Young & Beautiful

you do.”
And.
Oh fuck.
Louis tries not to recoil, his insides immediately sucked dry.
So it is obvious.
His pathetic, soppy, gooey, weakening love for Harry is written all over his face like the joke that
he is and Harry sees it. He sees every emotion Louis feels and he knows. He knows and Louis has
nothing left hidden and Harry doesn’t care about any of it, doesn’t feel the same way back
because he can’t, because he was raised the most fucked up way possible and has lived the most
fucked up life ever and…
And Louis feels like an idiot.
An idiot who wants to hide from right now and this and what’s happening. It’s just suddenly too
much.
He sits back, putting a fraction more distance between himself and Harry, who frowns, his eyes
inspecting Louis’ face closely.
“Louis?” he inquires, confused.
Oh god.
Louis has to look away. This is suddenly too much. Harry sees too much.
Sees too much without caring enough. Without caring the way Louis so desperately wants.
Silence passes between them as Louis suffers through internal devastation and panic, refusing to
let himself leave but refusing to let himself open up for Harry any further—Harry, who keeps
studying him like he were deciphering the Rosetta Stone.
Still, Louis remains silent.
“You’ve been so sad lately,” Harry murmurs, the mournful words breaking the peace, his eyes still
boring into Louis and still being too much, yet too little. “And I can’t figure out why.”
Louis tenses.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Is it because of me? Is it too much? Me?” Harry’s quiet voice rumbles, small and sad and fuck
fuck fuck.
“No,” he insists immediately, turning back to Harry because fuck it—he’d rather shred himself
alive than ever have Harry question himself. “Not at all. You will never be too much, Harry.
Never. No matter what, whatever’s going on with me, however fucked up it all gets inside, I still
—“ He cuts off, swallowing. His hands are shaking, balled up into fists on his knees.
Fuck.
This is just…so difficult. So fucking difficult.