Work Text:
“Alright, Lou, you ready?”
Muffled by the sofa pillows, Louis’ voice drifts toward the front door, asking, “Do we have to? We’re too old for this, H.”
Harry rolls his eyes and stomps over to the sofa so he can poke Louis in the back of the head. “Yes, we have to. I took off work for this and it’s going to be fun, there is no such thing as being too old. You’re already dressed, let’s go!”
He hears Louis sigh, then he’s rolling over onto his back and sitting up, hair all mussed like a startled chicken. “Fine. But I’m driving. You drive like a granny.”
Tucking a smug grin into the corners of his mouth, Harry holds the keys out to Louis. He prefers to be the passenger, anyway, likes to be able to watch Louis’ brow furrow when other drivers are frustrating him, likes to watch the scenery and people in the cars around them, maybe nap a little if the drive is long. He follows Louis out the front door, listens to the cheerful jingling of the car keys in Louis’ hand as they head down the stairs. Never let it be said that Harry doesn’t know how to handle his man.
It takes them an hour to get there, and Harry spends all of it with one hand tucked into Louis’ lap and his nose pressed against the window so he can watch the bustle and buildings of London recede, give way to rural sprawl and rolling farms dotted with grazing sheep. It’s late October, but everything is still so green, the air damp and cool and so perfectly autumn that Harry dreads going inside every day, wishes he could spend all of his time outside, listening to the crunch of leaves underfoot and tasting the fresh, earthy October air.
Once he sees the sign for Crockford Bridge Farm, Harry turns in his seat, grip tightening around Louis’ thigh excitedly.
“Now, remember. Pick one that’s firm and sits flat and has long, straight sides. And the greener the stem, the better.”
Louis slides him an amused look before making the turn down the pebble road to the tidy little farmhouse. “Just how much research have you done for this, babe?”
Harry sticks his tongue out at Louis, then leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek once he’s pulled into a parking space.
“None, thanks. I’m an expert already. I can’t believe you aren’t, with all of your younger sisters.”
Louis just shrugs and turns the car off.
“I just watched them, minded that they didn’t cut their little fingers off.” He emphasises the point with a wiggle of his own fingers that has Harry giggling and reaching out for his hand. Louis smiles fondly at him, then says, “Hazza, as much as I’d love to sit here and hold hands with you, we could have done that from home. Let’s go get this over with.”
Harry just shakes his head and climbs out of the car, waits for Louis to round the hood and tangle their fingers together. He nudges his shoulder against Louis’ and says, confident, “You’re going to love this, just watch.”
Their first glimpse of the field is arresting. An enormous grassy field has been strewn with pumpkins - tiny ones stacked in heaps, pumpkins the size of Harry’s head resting on mounds of hay and strewn across wooden crates, enormous ones heavier than Harry could lift scattered amongst the pumpkin debris, and tucked into the back corner, a patch of unripe pumpkins still on their vines. There are people milling about, browsing through the stock and photographing their children, lugging pumpkins back to the farm shop, and Harry is so excited he has goosebumps. He hasn’t been to a proper pumpkin patch in years, not since he and Gemma were children and his mum and Robin wanted to take family photos.
Harry doesn’t realize he’s been squeezing Louis’ hand until Louis nudges him in the hip and laughs, “They’re just pumpkins, Harry, calm down. Let’s go have a look.”
Harry lets Louis drag him off toward the closest pile of decorative gourds, then tugs him down into a crouch so they can begin to search through them all. He wants carving pumpkins, but he also wants little ones for decoration and a couple of ripe ones to bake with.
Louis does not understand the art of selecting a pumpkin, Harry discovers, and he has to give him a hands-on tutorial that involves way too much touching for such a public, kid-friendly place. Harry wants so many pumpkins that they end up making it into a contest to see who can choose the best ones, both drifting from pumpkin pile to hay bale, turning pumpkins over and pressing on the bottoms like they’re pumpkin experts.
At one point, Harry finds Louis stretched out on the ground in front of a towering pile of gourds, feet crossed at the ankle while he inspects them for imperfections. He stands a few feet back and snaps a quiet photo, too smug to let the fact that Louis is clearly enjoying himself after all of his protest go.
