these are your good years
don't take my advice
you never wanted the nice boys anyway
“yule shoot your eye out” by fall out boy
.
.
Louis wakes up Christmas morning with The Hangover From Hell and two identical little girls bouncing on his legs, demanding he get up so they can open their presents. Louis muffles a groan into his pillow, tugging the duvet over his head, much to the chagrin of the twins, and pretends to still be asleep.
“Louis!” One of them whines while the other insistently tugs at the covers. Louis murmurs something like go away you tiny devils but is promptly ignored. He should not have expected less than this, but his head is pounding and telling them to leave is the only thing he can think of that will allow him to suffer in peace. “Louis, get up,” they insist, “It’s Christmas!”
“I bloody know what day it is,” Louis says into his pillow, cringing when the blanket is finally torn from his grasp and pulled halfway down his waist. “No, I’m never getting up. You can’t make me. You’ll just have to wait ‘til next Christmas to open presents. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound as sorry for them as he sounds for himself. He probably shouldn’t have let Stan talk him into drinking that last Jagerbomb. (Though, to his credit, he probably was in no state to refuse, anyways.)
“Mum! Mum, Louis won’t get up!” One of them calls out his door, loudly enough for Louis’ to wince in pain.
“He’s being a scrooge!” The other adds, just as loudly.
“I,” Louis says, rolling over onto his back and immediately getting struck by a wave of nausea, “I,” he says again after he swallows uneasily, “am not a scrooge.” He cracks his eyes open and gives both girls a withering glare. “Ugh, I’m too ill. I’m seeing double.” He lies back on his pillow, throwing his arm over his eyes.
The girls actually giggle at his joke, bless them, but are unrelenting in their quest to pull Louis from his bed and down to the living room to open gifts. Phoebe, Louis thinks, climbs up his chest and prods at his cheek while Daisy pulls the covers the rest of the way off.
“I’m going to take away your gifts if this keeps up,” Louis threatens, but finally begins to sit up, making Phoebe laugh as she slides onto his lap. “Alright, alright, I’ll be down in a few minutes. Go on, then,” he lifts Phoebe off of him despite her indignant protests, and swings his legs out of bed to prove to them that he’s actually getting up, “Let me get sorted.”
The girls exchange a private look, and then hustle from the room, yelling for their mother to start passing out gifts. Once Louis is sure they’re gone, he gets up, takes some Advil, locks the door, and crawls back into bed. That still doesn’t make him a scrooge, thank you very much.
.
.
“Alright, on the count of three...”
Louis is pretty sure he’s dreaming, floating the thin line between being asleep and consciousness, and doesn’t process that there are other people in his room until he’s bombarded with pillows, followed closely by a group of warm bodies that pile on top of him and demand he awaken. Louis jolts, squirming underneath them and getting a lock full of someone’s hair in his mouth. Someone laughs from beside him, a recognizable, low rumble that vibrates and Louis’ chest.
“Harry!” Louis says, flabbergasted, then is promptly attacked by three of his sisters while the fourth stands next to his best friend with her arms crossed, tapping her foot and giving him one of the most judgmental, teenage looks that Louis has ever seen. “Oy, that’s my sternum, thanks,” Louis whines, hoisting Daisy off of where she is pressed uncomfortably against him and setting her on the floor.
“You lied!” She accuses, putting her little hands on her hips.
“Yeah, you lied!” Phoebe echoes, mirroring her sister’s pout. Fizzy crawls up the bed and rests against the headboard next to him, eyebrows raised expectantly for an explanation. She looks dangerously like Lottie when she does that, actually. It’s a bit scary.
“Louis, you grinch, you’ve gone and ruined Christmas,” Harry says, playing devil’s advocate. His cheek dimples with the sly smile he gives Louis, “These poor girls have been trying to get you out of your room for ages.”
“These poor girls could’ve gone and opened presents without me,” Louis says a bit petulantly, reaching for Phoebe, who is sitting astride his legs, to tickle her. She screeches happily, squirming away from him and running behind Harry for safety.
“Mum said we had to wait for everybody,” Fizzy informs him, pinching his arm, “You’ve made us wait an hour.”
“A whole hour?” Louis mocks, “Oh, whatever will you do?”
“Louis,” Lottie says, exasperated. She’s trying not to show it, but Louis knows she’s just as eager to open presents as her sisters are. (Not to mention, Louis usually manages to get them all pretty nice things with his lofty paycheck.) “Mum says you have to greet our guests. Anne and Gemma are here, too,” Lottie informs him matter-of-factly.
“Right, Louis, don’t be rude,” Harry adds, taking great pleasure in victimizing Louis, obviously, “My mum’s been dying to see you.”
