Work Text:
The Map of Us
Over the years, Louis had spent enough time in and out of hospitals to recognize the signs. It wasn’t anything outright, nothing anyone else would have picked up on if they didn’t know what to look for. But to Louis, it was the first thing he noticed about a person. To him, survivors wore their grief like a tattoo or a scar, an enduring, visible brand of what they’d been through. Louis knew because he was marked too.
Louis could pick them out in a crowd of tired faces on the tube, hanging wearily from the overhead bars at the end of a long work week, grief clutching them close, pulled all about them like a winter coat. Louis noticed the rocker girl, whose bracelets slid down her wrists when she reached up to fix her bleached hair, revealing a sleeve of scars - thin, raised white lines spaced apart like the keys of a piano. Louis imagined kissing every one as she wept bitterly, and how she’d feel unexpectedly lighter after, as if he’d sucked the poison from a snake-bite, because finally someone else knew, someone else knew and shared the burden of her aloneness.
Maybe that’s all anyone really wanted - someone to see them for who they were, not just the nice bits, but the rough bits too - the whole map of them - and love them anyway.
Louis tried not to fall in love with people who are broken, maybe even beyond repair, but he can’t help it. Florence Nightengale Syndrome his mum called it, when he was small and hell-bent on putting plasters on all of his “injured” stuffed animals. That was before he knew actual sick people, before he was sick himself. And then it was his mum who had taken care of him, as he'd wasted away to a shriveled husk of himself, as his hair pulled away in dry clumps, as he vomited away his best years into a kidney shaped basin propped on his chest, snug in his nest of tubes.
During Louis' first two weeks as a grief counselor he'd locked himself in a broom closet on his breaks so the others wouldn't see him cry. He'd flirted with death all his life and somehow managed to make it to adulthood, but he’d never stopped feeling death's breath down the back of his collar, smelling like antiseptic and chemical vomit and industrial laundry starch. He’d never forgotten how close he'd once been. How close his mum had been to being one of those survivors he saw on the streets every day - one of those hollowed out shells of a person left behind in the wake of some unimaginable grief.
The ghost of Louis’ illness still lingered - he saw it in the way his mum looked at him after - as if she were afraid to love him because he stood half-in, half-out the shadow of death, while at the same time, for the very same reasons, she couldn’t help loving him. There was a wild desperation in her eyes when she looked at him - as if even now, six years cancer free, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Even if the boy hadn’t been standing in the middle of a cemetery (bit of a dead giveaway, pun entirely intended), Louis would have known. He walked with his shoulders slumped forward, as if staggering into an invisible wind, stooped as St. Christopher carrying the weight of the world on his back. There was a premature weariness to his posture, a pinched, tiredness around his eyes that belied his young age. The boy knelt in the snow, placing the bouquet of yellow roses he carried in front of the grave marker with great care, the flowers the only spot of color in an otherwise gray afternoon.
“Hey, mum,” he whispered. Louis tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help himself; mostly the boy spoke about people he’d never heard of - Ollie and Finn and summat. But it wasn’t the words that interested Louis anyway - it was the richness and depth of his voice when he spoke - deep and husky, as nuanced and oaky as the finest aged brandy. Louis shivered, imagining the honied taste of the boy’s sadness on his tongue, imagining the boy’s mouth, ruined and sweet as a crushed berry, pressed against Louis’ own.
“Happy Christmas,” Louis said, nodding his head at the boy. Christmas was still a few weeks off, but Louis couldn’t think of anything else to say, any other reason to strike up a conversation in a graveyard in the dead of winter. He just prayed the kid wasn’t Jewish.
“Didn’t think there was anyone else there,” the boy said, his green eyes sparkling with unshed tears as he gazed up at Louis from beneath the fringe of his long, dark lashes. A few brown curls escaped his gray beanie, framing his angular, wine-stained cheekbones and highlighting the soft supple curve of his winter-red mouth. Louis swallowed around the colossal lump in his throat. If there were ever a time to start believing in angels, this was it.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just seen you around a few times before and thought I’d come pay my respects. My plot’s over there,” Louis said, realizing he was babbling even as he continued to do so. He pointed down the row of headstones with the bouquet of white, long-stemmed lilies he held. “Your mum, she liked yellow roses?”
“It’s what my dad brought to hospital when I was born,” the boy said softly. Louis bent down, freeing some leaves tangled in the grass around the headstone.
“That’s lovely. What was she like?" Louis spoke of the dead with hushed reverence - as if they were all around him, waiting in the wings, like a chorus in a Shakespeare drama about to break into song.
"Daring. Adventurous. Fiercely protective. A bit of a dreamer."
Louis was lulled by the cadence of the boy's voice, a song he was hearing for the first time and that he wanted to listen to on repeat until he knew all the individual nuances by heart. “She sounds lovely.”
“She was,” the boy said wistfully. “Who are the lilies for?” he asked curiously, his breath blooming in white clouds that hung like ghosts on the frozen air of the graveyard.
“My boyfriend. You want to meet him? I’ll introduce you.”
The boy bit his lip, dimples biting at his cheeks. “Wouldn’t that be, I dunno...weird?”
Louis shrugged. “Death is weird. There aren’t any rules.”
The boy stood, brushing snow and dirt from his trousers unhurriedly. Everything about him was unhurried, from his slow, careful way of speaking to his slightly pigeon-toed step. Louis imagined he would be the type to undress you slowly in a dark room, kissing you as if he had all the time in the world and he were trying to savor it, to commit it to memory.
“Yeah, okay, s’pose that would be fine.”
“I’m Louis by the way,” Louis held out a mittened hand a bit too eagerly. The boy shook it with his own bare, wind-chapped hand, smiling broadly. (It was the first time Louis had seen him smile and it like a well-placed slap in the face.) It was the smile of someone incapable of deceit, who wore their heart proudly on their sleeve. "Harry.”
Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, Louis turned it over and over in his mind, polishing it like a stone in a jewel tumbler, until it shined.
It began to flurry as they walked in crunching steps down the snow-covered lane, hands in their pockets, heads down against the wind. Louis crouched down to place the lilies on Ben’s grave and to tidy up a bit, tossing some sticks and a wind-blown candy wrapper aside, tssking quietly under his breath. Harry stood back a respectful distance, his hands clasped together and head bowed.
“Ben, this is Harry. Harry, Ben.”
“Hello, Ben,” Harry said, with a timid wave.
“If you two wanted to hang around when I’m not about, I’ll try not to be too jealous,” Louis prattled on, watching Harry out the corner of his eye for a reaction. Harry tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile into his scarf and Louis’ heart did a quick corresponding flutter.
“And I’ll try not to hold it against you that your boyfriend is a nutter that picks up boys in cemeteries,” Harry said, keeping a mostly straight face. Louis mocked being offended, but he secretly liked it - this lightness and ribbing between them, as if they’d known each other for ages and not simply a few minutes.
The wind picked up, blowing snow in great, swirling gusts between the packed headstones and Harry shivered, hunching his shoulders up further.
