Young & Beautiful

minute he walks through the door, curls bouncing. Where he doesn’t follow him around and pet
his arms and kiss his hands and play piano for him with a smile that dazzles even the cold, cracked
floorboards.
Rather, he’ll be quiet, sunken, shaded.
Louis hates it. It hurts him far more than he understands, worries him for reasons he can’t
comprehend.
He just hates it.
“I’ve found a place,” Harry says one day as they’re perusing the aisles of an antique shop. “To
live.”
The china on the shelf’s a bit dusty, the books are cracked and spotty, and the record player in the
corner is crackly and marked as the needle scratches along the grid. Harry insists this is what
heaven feels like and Louis admits to finding it rather charming—albeit begrudgingly and secretly
because Harry’s smug enough as it is and no, he doesn’t always need to be victorious.
“Yeah?” Louis asks, interest piqued as he admires a porcelain oil lamp. “You’re thinking about
buying it?”
Harry’s silent, chews on his lip as he inspects a small, gilt music box; a Renaissance painting
woven onto the top.
“Already bought it.”
Oh. Well. That’s surprising.
“Is it near your father?” Louis asks, furrowing his brow.
He already bought it? Really? Why doesn’t Louis know this?
“Not really,” Harry says. He sets down the music box, though his eyes linger on it.
(So of course Louis picks it up and tucks it behind his back the minute Harry looks away.)
“It’s, uh. Near Doncaster,” Harry says, very lightly, very off-handedly.
Which makes Louis stop in his tracks.
“What?”
His heart shits its pants.
Harry swallows, his face the very portrait of anxiety.
“I can change my mind.”
“Change your—?”
“It was stupid,” Harry continues in a rush, still not looking at Louis, making a beeline for the exit.
“I’ll call up my—“
“Whoah, Curly, whooah,” Louis interjects, grabbing hold of Harry’s jacket. “No, not at all! No—
it’s the very opposite of stupid! It’s fucking… It’s brilliant! Honestly.” He grins, trying to process
it all because is Harry moving closer to him?