“I hate you,” Louis tells Harry seriously, “Actually, I hate the lot of you. All I wanted was a nice, leisurely Christmas to recover from my hangover. Could I not have this one thing?”
“You’ve got that one thing,” Harry singsongs, much to Louis annoyance. “So get up, get up, get up out of bed! And fall into my arms instead!” Harry makes a very ridiculous show of opening up his arms for Louis to ‘fall into’, as the song goes. Louis is also pretty sure there were some lyric changes in there.
“I set myself up for that one,” Louis sighs dramatically, flopping back on the pillows. His sisters don’t take that too well, and almost immediately Phoebe and Daisy are clambering back onto the mattress to get him back up, “No, I’m up, I swear I’m up!” He cries, shooing them away and sitting up despite every bone in his body protesting. “I’ll be down in a moment, alright? Go,” Louis says. After what happened last time, the girls don’t look entirely convinced.
“I’ll make sure he gets up,” Harry promises, crossing his hand over his chest, “You’ve got my word. You should go down and have some of the muffins my mum brought, yeah?” The girls finally give in and rush downstairs at the prospect of sweets, Lottie lingering a moment longer before following with a resigned sigh, which seems to amuse both of the boys. Harry turns to Louis, “Good morning,” he greets, eyes laughing.
“It is not a good morning, you tosser,” Louis responds, sticking out his tongue, “I know the dog pile was your idea, you nefarious ingrate.”
“Those are some big words for someone who just woke up with a hangover.” Harry sounds genuinely impressed. “Happy Christmas,” Harry says suddenly, grinning, “And happy late-birthday. Sorry I couldn’t come ‘round yesterday,” Harry adds.
“You’ve done enough,” Louis says, waving his hand, “You threw me that massive bash last weekend. I’d say you’re pretty high on my list of favorites.” He smiles up at his friend and then belatedly climbs out of bed and pulls him into a hug, tucking his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “I’m glad you could come up for Christmas,” he says softly, tugging affectionately at one of Harry’s curls. Harry briefly tightens his grip on him before they untangle, grinning at each other.
“Here,” Harry says, fishing in his back pocket for something. He hands Louis a small envelope, bent a bit at the corners.
“What’s this?” Louis asks, pulling it from his grasp and ripping the top to pull the card from inside.
“Birthday present,” Harry explains, “It’s just a gift card, but I also have a cheesy paragraph about how you’re my best friend written in the card. Don’t read it now,” Harry says when Louis’ eyes scan his writing, Harry’s cheeks turning a bright pink, “God, read it when I’m not around, at least. I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment.” Harry runs a hand over his face and through his curls, smiling even if he’s clearly anxious.
“What? Did you confess your undying love for me?” Louis teases, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously. Harry laughs, rolling his eyes.
“Something like that,” he affirms, winking. Deciding not to push the issue, Louis places the card back into its envelope and sets it on the corner of his nightstand. “Now, you’d better brush your teeth and put on some pants before your sisters come back up here to drag you down by the ear.”
“Yes mum,” Louis says, mock-serious, but despite his teasing, he heads for the bathroom to do what Harry has asked, half in fear of him being right.
.
.
The two of them make it downstairs ten minutes later, roughhousing all the way down. Louis greets Harry’s family with tight hugs and kisses on each cheek, wishing each other a Merry Christmas before they all settle down around the tree and exchange gifts.
Christmas is always nice in the Tomlinson household, each girl getting most of what they want and Louis messing about with them by wrapping his in so many layers that they want to scream by the time they get to the last, but it’s even nicer with the Styles’ over. Anne is very pleasant, giving Jay, Louis, and all of the girls a small something in addition to bringing muffins and bagels to have with breakfast, and Gemma is good with the kids, helping Phoebe and Daisy unwrap their matching dolls and then braiding Fizzy’s hair. Harry, as usual, is unbelievably charming, gathering up stray papers to throw away and complimenting Jay on the decorations. Louis catches Lottie staring at him more than once, and he would tease her about it if Harry wasn’t going to be around for the next couple days.
Eventually, the morning fades into afternoon, and Jay, Anne, and Gemma all disappear into the kitchen to start on a late lunch. Phoebe and Daisy scamper up to their room to play with their new toys, then Fizzy wanders into the kitchen with the other women to see if there’s something she can do. Lottie hangs around the living room with Louis and Harry, who are flipping through channels to find Christmas movies they can make fun of.
“How old are you, again, Lottie?” Harry asks during a commercial break. (Louis finally convinced Harry to settle on Elf, even if Harry claims to dislike Will Ferrell.) Lottie glances up from the separate couch, alarmed, and then stammers her age. “Ugh, fourteen? You’re growing up. Making me feel old.” Harry lies his head on the back of the couch and Louis elbows his ribs.