“My flat’s close by if you wanted to warm up,” Louis said, trying to sound offhanded about it. “I’m not a serial killer. I promise.”
“That’s what all the serial killers say,” Harry laughed, glancing down at his watch. He faltered a moment, as if he were running late for an appointment.
“Got someone waiting at home?” Louis pried.
“Something like that,” Harry said with a frown. But when he looked up again, his smile was back in place. “A couple of minutes should be all right.”
***
“You live alone?” Harry asked, as he bent down to tug his boots off inside the door.
“I’ve got a cat here somewhere. But she’s crap company. Always wanting a pet and never wanting to pet you back.”
“Do you...do you require much petting?” Harry snickered.
Louis threw his head back laughing as he took Harry’s coat and hung it beside his own. “I never turn down a good pet as a rule,” he said meaningfully, gazing into Harry’s eyes, which now seemed more blue than green in the low light of his apartment. Harry blushed, his eyes flicking away. Definitely straight, Louis thought sadly.
Harry watched and made periodic offers to help as Louis stoked a fire in the fireplace, with much grumbling and fanfare and quite a bit of flailing. Louis could feel the curious heat of Harry’s eyes on him, but especially on the fabric of his trousers where it strained over his ample bum, but when he caught Harry looking, Harry coughed and looked away. Even straight men weren’t immune to Louis Tomlinson’s ass, Louis thought, with more than a touch of pride.
Once the fire was at a dull roar, Louis spread a plaid, flannel blanket down in front of the hearth and Harry made himself comfortable, while Louis ambled off into the kitchen.
“Do you prefer cocoa or tea?” he called a moment later.
“Cocoa’s fine.” Harry had to shout to be heard over the hiss of the kettle and the running faucet and the crackle of the fire. “But I can’t stay long.”
Louis hummed loudly, purposefully ignoring the last bit. “Marshmallows or whipped cream?” he called a few minutes later to which Harry, laughingly replied, “both?”
After an interminably long time and periodic bouts of creative cussing and the metallic clattering of pots, Louis returned, carrying a tray with two hot cocoas and a plate of biscuits. Harry was lying back on his elbows, his face flushed from the fire, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Louis rudely kicked at Harry’s big, socked feet. “Budge over, will you?”
Harry blushed, but pulled his legs up obligingly so Louis could set the tray down. “Are you comfortable?” Louis fussed.
“I’m fine.”
“Feel free to take off any clothes,” Louis said cheekily. “I mean, if you get too hot...”
“I’m fine, Louis. Really.” Harry smiled to show just how fine he was and reached for the snowman mug closest to him, taking his first slow sip. His eyelids fluttered closed as the warmth flooded his body and he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat that sent chills skating across Louis’ back. Christ alive, Harry was going to be the death of him.
“This is nice,” Harry grinned, his upper lip smeared endearingly with whip. “Makes me feel like a kid again.”
“You are a kid, Harry. You can’t be more than nineteen.”
“Twenty-one,” Harry smirked. “But thanks. Just don’t feel like one...most of the time.”
Louis wanted to ask why, but Matilda chose that moment to make an appearance, twining herself around Harry’s ankles. Harry reached down to give her a proper scratch and Louis narrowed his eyes at her. “Traitor.”
Harry laughed and it was so warm and genuine, it felt like a blanket around Louis’ shoulders. Louis thought faintly that he would like to keep Harry laughing forever so he would never feel cold again. But then Harry’s laughter stopped abruptly, as his eyes moved over the picture frames on the mantle. “So how long were you and Ben together?” he asked, biting at the skin of his knuckle.
“Three years.”
“How did you meet? I’m hoping not a cemetery, otherwise this might be a thing with you-”
Louis chuckled, reaching down to scratch his ankle, trying to downplay his next words. “I sort of convinced him not to kill himself.”
“Seriously?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah. I volunteer at a suicide hotline. Ben called three years ago. He was standing on a bridge about to jump and I talked him into going for coffee with me instead.”
“Wow. Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?”
“I wasn’t there the second time,” Louis said darkly, taking a quick, scalding sip of hot chocolate and staring into the fire to keep his eyes from watering. He startled when he felt Harry’s giant clumsy hand land on his elbow, his bright eyes full of warmth and sympathy. And now that Louis was really looking, maybe his eyes were more green than blue?
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s hardly your fault. Just wish I’d been enough for him...to stick around, you know?”
Harry frowned, taking a biscuit from the tray. “Couldn’t be helped, mate.”
Louis fidgeted with the hem of his sweater. “Yeah. But enough about me. Tell me about you.”
Harry shrugged. “There’s not really much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. I could talk to you for twenty-minutes about what shampoo you use alone.”
Harry snorted. “Bumble and bumble.”
“Would it be creepy if I went to Tescos to sniff bottles later?” Louis teased.
“Definitely creepy,” Harry smiled crookedly. “But I wouldn’t mind,” he added, earning a blush from Louis.
Louis coughed to clear his throat. “Do you go to uni?”
“I uh...work. At a coffee shop.”
“Very respectable. You have flatmates?”
“Sort of. It’s complicated...” Harry trailed off, taking another sip of his hot chocolate. Harry’s eyes slid over to the window, where the falling snow sparkled in the fading streetlight.
“I should probably get going.”
Louis grabbed Harry’s hand in his own, forcing Harry’s eyes to his. “When will I see you again?”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” Harry bit his lip.
“It’s all right that you’re straight. I mean...well, it’s a tragedy, for me honestly. But we could still be friends. Or I can give you Matilda’s number if you prefer. She’s always down for a cuddle and since pussy’s more your thing-”
Harry snorted. “It’s not you. My life’s just...” and there was that word again, “complicated”.
“So you keep saying,” Louis frowned. “At least let me pack you up some cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m a rubbish cook, but an all right baker.”
“Good to know,” Harry grinned, as Louis disappeared again into the kitchen.
***
It was sort of sick, really, but Louis began to look forward to going to the cemetery, because now there was the off-chance he’d see Harry too. Louis told Ben all about Harry of course. About his crazy curls and the slow, rough way he spoke and the way he bit his knuckle when he was nervous or being flirty. It was the first time Louis could recall since Ben died that he could remember feeling that way about anyone, let alone the quite possibly straight, definitely unavailable Harry.
Harry came at mostly the same time of day and always seemed in a hurry to get somewhere else, which Louis tried not to take offense about (but did a bit anyway). But in those few, huddled moments of warmth between the headstones, Louis felt different. Like things could be different. Like he wouldn’t have to be Louis the cancer survivor or Louis with the dead boyfriend or Louis with the nervous mother or Louis the grief counselor, but just Louis. Louis who made Harry laugh. Louis who made Harry blush. Louis who made Harry bite his knuckle in a way that looked impossibly sexy, in a way that made Louis wish it were his knuckles Harry were biting.
