young and beautiful || larry s.

chapter 26

It isn't much longer before Louis takes Harry home from his father's release party.

They sit together on the way back, tucked in Harry's limo together in the middle of the seat, Harry lightly slumped into Louis' side as the bumps of the road press them closer together.

It's...odd.

They haven't spoken since Harry cried-Harry hasn't even looked at Louis since he let the tears slip from his eyes. Rather, he'd just followed him blindly, like a soggy pup lost in a rainstorm, and Louis lead him by the waist through the throngs of guests smoking on the parameters of the hotel, their strings of smoke twisting together and clogging Louis' lungs. He led Harry away, safely and efficiently, and now they're safe inside the car and on their way home and...it's just odd. Louis is unsure if he should speak, touch, comfort, or let alone. He can still feel where Harry's tears dampened his shirt, can still hear his racked, primitive anguish and the way his name was lamented from Harry's mouth, so painfully and so helplessly that it stirred even the relatively colder tendrils that Louis is composed of. And he wants to reach out, clasp Harry's frail hand between his own or nose comfortingly into the curls that are resting so close to his cheek or, hell, clutch onto his waist with hands that don't hesitate...but more than all this, he just want to treat the situation right. He wants to treat Harry right. Doesn't want to overload him or crowd him.

So instead he just gently lays his head atop Harry's own-which has tiredly come to slide onto his shoulder-with feather-soft care, just barely resting upon the silky tresses of hair that could inspire the next Renaissance. He exhales peacefully, his body filling with simple relief for the mere fact that Harry is here, this close, and safe.

It feels good to have him back.

In the fleeting glow of the street lamps he sees the droop of Harry's eyelids in response to Louis' movement, but he says nothing and never stirs, just stares out of the window, quiet and worn, a small sort of serenity overcoming his breathing as the orange glows elongate his eyelashes and the shadows of his face. It's begun raining-or rather, sleeting-and it's splattering against the windows, icy and abrasive, but Louis can't quite bring himself to care because right now he feels warm and dry and a lot of other things that he thinks he could feel forever in some whimsical, intangible, wonderful way.

And then suddenly the car stops. They're outside of the outer gardens-near Harry's rooms. They're back.

He tries not to indulge the flash of unhappiness he feels flit through his system as Harry begins sitting upwards, pulling his body completely off of Louis' and ripping away the warmth that had begun to spread to his bones and the corners of his tight, polished shoes. Harry breathes softly as he straightens his jacket, stares out into the dripping darkness. He makes no movement to speak as he blinks slow, long, eternal blinks. He's shaded and tired. He looks like a poem. One of those mournfully beautiful ones with short, unfamiliar words that sound ethereal when spoken and completely nonsensical when thought. The kind you find in the back of the book and dog-ear because you want to poke at it a bit later, when your head's a bit clearer. Written by a Romantic poet with a name that sounds like a soft breath and a reputation.

Fuck, Louis has had too much champagne. Too, too much.

"We're here," Louis says softly, eyes trained on Harry who is still staring out of the window, his fists clenching onto his open jacket.

Harry nods. "Yeah."

Silence.

Louis swallows.

What now?

Louis rips his gaze from Harry, bringing it to his lap where he now fidgets with his sleeve. "Did you want any company or anything?" he asks nonchalantly, but his voice sounds altered and he's mentally cursing his vocal cords and their ability to unfailingly shame him. He glances up, schooling his face into practiced ease. "I mean, if you're still feeling shit, that is. Or. Whatever."