“You feel old? I’m the one that just turned twenty-one,” Louis says indignantly. He dramatically hides his face with his hand. “I can feel my youth slipping away.”
“Ugh, that’s right. You’ve become old. Before you know it I’ll be taking you to a home,” Harry jokes, earning another nudge in the ribs and a tug at his curls. “Be careful, old man, you don’t want to pull a muscle,” Harry laughs, cackling as Louis tackles him on the couch. Harry hauls himself up and Louis quickly follows him, knocking him onto the floor and pinning him down.
“I am victorious!” Louis proclaims loudly while Lottie rolls her eyes.
“You’re never going to grow old, Louis,” she says, sniffing.
“Precisely,” Louis agrees, turning his head to look at her, “That’s been my plan all along.”
Harry takes the opportunity to roll them over, pinning Louis down by his wrists, thighs bracketing Louis’ waist. Harry tsks him. “You’re becoming forgetful in your old age,” he teases, “You know you shouldn’t let your guard down like that.”
“Stop flirting, Styles, it’s unbecoming. In my day, young whippersnappers like you would be slapped for that,” Louis says, adopting an aged voice. Harry snorts, shaking his curls out of his eyes. Lottie furrows her brows and stands from the couch with finesse.
“You two are weird,” Lottie tells them simply before walking upstairs to her room.
“Priss!” Louis calls behind her, shoving Harry’s shoulders and crawling out from underneath him. Harry stands up and offers his hand to Louis, who allows him to hoist him back up to his feet. Louis’ eyes are mirthful. “I think she’s got a crush on you.”
Harry chuckles, shaking his head, “Too bad. I’m too busy flirting with her brother to pay her any attention.”
“You sly dog,” Louis says, delighted.
.
.
The snow starts up at around five in the evening and goes unnoticed at first. Louis is sitting next to his mum in the den, watching telly with Anne and Gemma, when the twins run down the stairs screaming at the top of their lungs. At first, the group is alarmed, but then Harry is running down after them, yelling, “It’s snowing!” and waving his arms around like he’s just as excited as they are.
“Really?” Louis asks, hopping up from the couch and tripping over the coffee table. He stumbles a bit, grabbing onto his mum for support, and then runs to look out the window. “It’s snowing!” He reports, laughing, “Lottie! Fizz! It’s snowing!” He calls up the stairs, grabbing Harry’s arm, “Well, c’mon, what are you waiting for? We’re going to grab our coats,” he informs their mothers, tugging Harry upstairs, much to Harry’s amusement.
Harry bounces on the balls of his feet after pulling his jacket on, waiting impatiently for Louis to make a selection from his wardrobe, most of which is still packed in a few of his suitcases. “Come on, Lou, it’s going to melt by the time we get out there,” he says brightly, watching the snowflakes fall just outside of the window.
“I can’t find my nice coat,” Louis says, throwing a pile of clothes onto the bed, “You know, the black one with the silver buttons? I know it’s around here - oh.” Louis sheepishly takes the jacket that Harry hands him. “Where was it?” He asks, slipping it over his shoulders and buttoning it.
“On your dresser. Now let’s go,” Harry demands, already making his way downstairs.
“Wait! Gloves, Haz, I need gloves!”
When they finally make it outside, Phoebe and Daisy are already lying on their backs in the thickening layer of snow, waving their arms and legs back and forth to make angels, Lottie watching them with her shoulder pressed to the side of the house.
Louis has always liked the snow; he likes the pristine white that clouds the streets, likes the way it turns his cheeks rosy, likes the way it catches in his hair. He likes watching the girls build snowmen and he likes snowball fights and he likes dressing warm. He likes how Harry looks in the snow, too, flakes sticking to his curls and shimmering when he moves, likes the bright smile and the red color of his lips in the cold.
“Oy, Styles!” Louis calls, reaching over to scoop a handful of snow into his hands, balling it. He waits until Harry turns around before pelting him with his snowball, hitting him square in the jaw. “Ooh, Tomlinson: one! Styles: zero!” He cries, throwing his arms in the air. Almost immediately, he’s hit in the chest with a snowball that’s more slush than snow. He staggers backwards, clutching his chest dramatically, “I’ve been hit! Man down! Man down!”
“Victory to Harry Styles!” Harry cries, fist pumping while Louis falls backwards onto the snow and pretends to die. Louis doesn’t have to look at Lottie to know she’s rolling her eyes and muttering immature under her breath, because she’s just at that age. Louis is still pretending to be dead when Harry makes his way over, the snow crunching under his feet, and leans over Louis’ body, his curls shadowing his face. “I really hope you’ve not actually died,” he says, but Louis can hear the smile in his voice.