Once they’ve got a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins set for carving, decor, and baking, they pay and load them into the car. Before Harry can get in himself, though, Louis grabs his hand and tugs him back toward the field.
“Let’s walk,” he says, tilting his head toward the pumpkin patch.
Even though it’s chilly and misty out, warmth blooms in Harry’s belly and twists down his limbs. He uses Louis’ grip on his hand to pull him close, fits himself to Louis’ side and murmurs into the side of his neck, “Thank you for coming with me today. I picked some good pumpkins, but I picked a great boyfriend.”
Louis groans and shoves weakly at Harry’s shoulder. “You are the worst. And you didn’t pick me, we picked each other.” Louis pauses, make a face, then says, “Okay, maybe you did sort of pick me.”
“It was an accident!” Harry giggles, burying his face in Louis’ shoulder.
“You sure about that, Styles?” Louis pinches Harry’s side with his free hand, grinning when Harry gasps and wiggles away. “You sure you weren’t just claiming your territory, like an overgrown cat?”
“Well,” Harry purrs, butting his nose against Louis’ shoulder, “if the shoe fits...”
“Please,” Louis murmurs, turning into Harry’s body as they reach the edge of the pumpkin field. Harry drapes his arms around Louis’ neck automatically, sighing happily at the way they just slot together, like two pieces of a puzzle. “You didn’t need to mark anything, I was already yours.”
;;
Panting, Harry hauls the last of the pumpkins up the stairs and into the kitchen. He loves Halloween, loves carving pumpkins, but living on the fourth floor of a building with no lift is not conducive to a pumpkin carving habit. Harry sets it down on the table with a thunk, then steps back to admire his haul.
He has a few standard howden carving pumpkins - three for him, one for Louis, and a spare in case Louis decides he loves pumpkin carving and wants to do another. He’s also got a dozen sugar pie pumpkins for baking, a burlap sack of carnival squash, and a ramshackle collection of turban squash, tigers, pump-ke-mon, and baby boo pumpkins to set out in bowls.
“It’s a good haul,” Harry decides, looking up when Louis walks into the room with one more carving pumpkin. “Hey, Lou, do you know what these are called?”
He picks up a small white pumpkin and waves it through the air. Louis shakes his head and reaches out for it, tangles their fingers around the little fruit before taking it out of Harry’s hand.
“A ghost pumpkin?”
Harry can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, reaches out to tuck a finger into the waistband of Louis’ shorts and tug him closer. “No,” he giggles, leaning in to nuzzle at the curve of Louis’ jaw. “They’re named after you.”
Voice thick with confusion, Louis asks, “Louis pumpkins?”
Harry giggles again, lifts his hand to tap a finger against the side of the pumpkin where it’s still clutched in Louis’ hand. It makes a pleasantly hollow noise, and he times the beats of his syllables to it as he taps on it. “Nope. Baby boo pumpkins.”
“Oh my god,” Louis groans, reaching up to tug at the ends of Harry’s hair. Harry whines quietly and arches into it, presses his head back against Louis’ hand so he’ll keep going, maybe pull in earnest. Instead, Louis just scrapes his hand down Harry’s back and grips his hip, squeezes and says, “I regret ever telling you about that nickname.”
“You didn’t tell me, your mum did,” Harry murmurs, hiding his grin against Louis’ temple.
“She’s fired,” Louis mutters, “I’m getting a new mum.”
Harry shakes his head, tugs the little pumpkin out of Louis’ hand so he can set it aside and wrap himself around Louis. He leans in to drag their lips together, whispers, “You can’t, I love her, we’re keeping her.”
“I’m keeping you,” Louis counters, and Harry smiles into the kiss, so hard his cheeks hurt.
“Deal.”
That night, while Louis is drawing up plays for the football team he coaches, Harry guts pumpkins, roasts the meat, and salts and toasts the seeds, so that their tiny flat is filled with the smell of cooking pumpkin, cinnamon, and clove. Louis wanders in while Harry is scooping pureed pumpkin into a pie crust, comes up behind him and hooks a chin over his shoulder so he can watch.
