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He’s alone in bed, the white comforter pulled up to his bare waist, with a thumb on the down button of the remote, flipping endlessly and (he won’t dare admit it for he likes to call himself a man of patience; patience is a virtue and all that) very impatiently. He leaves it on the weather channel for a couple seconds and shivers at the sight of roaring winds and thick piles of snow he (read: his beautiful, loving, caring husband Harry) will have to shovel through to get their vehicle out of the garage tomorrow morning. He’s never been more thankful for their thick walls and central heating and cashmere throws. The lady starts to talk about airport closings and he changes the channel with haste; he already knows about the damn airport closings and flight cancellations, thank you very much.
Louis stops at The Polar Express and sits up with delight; it’s his little James’ favourite Christmas movie and he knows the little boy is two doors down, hopefully being tucked into his bed with promises of hot chocolate with ‘marshwellows’ and Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes tomorrow for breakfast. If he listens very, very carefully he can almost hear his husband tell the small blue eyed boy about the snowmen his daddies would make in the X-Factor house and how they would plop their beanies on top only to take them off later and get little drifts of frozen snow down their necks when they would put them on themselves, and the snow fights they would (almost) always win again his uncles Liam and Niall, and about the times that the holidays weren’t always a happy time for them because they had to be apart.
It’s been the same every year since their first child—the seven year old with bright cerulean eyes and wavy, sandy coloured hair, and a desire for trouble; just like his daddy, Harry had said with a proud smile—was born. Louis can’t really remember how the talk started; he can only recall being in bed with Harry, gently rocking his six week old baby boy back and forth in his arms when his husband started stroking James’ pudgy, pink cheek with such adoration and love in his eyes and started rambling away about their best mates and their experiences and how the holidays were now a time of happiness and togetherness because they no longer had to hide or be apart. It sort of became a tradition.
He hears James’ door creak and a set of gigantic feet shuffle against the thick carpet to the room across the hall: Amelia. Louis knows his little princess is Harry’s last stop before climbing into bed, and he hopes that he doesn’t take so long. He can’t help but be impatient—it’s only ten and it’s still his damn birthday and tomorrow is Christmas, and, well, he simply just wants his best friend by his side so he can be coddled and loved and snogged long and properly.
He just wants to be held by Harry. It’s been fourteen years since he met his soulmate and there’s nothing in the world that he will ever crave more than Harry’s touch, Harry’s praise, Harry’s body, Harry’s love. It’s been HarryandLouis and LouisandHarry since the get go, it just happened, and it will always just continue to happen.
Fourteen years ago he just knew that Harry was something worth fighting for and hurting over, and Louis knows that their love was worth everything the pair had to go through, and in the next fourteen years he’ll never forget that. In the next decade, or two, or five, however many, Louis will still know.
Happy squeals snap him out of his thoughts and he can’t help the grin that spreads from cheek to cheek. Amelia isn’t getting told stories about their past; James is the only one remotely interested in what they call the Storm before the Calm, also known as their boyband and PR stunts days. Amelia lets out a loud chortle and Louis doesn’t have to be there to see it all: Harry tickling her little sides, both of them laughing through warnings on how Santa doesn’t come to homes where the children don’t pick up their socks off the floor, cheeks pink and flushed, dimples steady.
Amelia is Harry as James is Louis. The five year old got Harry’s dark, unruly curls and scandalous laugh and a quirky sense in fashion (some days she prefers to wear nothing but a Spiderman costume, or studded overalls with ‘vintage’ One Direction tees, or some days she just wants to put her curls into a loose bun with a bejewelled crown and wear her leotard and sparkly pink tutu, running around like the right princess that she is). Louis just hopes the children don’t shoot up like trees, just as their Papa did.
It’s quiet again and Louis hears the soft thud of a closing door and their bedroom door opening just as they start serving hot chocolate on the Polar Express.
“We’ve got one rule: never, ever let it cool!” Louis sings to Harry, taking in his bare chest and the large butterfly that sits on top of his stomach, all tight muscle, with slow, unwavering eyes. Everything is much slower now; nothing needs to be rushed or in secret. He can look at his gorgeous, toned husband all he wants. His eyes move down to the yummy V leading to even more tasty regions, and all he can think about is last summer and Mexico and doing body shots off that bare patch of skin that’s all his and only his. “Keep it coolin’ in the pot, we’ve got! Hot chocolate!”