They talked about everything (well, mostly everything) - about Louis’ work as a grief counselor and at the suicide hotline, about Harry’s job at the coffee shop, about Ben (though Louis always felt a guilty pang about that) and about Harry’s mum (who’d died in a sudden car accident when Harry was eighteen). Harry talked about one day owning a coffee shop of his own and Louis talked about the drama classes he wanted to take if he ever got back to Uni (he’d quit after Ben). But there was the sense that their conversations were skating around a gaping hole in the ice forming beneath them - not lies so much as omissions, like why Harry was always running off or why there’d be sudden pauses in their conversation as if there were something he wanted to say, but couldn’t or wouldn’t. Louis, for his part, avoided the C word (cancer that was, not cunt) altogether. He’d been the sick kid all his life; with Harry he just wanted to be Louis (whoever that was).
“Are you alone for Christmas?” Harry asked, kicking a clod of snow with his foot. Louis had brought Harry a greasy paper bag of steaming hot, doughy beignets and there was powdered sugar all over his mouth and he was sucking on his long fingers in a way that was entirely distracting from the conversation. Plus, why didn’t he ever wear gloves? It was winter, for Chrissakes! Everyone wore gloves!
“Yeah. My mum and sisters are back in Doncaster.”
“Why don’t you go home then?”
Louis snagged a beignet from Harry’s bag, ignoring Harry’s offended look. “I didn’t really have the best childhood. Being home...it just all sort of comes back up.” Louis didn’t add that most of his friends from those days, from the children’s cancer ward, were long dead. That his childhood bedroom, preserved as it had been in those days, brought back the smell of sick and the lonely memories of reading books by himself while the neighborhood kids played outside his window.
“But you can’t be alone on Christmas!” Harry blurted out, his eyes gone comically wide.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve got Matilda and Love Actually.”
“Matilda’s a crap cuddler,” Harry insisted.
“Yeah, she really is. Very selfish, that one.”
Harry paused, silently debating with himself. “I’m making dinner. If you wanted, you could stop by.”
Louis raised an assessing eyebrow. “I thought it was complicated?”
Harry bit his knuckle, glancing away. “It is. But it might be nice. And I haven’t scared you off, yet, so...you’ll come?”
“Are you kidding? ‘Course I’ll come.”
***
Louis was out with his Liam and Niall on Christmas Eve, celebrating his birthday with a pint, but his thoughts kept drifting to Harry and to the fact they’d be spending Christmas together, which Louis tried not to read too much into, but...it was Harry and it was Christmas, so how could he not read into it? And as much as Harry had shared with him, Louis still felt there were big holes in his knowledge, that there were places Harry went where Louis wasn’t allowed or invited. Not that Harry was being unkind, if anything it seemed out of a sense of politeness that he didn’t involve Louis in his personal dramas.
Louis spent all morning baking and changed his clothes about thirteen times, before finally settling on a knitted white jumper (that Harry had mentioned liking once) and a fitted pair of trousers and a nice pair of shoes. He’d picked out Harry’s present two days before, on the afternoon of the day Harry invited him over, and had it wrapped by the woman at the counter, although he had thought and rethought a million times whether he should actually give it to Harry, if Harry might find it a bit presumptuous.
Now, he stood shuffling nervously on the front steps of Harry’s flat, wondering if it was too late to go home and watch Love Actually, but then he’d already rung the doorbell and it was. There was the sound of locks sliding open and then the door opened slowly onto a little girl, of around three or four, wearing a pink tutu and striped tights and a tee-shirt that said, I’m With the Band, although which band that was, Louis hadn’t a clue. Nor did he have a clue any longer, if he was even at the right house.
“Not sure I got the right house then. I’m looking for Harry Styles.”
“Daddyyyyy, Louis is here!” the girl shouted back into the dark recesses of the house and Louis about dropped everything he was holding in surprise. Harry hurried up a moment later, wearing a Kiss the Cook apron and a silly Christmas jumper with a giant reindeer face on underneath and holding a mixing bowl under one arm, which he was stirring as he walked.
Louis had never seen Harry looking quite so, well, harried before. He always seemed so slow and purposeful and now, by comparison, he seemed downright frantic. He leaned in and gave Louis a quick kiss on both cheeks.
“D’ya mind?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before handing Louis the mixing bowl so he could pick up the little girl and usher them all in, the bells above the front door ringing as it slammed shut. Dumbfounded, Louis followed, carrying the bag with Harry’s presents and his homemade cookies in one hand and the mixing bowl in the other, feeling a bit unprepared - like maybe he shouldn’t have spent quite so much time deciding on trousers and a bit more time preparing himself for the possibility that Harry had a secret daughter.
“Louis, this is Poppy. Poppy, this is Louis,” Harry made quick introductions as he led Louis down a narrow, dimly lit corridor with framed pictures on the walls that Louis wanted to get a closer look at, but only just glanced at as Harry hurried him down the hall.
Louis shook Poppy’s hand over Harry’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you. I like your skirt.”
“I like your hair,” Poppy said, patting it affectionately.
“Sorry,” Harry rushed back into the kitchen, taking the bowl back from Louis. “I’ve got a roast in. But please, take off your coat and shoes. I’ll open some wine.”
Louis had only just managed to strip off his coat and boots and sneak Harry’s presents under the tree when a teenage boy with a head of dark curls to rival Harry’s and wearing only a pair of skimpy pants ducked into the kitchen. “Harry, Finn’s taken my good trousers and I’ve nothing to wear.” Turning, the boy saw Louis leaning one hip awkwardly against the counter and blushed. “Oh, hi. You must be Lou. I’m...um, half-naked,” he laughed.
Louis shook his hand formally, “nice to meet you half-naked.”
“It’s Ollie,” Harry corrected, handing Louis a wine glass. “Hope red’s okay,” he said, biting his lip, before bee-lining back toward the stove to tend to his sauces.
Louis didn’t wait to toast before taking a hearty swig; he had the feeling he was going to need it. Of all the things he had expected Harry to be hiding, a child was not one of them. A girlfriend maybe or a messy flat or a porcelain unicorn menagerie, but children, no. Decidedly not that. “Any other surprises I should know about?”
A second teenage boy, around the same size and shape as the first one, except clothed, came into the kitchen holding one trainer up in annoyance. “Just that one,” Harry frowned.
“Harry, have you seen my other trainer?”
“It’s by the door, Finn.” Finn disappeared down the hallway, grumbling something under his breath about shoes and Ollie and never having anything of his own.
Poppy, who Louis had forgotten a moment in his haste to get smashing drunk, tugged at Louis’ pant leg as Harry whirled around the kitchen, stirring sauces and moving plates about with the ease of a master chef. “Would you like to see my dolls?”
“I’d love to.” Poppy reached up and took Louis’ hand with her smaller, slightly sticky one and Harry mouthed sorry over his shoulder at Louis, which was a word Harry would be saying quite a lot that evening as it turned out.
“Dinner’s ready in twenty,” he called after them.
