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Louis has always known that Harry loved snow.
It’s quite obvious, whether it be from the glitter that sparkled in his eyes when he looked at the winter trees that were draped in bright white, peering through icicles that hang from above the window, or the sheer glow he has when he’s around snowflakes, flailing about and making an absolute fool of himself, often spontaneously plopping on the ground to just randomly stare at the flurries of white.
He often asks begs Louis to join him, to lie down in the freezing snow with him and hold hands as they both contemplate life together, watching the snow flutter around them and get into their eyes, leaving behind wet droplets of water and skin, as they stare at each other, in their sopping scarves, breaths fanning in front of them in wispy fog and faces flushed.
Louis is too in love with him to say no.
And maybe he loves Harry a little too much, at times. Sometimes it’s a little good to hold back, and shut down some of the less amusing and more oh-my-god-Harry-what-is-wrong-with-you ideas that he has. But Louis is not a saint, nor does he claim to be, so that’s how he finds himself, on a Sunday morning, practically half dragged out into the snow.
“Harry,” Louis slurs, still half delirious from sleep, lightly dozing on his feet as Harry attempts to pull him along, “Lea’e me alone. Lemme sleep.”
“Lou!” Harry pouts, voice on the verge of whiny, as he stomps his foot childishly, “C’mon, c’mon! It’s snowing outside, we can build snowmen. ” It’s spoken in soft reverie, not unlike a child seeing snow for the first time. Harry’s acting like he doesn’t see snow every year, and right now, Louis’ too tired for this shit.
“Harry,” Louis tries again, voice softer as he dips into the waters of dreamland, trying to stay awake for his very petulant husband who’s currently standing in front of him, puppy-dog eyes ready to be unleashed, “please, darling. We can go outside tomorrow? This afternoon? Please, for the love of god, let me sleep in just a bit longer.”
“But I wanna go now,” a grumble slips out of Harry’s lips before Louis even has a chance to process he’s talking, “The snow will melt tomorrow.”
“This afternoon?”
“No, it’ll still melt!”
“Noon?”
“No.”
“In an hour?”
“Lou!”
“For fuck’s sake, Curly. I haven’t even had a chance to drink some tea first, or get changed!”
“I’ll make it for you while you get changed. Yorkshire with a dash of milk, no sugar, hot but not boiling. C’mon, you know I can make your tea well, can you just please come with me?”
Louis tries to ignore the onslaught of puppy-dog eyes that get unleashed onto him, trying to turn away as quickly as possible, but he can already feel his resolve crumbling, weakening, until it’s nothing but a pitiful pile of dust that does nothing to contain the slowly trickling feeling of acceptance and resignation that’s already seeping through the cracks, “Fine.”
“You’re the best,” Harry sighs, coming in to hug him tightly, as Louis tries to shrug him off and grumble, but to no avail, as he feels himself press closer to him, trying to drink in all the warmth Harry provided, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Louis breathes into his neck, and yeah, Louis is so whipped.
It’s about ten o’clock in the morning when Louis is dragged out – by force – outside to build a snowman with Harry.
It’s really cold, even with the extra layers, Louis is freezing his ass off. He briefly considers storming back inside and never leaving the house again to drink his tea in peace, but he holds back, especially when he sees the look on Harry’s face.
He glows with childish wonder, which Louis can’t help but melt slightly at the sigh of, and his arms are in the air, eyes nearly squeezed shut in absolute joy, head tilted back as he throws his arms into the air like a fucking maniac. He looks insane, absolutely off his rockers, as he stands there, arms up, letting the snow consume him, yet so, so beautiful, and Louis couldn’t help but admire it all.
So Louis stands there, lukewarm tea in his hands, as he periodically takes sips, watching as Harry explores the winter wonderland with such veneration that he gives to everything in life. Sometimes Louis wonders how Harry has the time and patience to be enamoured over anything and everything, how something even as simple as a snowflake could delight Harry in such ways Louis will never understand. But then he’ll take a glance at his husband, who’s always got a massive Cheshire grin on his face, and will remember that he isn’t supposed to understand. He’s supposed to appreciate the person that stands in front of him, and appreciate him for who he is and how he explores the world.
And appreciate, he does.
“Lou,” Harry exclaims, cutting through Louis’ daydream, as Louis forces his tired, bleary eyes to open and look at him, “Come build a snowman with me.”
“Fine,” Louis sets his mug down on the front porch, as he steps off and joins Harry on the snowy grounds.
He’s got to admit, he loves the snow too. It’s pretty as hell, and fun to play with, but. It’s too early, he’s tired, and he’s not in the mood. Yet, he finds himself walking to Harry with no hesitation, like there’s something tugging him along. It’s this pull Louis experiences frequently, emotionally and physically, and he often finds himself gravitating towards Harry at all times, ready to comply with whatever he’s thinking of, like today.
Harry’s already halfway done rolling up the first snowball. The snow is the perfect kind for building snowmen, easy to pack and not too soft; as much as he hated to admit it, Harry was right, if they’d come later, it wouldn’t have been the same.
“C’mon!”