“Your hands are orange,” he points out, voice rumbling against Harry’s back where they’re pressed together. Harry lets go of the spoon so he can waggle his stained fingers at Louis. Louis buries a laugh in the back of Harry’s shoulder and mumbles, “They look like alien hands. That’s going to look so weird wrapped around my dick.”
Eyes still on the pie as he smooths the surface, Harry shakes his head and tuts, “Presumptuous.”
“Is it, though?” Louis slides a hand around Harry’s waist and flattens his palm low on Harry’s belly. Harry’s stomach tightens with anticipation, and he’s grateful when he can slide the pie into the oven and turn his attention wholly to Louis. He wipes his hands carefully before turning around to face him, spreads his legs automatically when Louis cages him in against the counter.
Harry wets his lips, skin already tingling, heart rate already picking up pace.
“I was going to suggest we start carving the pumpkins tonight, since Halloween is in just two days, but.” Before Louis can respond, Harry falls to his knees, palms at Louis through his trousers and continues, “I think you’ve presented a better option.”
;;
Harry corners Louis after he gets home from work the following day with a bread knife and a scalpel in hand. Eyes wide, Louis looks from the knives to Harry’s face and asks, “Are you here to murder me?”
“If you don’t carve your bloody pumpkin, I just might,” Harry quips, poking Louis in the belly.
Shaking his head amusedly, Louis tucks a hand into Harry’s hair and twists the curls around his fingers, says, “You could get away with it, too, face like this.”
Harry curves down into it instinctively when Louis raises up onto his toes, hums happily into the kiss and lets Louis distract him for a few long moments. The knives are always in the back of his mind, though, doesn’t want to accidentally cut Louis, so he pulls out of it after a while, takes a deliberate step back and brandishes the scalpel again.
His lips are pleasantly swollen, half-numb when he opens them to chirp, “Pumpkin carving time!”
Pumpkin carving is a messy business, and they have to lay an old bedsheet out on the kitchen floor to try and contain it. Harry walks Louis through the initial sawing and gutting phases until they’re covered in meat and seeds, hands slippery and bits of pulp clinging to their clothing, then hands him a marker and lets him sketch out a design.
Harry is so caught up in drawing his designs on all three of his pumpkins, brow furrowed and tongue caught between his teeth, that he doesn’t even realize that Louis has just been staring at him rather than drawing out his own design until he moves to work a crick out of his neck and catches him at it. Louis’ cheeks color a bit and he twiddles the marker in his hand while they gaze quietly at each other for a moment.
“We should get a bigger place,” Louis says, apropos of nothing, and Harry can feel his eyebrows wing up. “You know,” Louis continues, “so we can spread out a bit. Maybe have a couple spare bedrooms. Nest, or something.”
Harry is at a complete loss for words. He and Louis have been together for five years, since they met in the dorm toilets his first year at uni and he accidentally peed on Louis’ shoe, and they’re under no illusions about what this is - that they’re both in it completely, forever, marriage and babies and rocking chairs on the front porch, but they’re still young, and they’re happy where they are in their relationship. Well, they were, and Louis has never just blurted something like this out before, at least not without some sort of lead-up, and he’s just a bit taken aback. Now that Louis has said it, though, he can picture it so clearly in his head
“Sorry, sorry,” Louis backpedals, sitting back on his haunches and uncapping his marker, then nervously capping it again. “That was random, I don’t know where that came from.”
“No,” Harry protests, a bit too emphatically, probably, and he reaches out to grasp Louis’ wrist. There’s sharpie and pumpkin all over his hands, but Louis doesn’t even seem to notice. “No, I want that. I want all of that. With you.”
Louis just blinks at him for a moment, arm tense under Harry’s hand, but then he relaxes on a sigh, mouth curving up into a beatific smile, and Harry can feel his own answering smile spreading across his face, wide and slightly giddy and just shy of painful. Okay. They’ve just made plans to make a plan, to push forward with their future together, build a life and a home together. Harry can’t wait. He feels jittery and excited, heart fluttering madly in his chest, and he just wants to celebrate this plan to make a plan, wants Louis to lay him out and kiss him breathless, kiss him senseless, twist them together until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, until he can feel Louis in his core, in his very bones.