“I am. You’ve killed me,” Louis murmurs, lips twitching into a grin despite himself, “At the very least, I’m paralyzed from the neck down. How are we going to explain this to management?”
“Get up, you twat,” Harry murmurs, snickering at Louis’ affronted look.
“Harry!” He yells at the top of his lungs, “Harry, there are children!” If Louis wasn’t pretending to be paralyzed from the neck down, still, he might have flailed about, but he is absolutely resolute in his facade. “Mum! Mum, Harry’s said a bad word! And he’s nearly killed me!” Harry barks with laughter, throwing his hand over Louis’ mouth to shut him up. Louis licks his palm, but Harry only raises an unimpressed brow.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that. I’m immune to your germs,” Harry tells him matter-of-factly.
“Off, heathen,” Louis says, but his voice is muffled by Harry’s hand, so it sounds less like words and more like annoyed grunting.
“What was that?” Harry asks, blinking innocently. “Hey - what are you - Louis!” Harry cries as he’s hit in the ear with a handful of snow. Louis quickly shoves him away and begins grabbing more handfuls of snow and slush to toss at his friend. “Not fair!” Harry pouts, retaliating.
“Never let your guard down, Styles!” Louis cackles, throwing a snowball that hits Harry straight between his collarbones. Suddenly, Louis is being hit from behind, and when he turns, he finds Phoebe and Fizzy making new snowballs. “Who’s side are you on?” Louis bemoans, flicking snow back at them and trying to dodge the snowballs coming from every direction.
The snowball fight ends twenty minutes later, with Louis and Harry sprawled on their backs, admitting defeat to Louis’ four sisters and Gemma, who had eventually wandered outside to see what was going on and was promptly dragged into the match by an accidental snowball to the back of her head, curtesy of Harry.
“I don’t think,” Louis starts, breathless, “it was fair to split the teams like we did. ‘Boys against girls’ gave you lot a really unfair advantage.”
The girls have all huddled up together next to them, breathless but happy, their cheeks and noses pinked by the cold. Lottie shakes snow from her hair with a small giggle. “It was your idea,” she reminds him haughtily, “Don’t be mad because you’re a loser.”
“I am not a loser. We let you win. Right, Haz?” He nudges Harry’s side. Harry nods compliantly, too out of breath to do much else. “See?”
“Don’t be sore with us,” Fizzy says, sticking out her tongue. Gemma detaches herself from the huddle and shakes out her hair, laughing.
“Whew. I’m going to head back inside,” she says, turning to the girls, “I think your mum made some cocoa. Want to go see if we can have some?” The four girls quickly agree, running into the house to warm up. Gemma watches them fondly, then turns to Harry and Louis. “You lads alright?”
“Brilliant,” Louis responds, sitting up and stretching his arms over his head, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to contract frostbite in my arse if I keep sitting here, though,” he complains, but shows no indication of moving. Harry sits up, as well, removing his cap and fluffing his curls before replacing it, pulling it firmly over his ears.
“I think I’ve got snow in my boots,” Harry adds, wrinkling his nose.
“Then don’t stay out here too long,” Gemma says, turning to go back inside. “I’d better go check on Jay and my mum. They were probably bombarded with little girls.” She giggles fondly and heads back in, shutting the door behind her.
Louis hoists himself up, brushing off his bum before offering a hand to Harry and pulling him up. “I’ve got to find my gloves,” Louis says, scanning the ground. Throwing them of so he could pick up snow more easily had not been one of his better ideas; his fingers have gone completely numb.
“There,” Harry says, stepping over a mound of snow and picking them up for Louis, “We should head back in. It’s freezing.”
“Agreed. I think my fingers are going to fall off,” Louis says, taking his gloves back from Harry when he hands them to him and stuffing them into his jacket pocket. The two trek back up to the house, reaching the porch when Harry grabs Louis’ arm as he’s reaching for the doorknob. Louis furrows his brow, turning to face Harry, who is looking at him with a decidedly unsettling smile. “...What?” Louis asks, laughing shortly.
Harry doesn’t answer; he flickers his gaze upwards and then back to Louis, the same smirk planted firmly on his lips. Louis stares at him, confused, but he doesn’t have time to ask what’s going on before Harry ducks forward and lays a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, sending a wave of heat through Louis’ entire body.
Louis stills under Harry’s grip, sucking in a sharp breath, mind running a mile a minute, every thought wild. Every little thing Harry has ever done stacks up in his brain, so quickly that it seems to short-circuit, fuzzing at the edges and then going blank. When Harry pulls back, still smiling, Louis’ knees almost buckle underneath him. He catches himself on the doorframe but he can’t take his eyes off of Harry, can’t even feel his heart beating, swears that it’s frozen in place.
