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The weather in London has been dismal. Chilly and gray and rainy – but not even real rain, the kind that warrants raincoats and wellies. The sky has been spitting out thin sheets of mist that coat everything in a glimmering sheen and make the ground slippery and the bitter wind that much colder, damp and unpleasant as it slips its spidery fingers through the buttons of your coat and between the fabric of your jeans, down the collar of your shirt and up the cuffs of your sleeves.
Louis has been avoiding it as much as possible, choosing to stay inside and let Harry go out and brave the chill. They’re redoing one of their guest rooms, had sat on the sofa with Louis’ laptop and surfed the websites of several department stores in search of décor they could agree on so that Harry could go pick it all up. He’s been gone for three hours, and Louis is getting restless. He’s been playing a rousing game of solitaire for the past five minutes, slumped over onto the table with his head pillowed on one arm and Greg James’s show playing on low in the background.
He’s just about to call it, is gearing up to shut off the laptop and go for a swim or something, when he hears the front door open. Sighing with relief, Louis tips the screen closed and pushes back from the table, shuffles his socked feet across the cold tiles of the kitchen and into the living room. All he can see of Harry is the top of his beanie-covered head where he’s bent over, untangling a mess of bag handles from around his fingers while simultaneously trying to toe off his boots.
“You’re going to fall over,” Louis sighs, walking over to help him. He works the little ropes off of Harry’s fingers while Harry focuses on getting his shoes off, lets out a pleased little hum when Harry straightens up with a huff, then offers him a beatific smile and ducks in to press a cold, rain-damp kiss to his lips.
“Hi,” Harry murmurs, and Louis wrinkles his nose when Harry turns his head so he can rub the tip of his nose against his cheek. Harry’s skin is icy, and Louis shoves at his shoulder with a laugh, squirming away.
“Get off me, you idiot. You smell like a wet dog.”
At that, Harry’s mouth curves up into a mischievous little grin, and Louis takes a cautious step back, watches warily as he tugs off his beanie, then closes his eyes and shakes his hair out. Little droplets caught in the ends of his curls go flying, but not quite far enough to get Louis. Louis rolls his eyes at Harry’s self-satisfied little smile.
“Come on, take your coat off. I’ll make you a cuppa.”
Harry bites his lip at that and drops his gaze to his feet, toes curling and uncurling against the rug laid out in front of the door. He fiddles absently with the zip of his coat, and it takes Louis a moment to realize that Harry hasn’t taken his left hand out of his jacket pocket since he’s been home. Suspicion colors his voice when he says slowly, “Harry. Take your hand out of your pocket.”
“Lou –“
“Harry.” Louis stares him down. He feels a bit like his mum, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set, but Harry only hesitates for a moment before sighing. The fact that he uses his right hand to pull the edge of the pocket open has alarm bells going off in Louis’ head, and honestly, he should have known. Should have known this would happen, sooner or later, so it’s not even a surprise when Harry works his left hand free of his jacket and there’s a tiny little cat clinging to his fingers.
It really is tiny, too. Tiny and gray, fur matted and wet, its little pink nose buried between two of Harry’s fingers, and Louis refuses to be swayed by its giant bat-like ears, or the way it has its pointy little tail wrapped neatly around Harry’s wrist.
“Harry, we cannot have a cat.”
“Louis, he was sitting underneath a car by the Tescos on the corner, I couldn’t just leave him. It’s raining outside, and look how tiny he is.” Harry holds the little cat up to his face and makes kissing noises at it before turning his hand so it’s facing Louis. “He was just sitting in a puddle of water, watching people walk by. When I bent down, he walked right over to me.”
“Babe, we’re leaving for America in a week, it can’t stay here alone for the whole week we’re gone. What’s it going to do? What do we do with it when we go on tour? It can’t travel the world with us, I’m pretty sure there are laws about that.”
More alarms go off when Harry tips his head, a smug little grin stretching its way across his face. Shit. He thought of everything, of course he did. “Called Gemma, she’ll stay here with him.” Louis opens his mouth to respond, but Harry plows on. “Get your coat on, we’re going to the pet shop. I think we need a flea bath.”
He’s not really sure how it happened, but Louis finds himself walking the drizzly streets of London, holding an umbrella over his and Harry’s heads and steering Harry with a hand around his elbow while he coos to the kitten where it’s cradled against his chest. The little thing is already staring up at Harry with wide, adoring eyes, and Louis bites back a sigh. He can relate.