Poppy’s room was a purple and pink explosion, with a canopied princess bed and a million stuffed animals vying for space on the bookshelves. Poppy carted a pink suitcase out of the closet and unzipped it. She laid out a line of dolls on the floor and Louis sat down Indian style for her presentation. “This one’s Daddy and these are Finn and Ollie, though I never play with them,” she said sticking out her tongue. “And this one’s me. This can be you until I get another boy doll.”
Louis straightened the doll’s clothes with flourish. “I must say, my dress is rather fetching.”
She laughed. “You’re funny.”
Having four younger sisters and having spent a good portion of his childhood bedridden, Louis knew a thing or two about dolls. Poppy was entranced by Louis’ character voices and Louis was actually beginning to relax and enjoy himself (helped along by periodic sips of wine of course). So what if Harry had a kid? It wasn’t as if Harry were dating Louis or interested in Louis or even remotely gay. Okay, maybe he wasn’t relaxing that much.
Finn or possibly Ollie ducked in about twenty minutes later. “Dinner’s on mate.”
Poppy hopped to her feet, taking Louis by the hand. “I want to sit by Louis.”
“Don’t get too attached love,” Finn or possibly Ollie snorted. “He’s shagging Harry.” Harry appeared out of nowhere and thwapped him in the back of the head and the boy turned beet-red.
“I have no qualms giving all your Christmas presents to Ollie,” Harry said so sternly Louis had to stifle a giggle into his sleeve. He wasn’t used to this authoritative Harry. It was actually a bit of a turn-on.
“Oi,” Finn rubbed his head. “Sorry Louis.”
“A’wright mate.”
***
Dinner was ace and Louis ate until he had to unbutton the top button of his trousers, and then a little more after that. Harry made a great fuss of putting the cookies Louis had brought on a fancy platter, only to have them reduced to crumbs in several minutes flat. Louis was more than a little tipsy by then, enjoying the warmth of the wine and the conversation, which he found mostly confounding, but nonetheless delightful. (He did spend rather a lot of time watching romantic comedies with Matilda and Thai takeaway, so conversation was almost a foreign concept at this juncture.)
So here at last was the hole in the ice they’d spent the last week skating around and Louis had plunged straight through into a whole new, hidden part of Harry’s life. But instead of feeling hurt or confused, he felt oddly happy that Harry had thought enough of him to trust him with this. He gathered from Finn and Ollie that Harry didn’t have people over much and he couldn’t help feeling special Harry had chosen him. Being around them made Louis miss his own family a bit and miss Ben, who always groaned at how much of a production Louis made of the holidays. Louis had pictured his first holiday without Ben much differently in his mind, more lonely and reflective, interspersed with quite a bit of crying and quite a lot of ice cream.
Louis couldn’t get over the fact that the twins looked so much like Harry (wasn’t it against some cosmic rule for so many beautiful humans to exist at once?) and even more like each other. He was glad they’d dressed differently and by the time they settled in the living room to open presents, he’d begun to tease them apart by their personalities. Ollie was sensitive and kind, Finn a bit cheekier. Finn was the clear leader of the two and Ollie passively fell into whatever plans his twin hatched. They teased each other mercilessly but Finn was fiercely protective of Ollie.
The twins seemed to regard Louis with the sort of wary resignation particular to teenagers, which was fine with him because it wasn’t their attention he wanted anyway. Poppy, of course, was completely besotted with Louis (most four year olds were because their social skills were about on par) and sat in his lap as they all traded presents. Louis had forgotten how much fun Christmas could be with young kids, how delighted they were by any little thing. Finn and Ollie were obviously harder to shop for, but even they seemed happy with the video games and electronics Harry had gotten them and tried not to groan too much at the jumpers he’d snuck into their pile.
Louis gave Harry his present last, a bit put-off by how much of an audience they had (he’d pictured this as an intimate affair with candlelight dancing in both their eyes), but decided it was worth it when Harry beamed up at him. “Oh, Lou, you didn’t have to!”
“It’s just a little something,” Louis blushed. “I would have brought presents for the others...if I had known there were others.”
“It’s okay.” Harry said, reverently stroking the silver wrapping and fingering the pert bow. “It’s quite pretty, isn’t it? Seems a shame to rip into it.”
Ollie or possibly Finn groaned, “get on with it then, Hazza.”
Harry tore into it with a naughty grin, laughing as he held up the bottle of Bumble and Bumble shampoo for the others to see. “Someone’s been sniffing bottles in Tescos, I see,” he teased Louis, a glint twinkling in his dark eyes.
“Only during the week and on the weekend,” Louis said with a mostly straight face. “Open the other one.”
“You’re spoiling me,” Harry insisted, but was only too happy to open the second one, pulling out the buttery soft suede gloves with a startled gasp. They’d cost Louis a good portion of his savings but the look on Harry’s face was well worth it. “Oh Lou, they’re wonderful.”
“Try them on. Let’s see,” Louis insisted as Harry sunk his obscenely long fingers into the luxuriously soft rabbit fur-lining. “I noticed you didn’t have any gloves on, so I-”
“They’re perfect.” Harry let the wrapping fall from his lap as he stood up and came over to give Louis a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks.”
“Oi, get a room already,” Finn moaned, throwing a balled up piece of wrapping at Harry, causing Harry to go pink.
“It’s not too late to take back all your gifts,” Harry scolded, but he was smiling as he said it, tackling Finn to the carpet and tickling him ‘til the boy was flailing beneath him and gasping for mercy. When Poppy jumped onto the pile, Harry let up, scooping her up into his arms.
“Poppy, go get Louis’ present,” he directed, giving her an affectionate pat on the bottom. Louis hadn’t flattered himself into thinking Harry had gotten him a present, as there weren’t any left under the tree and the whole thing had been a bit last minute. He felt his face grow hot as Poppy ran squealing into the kitchen, sliding on her stockinged feet across the tile and returning a moment later with a suspiciously lumpy package.
Louis tore off the wrapping to reveal a glazed ceramic mug with Louis written on it in colorful, slanting letters. “Poppy and I made it together. I’ve got a matching one that says Harry. For Cocoa,” Harry added, with a shy downward glance.
“I love it.” Louis gave Poppy a hug and a kiss as she squirmed in delight and settled for reaching over to squeeze Harry’s hand. “Thanks. I won’t drink my cocoa in anything else,” he swore, as Ollie made fake-gagging noises in the background.
After opening presents, Harry gave Poppy her bath and Louis and the twins played a half-hearted game of cards, which broke up when Finn accused Ollie of cheating and devolved into a wrestling match that left Finn with rug-burn on one half of his face, and if nothing else at least helped Louis differentiate between the two. Once Poppy was bathed and in her pajamas, Harry made them all cocoa (Harry and Louis’ in their matching mugs) and put Elf on.
