Young & Beautiful

No reply comes, just a bitten lip as Harry’s eyes remain closed shut.
And the seconds pass, Louis imploring, Harry wincing, the room silent and watchful and hazy.
These are the moments Louis feels out of his league, like he’s handling brittle paper, ready to
crumble at the first wrong touch. He just doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what Harry feels or what
will make any of it better.
“You feel a pain I will never understand,” Louis finds himself mumbling aloud, mostly to himself,
fingers beginning to smooth out the stress lines by Harry’s eyes, his lips. “But I’m here,” he says,
louder. “Remember? You can’t get rid of me? It’s too late?”
There’s a brief pause.
Then, slowly, Harry nods and Louis feels it acutely as his hand seeks Louis’ jumper and clenches
it in his fist. It may or may not be his imagination that he pulls him closer. Louis isn’t really sure
what’s real right now, his adrenaline pumping as Harry clings to him in all his bruised eye and
inner demon glory, his heart simultaneously swelling and shattering as he shuffles still closer,
sliding his hands into Harry’s mess of curls comfortingly. Because he needs to feel close. Because
he wants to envelop Harry in a cocoon and protect him, shield him, swallow him alive with all
that he has.
But all he can do is softly grip his curls.
“It’s okay,” Louis whispers and he doesn’t know what isn’t okay, doesn’t know what even is
wrong with Harry, but maybe he’s also telling it to himself because he sort of feels like he’s
embarking on a terrifying fucking journey without a compass or a map or even a sense of what
continent he’s on. He’s a little bit terrified and a lot overwhelmed and he had full plans to come
here today to simply declare his heart’s desires to Harry but now Harry’s drunk and almost crying
and Louis’ almost pulling him out of his chair and onto the floor with him so that he can hold him
and…
Why is being in love so complicated? It’s been less than two days. Honestly.
An unintelligible word falls from Harry’s lips as he brings his head to Louis’ shoulder, muffling
the words into his neck. It spears Louis’ heart.
“What?” he asks gently, attempting to lift Harry’s head, fingers still lost within the tangles of forest
curls. His heart is thumping.
Harry’s sliding out of the chair, pushing into Louis, his knees knocking as he clunks to the floor,
but Louis keeps his grip on him, makes sure he doesn’t bump his limbs against the desk or tip
over. Harry’s hands are still fisted into Louis’ jumper. It burns.
Harry repeats the word, still unheard, and this time he lets his head be lifted as Louis aligns their
faces, brushes his thumbs over Harry’s eyelids as if stroking them to open. As if the answers and
the muffled words will become clear in his gaze. He just wants to see Harry, really. He just wants
to look in his eyes so he knows, has some idea as to what’s going on, what’s brought this on, what
this is about, what he feels.
“Harry,” he prods again, and Harry makes a small noise. Louis’ ears actually pound.
Is Harry in love with him? Is this him trying to tell Louis he’s in love with him? Louis wants it so
badly, allows himself to wish for it, allows himself to entertain the possibility. He feels like he
could dry heave right now. And he’s blind, so fucking blinded by the feel of Harry, by the scent
of him (minus the wine and despair) as Harry leans his forehead against Louis’. He fucking leans