Harry groans and rolls his eyes, but he knows what Louis wants. He always gives Louis what he wants. “Hot, hot, ooh, we got it. Hot, hot, hey, we’ve got it,” he sings back. He pulls off his plaid sweat pants and walks towards their walk-in to throw them in the hamper, all long, muscled legs and pale, rippling back, in a pair of tiny black boxer-briefs. “Lou, honestly how many times have we’ve watched this movie? We must watch a least five times every winter, plus those other two during summer when James starts to worry he won’t be able to hear the bells ring come next Christmas. ‘S got to be like, a hundred.”
“They always said I was the dramatic one.”
Harry comes back out of their closet with a small, plain silver box in his hand. “It’s ‘cause you are. You’ve rubbed off on me.”
“You never complained before,” Louis raises an eyebrow, playful smirk playing at his lips. “Is that another present? Give it here.” He makes grabby hands at Harry.
“No, no. It’s for later,” he replies with a dramatic wink and sits the undisclosed box on their dresser, next to the telly. He plops down on the bed with a sigh and moments later squirms, reaching behind his back to remove a book that was digging into his bum. He smiles and turns to face Louis, elbow propped up. “Still looking for the perfect name, love?”
Louis nods and slaps the mattress in frustration. “Haz, the baby will be here next month and I haven’t chosen one! Like, she’ll be born and they’ll just call her the Tomlinson baby at the hospital, and I don’t want that, you know? And like, James and Amelia came so easy for the both of us, and Aiden for you, and now it’s my turn and I’ve got nothing. Speaking of Aiden, is he okay, is he asleep? I didn’t hear you check on him.”
Harry laughs and pushes Louis’ hair back with long, soft fingers. “And they say I ramble.”
“Harry, this isn’t funny. Our baby is nameless. No-name Tomlinson—that’s what she’ll be called and all the kids will beat her up in the playground, and it’ll be my entire fault!”
When Harry leans over to give him a long kiss, thin pink lips merging with pouty , rosy ones, in the background the movie stills plays; the boy is explaining to hobo ghost why he dosesn’t believe in Santa. “Baby,” Harry starts as he pulls away. “Louis, first of all, our kids will not get beat up in the playground, or anywhere for that matter. And yes, Aiden is asleep—baby boy is fine, alright?”
Louis nods and runs his index finger up and down his husband’s sharp jaw in appreciation and love and wonder. How can someone be so perfect? How can they be in such a strong, powerful, limitless love, even after all this time? It makes him grin and his heart pound a little faster when he thinks of all the years they have ahead of them.
“Speaking of Aiden, why don’t you ever tuck the kids into bed with me on your birthday?” Harry asks with serious confusion.
“’Cause, I get them all riled up and it’s Christmas and you know I just want them to open up their presents right away so we can play, and you’re like a nice, deep wave of serenity and sleep.”
“So, you’re saying I’m boring?”
Louis grins against Harry’s lips, “Yes.”
“Meh,” Harry shrugs and scoots closer to Louis, settling his hand on the man’s lap, picking the book back up. “You know I lied, right? About keeping Aiden’s name a secret until he was born—I made my mind up as soon as they handed him to us. He could’ve been a John or a Paul or a George or even a Ringo. ”
“Yeah,” Louis smiles, running his fingers through Harry’s thick hair. “I knew. You can’t keep a secret to save your life and suddenly you want to keep our baby’s name a secret? Can’t fool me, Harry Tomlinson.”
Harry throws the book on the floor where it lands with a quiet thud. He shuffles around until he gets a knee on either side of Louis’ thighs, straddling him. “Do you know what that does to me? It sounds like a dream—maybe because it was a dream once. Some days I didn’t ever think I’d see myself signing that paper and becoming yours, fully yours; Harry Tomlinson.” He leans down to press his lips against Louis’ pulse point, sucking lighting at the sensitive skin at the crook of his neck.
“And now we’re here, and it’s your birthday and our children—our children are sleeping, and tomorrow they’ll be knocking our door down to go open up what Santa brought them and I. I’m so happy.” Harry’s laugh shakes and Louis can feel wetness on his cheek. “And our baby girl is coming in a little over a month and I can’t stop thinking that I’m going to wake up from this fantasy—that, that I’ll be forced to be so far away from you and your touch, and I’ll have to smile at some camera and deny all these rumours about these women when I don’t even. When I never wanted them, never had anything to do with them, when the only dates I ever went on where with you and the only hotel beds I ever slept in were yours.”