Harry collapsed with a ragged sigh beside Louis on the couch, giving him a dazed smile as Poppy crawled up into Louis’ lap. Poppy was asleep within the first thirty minutes of the movie, her hand fisted in his shirt, her head warm and heavy on his chest. Ollie laid down on the other side of Harry with his head on Harry’s lap and Finn sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, studiously syncing songs onto the Ipod he’d gotten for Christmas. Harry absently stroked Ollie’s hair, smiling helplessly over at Louis, who smiled back quite genuinely.
By the time the movie had ended, Ollie was sound asleep and Finn grumbling about wanting to stay up late. Harry tossed Ollie over his shoulder, groaning under his weight as he carried him off to his room and Finn followed begrudgingly a minute later. “Night Louis,” he said, surprising Louis by giving him a quick hug. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Finn.”
Harry returned a minute later, gesturing tiredly for Louis to hand him Poppy. Louis shook his head, hitching her up onto his hip as he stood. “I’ve got her. If it’s okay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Harry nodded, chewing on his lip. “Course, bedroom’s this way.”
Harry stood in the open doorway, his long legs crossed at the ankle, one shoulder and one hip leaning up against the jamb, as Louis tucked Poppy into bed and bent down to give her forehead a quick goodnight kiss. They shared a quiet moment in the hallway as Harry closed the door to Poppy’s bedroom, both of them feeling a bit well, like parents, like this was something they did every night - tucking the kids in together (which of course it wasn’t).
They made their way back to the deserted living room, which was now a war-zone of empty wrapping and tangled blankets and empty mugs. Harry bent over to pick up one of Poppy’s new toys and Louis stayed his hand. “Don’t. It can wait til morning.”
Harry sank bonelessly into the couch and Louis pulled Harry’s giant socked feet into his lap, gently massaging his arches. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut and he made a low groan in the back of his throat that caused Louis’ breath to hitch.
“So you’re a dad, huh?” Louis asked softly.
Harry’s eyes opened slowly, dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah, I guess I am. Is that okay?”
“Well, your lot is much better company than Matilda. Although when you said it was complicated, I envisioned you having a hair shrine of me or summat.”
“A hair shrine?” Harry snorted.
“Gum wrappers?”
“Honestly,” Harry laughed. But the smile quickly faded from his face and he flipped his hair forward, tousling it to the side the way he did when he didn’t want to meet someone’s eyes. Louis loved how transparent Harry was, how he could read so much into Harry’s gestures after having spent such a short period of time together. It meant he was never left guessing and he liked that. Liked knowing where he stood. “Their dad isn’t in the picture. After my mum passed, there wasn’t anyone else. It was never a question in my mind. I had to keep us all together.”
“You did a good thing, Harry,” Louis said softly, squeezing Harry’s ankle.
Harry shook his head. “I had no idea. I mean. I knew it’d be hard. All my mates were off to uni and here I was changing diapers and working long hours and driving the boys to footie matches. And the social worker was constantly stopping by and I felt like I was doing everything wrong-”
“Well, you seem to have gotten it down a science now,” Louis offered encouragingly.
“Oh believe me, it’s a complete sodding nightmare. Do you know how much of my monthly cheque goes to dry cleaning? If I hadn’t been a thirteen year old boy myself, I might wonder at their ability to produce so much semen. Semen in tube socks. Semen in balled up t-shirts. Semen in pants. Semen in sheets. Semen in trousers. I’m up to my neck in semen-”
Louis snorted his wine. “Ow, ow, it hurts,” he laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Harry used a napkin to wipe the dribbles from his face.
“Thanks for not bolting,” Harry said softly, seriously, balling the napkin in his fist. “I know it’s a lot for anyone. It’s a lot for me, so I can’t imagine- I mean, tonight was a good night, no kitchen fires or fist fights or projectile baby vomit.”
Louis smiled gently, stroking the skin of Harry’s ankle just under his sock. “It was a good night, wasn’t it? I’m glad you asked me round so I wasn’t a complete saddo.”
Harry let out a yawn, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his jumper. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You must be exhausted.”
“I’m used to it,” Harry said, as he stifled yet another yawn.
“You should get to sleep. Matilda will be wondering where I am anyway,” Louis stood up, letting Harry’s feet fall from his lap.
Harry watched Louis gather his coat and winter things with an indecipherable expression on his face, not moving from his place on the couch. “You can stay if you like?” he said finally, in a voice, so husky and deep with exhaustion that a rush of blood redirected itself to Louis’ groin.
***
Harry had an illuminated map of the world above his bed, with blue pins in all the places he wanted to go and green pins in the places he’d already been. There were only two green pins and one of them was in the place he was now. Harry stood behind Louis as he examined it, his breath warm against the back of Louis’ neck. “My dad and I started it together when I was little. He said he’d take me to all those places one day. I don’t know why I’ve kept it up there all these years. I should probably take it down.”
“No. You’ll get there.” Louis doesn’t say that he wants to take Harry there, but he does. He doesn’t know how Harry has managed to so thoroughly knock his world off kilter in so little time, but he finds he doesn’t much mind. It’s been a long time since he let himself really care about someone and even longer since he’s let someone care about him.
“Sorry, it isn’t much,” Harry whispered, as he opened the fold-out sofa bed. “My mum’s got the master bedroom, but it hasn’t felt right to take it since-”
“This is fine,” Louis said softly, so as not to wake the twins, who were slumbering a few feet away in their bunk beds. Harry turned his back to Louis as he stripped off his trousers and jumper and Louis did the same, quickly ducking under the blankets.
The light from the map fell across Harry’s bare chest, so his skin was bathed in color and Louis found himself suddenly wanting to visit all those countries too - wanting to kiss his way across Spain and Portugal and the little boot of Italy which fell just so across Harry’s ribs. Louis couldn’t remember wanting anything the way he wanted Harry in a very, very long time and it scared him a bit. Especially when he knew what a hopeless pursuit it actually was.
They each stayed well to their side of the bed, Harry facing the wall and Louis facing away to the door. Louis laid awake for a long time in the darkness, not moving and barely breathing, only too aware of the heat of Harry’s half-naked body so close to his and his scent, which was tart and appley and made Louis want to lick every inch of his skin to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. Louis hadn’t shared a bed with anyone since Ben, who had been a bit of a blanket hog and was constantly draping himself all over Louis, not trying to maintain a two foot distance like Harry.
“Lou? Are you awake?” Harry asked at last, rolling over toward Louis after a period of indeterminable, unbearable silence, filled only with the sound of their breathing and Louis’ want want want for Harry.
“Yeah. Can’t sleep?”
“To be honest, I can’t stop thinking of how much I’d like to kiss you. How much I’ve wanted to kiss you since that first day in the cemetery.” Louis can’t quite believe his ears or his luck. He’d only talked to Harry originally because he was beautiful and looked a bit lost, but he’d have never of had the guts if he’d thought he had an actual chance with him. People like Harry didn’t go for people like Louis, did they?
