Young & Beautiful

“This was only two days ago.”
“We were friends,” Harry continues, voice strained, removing his hand, “but things have changed.
They have, Louis. I’m sorry but I don’t want you in my life anymore.”
There’s something about the pleading in Harry’s voice. There’s something about the sincerity of
his eyes—like they mean what he’s saying—that hurts Louis. That digs the words into the soft,
vulnerable bits of his soul and body and leave no mercy.
“Harry,” he says, voice cracking.
And shit. Shit shit shit. He feels his eyes burning, feels a heavy, hot moisture coat the surface. He
can’t fucking cry. He will not fucking cry. Louis Tomlinson does not cry. For anything--not even
Harry Styles.
“You’re my best mate,” he says quietly, angrily, everything becoming blurry against his will.
Fuck.
Harry swallows, pushes his chair out, his eyes dark.
“I have to go,” he manages, voice thick.
“Harry,” Louis says again, forcefully, angrily, a tear managing to escape. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Please don’t say my name,” is the last thing Louis hears Harry beg, fucking beg, as he hurries out
of the café, alone, cold, and dark.
Fuck.
**
It’s been six hours since Harry told Louis he doesn’t want him in his life anymore, but it feels
more like a handful of minutes. Just a cluster of silent minutes that scream white noise and make
Louis wish he was stoned. But instead he’s on his couch, texting Stan his despair (he tells Louis
that the girls are well, his mum is even well—at least there’s some light in his dark chasm of a life)
and praying for Niall to get home from rowing practice so he can just have another body in the
room.
Because everything is too silent and too cold.
Basically, everything sucks.
Fortunately, it’s not long before the door bursts open.
“Ready to go out?” Niall sings, sweaty from rowing practice (how the fuck do they even have
practice, Louis wants to know) and glowing with all the opportunity of a Sunday night. Which,
really, shouldn’t have any opportunity.
Louis just wants to watch YouTube videos about cats and eat cheese. That sounds like
opportunity.
“I’m never leaving the flat again, Niall,” he mumbles, staring at the ceiling. He feels sick.
“What’s wrong?” Niall asks, peering over the couch at him, eyebrow raised. His cheeks are pink
and flushed, his blonde hair disheveled.
“Everything.”