The pet shop is small and noisy, crowded with cages of birds and rabbits and teeny little hamsters that could easily fit in the palm of Louis’ hand. There’s a rack of sad looking betas that always tug at Louis’ heartstrings, but before he can say anything about the poor little fish, Harry is steering him over to the aisle overflowing with cat toys and collars, treats and bags of kibble.
Louis is unprepared when Harry says, “Here, hold Dave,” and shoves the cat into his hands unceremoniously. Louis blinks down at it in surprise, wincing instinctively when it wraps its little paws around his fingers. Its nails are sharp.
“How d’you know it’s a boy? Isn’t it too young to have balls?”
Harry shrugs from where he’s hunched over a display of canned kitten food. He’s muttering to himself as he trails his fingers across the labels. “Just a hunch,” he says absently, then reads off, “Salmon, chicken, tuna, turkey. Which do you think he’ll like?”
Louis rolls his eyes at the little cat. It’s staring up at him with its eerie, lamp-like eyes. He can’t quite tell if they’re blue or gray in this lighting, but they’re too big for the kitten’s face, and it’s been staring at him since Harry passed it over, steady and unblinking. “It’s probably barely had anything to eat, I don’t think it’ll mind. Get one of each, if you want.”
“Good thinking,” Harry agrees. “Then we can see which he likes best and get more of that.” He turns to glance at Louis, offers him a fond little smile as he looks back and forth between the cat and Louis’ face. “He likes you.”
“How can you tell?” Louis lifts the cat so he can look at it properly. It’s got its tail wrapped around his wrist, like it had done with Harry, and while Louis studies its little face, it rests its chin in the vee between Louis’ thumb and forefinger. He can feel its little heart beating against his palm, the slow, even expanding and contracting of its frail little ribcage, the brush of its whiskers against his fingers. Alright, maybe it’s a little cute. They still aren’t keeping it. He’ll let Harry clean it up, then they’ll find a home for it.
“I’m going to make him a tag. D’you think we should put our home number, or one of our mobile numbers on it?”
“Neither,” Louis says promptly, lowering his hand so he can hold the kitten to his chest to keep it stable as he walks down the aisle to look at the beta fish. “We aren’t keeping it.”
“Him,” Harry insists. “And yes, we are. Hey, d’you think he wants a blue collar to match his eyes?”
“Christ,” Louis mutters. He refuses to answer that question.
By the time they leave the shop, they have five bags overflowing with collars of various sizes and colors, name tags, catnip toys, a foldable scratching post, enough cans of food to last through a zombie apocalypse, flea bath, a range of treats, a litter box, and a tiny little sweater that’s meant for Chihuahuas, but that Harry had refused to put back on the shelf. He makes Harry carry all of the bags, while he holds the umbrella in one hand and the kitten in the other. The tags clinking together in one of the bags all say Dave on them, but Louis refuses to acknowledge that name.
“Honestly, who names a cat Dave?”
Harry shrugs. “He liked it. I was trying out names while I walked home, and he started purring when I said Dave.”
“Harry, he was purring because you were petting him.” He lifts the cat to demonstrate. “See? He’s purring right now.”
“Yeah,” Harry nods, leaning in to kiss the top of the kitten’s little head. “Because I was calling him Dave.”
“You’re an idiot,” Louis states, but he’s pretty sure it comes out more like I love you, you overgrown man-child.
The first thing they do when they get back to the house is bathe the cat. Sitting in the bottom of the kitchen sink, fur plastered to his little body as the flea shampoo soaks in, he looks even more pitiful than before. Louis watches as Harry pets a finger along the knobs of his spine, watches the kitten’s eyes flutter closed, listens to his blissful purrs. “You know he’ll need to go to a veterinarian. Get shots and all that.”
Harry nods and looks over at Louis, doesn’t stop petting the cat. “He’s got an appointment on Wednesday with the doctor Ben takes Colin to see.”
“Of course he has,” Louis sighs. Harry just smiles at him.
“You’re coming with, right?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Hey.” Harry hip checks him, then shuffles over so they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder. “You always have a choice, Lou.”
Louis shakes his head as he turns the water back on, holds a hand under the spray until it’s warm enough for the cat. “Come on, kitty,” he murmurs, reaching into the sink to lift him up and angle him under the spray. He’s still not calling him Dave. He can feel Harry watching him, watching the way he rinses the soap out of the kitten’s fur with gentle strokes of his fingers, the way he shields the kitten’s eyes while he tries to get the soap out of the fur at the top of his head.
