Young & Beautiful

‘Keep writing them.' That’s why Harry…keeps writing them? What the actual fuck?
“Keep writing what?” Louis asks, shocked, forgetting his desire, his love, his panic, and only
feeling…well. Shock.
“The songs. All the songs.”
“’Certain Things’?” Louis asks, voice low. So, so shocked. “That’s why you wrote ‘Certain
Things’?”
“You were there. You were there when I was writing it. You said it was good—you said the song
was good,” Harry says, sad and blinky, like a sleepy owl. Lost.
“I—That’s not the song, though. It was good! But that’s not—I don’t—“
“He didn’t like it,” Harry murmurs, and now his eyes are drifting away, reliving a moment that’s
not privy to Louis. “He was so mad. So I wrote him a new one and he said he liked it. He did. He
liked it and he sang it and everybody was so happy for him. He likes when people are happy for
him.” Harry is swaying and Louis’ arms are anchoring him, clutching both of his elbows. “But it’s
not helping. He’s not better. He usually gets better but this time he’s not better. And now I’ve
fucked it up.”
“You didn’t,” Louis insists, ears still ringing from the shit that was just lain down. There is so
much happening.
“Gemma told him,” he says, sad. “She fucking told him.”
“Told him what?”
“About my mum.”
Louis’ insides ping, pity overtaking him.
“He didn’t know she—“ Died, Louis’ about to question incredulously. He swallows, unable to
say it.
Harry looks at him, eyes settling upon him slowly and he looks…odd.
“He knows I’m looking for her.”
Louis stares. “Looking…?”
“He knows I’m looking for her,” Harry repeats, grumpy and sad and scowling, wiping a curl
away from his face with the back of his smooth, pallid hand. Skin like polished bone.
And Louis is sober, he’s dead sober, but suddenly the room feels like it’s spinning all around
them, topsy turvy, and Louis just keep staring at Harry because what did he just say?
Harry’s looking for his mum? His mum who died when he was nine from an overdose?
Liam had filled him in on the details one afternoon at a luncheon, long ago, back when Harry and
him had hated each other.
“Why’s he like that?” Louis had asked with disgust, watching as Harry delicately pecked his lips
to the mouths of the guests, pressing gold-rimmed martini glasses into everybody’s hands and
smiling crookedly, traitorously innocent as he sized them all up.