Sighing internally, Louis bends over and starts gathering snow in his hand as he packs a snowball, adding more and more snow until he’s able to roll it on the ground to form a medium-sized snowball, careful not to get any dirt on it. By the time he’s finished making a sizeable middle for the snowman, Harry had already created a big snow lump? For the snowman.
“It’s not the prettiest,” Harry murmurs, as he reaches forward to dust away some of the dirt sitting on the surface, “but I love him.”
“I love him too,” Louis finds himself saying, as he gently rolls his snowball over, “Give me a hand?”
Wordlessly, Harry trails after him and helps him place the snowball on top of the other. It’s nice, almost mindless, just pure nostalgia of the younger years before all this madness, this craziness that’s been thrust upon them at such an early age, back to the peaceful days when there were no concerns other than to be children.
“Can you make the last one? I’m gonna go get a carrot and some buttons,” Harry murmurs, and it seems he feels similar to Louis, as his voice grows softer and more fond, “This reminds me of when Gems and I would build snowmen together.”
“Me too,” Louis breathes, “It’d be Lots and I and the twins when I was a bit older,” he picks up a lump of snow, ready to turn it into the head of the snowman, “God, I miss those days.”
Harry nods, and that’s that. No words ever needed to be exchanged for moments like these; he and Harry knew each other so well there never needed to be.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, instead, and disappears into the house, leaving Louis to his own antics.
As Louis is struggling to put the head on the snowman, he feels a pair of arms snaking around him, making him almost drop the head in shock.
“Oi!” Louis exclaims, indignant, turning his head around briefly to see Harry’s blinding grin inches away from his face, “Help me with the goddamn head, you dickhead! Quit standing around.”
“You’re so short, babe,” Harry muses, as he lifts the head from Louis’ hands and places it on the snowman.
“I am not! ” screeches Louis, “I’m perfectly average!"
“Little baby is mad.”
“You are so sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Aw,” Harry smirks, beginning to place the buttons on the snowman to form facial features, “Could you go get me a couple of sticks for the arms?”
As Louis stomps away to find some good sticks for the arms, a semi-evil idea strikes his brain. He finishes the task of finding suitable arms, before returning with an.. extra item in hand.
“I’ve got your sticks.”
“Thanks, L-”
Splat.
A snowball goes flying in the air, landing straight on Harry’s chest.
“This is what you get for calling me short, you fuck!”
“Lou-” Harry wheezes, before standing, and Louis contemplates for a brief second what he’s just gotten himself into, “I’m so gonna get you back.”
“Nope!” Louis yells, as he scoops some more snow off the ground, packing it together whilst dodging a snowball thrown at him in the process, “You have shit aim, baby.”
“Fuck you,” Harry’s eyes are furrowed, as he grabs at the snow to make another snowball, before being pelted with another snowball in the face.
“Ow,” Harry mumbles, as he tumbles backwards, and Louis’ smile dims as he briefly wonders if he’s gone a tad too far.
“Shit, are you okay, Harry?” he’s in front of Harry (he doesn’t even know when he got so close to him), as he leans down, concern bubbling under the surface; what if there were rocks in the snow, what if it was too densely packed, what if-
Snow gets smashed into his face.
“What the fuck?” Louis sputters, as he tries to shake off the melting ice crystals from his face, glaring as Harry starts to giggle, before standing up and throwing another snowball that grazes his arm.
“Payback!”
“Now come back here, you little shit! ”
“No!” Harry screams, trying to duck, as Louis starts throwing snow at him, not even bothering to try to shape them into balls anymore. The air is brimming with chaos, as they both start flinging snow at each other, and before long, both are soaked from the melted snow.
“I win,” Louis beams, as Harry looks up at him, pout on full display. He’s sitting in the snow, knocked over after a couple of strategic hits from Louis, ending up being cornered by the latter.
“Fuck you,” Harry pouted, crossing his arms like a petulant child, brows furrowed, and Louis is so, so endeared, “You play football. It wasn’t a fair match.”
“What does footie have to do with snowball fighting? I’m not using my fuckin’ hands,” Louis replies, amused, as Harry’s brows knit more tightly together and he crosses his arms even more.
“You- You can run faster!” Harry protests, but it’s for a lost cause, as Louis grabs Harry’s collar and tugs him forward, until they’re face to face, inches away from each other.
“I win,” Louis repeats, a smirk growing, as Harry’s eyes grow wide at their new position, “What do I get, as a prize?”
“Nothing,” Harry drawls, face relaxed and composed, a smirk of his own growing, “There was nothing negotiated.”
“You’re such a minx,” Louis whines, before leaning in, “Not even a kiss?”
“Maybe,” Harry mumbles, leaning in closer, “Would you make snow angels with me after?”
“Anything for a kiss,” Louis whispers back and is delighted to find Harry’s lips on his.
The kiss is like every other Harry Kiss, sweet, delicate, and so, so fragile. It’s gentle like the snow that was cascading around them, yet warm in each other’s embrace. In the flurry of white, there is colour, so much colour in their flushed cheeks and puffy jackets. Before long, they both end up on the ground, the snow melting underneath both their bodies, as snowflakes coat their eyelashes in white.