“What - what was that for?” Louis manages, his voice high-pitched and nervous, shocked. Harry laughs, and then tilts his head up, eyeing the top of the door. Louis follows his gaze and - there it is, the mistletoe he and his mum hang as a joke every single year. It may have been funny at the time, but Louis certainly isn’t laughing now.
“That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Just following tradition,” Harry says, shit-eating grin still dancing on his entirely too pretty lips. He reaches past Louis and twists the doorknob, stepping into the warm house, not waiting for Louis to follow.
.
.
Louis feels decidedly...strange.
He also feels that it is exclusively Harry’s fault.
When he had eventually made himself move from the spot on the porch, he spent too much time trying to get off his shoes and coat because he was busy thinking about the way Harry’s lips felt at the corner of his mouth. When he wandered into the kitchen to get hot cocoa, Harry grinned at him and handed him a red mug, fingertips brushing Louis’ and sending a traitorous shiver up his spine. At dinner, Harry let his hand rest on Louis’ knee under the table for a moment too long after laughing at a joke someone told, and even though it’s something relatively normal in their relationship, Louis felt white-hot under his touch, his face scorching as he left the table to use the bathroom.
They had been watching A Christmas Story downstairs and weren’t even finished with the movie before Louis excused himself for bed with statements of how tired he was, praying that no one would follow as he ascended the steps to his own room. He had quite forgotten that Harry would be sleeping in the same room, a blow-up mattress already placed on the floor, and upon seeing it, promptly grabbed one of his pillows and screamed into it.
The thing is, Louis has never, ever, thought of Harry as anything but a friend. Even though the fans insist that they give each other ‘heart eyes’ and make sexual innuendoes towards each other and get corresponding tattoos, neither of them have ever stepped over the boundaries of their friendship. Sure, there had been one point after Louis had first met Harry that he thought he had a crush on the younger boy, but Louis quickly decided that he just assumed so because he had never been that close to anyone in such a short amount time. They had slipped into and easy friendship and Louis had never thought they’d be anything but, never questioned pushing it.
But suddenly, being friends with Harry doesn’t seem like enough. It suddenly feels like every tiny thing that Louis and Harry have done have been adding up to this, to turn them into something else. Louis can’t shake the feeling, can’t run away from the fireworks behind his eyelids when Harry’s lips touched the very ends of his.
It’s terribly stupid, Louis thinks, to feel like this. But he can’t shake it, can’t make himself believe in something different. Louis puts a lot of faith into things like fate, like the red strings that brought him to One Direction, like The Script concert three years ago that he had Harry had both been at, unbeknownst to one another. There are a lot of little things in his life that have lead him to something bigger than him, something magnificent and terrifying and special, and now he’s stuck on Harry, stuck thinking that, maybe, there’s more to it than he’s given credit.
“Louis?”
Louis practically jumps out of his skin, spinning around to face Harry, who is standing in the doorframe, looking torn between confusion and amusement. He laughs, apologizes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, earnest, “but your mum wanted to know if we had enough blankets for both beds.”
“Yeah,” Louis responds, “No, I mean - there’s some in the linen closet.” Louis lets out an unsteady breath, shoulders tensed. He doesn’t know what he wants out of this, doesn’t know whether or not he can say anything too obvious. He really doesn’t even know how he feels, isn’t sure if it’s fleeting or not, isn’t sure if it’s going to go away in the morning, if it will follow Harry back home in a couple days.
“Okay...” Harry says slowly, backtracking. Louis listens to him shuffle through the closet down the hallway while Louis rubs his hands over his eyes and sits on his bed, aching. “We got them, Jay, thanks,” Harry calls down the stairs before reentering Louis’ room and tossing the blankets onto the inflated mattress on the floor, knocking the door shut with his foot. “Can I use your bathroom?” Harry asks politely.
“Go ahead,” Louis replies, waving him in the right direction with a tight smile. Harry hesitates for a moment, studying Louis with furrowed brows, but then heads inside. Louis hears the sink running, supposes that Harry had wanted to wash up before heading to bed. When Harry comes back out, Louis is staring out his window, mind heavy with too many thoughts.
“Are you alright?” Harry asks, toweling his face dry, “You’ve...been a bit weird,” Harry informs him, tossing the towel back onto the bathroom counter and flicking off the light.
“Just tired. Christmastime wears you out when you hit my age,” Louis jokes, noticing that it falls a bit flat, “I’m going to sleep.” He tugs the blankets down his mattress and crawls under them, curling into himself once he finds a comfortable position, head elevated on the pillow.
