Young & Beautiful

poison that is Harry Styles.
Harry eyed him, almost too closely, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to believe him or not, until
suddenly his lips split into a grin that overcame his face and, suddenly, the sun was pouring
through Louis’ soul.
“Good,” he said, before bending over and plucking a baby cluster of flowers from the cool earth.
He straightened, handing them over to Louis with a quiet smile. “Here. Have spring.”
And Louis beamed, positively fucking beamed as he accepted the tiny bundle, keeping them
locked in a tightly clenched fist so that they wouldn’t escape, before extracting a single flower.
With a grin that felt like it was actually ripping his skin, Louis handed it back to Harry.
“Share spring with me?”
Harry’s answering smile was breathtaking.
So they walked back, Louis escorting Harry to his door, carrying spring in their hands and
matching smiles, before Louis finally made his way home.
He’d fallen asleep brushing the tips of his fingers to the flowers on his bedside table with one
hand, the other clutching Harry’s goodnight text to his chest.
And now they’re all dressed and ready to go—Louis wearing a yellow cardigan and slacks with a
white polo, Harry wearing a yellow embroidered blouse and tailored trousers, a daffodil tucked
into his curls which has Louis reciting love sonnets in his head—gathered together on one side of
the river bank to see the lads off on their course amidst clusters of students and journalists and
camera crews.
“Fucking hell, it’s crowded here,” Louis shouts and Zayn smiles proudly.
“It’s only going to get worse,” he says without raising his voice, yet is somehow able to be heard,
waving towards Liam who is about to climb into the eight, Niall—who is literally blowing kisses
to the crowd—following close behind him.
Bodies bump into them, already cheering and shouting, holding beer cans and water bottles in
their hands.
Louis looks over to Harry to remark on a boy nearby who seems to be drinking out of a candle,
and falls speechless when he sees Harry staring out at the spectacle calmly, eyes squinted,
clutching a parasol that has seemingly appeared out of thin air.
A fucking parasol.
Sweet Jesus.
“What on earth is that?” Louis asks, very nearly mortified.
“A parasol. The sun is too assaulting,” Harry responds without a beat, eyes still taking in the scene
before him with separated control.
Louis sighs, shaking his head.
“Of course it is.”
A few more minutes pass by, filled with the sound of announcers warming up their vocals and