Young & Beautiful

The sound of Harry’s breath is the only thing that fills the space between them as Louis waits,
brushes his fingers along the angles of Harry’s face, the warmth of his body seeping into his own.
And then suddenly Harry jolts up, grips at Louis with unyielding hands, and crashes his lips
against his own—insistently, beautifully, unbreakingly.
“Yeah?” Louis pants in an unspoken question, managing to rip away from the hypnotic slide of
Harry’s mouth, eyes closed. He feels heavy, his limbs sunken in the thick perfume of desire, and
his mouth is pressing against Harry’s cheek, maybe the corner of his mouth, he doesn’t know. Just
knows that he can’t lift his head as he exchanges air with Harry, as he feels the pricklings of sweat
begin to bead, as he feels Harry’s forehead press against his own.
“Yeah,” Harry breathes in response, breathless and light, nodding. He smears a kiss to the corner
of Louis’ eye, warm, wet, entrancing. “’M in love with you.”
“Love you, too. Trust you.”
“Trust you, too.”
And Louis melts, melts into the fucking floor, or maybe into Harry, continues to kiss him with as
much passion as he can dreg up and seeks his hands again, entwining their fingers in time with
Harry’s sharp intakes of breath and the purrs that coil in the back of his throat. Their palms jot
together, warm and balanced, and Louis holds him through each deepened kiss, through each
meticulous glide of their bodies, until he forgets where he ends and Harry begins and he doesn’t
want to remember, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t ever want to be reminded again.
*
When Louis awakens later, startled from a dream, the moonlight is streaming through the opened
windows, illuminating the curtains and the bare skin of their sheet-entangled bodies.
He looks down, blinking away his dreams, only to find a dream born of reality—his hand
engulfed by Harry’s own, pressed against his heart, a small smile delicately painted upon his lips.
It warms him immediately, sending quick, silvery flashes of memory throughout his marked and
pleasantly aching body. He gazes down at him, revels in the feel of their hands, revels in the
reality that he’s his.
That Harry is his.
And that he is Harry’s.
He’s the very portrait of peace, the very portrait of someone who’s been rebuilt, his heart reopened
and allowing the world back in. Allowing Louis in.
It takes his breath away.
He didn’t think that actually could happen but, yep, it’s happening; Harry takes Louis’ fucking
breath away.
And suddenly he’s flooded, absolutely flooded, with love and adoration and softness and desire
and every other feeling that whispers ‘forever’ and ‘always’ and ‘home’; because Louis has found
his forever, has found his always, has found his home.
With Harry pressing Louis’ palm against his heart, his skin soft and milky, his eyelashes stretching
across his cheeks, any qualms or anxieties or fears that Louis may have ever harbored—or will