Young & Beautiful

mocking, the beginnings of a crooked half-smile forming, that Louis wonders if he can take
himself seriously. Or if anybody in the room can.
But apparently they can, as they are all now chuckling their amusement, heartily agreeing in low
tones.
What the actual fuck?
The nameless boy with the mocking smile immediately saunters towards an empty wine glass
that’s sitting on the windowsill, abandoned. Smile still present, he pours himself a generous
portion of Pinot Meunier. Amidst the continued silence, he takes a swig, still without properly
acknowledging the room, his back facing them.
And yet every single eye is still on him.
Including Louis’, who is glaring in distaste.
The boy knows the attention he’s receiving, seems to feel the control but doesn’t care. Where
Zayn sits at the head of the table as the proclaimed leader but enjoys the solitude of sitting back in
the shadows, this boy seems content in flaunting his self-appointed leadership, adoring the
spotlight without really giving anything to his followers. It’s a role that he appears to relish and
take the most ease with. Which officially makes him a first class wanker.
Louis watches, his eyes flitting between the group of men staring almost expectantly and the boy
holding the stares and doing absolutely nothing with them.
Zayn peers over his wall of smoke, watching Harry’s movements, but says nothing.
Finally, at last, Harry acknowledges his host, perhaps feeling his smoky eyes on him, and turns
around with a mischievous, delighted sort of smirk as he sets down his empty glass, immediately
striding up to Zayn. He strokes his cheek with long, slender fingers that look the texture of pearls,
and plucks the cigarette from between Zayn’s lips, bringing it to his own mouth as he breathes a
greeting before pressing his lips serenely to Zayn’s.
Louis watches this interaction, this acknowledgment, glancing over to Liam (who expresses no
discomfort or offense) before looking back to Zayn who appears wholly unaffected by the events
at hand, amused if anything, staring back at the boy intently.
“Harry,” Zayn mutters in greeting.
“Harold. Harold Styles,” he reminds, and Louis makes an immediate mental note to never call this
boy “Harold.” Or do anything else that he requests. Harry just sort of smiles and puffs on the
cigarette, the smoke intertwining with his thick clusters of curls.
The boys begin to shout their greetings.
“Good to see you, mate!”
“Glad you could come!”
“We didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Thought it was odd you weren’t here, to be honest.”
Harry just nods in response, grinning—is that a fucking cherubic dimple?—and shaking a few
hands, all without moving from his place at Zayn’s side, hand resting on his shoulder.