Young & Beautiful

And it comes in the form of curls, sinful lips, and sparkly giggles.
Because, yeah, Harry will be moving into his flat sometime during the summer and yes, he will be
a ten minute drive away but…
But.
But the thing is, is that this place, this university, this town has become something special to Louis.
Has almost become synonymous with Harry. And taking them away from it, taking them away
from Harry’s rooms and his and Niall’s flat and taking them away from all of their memories and
their moments and their haunts just seems terribly upsetting to Louis. It almost seems terrifying,
even.
Because what if he and Harry don’t work in the real world? What if they only work when they’re
amidst ancient stone walls and heavy oak doors and yellow-paged books and nooks and crannies?
What if the world sweeps Harry away and what if Harry hates Louis’ family and Louis’ family
hates Harry and what if they grow apart and what if Harry forgets about him and what if??
Louis feels too much.
So it comes as no surprise that, on their last night together, Louis practically suctions himself to
Harry. He moulds himself to his body, kissing every reachable part of him every other minute as
the candles flicker, the windows open and ushering in soft breezes that carry the light perfume of
baby blossoms.
Harry’s things are packed in chests and suitcases all around them, the shelves empty and barren,
the Persian rugs rolled up and leaning against the cold, blackened fireplace. The china’s wrapped
and put away and the desk’s drawers are empty and the piano’s even covered with a billowing
white sheet. It’s all so final, so empty, so…terrifying.
They’re supposed to be doing something, packing a bit more perhaps. Maybe doing something
grand and fun? But instead they’re just lying together on the floor in a pile of interwoven limbs, all
of the lights off save for Harry’s scented candles, as they stare up at the night sky through the open
windows, Harry’s records playing softly in the background.
They can barely bring themselves to speak, everything feeling just a bit too fragile and precarious
and inexplicably painful. They just lie there and touch, existing together.
Until Louis breaks the silence.
“I’m going to miss you every second I’m not with you. I hope you know that,” he whispers
against Harry’s cheek. He bites back the wave of sadness that threatens to do something terrible
like fill his eyes, so he closes them, just pulls Harry closer by his silky white shirt. “You have
ruined me, Harry Styles. Ruined me and made me one of those clingy things. Do you find
yourself very cruel for ruining me this way?” His words are teasing yet there’s the underlying
stench of sincerity there and Louis just swallows because he can’t act this away, can’t pretend
that’s he not just the tiniest bit depressed about it all.
Harry’s response is to turn his head, brushing his lips against the bridge between Louis’ eyebrows.
“I find that you are the cruel one in this, Louis Tomlinson,” he mumbles, voice cracked like
parchment.
Louis feels him swallow and he dares to open his eyes, meets with Harry’s gaze that is wet,
mournfully sweet and delicate as he watches Louis with all the careful reverence of a dream.