Young & Beautiful

And Louis isn’t even completely sure why.
Harry swallows, watching him with fear in his eyes. Like a child about to cry, watching their
parent leave.
Louis closes his eyes, pushing through the heaviness that is now weighing down every air
passageway.
“Harry,” he says, voice calm, steering the conversation back to what matters. “I am so, so proud of
you for making the decision to move away from your father. So proud. And I will be here for you
through the whole process. If you need somewhere to stay or if you need help looking for
something or if you just…just need someone to make you a sick cup of tea and eat all your
biscuits—Harry laughs, relieved, softening—“I’ll be right here. Beside you. On this couch. Or
wherever else you need me to be. You don’t have to do anything alone anymore, all right?
Because no matter what you’re trying to tackle, even though you are strong enough to conquer it
all, several times over even, I will always be here to supply you with whatever you need, to
shoulder whatever you can’t carry, to fucking fill you with whatever you’ve lost. All right?”
He might be telling himself this as much as he’s telling Harry. He doesn’t even know anymore.
Harry listens, unmoving and quiet, eyes on the ground, head bent
There’s a steady silence, punctuated only by the distant screams of the boat race, and Louis thinks
he sees the glimmer of a tear sliding down Harry’s cheek before he suddenly brings his hands up
to cover his face, head bowed low and never emitting a sound.
The moments drag by, Louis breathing raggedly, his heart beating irregularly as he watches Harry
sit, head in hands, wondering if he’s crying and why he shields his tears from the world, from
Louis.
It’s while he’s lost, staring at Harry’s beautiful tragedy, that he forgets himself.
Unthinkingly, blindly, he brings his hand carefully to Harry’s neck. His hand connects with the
cool skin and, before he can question himself, he begins rubbing the soft flesh there with his
thumb, eyes never blinking, breath barely escaping.
He feels the release of Harry’s muscles first, his entire body relaxing into the touch.
Then, so slowly he barely registers what’s even happening, he watches as Harry’s hand moves
from his face to slide through his hair. It slides over the top of his bent head, surfing through
waves of curls, slowly, slowly, before the tips of his fingers are suddenly brushing against Louis’
thumb, stilling any and all of his movements.
And Louis stops breathing.
There’s a pause, where Louis remains frozen, not daring to break the fragility of the moment, and
Harry’s fingers remain rested upon Louis’ thumb, soft and unassuming. Just there. Louis can’t see
his face—his other hand still blocking it from view—but it doesn’t fucking matter because now
Harry’s hand is moving again, achingly slow, to slide further down, fingers finding their way to
clutch around Louis’ hand, fingers entwined and gripping on so gently and it’s just…different.
It feels different.
And Louis still isn’t breathing.
And then Harry stands up.