Louis rolled over so that he was facing Harry, because he knew the only way he’d know for sure if Harry were serious is if he were looking into his eyes. Harry’s eyes were very large and solemn and sincere and it hit Louis that he wasn’t just taking the piss, that he actually, actually wanted to kiss him. “I thought you were straight. You’ve got Poppy-”
Harry laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. “She’s my little sister. She was only one when my mum died and she was just learning to talk and all the other kids at PlayGroup were calling their grown-up men Daddy and I just didn’t have the heart to explain. It’s just easier this way. For now.”
“Oi, will you just snog and get it over with?” Ollie or possibly Finn called from the top bunk. “Some of us are trying to sleep here.”
Harry blushed, reaching out his thumb to stroke Louis’ cheekbone. The palm of Harry’s hand was enormous and Louis couldn’t help thinking about how those hands would feel cupped around the curve of his arse or sliding down his hips. If Harry’s hand felt this amazing just cradling his face, Louis knew he was in deep, desperate trouble. Harry was just leaning toward Louis when a seam of light suddenly bisected the room in two as the door to the hall cracked open.
“Daddy?” Poppy called shrilly. “I had a bad dream.”
Harry groaned in frustration and Louis’ reached down to discreetly adjust his erection, as Harry patted the bed between them. “Come on up then, love.”
Poppy snuggled herself in, kicking Louis in the shins as she tried to get comfortable. “Sorry,” Harry mouthed over her head.
Louis shrugged as Harry reached over and pulled his cell-phone from the pocket of his discarded trousers. A second later, Louis’ phone buzzed on bedside table.
“Hold that thought? x” Harry had written.
Louis smirked, thumbing a quick reply. “Count on it. I’m going to wreck you, Styles.”
Harry blushed when he read it and Louis rolled over, satisfied his work was done. His phone vibrated several minutes later, just as he was drifting off. “Happy Christmas, Lou x,” and Louis couldn’t help the grin that stretched across his face until his cheeks ached.
***
When Louis woke, everyone was gone and the sun cast long, slanting bars of lights across his bare chest and the blanket. Louis tilted his head to look at the map above Harry’s bed and vowed he would take Harry to one, if not all, of the blue pin places one day. Louis stood and slowly stretched his arms over his head, popping the kinks from his back. Poppy was a fitful sleeper and he’d woken up several times to her knee in his kidney or her fist jammed in his armpit or once, to her sucking wetly on his hair. Harry snored a little also and it was a testament to how much Louis liked him that he actually found it a bit sweet.
Louis dressed in the previous night’s clothes and stumbled blearily into the kitchen. Harry wordlessly placed a mug of tea in his hands, which was fixed exactly as Louis liked it. When he’d woken up enough, Louis stood behind Harry at the stove, snatching a piece of bacon from the still sizzling pan. Harry swatted at Louis with a dish-towel as he ducked out range.
“You’re just as bad as the twins,” he groaned.
“I can get used to you cooking for me,” Louis rumbled in a low voice, hot against Harry’s ear, as he dragged the pads of his fingers along the bare skin just above the waistband of Harry’s jeans. The spatula in Harry’s hand jerked, nearly flinging his eggs at the ceiling.
“Oi, some of us are trying to eat here,” Finn grumbled from the table. “If you’re going to have sex on the counter, at least wait until I’m done with my fryup.”
Harry shot Finn a withering look. “Don’t talk like that in front of Poppy.” He turned to Louis. “And you, go sit down.”
Louis flopped dispiritedly at the table. “Is he always like this in the mornings?”
“Worse,” Finn insisted as Louis swiped a triangle of toast from Ollie’s plate unnoticed.
“Hazz, are you still taking us ice-skating?” Ollie asked, taking a big gulp of his juice as he looked up from his cell-phone. “Brendan needs a lift.”
“Mmm, sure,” Harry said, setting a plate down in front of Louis and kissing the side of his head distractedly, in a way that made Louis blush all over. Louis ate with great gusto, between making faces at Poppy. It was the only way he could keep himself from thinking about the things Harry had whispered to him in the dark the previous night and about the lingering warmth of Harry’s kiss on the side of his head, like a promise of things to come.
After breakfast, Louis made an excuse to leave so Harry could get the kids to their ice-skating party and they lingered awkwardly on the front step a moment until Poppy’s shrill cry of Daddeee! sent Harry hurrying back inside and Louis out into the cold, clear light of day.
***
On the days leading up to the New Year, Louis stared at the red X on his calendar, until his mind was a map, with the X at the center and all thoughts leading there, away from Harry and hot cocoa and late night texts and the low rumbling sound of Harry’s voice before they fell asleep. Harry texted him around noon two days after Christmas to see if he wanted to get lunch, but Louis left it unanswered. Part of him wanted nothing more than to collapse into Harry’s arms, but another larger part, never wanted Harry to see that part of him, never wanted to burden Harry. If Harry wore his heart and grief on his sleeve, Louis wore his in a locket - tucked under his shirt, close to his heart, where no one else could see it.
In his effort to avoid Harry, Louis went the long way to work to avoid passing the coffee shop where Harry worked, stopped going to the cemetery and consequently stopped going to see Ben, despite the awful guilt that brought. But despite his best efforts to block everything out, Louis missed Harry - missed the way Harry laughed at his dumb jokes like they were the funniest thing he’d ever heard, missed the way he bit his knuckle and flipped his hair out of his face, missed the way his one foot turned slightly in toward the other, missed the dimples in his cheeks (like parenthesis around his smile), missed his long-fingered hands, which Louis wanked to more than once imagining on his body. He promised himself he would call Harry once the appointment had passed, promised they would find a way to laugh about it as they curled up together on Harry’s couch, crushed Cheerios under their socked feet and Ollie and Finn fighting over the remote and Poppy fisting a handful of Louis’ hair with one chubby, curiously wet hand.
It was difficult to imagine now, because these days Louis was resigned to Ben’s death more than anything, had accepted it as a fact of his life, as one more senseless tragedy among the lot of them - he’d long ago stopped listening for the sound of Ben’s key in the door, had stopped turning his head every time someone vaguely resembling Ben passed him on the street, had stopped rolling over in bed with one arm poised to curl around Ben only to realize he was sleeping alone - but at the beginning, he hadn’t been sad or lost or resigned, he’d been unimaginably furious. Ben had been perfectly fucking healthy. Louis had watched kids - young kids, fight against their illness every day, tearing and clawing at the inevitable with a desperate animal instinct for survival. Those kids would have gnawed their own legs off to get out of the trap of cancer, but Ben had just laid down and died. He’d laid down and died and worst of all, he’d left Louis, who had loved him, who had wanted him more than he wanted food or air or sleep.
For years, Louis had tiptoed around Ben’s dark periods, opened the shades to let in the summer light against Ben’s weak protests from where he lay prone in bed, unshowered in four day old sweats. Louis had used every trick in the book to make Ben laugh, to bring him back from the edge again and again, but in the end, he had failed. Because Ben had already given up on Louis and himself, had given up on life altogether, when Louis had spent all his childhood guarding life like the precious fucking gift it was.