“Alright...” Harry says, dropping it. Louis listens to him make his bed, feels like he should offer to help, if only to be a good host, but he doesn’t.
.
.
Louis wakes up sometime in early morning because he’s freezing and the sun is in his eyes and someone’s snoring is loud enough to emulate a train. Without even thinking about it, Louis grabs one of his pillows and throws it in the direction of the sound, unable to stop himself from snickering when the snoring stops with a loud snort and Harry sits up too quickly, murmuring, “Wasgoin’on?”
“S’cold,” Louis mutters, climbing out of bed and stumbling into the hallway to find the thermostat. Unfortunately, when he presses the buttons, nothing happens. It takes a few moments for it to dawn on Louis, but when he reaches for the light in the hallway and no light comes on when he flips the switch, he realizes, belatedly, that the power has gone out. “Shit,” he curses, wandering back into his bedroom, where Harry has already flopped back over and returned to sleep.
Louis debates whether or not he should wake him back up, then decides against it. The memories from yesterday have slowly began to bleed back into his mind, and he looks at Harry and thinks - things that he shouldn’t. With a resigned sigh, he heads to the bathroom to pee and then meanders back downstairs, finding Jay, Anne, and Gemma already awake, talking quietly from their huddle on the couch.
“Good morning,” Jay greets. There is a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“‘Morning,” Louis greets, “Have you all been up long?”
“Just an hour or so,” Anne responds pleasantly, unwrapping some of the candy that the girls got in their stockings yesterday morning, “Bit surprised that the power went out.”
“Must’ve been the snow,” Gemma adds, tucking her hair behind her ear, “It probably knocked out the lines close by.”
“It’s frigid,” Louis responds sourly, running his hands up and down his arms, “Is it still snowing out?” He glances out the window and finds that, while no more snow is falling, all that fell yesterday is still on the ground. He sighs. “Snow’s only fun the first day. After that it’s just a nuisance,” Louis complains, going into the kitchen to pull a package of pop tarts from the cabinets, lest he starve.
“We’re going out for breakfast, Boo,” Jay calls from the living room, “We’re going to bundle up and walk to the diner on the corner!”
“Alright!” Louis replies, unwrapping his breakfast and taking a bite, anyways. He’s still a young man, he’ll be hungry enough to eat again in an hour or two. The women have tightened their bundle when Louis goes back into the den, and they’re looking through recipes in an old magazine. “I’m going to pull on a sweatshirt,” Louis informs them, taking the stairs two at a time.
Harry has reawakened enough to halfheartedly hit Louis with his pillow when he comes back in, shivering from the lack of heat. Louis spares him a look and then shuffles through some of his drawers, pulling out an old hoodie and tugging it over his head.
“It’s freezing,” Harry tells Louis, wrapping the blankets around himself, “Can we turn up the heat or something?”
“Power’s out,” Louis responds stiffly, grabbing a pair of fuzzy socks and tugging them over his feet, even if he hates wearing socks under normal circumstances. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however. “We’re going out for breakfast when the girls wake up.”
“Okay,” Harry says agreeably, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, pajama pants sitting low on his hips. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he adds, “If that’s alright?”
“It’s going to be cold,” Louis warns.
“S’fine,” Harry says, shuffling through his overnight bag and pulling out an outfit to change into afterwards.
“Then, yeah, go ahead,” Louis says, searching his room for a beanie, jolting when he feels Harry’s hand on his shoulder.
“Do you feel better?” Harry asks seriously, lips pulled into a frown. Actually, Louis feels like tearing his skin off of his shoulders, because he swears it’s burning him alive.
“Yes,” Louis says with a wry smile, “I do.”
.
.
Breakfast at the diner is nice, if not a bit chaotic. They take up two separate booths and it’s still a squeeze, but the food is good and greasy and everyone seems to enjoy it. Louis is crammed up next to Harry for the duration of the meal, but gets out of having to look at him for too long, and makes conversation with his sisters, instead, teasing Fizzy when she gets syrup in her hair and then helping her wipe it off.
Both families trek back to the Tomlinson household, relieved to be back inside until they remember that it’s just as cold. They spend the duration of the morning all huddled together in the living room, playing an array of board games. Louis does his best not to team up with Harry whenever he can, but then Harry starts giving him sad looks and Louis has to rectify it by teaming up with him the next game. (Basically, it doesn’t work well.)
Around mid-afternoon, Jay heads into the kitchen to try and find something to make for lunch, and Anne follows after a few minutes to help out, despite Jay’s insistence for her to relax. The girls have grown bored of games and eventually start bothering Gemma to give them makeovers, which she agrees to, if only to keep them sated.