“But it’s not a dream, love,” Louis whispers, pulling Harry’s shoulders back to see his tear-stained face. “This is us now and it’s real and that’s in the past, okay? We’re here, Harry. Here: that’s where we are. We’re in our fancy house in New York, snowed in on Christmas, and it’s alright. We’re never going back to that, alright?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry chuckles. “Sorry I’m crying like a crazy person on your birthday. And I’m sorry our flight was cancel; I know you wanted to spend the hols back home with our families, but I just love New York City around Christmas, and Amelia and James are old enough know to appreciate it somewhat—did you see how happy Aiden was when he saw the Rockefeller tree?”
“Mesmerized, he was.” Louis smiles at how amazed his three year old was with the lights and the sounds in the city yesterday. Unlike their two older children, Aiden is a perfect mix of them both. His hair is straight as an arrow, but dark and thick, and his eyes are wide and a light green with flecks of azure, framed by long, black lashes.
Harry just smiles that sweet, fond smile that he’s reserved for Louis only for fourteen years and counting, and leans back down to kiss him.
“Mhm,” Louis mumbles against his lips after a few minutes. “I can’t feel you properly.” He pushes down at the material of the comforter bunched up around his waist, and it’s getting quiet hot with Harry kissing him like there’s no tomorrow and slowly moving his hips against his thighs. He needs Harry, needs him like water. Sex with Harry is something he will never tire of; it’s amazing and special and it’s beautiful, and no one but him gets to see this side of Harry, the lust seeping through every touch, the way his eyes roll back with pleasure.
“Wait,” Harry lifts himself off of Louis, climbing to the foot of the bed. He stands, legs wobbly, and doesn’t bother to rearrange the painful situation in his pants as he rushes towards the dresser to get the forgotten silver box. He sends a flirty smirk towards his restless husband before locking himself in the bathroom.
Louis kicks off the covers until they’re bunched at the foot of the bed and shuts the telly off, and he can no longer reach them with the tips of his toes. His heart is speeding off because his lover is in the bathroom and the lad sent him a really bad, exaggerated wink and he went in there with a small box that could be filled with just about anything, and it’s his birthday plus it’s Christmas, and patience and its’ virtue can go fuck themselves.
He doesn’t have to wait long, for Harry comes out a mere two minutes later and Louis can’t seem to tear his eyes away or steady the pounding in his chest. Harry’s heaven sent, leaning against the door frame in nothing but a big, red bow. Shiny, red ribbon wraps around his long body; the material caresses one broad shoulder and dips down to form a big bow that covers his pecs and has a thick piece of fabric that shoots straight down to his groin. The material does nothing to hide the obvious bulge growing—Harry’s cock is straining against it and with any small movement is sure to fall out to the side and from the angle he’s standing, Louis can see the material wraps underneath to go in between his legs.
His jaw snaps shut when Harry starts prowling towards him with a set goal in mind: Louis is going to get pleased. Harry crawls onto the bed slowly, like they have all the time in the world, and they probably do—years and years worth of time. But right now Louis doesn’t want slow and sweet; he wants to wreck Harry, destroy him.
He bites his lip when Harry finally settles on top of him, his pert, little bum resting on his rapidly hardening cock. He can’t help the little moan that escapes, deep and throaty from the pit of his stomach, as Harry’s fattening cock slips from behind the red silk and falls to the side. Louis feels hot, intense heat slithering down his spine as Harry leans down to bite at his earlobe.
“Do you like it? Wrapped it myself,” Harry grins against the hallow space below his ear. He scoots back, arse dragging against his husband’s dick, still restrained against his pants, and arches his back. Louis groans and fights the urge to close his eyes, reeling in the sensation. He can’t help the small smile that plays at his lips when he thinks back to a cherubic, sixteen year old Harry, showing the world his Christmas present, bragging about how he wrapped it all by himself.
“But the fun part, Louis, of course is the unwrapping.” Harry rolls his arse again, thighs clenched tightly against Louis’ hips. “The thrill of discovering what’s underneath, and playing with your new, shiny toy. Don’t you want to unwrap me Lou? Wouldn’t you like to play with your new toy?”
Louis nods and his body trembles with anticipation, the desire rocking through him like sound waves. His fingers squeeze tighter on Harry’s hips, and come tomorrow morning there’ll be small, oval shaped bruises stark against pale skin. “Harry, please—fuck, don’t be a tease.”