“I love you, so much,” Harry pants, as he leans in for another kiss, before eventually letting Louis sit up.
When Louis finally manages to somewhat get his shit together and sit up, he’s met with a breathless Harry, eyes wide and slightly wild in elation, hands covered by his silly mittens, nose red from the cold. There’s a scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck, almost slipping off, and a beanie tucked on his head; Louis can see the air fog up when he breathes. His hair is tousled, peaking out from under the beanie, and one side of his coat is coated in crushed snow.
He looks breathtaking.
As Louis takes in the near goddamn angel that is right in front of him at the moment, Harry sits up and slides off to the side; he looks slightly hesitant, leaving Louis to piece the pieces together. Louis watches as he fiddles his fingers from inside the mittens (something that Louis could not help but be hopelessly endeared by), and it’s when Harry glances at the snow that Louis realises.
“Harry.”
“Mhm?”
“Let’s make those goddamn snow angels I know you’ve been wanting to do all day.”
There are times, when things are so incredulous and silly, that Louis wonders what life decisions have led him here, wonder what the hell God was on when he created that specific day that led Louis to that specific decision.
Today was not one of those days.
No matter how stupid Louis feels, lying in the snow and making weird flapping movements with his arms (one arm) and legs in an attempt to make a shitty snow angel, all he has to do is think about the hug Harry tackled him with as soon as he mentioned it before he’s more determined than ever.
He’s currently in the typical snow angel position, save for one of his arms. That arm is outstretched, reaching for Harry, as they’re intertwined together. They lie in the snow, unharmed and unmoving, as the rest of their limbs move to form a snow angel formation, carefully creating the best, most fucking gay snow angels that will ever live. Fuck everyone who says differently.
Louis keeps one of his ears open, waiting for the little hum Harry makes when he’s satisfied with his snow angel, before slowly and precariously getting up from his own, careful not to leave shoe prints in the snow angel, before helping Harry up from his own mess of gangly limbs.
It’s nowhere near perfect. There are footprints leading away from the angels, and Harry’s big ass left an imprint on the side from when he fell, yet. It represents everything Harry and Louis are, imperfectly perfect. They’re not perfect, yet in their eyes, they’re perfect for each other.
They both admire the handiwork, two angels, hands clasped with one another’s, lovingly holding onto each other as if their worlds depended on it. Louis watches Harry add little halos on their heads, and it feels complete, it feels like love.
Louis couldn’t help but smile when Harry writes “ H + L ” in the snow. His smile grew wider when Harry added a little halo on that too.
When Louis and Harry stumble into their home, tracking snow everywhere, leaving their coats and snow pants on the ground, there was nothing but childish laughter.
The home was hot, almost suffocatingly compared to the biting cold. Yet it was cozy, and everything Louis’ weary bones needed.
The fireplace was already lit, a bit of thinking ahead that Louis was glad of, now. It chases away any of the lingering chills, and Louis couldn’t help but sink into the sofa, contentment filling his soul until he felt like he was about to burst. It’s so warm, so nice. Louis feels almost sleepy.
As he started to drift off, he hears a shuffle from the kitchen, before soft footsteps approached him.
“Lou,” Harry whispers, gently patting his shoulder, “Drink your hot chocolate first. It’s nice and warm.”
Louis doesn’t reply. Instead, he forces open his eyes to see brilliant green staring back at him, so affectionate and doting and everything Louis could ever wish for. He blinks before his eyes settle on the hot chocolate.
“Hot chocolate!” He cries as he picks up his mug and takes a sip. It’s not too hot, just perfect, with the right amount of whipped cream and marshmallows. Harry always knows him so well, always knows just what to make for him.
Harry laughs, before taking a sip of his own. He sets his hot chocolate on the table, before bringing out the thick, wool blankets, and settles it over them both, and yeah, everything Louis endured was worth it for this.
“Thanks for letting me bully you outside,” Harry murmurs, laughing under his breath, and Louis follows suit, before taking another sip of the hot chocolate, letting the soothing liquid run down his throat.
“Worth it,” is all he says, but everything unspoken lingers in the air, settling in with the comforting scent of hot chocolate and vanilla. Vanilla because Harry is vanilla. He has vanilla candles, vanilla cologne, and vanilla body wash. He is vanilla, pure, sweet vanilla. Louis adores this man so much.
The silence is so comforting, as they both drink their hot chocolate. Before long, both mugs are empty, the silence is never broken, and Louis ends up sprawled on Harry. Their chests touch and Louis’ head is right under Harry’s, and he feels himself drifting in and out of the current reality. As he glances up at Harry for the last time before nodding off, his breath is taken away from the look in his husband’s eyes.
‘I love you,' Louis can see, deep in Harry’s eyes, never leaving, always settled underneath those forest greens that Louis is so crazy about, so in love with, and Louis feels tears well up in his eyes thinking about how he managed to make this boy his.
‘I love you too,’ he replies, and he can tell Harry feels the same way from the quirk of his lips.