The first month after Ben’s death, Louis had broken countless wine glasses against the wall, had bloodied his fists raw, had torn every piece of paper, every postcard, every note in the apartment to shreds (which he’d regretted later when he was feeling sentimental). He’d kicked curbs until his toes throbbed, he’d snapped at well-meaning service staff in coffee shops and restaurants, he’d screamed at the top of his lungs in abandoned car-parks and train-yards until his voice was ragged and sore, because the pain reminded him he was still fucking alive, but Ben was not and would never be again.
And that’s what Louis didn’t want for Harry - who already had to contend with his mother’s death, with raising a toddler and two teenagers on his own - the ever-present reminder of Louis’ tenuous mortality, like a dark, spreading ink stain on the already ruined map of Harry’s life. For a second, drunk on wine and Christmas spirits, Louis had entertained thoughts of a normal life - of taking Poppy to the park with Harry, of dropping the twins off at the mall, of rubbing Harry’s big feet after a long day at the coffee shop. Without even realizing it, Louis had planned their entire lives - the breakfasts Harry would cook, the way Louis would move in one sweater at a time until his entire wardrobe was there and there would be no question any longer that he belonged, that Harry and his family were Louis’ home. But all that was gone now.
The appointment was the same every year - a reminder of who he had been, of the cloud of death that had cast its pall over him, shadowing his every happiness. Louis had been in remission for years now, but remission was always ‘knock-on-wood’, ‘don’t-step-on-the-cracks’, ‘don’t breathe too hard’ or death would become aware of your presence, be reminded that you had fooled it once, but not this time. No siree.
Every year, Louis was a bit of a wreck leading up to his appointment, but then it was over and he could breath a sigh of relief because he was still here. He was still here and Ben was not and he owed it to the both of them to make the most of his life. But this year was different. This year, his test results had come back abnormal and the whole thing - this tentative domestic fantasy life he’d built for him and Harry, play-moving them through the rooms of Harry’s house like Poppy’s dolls, with the thought that he might finally be safe, be free - came crashing down like a house of cards.
Harry’s name popped up on Louis phone as he was walking home from the hospital, the diagnosis heavy in his gut, each kind word from Harry an arrow flaying open his skin.
Haven’t heard from you. Haven’t scared you off with all the kiss talk, have I? x
Louis ignored Harry’s text and scrolled through his phone until he found Liam’s number. Liam’s little sister had been on the same ward as Louis, but she hadn’t been as lucky (if you could call it luck). In between treatments, Louis and Liam had become fast friends and when his sister died, Liam had transferred all his nervous energy to Louis.
“Let’s get pissed,” Louis said, as soon as Liam picked up.
“You know, normally people answer the phone with a ‘hello, how are you?’,” Liam grumbled good-naturedly.
“Well, you’re welcome to trade me in for a normal person then.”
“Where’s the fun in that? All right if I bring Niall?”
“‘Course. Meet you at the pub in twenty, yeah?” Louis hung up before Liam could back out of their plans. Not that Liam was flakey; he just wasn’t a big drinker and he was likely to suggest going to the cinema instead and Louis was not in the mood for the cinema. Louis was in the mood to get pissed.
When Liam and Niall stumbled in an hour later, caught in a swirling tornado of snowflakes, Louis was already nursing his second pint. “You look like crap,” Niall said, plopping down on the bar stool beside Louis and taking a sip of his beer without asking.
“Nice to see you too,” Louis rolled his eyes.
“So what’s all this?” Liam asked, slinging an arm around Louis’ shoulders. “Has he broken your heart already?”
“Who?”
“The mystery boy you were mooning over on your birthday. I’ve got to say, it’s a record even for you.” So Louis had been a bit of a slut after Ben. He could hardly be blamed. After the anger had dissipated, he’d had to find other ways to feel alive. Although, in the end breaking hearts had turned out to be just as unsatisfying and equally destructive as breaking his apartment.
“Cancer’s back,” Louis mumbled, before taking a big swallow from his beer.
“Lou-” Liam started, the concern in his warm brown eyes too much to bear.
“Don’t want to talk. Just want to drink.”
“You heard the man,” Niall said, slapping Louis too hard on the back. “Pints on me tonight, yeh?”
“If I’d known all I had to do was get cancer to get you to actually pay for drinks for once, I’d have done it ages ago,” Louis joked.
“That’s not funny,” Liam said darkly.
Louis shrugged, taking a swig of his beer. “So tell us about your bloke,” Niall prodded. “Is he right fit?”
“Yeah. And a daddy to boot.”
“Is daddy some kind of gay thing? Is he into leather or summat?” Liam asked, scratching his elbow.
“Yes, but no, he’s an actual dad. To like...children. Not twinks or whatever. And...not sure about the leather bit.”
“Whoa, that’s pretty heavy,” Liam said, patting Louis’ arm, as the bartender brought him a Diet Coke with lemon.
“Li, I’m mad about him. I haven’t felt this way since Ben. But different, better.”
“Then what are you doing here? You do know it’s New Years, yeah?” Liam asked.
“I’m here because I’m pretty sure if I try to get out of this chair, I’ll fall over,” Louis slurred.
“That’s the spirit,” Niall grinned. “Is he a good shag, then?”
“I haven’t...we haven’t...we haven’t even kissed, not properly.”
“Oh God, he is special,” Liam sighed. “If you’ve managed to keep your trouser snake in the basket this long, it’s gotta mean something.”
Louis snorted. “Trouser snake? Really Liam?”
“But he’s definitely a um...a snake charmer?” Niall asked, raising an eyebrow. “With the kids and all?”
“It’s complicated,” Louis said, and then sighed, because that’s what Harry always said when what he really meant is, “it’s fucked. We’re all fucked and there’s nothing to do about it but keep going.”
“How do you feel about grand gestures?” Liam asked, raising an eyebrow at Louis. Louis reached for his beer, but Liam snatched it and downed the rest of the glass in one go. Louis and Niall looked at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
“Need ya to sober up,” Liam insisted, as he dragged Louis from his chair and Niall, true to his word, slapped a few bills on the counter. Louis was pleasantly surprised to find he could stand, or well, lean at least, in an upright position between Niall and Liam.
Which was a start.
***
Ollie answered the door, wearing a lopsided blue paper crown and a pair of striped pants (the pants thing was becoming a routine with them it seemed). “You’re a right twat, you know,” Ollie said to Louis before he could even open his mouth, which was just as well because Louis hadn’t really planned out what to say yet anyhow. So much for Ollie being the nice one though.
Louis groaned miserably. “Yeah, I know.” He’d managed to sober up in the freezing air and they’d stopped for some snacks and water on the way so Louis’ grand gesture wouldn’t involve vomiting on Harry’s feet, but he was still a bit pissed and not at all prepared to deal with a hostile teenager (or two, as it was). Coupled with the fact that he was on a tight schedule, made tighter by the snack stop, and only had an hour left until midnight, to somehow convince Harry he was worth kissing.
