Young & Beautiful

upon the walls in flickering sighs. Their flames catch in the cold breezes that whip through the
room, pushing through the windows that are opened wide, wide as they can go—as if there wasn’t
enough air—the curtains rippling and snapping. Suitcases lie half-packed around the room, bits of
clothes haphazardly strewn about, papers stacked, their edges fluttering, and cracked, leatherbound
books litter the floor. The cat figurines are missing from their shelf. Flowers lie dead on the
tables, crispy petals lifted in the gusts of wind, drifting to the floor.
And there, amidst it all, is Harry.
Harry, with his tangled curls and…
Louis swallows at the sight.
Harry. With his tears that glisten his soft, pale cheeks and sobs that wreck his trembling body and
hands that he doesn’t know what do with as he wanders in circles, journal in one hand, his lilac
jumper in the other.
Like Zayn, he’s also still wearing his suit from the Brits, his bowtie undone and his shirt
unbuttoned at the top, ripped apart wide as if he’d been choking, revealing the slender line of his
white neck that heaves unsteadily. Little noises escape him—little hiccups and little shaky breaths
—as he walks, clearly distraught, clearly blinded by tears and just aimless, stumbling over the
oriental rug and stumbling over himself.
He doesn’t see Louis.
So Louis just watches for a little longer, watches because he’s transfixed and heartbroken and
very, very fucking terrified, unsure if he should even be here.
But he always keeps coming back, doesn’t he. He always comes back.
He swallows.
Just once more.
“Where are you going?” he asks at last, voice raspy. He clears his throat, but Harry’s already spun
around, his eyes wild and body stiffening and—
And he lets out a sob the minute his eyes land on Louis.
It’s open, it’s unabashed, and it’s raw, his entire composure unraveling that much more, and
Louis feels it too, feels the relief and the dread and the exhaustion in that sob, sees the helplessness
in his tears, and that’s enough. That’s enough to assure him that, yes, he should be here.
“Harry,” he says, voice breaking, as he rushes to him blindly, instinctually. When he reaches him,
he touches unthinkingly, cradles Harry’s head in his hands and brushes away the fresh surge of
tears and it makes Harry cry harder, the jumper and journal falling out of his slackened hands,
thudding onto the floor.
Louis’ eyes sting, his throat stings, his chest stings as Harry’s head bows with the weight of his
tears, and he feels it as Harry brings his hands up to rest on Louis’ forearms, loose, then gripping,
almost bruising, and the sobs never stop and Louis can’t swallow, can’t blink. He just brushes tear
after tear away with his clumsy thumbs, fingertips lost in wisps of hair and smooth flesh as he
holds Harry together, keeps all of his pieces in place as they crack and crumble.
He doesn’t want to say ‘it’s okay’ and he doesn’t want to shush him, doesn’t want to tell him
anything because Harry needs this, needs to cry, and Louis wants it for him, doesn’t want him to