Young & Beautiful

Harry resists, terrified eyes still staring over Louis’ shoulder.
“Please look at me,” Louis whispers, quiet as a breath. “Harry. Please just look at me.”
There’s so much blood rushing through Louis’ ears as we waits.
As Harry’s eyes remain fixed outside, creased and frightened and ready to bolt. He’s balancing on
a precipice and Louis isn’t sure which way he’s going to fall, but he waits for Harry to look at
him, he waits and waits and waits.
And then he finally does.
Those eyes, those eyes that started all of this, slide over to Louis’ eyes and, click!
Click.
It all clicks together.
Because suddenly Louis isn’t as terrified as he is inspired. One look in Harry’s eyes—that have
become so familiar, so comforting and present—has Louis filled with a newfound confidence and
assurance, an overwhelming feeling that everything, for just this moment, is perfect in the
universe, is right.
This is how it’s supposed to go.
So he kisses him without thinking.
Without a moment to shy away or fuck it up or crumble to dust, he pulls Harry’s face to his as he
lunges forward, heart in his throat, and Harry’s startled intake of breath—because yes, the fucker
gasps—opens his mouth and smashes the lightbulbs of Louis’ brain.
There’s a solid five seconds of just Louis.
Just Louis pouring his feelings into Harry’s frozen, open mouth and it feels as though he’s
resuscitating him, breathing life into his stilled lungs, giving all that he has to Harry because he has
nothing else but the air he breathes and he wants to give it all to Harry, every last breath.
And then suddenly Harry’s shocked into life, like a bolt of electricity’s been cracked into his
bones.
Immediately, without warning, without transition, he suddenly grips at Louis, hands bunching into
Louis’ shirt and tugging him closer, closer, closer, mouth beautifully soft and sighing (of course,
with that fucking 8 th wonder of a mouth).
Louis can’t see, can’t think, can’t feel, can’t breathe, is completely overwhelmed by it all, by
Harry, by Harry’s softness and Harry’s scent and Harry’s touch and Harry because Harry is
kissing him back and he’s kissing Harry and everything bad that’s ever happened to Louis
suddenly doesn’t fucking matter because this makes up for it all. The feeling of Harry’s mouth
moving like poetry over his own, effortless and real and flowing, warm and slick and bloody
wonderful, his hands stretching the fabric of Louis’ cardigan, his toes bumping his own, his hair
tickling Louis’ cheek.
Louis’ hands get lost, he can’t find them, can’t even feel them, but they’re not on Harry’s face
anymore and wherever they are, Harry must approve because he doesn’t make to stop and Louis
never wants to, never ever.