Young & Beautiful

Two heads are smoking cigarettes on the steps of another glorious house. So many houses.
“You lost?” one asks, exhaling.
“Never lost,” Louis slurs, clunking towards them.
“You smoke?” the other asks, amused.
“Everything,” Louis breathes, and another cigarette is pressed into his mouth.
“Come inside,” they say as the world spins, and it looks warm and loud and perfect, so Louis
follows.
It’s just like the other parties, the other houses. Everything’s the same. Everybody’s the same. It all
blends together.
He spends the rest of the night on a couch, staring at inanimate objects that seem to have faces,
mocking him and laughing as he floats, the room spinning and swirling, the stars from the night
sky just out of reach.
He can’t fucking move.
He’s so fucking tired.
He’s so fucking miserable.
Eventually, he passes out, chaos swirling around him.
**
He wakes up to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around his body, hoisting him upright. The
sound of music slowly fills his ears, everything’s too bright, and there are so many voices.
It takes a moment to register that he’s still at the party. Wherever the fuck this party is.
He blinks awake, throat bone dry, head already pulsating as the arms drag him through the house,
his legs somehow participating. He looks to the face beside him, to the body that’s supporting him,
as they stumble out the door, and Louis’ eyes can barely adjust. He realizes he’s wearing a jacket
when the icy breeze doesn’t lick his flesh. When he realizes that he feels warm. Where did that
come from? Maybe this person gave him this jacket. He tries to focus his gaze on said person.
Curls.
Pale skin.
… Harry.
Harry.
It’s Harry.
But Louis is fucking drunk, is out of his fucking mind right now, and can only barely manage to
slur his name.
Harry’s heaving him into a car—where did that come from?—and Louis thinks he hears his own
voice chanting Harry’s name like a mantra. Harry doesn’t respond to it though, just sits beside