Harry laughs, a motion that rumbles through his body and onto Louis underneath him. He pries Louis’ fingers from his hips to settle them on his flushed thighs. “You can unwrap, love. Just pull right here,” he tugs lightly on the tails of the bow. “Unwrap your birthday present.”
With shaky hands he pulls on the loose ends of the bow and the ribbon cascades around Harry’s body and pools at his waist. Harry lifts himself off Louis’ body; earning a groan and muffled curses, and scoots backwards on his knees until he’s eye-level with a nicely swelled up bulge and his arse is in the air, just like his husband likes it. He hooks his fingers in Louis pants and pulls them down his knees and off his feet, throwing them carelessly behind him. Harry shuffles back on top of Louis’ legs and leans down to nose at his opened thighs, nipping and mouthing at the thick, tan skin, leaving a trail of blooming blue and purple bruises.
Louis sucks in a breath, nails digging into Harry’s shoulders where he’s nestled comfortably in between his thighs. He moves one hand to clench at his husband’s mop of unruly hair when Harry brings his head up slightly to press wet, open mouth kisses and kitten licks at the base of his dick. Harry shifts his weight and drags his flat tongue teasingly up Louis’ shaft before enveloping the head with his warm, wet red lips. He wraps a fist around it and with expertise twirls his tongue around the head for a few seconds until he takes Louis further in, jaw relaxed, bobbing up and down, hitting the back of his throat.
Louis arches his back and shuts his eyes tight, and when Harry pulls back a bit and hallows his cheeks around him, Louis can already picture Harry’s dimple popping and tightens his hold on the curly locks in between his thighs in warning.
Harry pulls off and crawls back up to Louis, nipping at the muscles relaxing and contracting in his stomach, biting down at a nipple, which earns him a pained hiss. He reaches in between their bodies to tug lazily at Louis and licks at his sharp jaw, “Play with me, Louis. Good boys play with their presents.”
Louis grips at Harry’s waist and pulls him to the side, climbing on top of him. Harry has always been so good at coming undone without a single touch to his cock, and Louis wants to test it out again. Just for fun. It’s his birthday overall, and he gets to call the shots tonight.
-
Later, when it’s quite past midnight and the house is silent, snow falling slowly in flakes outside, Louis turns around and snuggles into Harry’s sweaty chest. “We should shower. I know how you hate waking up all sticky, with your belly all flaky.”
Harry just groans besides him, spent. He mumbles something incoherent, mouth muffled by Louis’ flat, damp tresses.
The thing is, Harry doesn’t have to say anything at all for Louis to understand. Harry doesn’t have to word out his discomfort about the sticky situation pooling on his stomach or complain with a pleased smile about the growing ache growing in his bum, he doesn’t have to ask Louis to get up, detangle himself from Harry’s tight hold, and wipe them both down with a wet towel. He doesn’t have to ask Louis for anything, the latter just gives and gives and understands—because, well, that’s just how they’ve always been.
They always take care of each other, and it’s been that way since Harry jumped into Louis’ thin arms on that stage for the first time. Harry has always been his baby; he’s looked out for him since the beginning, even before they officially became LouisandHarry and were just two kids flirting with each over, ankles intertwined underneath the breakfast table at the Judge’s house. When Harry would reach for Louis’ hand while being scolded by the Suits or when Harry would crash into his arms after a long day of parading around with famous female singers or being talked shit about for his supposed womanizer ways, Louis would just grip his hand tighter or wrap his arms around that long, muscled body with fervour.
Harry was always his baby, and still is. But now they have three babies of their own, another one coming in a few weeks, and things aren’t as difficult as they were before.
Louis stumbles of the bed, thighs shaking, steps over Harry’s forgotten bow, and slips into the bathroom in search for a clean, wet towel. He comes back with a small white towel that his husband uses to dry of his face and is quite selective about, but what Harry doesn’t know until he drops it into the washer, won’t hurt him. He wipes off the drying come of Harry’s abs gently and drags the cloth over his limp dick (whom Louis still likes to call Limpy, much to Harry’s dismay. Sure, it was Harry’s first go at sexting and nudes, but Louis believes its common sense: if you’re going to try and impress someone with your dick, shouldn’t it be hard?) and dips down to get below the curve of his bum, carefully wiping at the sensitive, puckered skin.
He throws the towel in closet, shuts the door, and walks back to his now-dozing husband, picking up their discarded pants. He puts a pair on, not bothering to check which belongs to him (but the way they are tighter around his bum, material stretching black, gives it away) and throws another at Harry's face playfully.
