Young & Beautiful

“Congrats, mate,” Niall grins by his ear. “I’m proud! Real proud. I knew you’d get your head out
of your arse.”
Louis’ smile scrapes against the cotton of Niall’s jumper. “Thanks, potato.”
“Oi.”
But Louis smiles wider before finally releasing him and flashing one last nervous look before
heading for the door.
“Love you, Nialler.”
“Love you harder, Tommo.”
Louis barks a laugh before he shuts the door, his mind and heart already sitting in Harry’s rooms,
ready to empty themselves.
Today is going to be fucking terrifying.
**
Sitting through his lectures is a little bit like medieval torture. Or maybe worse than that. Ancient
Egyptian torture? Was Egyptian torture bad? Or Scandinavian torture? Or maybe Anglo-Saxon
torture. Or Sparta. Sparta was fucked up.
In any case, Louis is suffering terribly.
Because he’s promised himself that he won’t stare at his phone the whole time like some sick pup,
won’t text Harry that he’s coming over the second his lecture is over, won’t send him a flutter of
emoticons that encompass his simultaneously fuzzy and prickly feelings that just won’t stop. He’s
trying to focus on his professors and their long-winded sentences and the way their markers
squeak against the whiteboards when they jot down major plot points in Midsummer Night’s
Dream and the significance of citation. But try as he might to focus, his brain never really leaves
his phone.
Which is currently sitting in the left pocket of his shoulder bag.
Totally within reach.
Which he will not touch.
He will not.
**
At long last, he’s freed from his inner turmoil. He’s free, and the first thing he does as he emerges
into the bright, wintry daylight is unlock his phone and there—there, sat right in his text inbox is a
message from Harry.
‘I must talk to you.’
Louis actually stops walking as he reads it.
Must? He must talk to Louis? ‘Must’ as in: ‘I cannot take being away from you, I miss your voice’
or ‘must’ as in: ‘I don’t really want to, but it’s imperative that we discuss something’. Louis needs
to know.