“Alone at last,” Harry jokes once all five of their sisters head upstairs, yawning over-dramatically and dropping his arm around Louis’ shoulders. Louis tenses, ducking away from him and curling further into the side of the couch. Despite trying not to look at Harry, he doesn’t miss the way Harry’s face falls. There is a silence. “Louis,” Harry says carefully, “did I do something?”
“No,” Louis responds tersely, cringing at the way it sounds. “I’m just - ”
“Tired,” Harry finishes with a sigh. He hesitates. “Louis, you’ve been acting weird since - ” he cuts himself off, eyes widening. Harry almost seems unable to say it out loud.
“I’ve not been acting weird,” Louis insists, turning to face his friend, “I don’t think I have, anyway.”
“Louis, that kiss was a joke,” Harry says, and Louis isn’t prepared for the way the words hit him, straight in the chest, knocking the breath out of him. He feels like a knife is being pushed into his heart and Harry is twisting it, smiling the way he smiled underneath that fucking sprig of mistletoe, “I don’t - I didn’t mean for you to take it seriously, if you did. I don’t - like you like that,” Harry explains.
Twisting, twisting.
“That’s - fine,” Louis chokes out, unable to stop the strain in his voice. Anger hits him all at once, explodes inside of him, and then - “It doesn’t fucking matter what you felt, it made things weird, and it’s your fault,” Louis finally snaps, shoving the blanket off of him and standing up from the couch, spinning to face Harry, “You shouldn’t have done that, you prick, it was stupid!”
Harry furrows his brows, suddenly looking as angry as Louis is, “It was a joke!” He retorts, “What? I can’t kiss my best mate’s cheek under the mistletoe without it - meaning something? It meant nothing!” Harry looks unbelievably desperate to get this through Louis’ head, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Whatever,” Louis spits, turning on his heel.
“Louis,” Harry tries, voice softer.
“No, fuck off, I don’t - I don’t need this!” Louis cries, spinning to face him, “I don’t need you telling me it didn’t mean anything, because - I know that, I know that, and I’m sorry I was stupid, but Jesus, Harry, what was I supposed to think?” Louis’ voice breaks and he feels tears welling up in his eyes. He swallows thickly, trying to force them down.
“Louis, I - I’m sorry,” Harry says, flabbergasted, “It was a joke,” he adds in a whisper, unable to meet Louis’ gaze.
“Yeah,” Louis agrees, voice bitter, “Yeah, it was.”
“Louis - ? Lou, please,” Harry calls after him as he ascends the stairs and slams his bedroom door, shutting him out.
.
.
Harry is leaving in the morning.
Harry is leaving and Louis is staying and Harry will never get his things out of Louis’ room because he’s never coming out, ever, and he’s never letting anyone in. His mum actually tries to get him to return to the living room and apologize, because the Styles’ are their guests and it’s only polite, but Louis won’t listen, shoves his dresser in front of the door and decides that he is never coming out.
He knows he’s acting childishly, but he can’t help it, doesn’t want to feel like this when he had almost convinced himself that things between him and Harry could change. Louis spends a few hours lying on his back in his bed, staring at the ceiling and drowning in his own stupid sorrows.
Louis doesn’t understand why he’s so upset, anyways. It isn’t like he and Harry were ever a thing, Louis had never even considered them a thing until yesterday afternoon, when the press of Harry’s lips sent a tremor up his spine, shocking him into something. Sudden, Louis thinks. There is no stumbling, no dramatic buildup, the feeling is just there, lingering in the corners of his static mind. He had been struck like a chord and it is still ringing, filling the empty spaces, and Harry - he doesn’t hear it.
Louis tries exceptionally hard not to cry, because he has no reason to cry. This isn’t the end of the world and he’s being silly and petulant and - he cries, anyways, because the knife keeps twisting further every time Louis repeats Harry’s words in his head, every time he hears Harry’s voice say, it didn’t mean anything.
It did to Louis. And it’s silly, but it really, really did. And if Louis is being honest with himself, it still does.
He sits up after a little while longer, shaking his head and furiously wiping his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He just needs to apologize to Harry for acting like a fool and they can go back to being friends. (Friends who kissed once under the mistletoe, friends that Louis thought might’ve been something.) Louis swings his legs out of bed and hits something on his nightstand; he rolls his eyes and reaches for it, sucking in a breath when he realizes it’s the card that Harry gave him for his birthday.
He stares at it for a long time, turning it over in his hands, before he finally lets out a breath and reopens it, flipping the card open and scanning the words, filling every blank space there.
