Young & Beautiful

Thud, thud, thud.
“He’s a needy Irish lad. All he does is cuddle. But no matter. Because, as tempting as being
trapped under his pasty dead weight is, I think I’d much rather spend the evening listening to you
play the piano for me. Any song I like. That means the Spice Girls.” He pushed a cheeky smile
onto his face.
And instantly, Harry brightened, dimmed the moon.
“Only if you sing as well.”
“There was really no other option.”
They climbed the steps, and that was that.
Together but separate. Happy but not in love. Close but…so fucking far, it made Louis’ lungs hurt
to breathe.
And since then it’s been just like that.
The same. But different.
Peaceful and calm and happy and warm. But inescapable and miserable and taunting and searing.
Because with each tender look that Harry bestows upon Louis, Louis can almost pretend to know
what it’s like to be loved by Harry. Properly loved. He can almost pretend that they’re more than
what they are.
And it hurts too, too much.
And it only gets worse with time, as every single barrier inside Harry is removed, allowing Louis
—and Louis alone—entrance.
Of course, it doesn’t help that Louis can’t stay away.
Every day, without fail, he arrives on Harry’s doorstep after his lectures, heart in hand and brain
somewhere on the floor in a puddle.
“You’re here!” Harry will say as Louis walks in, delighted, sporting whatever ridiculous bow tie
he’s picked for the day, offering a sample of whatever exotic cheese he’s obsessed with, playing
whatever ridiculous record he can’t get enough of.
“I’m here,” Louis will grin in response, aiming to be cheeky but falling somewhere around
‘lovesick and broken’ as he toes off his shoes, never taking his eyes off of Harry, and always
making a beeline for him, finding excuses to brush their shoulders and bump elbows and fingers.
“How was your day, my curly friend?” Louis’ voice asks as he wraps an arm around Harry’s
shoulders while he leads him to the window. And every touch is warm, and every word spoken
feels like something.
“I had lunch with a pleasant-faced professor in a well lit place that smelled of gardenias and told a
peer how underappreciated mustard yellow is as a color,” Harry replies, smiling down at Louis,
tucked at his side perfectly and contentedly, as if he were important, outstanding, memorable. “It
was perfectly remarkable.”
“I’m glad,” Louis grins, unable to depart from his place at Harry’s side. He can’t let go. “No