It’s not until he’s setting the cat down in the center of the towel Harry is holding, until he’s watching Harry bundle it up and settle it in the crook of his arm so only his tiny gray head is peeking out, that he says, “Yeah, I’ll go with you. Of course I will.”
Harry and Louis spend hours playing with the kitten, sprawled out on the floor of the living room. They let him eat canned food in small increments every half hour, don’t want him to overdo it and make himself sick, and once he’s dry, Harry insists on putting the sweater on him. It dwarfs his tiny body, but Harry doesn’t want him to get cold, so Louis leaves him be. It’s cute, anyway, the way he keeps tripping when his paws get caught in the gaping sleeves, and he keeps rolling over so he can chew on the collar.
He chases little plastic balls with jingling bells inside of them, chews on mice stuffed with catnip, and scratches at the little post Louis had set up, his back arched as he claws at the sisal fibers with his tiny little claws. Bored of the post, Dave stands on top of a hollow plastic dome that’s filled with rubber balls that roll around and peek out of cut-outs, bats at the balls with his tiny little paws until he’s so exhausted that he passes out on the rug, laid out flat on his back with his paws at his sides, like a furry little human. Louis just sits there while Harry lifts the kitten up gently and sets him down in the groove between his outstretched legs. He watches the kitten’s paws flex against Harry’s jeans, the tip of his tail twitch before he settles and his breathing evens back out. He’s snoring quietly, and it shouldn’t be nearly as cute as it is.
Rolling onto his side, Louis stretches out on the carpet and rests his head on Harry’s thigh, just a few inches from Dave’s enormous ears. He lays a hand on Harry’s leg, touches the tip of his finger gently to Dave’s belly and watches it rise and fall with his breaths, hums happily when he feels fingers sift through his own hair.
“You know this is a terrible idea, right?” Louis asks quietly.
He feels Harry’s body shift with a shrug, but the fingers in his hair don’t let up. Harry tugs on his hair gently, nails scratching lightly against his scalp and sending pleasant little ripples down Louis’ spine. “Maybe, but I don’t care. Gemma will take care of him for the week we’re in America, then we’ll have all of Christmas with him and it’ll be fine. Zayn and Liam have dogs, it’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” Louis sighs. He turns his face into Harry’s thigh and just breathes him in for a moment, inhales the warm, comforting smell of home before rolling back over and settling back in. He can feel Harry lean away from him for a moment, twists his head around to see what he’s doing, and is met with the backside of Harry’s iPhone. “Harry…”
“’S just for mum and Gem.” Out of habit, Louis makes a face right as the shutter clicks, grins when Harry huffs out an annoyed breath. “Why can’t you take a normal photo? I’m sending this to my mum. It’s meant to be a family portrait.”
“A fam – oh, for God’s sake, Harry.” Louis can feel warmth bubbling up in his chest, though, banding around his throat like a vice and threatening to choke him. He shouldn’t get this worked up over the word family, honestly he shouldn’t. This is Harry, he says a hundred sappy things every day. Nevertheless.
Louis reaches up and curls a hand around the back of Harry’s neck, tugs him down and into an awkwardly angled kiss. He keeps the kiss short enough that they don’t get worked up, but deep enough to convey just how much he loves this soppy idiot of his. With a defeated little sigh, Louis lets Harry pull back an inch, hand still wrapped around the back of his neck to hold him close. He knows he’s giving in. This is still a terrible idea, and giving in means they’ll only get more attached, means going away will be that much harder, but.
But Louis just closes his eyes briefly, takes a breath, then looks up at Harry and says, “Well, if it’s a family portrait, shouldn’t all three of us be in it?”
Harry lifts Dave from between his knees and sets him carefully on Louis’ chest before sliding out from under Louis head, shuffling around so he can curl up against Louis’ side on the carpet. He snaps the photo, then lowers the phone so they can study the shot before sending it off. They look a little silly, two grown men with a tiny wisp of a kitten curled up in the hollow of Louis’ shoulder, one paw dangling off the side of his arm, but Harry looks radiant, his free hand curled possessively around the back of Louis’ neck.
Louis swallows down any lingering doubts, raises his hand toward the screen, and presses ‘send’.
- fin -