Louis -
First of all, I wanted to tell you happy birthday! Secondly, you’re still not that old. Twenty-one looks good on you, I swear. Thirdly, I wanted to let you know that I’m happy to have gotten to meet you. You’re really, really important to me, you know? There’s no one else in the world that I’m happier to have met, and I know that sounds silly, maybe, but it’s true. Louis, - there is a spot on the page where the pen was pressed for a long time - I feel like you’re something incredibly special, and that I’m, like, privileged to have met you and to become your friend and to get past all the walls you put up to keep people out. I feel like it’s important that we love each other the way that we do, that you let me in despite being afraid, and I sometimes can’t help but think how lucky I am to get to be such a huge part of your life. I can’t imagine not getting the opportunity. Happy birthday, again, mate; you’re certainly something.
Love, Harry
Louis rereads the passage twice more before he has enough sense to breathe again.
“You fucking prick!” Louis cries at the top of his lungs, pretty sure that not only could they hear him throughout the house, but also at the neighbor’s houses. Louis clutches the card tightly in his hand and runs to his door, shoving the dresser just far enough away for him to slip through, “Harry!” He calls, running downstairs and very nearly tripping over himself.
Harry is on the couch with Gemma and his mum, all three of them looking exceptionally alarmed.
“You,” is all Louis says, pointing at Harry, “You wrote me a goddamn love letter.” He waves the birthday card Harry gave him back and forth in the air.
Harry blinks, looking between Louis and the card and flushing red. “I - it wasn’t,” he tries, standing up, “Louis, please don’t be mad, I - ”
“Outside!” Louis demands, manhandling Harry out the door and into the cold. He shuts it behind them and looks Harry square in the eye, “What is the meaning of this?” He brandishes the card in Harry’s face, “I thought you were joking.”
“It’s not a love letter!” Harry cries, the desperate tone of his voice giving him away, “I just - you mean a lot to me, Louis, you know that.”
“I’m - not mad that it’s a love letter!” Louis responds, exasperated, “I’m mad because you said it was a meaningless kiss and - it wasn’t meaningless to me,” Louis admits, finally having enough sense to turn red, himself, “And that I’ve been in my room drowning in self-pity for hours, and all along you had a love letter written out to me in my birthday card, and you are a prick for not talking to me,” Louis says in one breath.
“You - what do you mean, not meaningless?” Harry asks. It isn’t accusing or angry; it is merely curious, his eyes wide with question, “You mean you - ?”
“Yes,” Louis breathes, “Yes, I - I liked it. A lot. I like you a lot. I was just afraid to say anything because you were treating it like a joke, and I felt stupid and I lashed out at you and I’m sorry,” Louis says, carding his hands through his hair, “And maybe I’m still stupid and I’m just assuming things, but even if you didn’t mean it to be, this is very nearly a love letter and you have some explaining to do.”
Harry stares at him for a long, long time. Long enough to make Louis’ nerves make another appearance.
“Okay, Haz, I really, really need you to say something, or, like, punch me in the face, if you want.”
“I was afraid,” Harry blurts suddenly, catching Louis’ gaze, “I - I didn’t kiss you as a joke. I just thought, with the way you reacted, that you...you felt uncomfortable with it. I told you I was kidding to, I don’t know, smooth things over for us, but then it made things worse, and I didn’t know what to do,” Harry says, breathing shallow, “I - I like you, Louis, I think I have for a while, and I just thought, you know, that you didn’t want me. I kissed you to see how you would react and then I got scared when you didn’t immediately dive into my arms.” Harry shakes his head, exhaling a deep breath, “This is all my fault, I should’ve been honest with you. I’m really sorry I made you feel like you aren’t important to me, because you are - you’re one of the most important things in my life, and I’m so sorry I risked our friendship because I couldn’t say all this before.”
It’s Louis’ turn to stare. Louis isn’t sure what he had been expecting, but this probably wasn’t it. Not that he’s complaining. Finally, Louis breaks into a grin, laughing despite himself, because this is - incredible, this feeling that has swelled in his chest, and it swells more when Harry begins laughing with him, short, barking laughs that Louis adores, just like he adores everything about him.
“Jesus, Haz,” Louis says a moment after they’ve calmed down, “to think all of this could’ve been avoided if you’d let me read it yesterday morning.” Louis reaches up, touching Harry’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, running his thumb over his lips, almost giddy with the way Harry’s breath catches.
“What are you doing?” Harry asks with a smile as Louis comes forward, standing on his tiptoes so he’s nearly level with him.
Louis’ gaze flickers upwards, to the sprig of mistletoe over the doorway, his eyes wicked as he leans forward and captures Harry in a real kiss, their mouths fitting together like pieces of a puzzle, like rain on pavement. Louis drops back down, eyes shining. “Just following tradition, you see,” he says, and Harry pulls him back for another.
