Young & Beautiful

Louis and never lets him go. He never turns to look at him, his face hard.
“You found me,” Louis eventually manages to piece together, burying his face in Harry’s neck,
grabbing his shirt. “I’d thought you lost me.”
“Shh,” Harry whispers, still not looking at him but tightening his embrace.
“I thought you’d forgotten,” he mumbles, eyelids heavy as weights.
He doesn’t know if he speaks after that.
**
At some point they arrive at Louis’ flat.
Harry walks him in, practically carrying him, as Louis tries to understand what’s happening
because he can’t. He feels the weight of Harry beside him. That’s all that really matters.
Silently, Harry lays Louis down on the bed, the mattress squeaking. He wants to say thank you.
Maybe he does. He can’t really hear over the swimming in his ears.
The room is pitch black as he feels Harry take off his shoes, feels the blankets pulled up beneath
him and lain over his body. He feels a dip in the bed and he realizes Harry’s sitting next to him.
Harry’s sitting on the bed with him.
What’s going on? What’s happening? Doesn’t Harry hate Louis? Isn’t he done?
He wants to ask, wants to scream it at Harry’s face, but he can’t—can barely even stay conscious,
so he just breathes, struggling to stay awake because he’s with Harry.
Then suddenly he feels a hand upon his forehead, brushing his hair away. It’s a soft touch,
beautifully soft, and gentle. It feels incredible and soothing—like when his mum used to take care
of him when he was sick, whenever she was being a proper mum—and he sighs happily, reveling
in it yet not being able to process it. Harry is petting his hair.
He’s on the brink of sleep when he feels the cool brush of lips on his forehead.
It jolts him awake, jolts him into reality. Reminds him that Harry is here, that this is Harry in the
dark. He tries to say his name, but it comes out as a drunken groan, an impossible noise that
sounds more painful than anything.
“Shh,” Harry soothes, continuing to pet his hair.
They remain like that for awhile, until Louis’ breath evens and sleep has begun to ensnare him.
Harry must think he’s asleep. Harry must be convinced he is, because suddenly the hand stops
petting his hair and moves to lie atop his heart, calm and gentle, fingers resting atop the fabric of
his shirt but scarring his skin.
He must think he’s asleep when Louis suddenly feels the brief, impossibly brief brush of cool lips
against his own. Its spirals Louis into a black hole.
He must think he’s asleep when he whispers, “I could never forget you. I’ll always find you,” as
he presses a kiss to Louis’ hand, now pressed between both of Harry’s.
The last thing Louis hears, aside from the rush of blood to his head and the hammering of his
intoxicated, poisoned heart, is a whispered goodnight, and then suddenly Harry’s weight is gone.