He’s just about to pull Louis over to him, is about to ask, beg if he has to, when his hand slips on something and he’s brought back to Earth, to the pumpkin with a half-drawn Spider-Man silhouette and the marker in his hand.
Eyes still on Louis’, Harry shifts positions on the sheet and says, voice low and rough, “We’re going to finish these pumpkins, then you’re going to fuck me on the nearest surface, even if it has to be this floor.”
Louis’ eyes go wide and his mouth falls open, and Harry can feel him staring as he goes back to drawing the rest of the Spider-Man he’d looked up this morning to draw for Louis. His hand is only trembling a little bit.
;;
It’s Halloween, the flat is dressed to the nines in fake headstones, cobwebs, and fat, hairy spiders, and Louis hasn’t yet let Harry see the pumpkin he carved the previous night. He had even taken the pumpkin to work with him that morning so that Harry couldn’t sneak a peek, and Harry is frustrated.
He pulls on his costume with a bit more force than necessary, nearly stabs his eye out while applying eyeliner and gets lipstick on his teeth before he stops to take a calming breath and put the mystery pumpkin out of his mind. He has to finish getting into his costume before their friends arrive, and Louis is out buying more ice, so it’s up to Harry to get into the blasted thing himself.
Lamenting his choice of costume, Harry scowls at himself in the mirror as he tugs the corset on. At least it laces in the front, not the back, he thinks, pulling the laces as tight as he can, then tying them off. He already has on the garter belt and the thigh-highs, all that’s left are the shoes and the gloves, but he doesn’t want to be toddling around the flat in heels while he’s setting up the last of the refreshments. All he needs is to trip and take out a table of cakes, or spill all of the lemonade Zayn worked so hard to dye an appealing shade of purple.
Harry carries the heels out into the main room of the flat so that he can put the finishing touches on everything, is finished and slipping the shoes on when he hears a key scrape in the lock and the door swing open. He just manages to stand up straight before Louis walks in and looks up, is well satisfied with the way he stops dead, mouth hanging open, and lets out a high-pitched stream of incoherent noises.
Harry strikes a pose against the back of the sofa and murmurs, “I see you shiver with antici...pation.”
Louis makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat and drops the bag of ice by the door, stalks forward with intent heavy in his eyes, but Harry throws a hand up to block him, giggling and tapping his toes excitedly. He quite likes the way the heels sound on the tile floors.
“Ah, no touching! You’ll ruin my makeup!”
“I don’t care,” Louis starts, but Harry cuts him off, shoves him back a foot so he can side-step away from the sofa and back slowly toward the kitchen.
“No way, Lou, this took me ages. You can ruin it after the party, but our guests will be here any minute!”
His protest is punctuated with a sharp rap to the still-open front door, and then Zayn and Niall are pouring into the flat, arms full of candy and jugs of something toxic green. Niall’s eyes go wide the moment he spots Harry, and he stammers out, “Holy shit, H, you look incredible.”
Harry beams at Niall, too pleased and distracted by the way Louis is still staring at him hungrily to notice that more of their guests have arrived and are calling compliments to him and Louis as they flock toward the snacks and drinks. Zayn has the music set up within minutes and Niall drags an end table over to the door for the bowl of trick-or-treat candy, in case any children stop by, but Harry’s world narrows down to just Louis when he appears right in his line of sight, two cups of purple punch in hand and a new sort of determination in his eyes.
Harry murmurs a thank you as he takes one of the cups from him when it’s proffered, takes a moment to admire the way his red lipstick leaves a bright mark around the rim of the cup. Louis is watching him with warm, heavy eyes when he looks back up, and Harry has to strain to hear over the music when Louis says, “Come to the kitchen for a mo?”
Harry is a little bit captivated by the way the flashing lights of the tacky disco ball Niall brought over are shining off Louis’ skin, turning him multicolored, like a spotty rainbow. Harry’s beacon of beauty and strength in a world that sometimes carries too much stress and exhaustion. His skin tingles when Louis presses a hand to the bare small of his back, and he lets Louis lead him toward the kitchen, clueless as to why. It’s only marginally quieter in there, with no doors to shut the music and laughter out, but Louis just turns him toward the table wordlessly, where there’s one more pumpkin than Harry had set out as decor.
