean teeth.
Pretty Boy is currently dancing with (on?) him. Has been dancing on him for the past five songs
or so.
Niall’s nearby, is keeping an eye on Louis seemingly, repeatedly motioning questions to Louis
that Louis thinks mean “Is he bothering you?” and “Do you want me to get rid of him?” Bless
Niall and his protective streak. It warms Louis’ erratic heart.
Truth is, Pretty Boy is sorta bothering him. And he does want to get rid of him. He doesn’t feel it,
doesn’t feel any connection or pulsing attraction—only a mild sort of interest at seeing a pretty
face so close.
But Louis doesn’t get rid of him. He doesn’t, he won’t, because ever since Pretty Boy has taken
an interest in Louis, Harry’s eyes have never left them. From every single angle of the club, from
every corner and crowd they’ve been pressed to, Harry’s always found them, always watched
them.
Louis watches him watching them.
Watches Harry’s harpies losing interest as he guzzles drink after drink, never removing his gaze
from Louis, never bothering to touch or soothe them as they pet his legs and slide hands beneath
his jacket. One by one, they drift away, float away, rot away.
The beat pounds harder, the whole world sickly blue and bright.
Pretty Boy breathes on Louis’ neck. “You’re fucking gorgeous. The fittest boy I’ve ever seen,” he