Harry mumbles something underneath the material, words muffled by the fabric. Louis stands above him with a smile; they've been through this process many times. Harry has habit, something the lad likes to call an ability, of falling asleep like the dead after a good fuck or a particularly long day; and today not only did Harry get fucked nice and proper, but the whole Tomlinson gang was worn out after fighting the crowds and walking around the bustling city of New York.
Louis grabs the cloth from Harry's face before he suffocates and drops it into the hamper instead. He digs down a bit to get the joggers his husband had wore earlier and sighs, going back to the bed and his dead-like partner, and throws off the covers from Harry’s body. It really is like he's Louis' big, overgrown baby, with the way Louis has to pull the joggers up Harry’s legs.
He goes back to his side of the bed, turning off the bedside lamp. Automatically, Louis turns on his side and cuddles close to Harry's body, wrapping himself like an octopus, hiding his nose in the crook of Harry’s neck, legs intertwining flawlessly and feet exchanging warmth. With a content sigh, one long arm wrapping around his curvy middle and one big hand resting in his bum, Louis drifts to sleep.
-
When Louis awakes, the curtains have been pulled open to reveal a soft, hazy snowfall. There’s dark, curly tresses tickling his bare stomach and his left leg has gone numb underneath a certain five year olds’ weight. He laughs softly and sits up slightly, careful not to awaken Amelia, or even James who’s snuggled in between him and Harry. Harry, on the other hand, is wide awake, as is Aiden, and they’re both smiling wide.
“’Ning, Daddy,” Aiden cries out.
Louis leans over James’ small body, closing the gap between him and Harry, to give his baby boy a loud smooch on his forehead, and his big boy a soft kiss on the lips. “Good morning, loves.”
Harry doesn’t try and stop his loud bursts of laughter at the scene before them, his body shaking the bed slightly. It makes them both laugh at the situation, what their lives have come to—it’s a warm feeling, watching their kids sleeping soundly, and it fills Louis with something his mum had warned him about when they first had announced they were going to try and have kids.
He can still remember that day, a Tuesday up in Doncaster. Harry and he had traveled from London in the early morning, hands intertwined above Harry’s thigh, both of them nervous. They had wanted kids for a long time now, their talks becoming lengthier and more serious after Harry turned eighteen. So, when they finally decided, they needed their mum’s blessings, of course. Jay had cried happily and hugged them both so tight, exclaiming that they were only then going to start truly living, and that the feeling they would get was nothing like they ever had felt before—it was something warm and inviting, something that sits on your chest and makes your whole body glow with a certain pride.
Aiden smiles at his daddy and reaches out for him, little chubby hands opening and closing, “Me, Daddy!”
Louis reaches over and takes him from Harry, careful not to wake Amelia or James up. “What time is it? Should we get them up?”
“It’s almost ten, I say we should. They came bursting in here at six in the morning, hoping to wake you,” Harry replies. “I made them go back to sleep, but they wouldn’t budge back to their rooms. All the commotion woke Aiden up, but not you, Sleeping Beauty.” He twists his body around, facing Louis and Aiden completely, and grabs his mobile of the nightstand with a blind hand.
Louis holds Aiden closer to his chest, smiling for Harry’s camera, as Aiden plays with his hair.
“Before we wake them up...”
Harry raises his brows in interest, “What’s up, baby?”
“Noelle,” Louis simply states. “It’s French for Christmas.”
Harry is quiet for a couple seconds, clear green eyes wide in interest. “Noelle,” he repeats. “Noelle Tomlinson. Elle, for short.”
“Ellie,” Louis nods back, a wide, pink-lipped grin stretching on his face. Aiden reaches up and pets his Daddy’s cheeks in content. “It fits right? Do you like it, Haz?”
Before Harry can answer, Aiden yells loudly, “Yes! ‘Tismas, Daddy!”
Louis smiles at his fortune; at his two sleeping, beautiful monsters at his side, his two year old, chubby little trouble on his lap, tugging on his hair, and the love of his life who has stuck by him through thick and thin for fourteen years and counting. He’s quite happy, and it might just be the best Christmas they’ve had. And come next month, when baby Noelle arrives—well, that’ll be the best Christmas present he and Harry will ever receive.
“I think that’s a yes,” Louis laughs, leaning over to meet Harry halfway. Their lips press together in a series of short, sweet kisses, and Louis can’t say he’s ever been happier.