Young & Beautiful

Is this real life?
Louis beams, allowing the reality to sweep him up. “Fucking brilliant,” he says again, reaching
for Harry. Grinning like a madman, he grabs his face, pulls him in for an elated kiss that is mostly
his teeth scraping against Harry’s lips.
Harry smiles in response, eyes soft. Yet his own lips remain stiff, etched in anxiety. He nods, but
he looks altogether unsure, taking a step back.
Still, Louis brushes it off because Harry is moving closer to him and he still needs to buy this
music box pronto. So with one last kiss, he pats Harry’s bum, says a, “Now why don’t you wait
outside while I use the loo,” and watches as Harry nods and departs, his shoulders stiff, the tails of
his coat flapping as he descends the stairs.
With a smile, he walks to the counter, sets the golden box on the glass surface.
The lady behind the counter smiles above her blue spectacles, her layers of jewelry bright under
the glow of the lamps.
“Just this for you, dear?”
Louis grins, nearly bouncing on his heels, as he slides his wallet from his back pocket.
“Just this,” he smiles, so hard it hurts. .
*
Harry’s not himself for the rest of the day.
Louis tells himself that it’s just in his imagination the way that Harry’s smile falters, the way his
eyes dart away as quickly as they come, that he doesn’t hold Louis’ hand as often as he normally
does. But by the end of the day, when they’re leaving to meet the lads at the restaurant for dinner
and Harry grumbles out that he’d rather just stay back and have some alone time, Louis admits
defeat.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” he sighs, immediately closing the door. Because nope, he certainly isn’t
going anywhere without Harry, not in this state.
Harry doesn’t say anything though, just stalks to his room.
Louis might roll his eyes.
“Curly,” he calls, irked, as he follows him. “Don’t avoid the situation. It’s written clear all over
your face. What’s wrong.”
“Nothing,” he lies, sitting down at his piano. His hands make no movement to play as he stares
down at the keys.
With a great sigh, Louis nudges him over, plops down on the bench beside him. With a patient
smile, he takes Harry’s hands, wraps them in his own. Harry’s skin is always so cold. So delicate
and pale and porcelain against Louis’ fiery paws.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again, gentler, his thumbs brushing against Harry’s knuckles in
repetitive swoops.
There’s a heavy pause, one in which Harry’s eyes just watch Louis’ thumbs.