Young & Beautiful

good party, Louis can give him that) he appears to be in his own little world, face stony and silent,
just peering at the glass and the prisms it creates in his eyes. But then suddenly his eyes are closed
and his head is bent, his arms falling to his sides in limp defeat, and through his drunken haze,
Louis finds himself beginning to walk towards him, curiosity and agitation bubbling up his blood.
He wants to ask Harry why he is the way he is.
He wants to ask why he makes pretty jokes and says lovely things and doesn’t mean any of it, and
why he only seems genuine when he’s upset.
Why he’s poisonously charming and errant, and completely barren of any substance or reality.
Why, right now, amongst throngs of willing people and heaps of hedonism, he stands there alone,
hanging his head, frozen to the spot.
Then all of a sudden, without warning or transition, Harry awakens into life, leaping atop the
fountain, arms outstretched and head thrown back to the heavens.
“I AM NOT YOUNG ENOUGH TO KNOW EVERYTHING!” he bellows into the air, his
deep, rasping voice reverberating against the walls.
There’s a momentary lull in volume as all heads turn toward him, and Louis stands there blinking,
unable to take his eyes away from Harry’s stiff figure, splayed like a crucifixion as the champagne
fountain spits over his limbs, his eyes wide and unseeing and filled with the stars from the sky.
It’s almost haunting, and Louis doesn’t breathe.
Then, like clockwork, there’s a surge of amused laughter, and a few sporadic attempts at applause
as the party reconvenes.
What the fuck?
“Oh, Harold!” he hears a girl laugh, like this is such typical behavior of him, and Louis can’t help
but throw a withering glare in her direction.
Harry then leaps down, a wild grin on his face, and immediately becomes overrun by a swarm of
glittering arms and mouths open in laughter and exclamations. Soon he becomes lost in the fray,
another head in a sea of chaos, leaving Louis to stand there in bewilderment, brain buzzing
fervently.
**
The last time Louis sees Harry that night, he’s exiting the building amidst a pile of sloppy, sloshed,
screaming boys and girls, half-holding him up. His sightless eyes are dilated, his skin glistens with
sweat, curls sticking to his forehead, and his bow tie hangs, undone and forgotten.
It’s a hot fucking mess.
And Louis thinks, just as he’s gathering the last of his things, alcohol and sleep tugging at his
limbs (and the promise of cake at his flat):
‘Yep, I’m definitely going to stay as far away from that as I can.’
Chapter End Notes