Excitement and pride thrill down Harry’s spine as he takes a hesitant step toward it. He has no idea what has been carved into that pumpkin, but whatever it is, Louis has kept it from him all day, so it must be good. He wonders absently if it’s a rough likeness of his face, then scraps the idea almost immediately. Only Zayn could have managed something like that, and there hasn’t been enough time for Louis to have commissioned Zayn to carve something for him. Louis wouldn’t pawn off the first pumpkin Harry asked him to carve, anyway, Harry is sure.
Fingers trembling, he reaches out for the stem of the pumpkin so he can turn it around. His fingers catch on a bit of string, but even though he’s confused, he doesn’t bother to investigate, is too excited to see what Louis has done. He doesn’t breathe the entire time it takes him to swivel the pumpkin around, but when he catches sight of the front of it, his breath leaves him in a rush, has him gasping for air and gripping the edges of the table, knees gone weak.
In place of a picture or the standard jack-o-lantern face are two untidy, spiky words: marry me.
It takes Harry a moment to figure out why his vision has gone blurry, and he knuckles at the tears slipping down his cheeks with a shaky hand, lets out a sobbing laugh and says, “You ruined my makeup anyway.”
Blinking rapidly, trying to clear his vision so he can see properly, Harry gropes for the little string tied around the stem and lifts it up, finds a narrow platinum band dangling from the end of it.
“Oh, god,” he breathes out on another sob, overjoyed and blindingly, overwhelmingly happy.
He tries to undo the knot around the ring, but his fingers are trembling too much, and Louis has to tug it gently out of his grasp and do it for him, turns Harry around with a hand on his elbow and holds the ring up between two fingers, eyebrows raised in question. As if there was ever a question of whether or not Harry would say yes.
“Yes!” Harry exclaims, a watery, giddy laugh bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. “100%, yes.”
He holds his breath as Louis slides the ring onto his finger, completely unsurprised when it fits perfectly. Harry can’t tear his eyes away from it for long, mesmerized by the way the lights reflect off of it, the way it gleams against his skin. He keeps his eyes locked on the ring while he kicks off his shoes so he won’t tower over Louis, but then manages to look up at Louis long enough to ask, “Do you have one?”
Louis is already reaching into his pocket and pulling out a matching band. Harry grabs it quickly out of his hand, ignores Louis’ surprise and says, “I want to do it.”
His hands are still shaking madly, but he gets the ring on Louis’ finger eventually, then wraps his arms around Louis’ neck, lifts his hand behind Louis’ head so he can admire the ring a bit more.
“I know it’s not really a conventional, down on one knee kind of proposal -”
“No,” Harry interrupts, voice firm. “It was perfect. Perfect,” he emphasises, clutching at the back of Louis’ neck. God. He feels hot all over, excitement and happiness and wonder and an unexpected bolt of lust all wrapping around his chest, threatening to smother him. He can’t breathe, can’t believe his luck, can’t believe his life.
He goes in for a kiss, is unable to keep momentary hurt from flashing across his face when Louis pulls back and shakes his head quickly.
“Your makeup,” Louis points out, his excuse feeble, undercut by the way he’s clutching desperately at Harry’s hips, the way Harry can feel his heart pounding against his own, the way he’s shaking, too, just a little bit.
“Don’t care,” Harry declares, tightening his grip on Louis and leaning in close. He pauses just a centimeter from Louis’ mouth, whispers, “I can’t believe you proposed to me with a jack-o-lantern, you weirdo.”
“Hey,” Louis laughs, “I can take it back, you know!”
Harry shakes his head emphatically, mouth stretched into what feels like a permanent grin. “Absolutely not, Lewis. You may be a weirdo, but you’re my weirdo. Fuck the makeup.” He ducks in again, close enough that their lips brush together, just the barest of touches, and murmurs, “Now kiss me, you fool.”
fin