“He really likes you. You know you’re the first person he’s had over since mum died?”
“Is he here?” Louis asked timidly.
Harry stepped forward out of the shadows, where presumably he’d been standing the whole time. “I got this Ollie.”
“All right Harry?” Louis asked, a bit chagrined.
“Let’s see, my thirteen year old brother’s defending my honor and the guy I like, who hasn’t seen fit to answer my calls all week, just showed up on my doorstep with two fit looking blokes. Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a right twat.”
“The worst part is, no matter how angry I am, the only thing I can think when I see you standing on my doorstep is how sexy you look and how much I’d really like to kiss you.”
Liam cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Oh right, Harry, these are my mates Liam and Niall.”
“Otherwise known as the two fit looking blokes,” Niall smirked.
“We were just leaving,” Liam said, taking a step backwards down the stairs.
“It’s snowing a fucking storm out and it’s an hour until the New Year and I’ve just got cookies out of the oven. You all best come in before I change my mind.”
Ollie and Finn quickly roped Liam and Niall into a spirited game of Fifa in the living room, leaving Louis alone with Harry in the kitchen. Harry folded his arms across his chest. “What the fuck Lou? You’re stalking me down in graveyards and sniffing my shampoo in stores and then when I show the slightest bit of interest, you’re off?”
“Well, I never pictured our first kiss as an angry makeup kiss, but I suppose that’ll do,” Louis joked.
“Just shut up and let me be properly mad at you.”
“Can we go sit and talk? I promise I won’t make any unwanted advances.”
“Fine. But we need to keep it down. Poppy’s just gone to bed.”
They went to Harry’s bedroom and shut the door, Harry sitting three feet away from Louis on the sofa bed. “You know the thing that really pissed me off about Ben offing himself? It’s that I never got a choice. We were in a partnership, but I didn’t even get a say in whether he lived or died.”
Harry bit his lip. “But it’s not like he had a choice either, did he? Depression makes it so people think it’s the only way out.”
“Yeah. I know that now. But at the time, I was just really mad.”
“What’s all this got to do with me?”
“I was afraid to be myself with Ben, I was afraid to upset him or set him off or say the wrong thing. When we first met, you said your life was complicated, but you invited me into it anyway. And that’s the thing I could never do with Ben. Invite him in. And I realize, I’ve been doing that with you. I haven’t invited you into my life because I was scared it was too complicated and you’d get scared off.”
“Well, I’m getting a bit scared now. Are you secretly a woman or something?” Harry teased. Louis took off his shoes with a sigh and laid down and Harry laid down next to him, still maintaining a slight distance between their bodies, but a bit closer now, which Louis took as a good sign.
“You know when I said that I was sick growing up?” Harry nodded, reaching out now to stroke Louis’ arm encouragingly. “Well, I may have understated just how sick I was.”
“Oh?” Harry asked softly, lifting an eyebrow inquiringly.
“I had cancer and I very nearly died. And this week I had my yearly check-up. I didn’t want to call you until after ‘cause I didn’t want to burden you and I figured everything would be fine.”
“Lou-” Harry reached out to touch Louis’ face and Louis jerked back.
“It wasn’t fine,” he said, his voice coming out strange and choked-up and then he was sobbing and Harry’s arms were around him and that smell - of apple, undercut with the warmth of vanilla, was all around him and he was breathing Harry in.
A knock on the door cut through the dry, wretched sound of Louis’ sobs and Finn ducked his head in. “It’s, uh, there’s five minutes to midnight. Thought you’d want to watch the ball drop.”
“We’ll be right out,” Harry said, cradling Louis’ head to his chest. Finn shut the door softly and Harry looked at Louis, stroking away the tears on Louis’ cheeks with his thumbs. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and meet me out there, love?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Niall and Liam were wedged on the couch between the twins, sitting on either side of them like two matching bookends. They’d gotten into the Christmas crackers and all of them were wearing paper crowns, Harry’s green one slightly askew on his head of dark curls. Harry fixed a red one on Louis before handing him a glass of champagne, their hands briefly touching as it passed between them. They all raised their glasses to toast and Niall said in his heavy, nearly indecipherable Irish brogue, “to next year being less shite than this year” which prompted the twins to collapse in a fit of giggling and they all drank to that.
Then the ball was beginning to descend and the others were all perched on the edge of the couch counting down the seconds to the New Year. Harry and Louis stood behind the couch, facing the television, and Harry reached out and took Louis’ hand in his, and ohgod his hands were giant and it wasn’t fair how much Louis wanted to feel them all over his body.
“Still fancy that kiss?” Harry whispered near Louis’ ear, in a voice so hot and dirty that Louis actually stumbled a bit, despite being almost entirely sober now.
“More than anything,” Louis grinned and then they were counting down the last ten seconds until their first kiss and Harry tugged Louis to him so hard Louis fell against his chest, into his waiting arms. Louis isn’t sure who made the first move but suddenly their lips were touching. Harry’s lips were soft and a bit chapped and he tasted faintly of candy cane and champagne. At first the kiss was gentle, but then Harry’s tongue was opening Louis’ mouth and his hands were gripping Louis’ arse and Louis’ hands knocked the crown from Harry’s head in favor of sinking into his messy curls and the others were whooping distantly in the background as the TV blared on. As Harry drew Louis closer to him, Louis thought distantly that it was his nicest New Year’s kiss ever and was most definitely worth being ribbed on later by the twins and maybe even worth having cancer. Okay, not that last bit. But it was really, really nice.
One year later
Louis isn’t quite sure how they’ve all managed to fit into Harry’s living room, but he’s glad they have. Fizzy and Louis’ twins sisters are seated at the kid’s table with Poppy, who’s thrilled to have so many playmates around her age, although she still asks Louis if he wants to play dolls with them because she likes the way he does the voices. She’s five now and a guaranteed future heart-breaker, with Harry’s dimples and a head of impossible curls. Finn and Ollie are both flirting shamelessly with Louis’ sister, Lottie, who’s blushing and touching her hair a lot.
“Watch out for those Styles’ boys. They’re dead charmers,” Louis warns her, with a wink at Harry.
Harry looks exhausted, but happy, his face flushed from being in the kitchen all day, while Louis has been on kid-wrangling duty and present-wrapping detail. It’s the most people Harry’s ever cooked for and he’s been making lists and sending Louis off to Tesco’s all week on errands. Besides Harry’s siblings and Louis’ mom and younger sisters, there’s also Niall and Liam and Liam’s girlfriend Danielle, who he met shortly after New Years’ last. Liam’s mad about her, which is a good thing too, since she’s now three months pregnant. Harry’s been giving him a lot of tips on being a dad and Liam’s been working doubles at the restaurant for months to afford the giant sparkler he gave Danielle for Christmas, which all the girls keep ooohing and ahhhing over every five minutes and Louis has honestly never seen Liam happier.
When they’re all seated, Niall raises his glass and says in what’s become his customary toast, “to next year being less shite than this year”, and they all cheers to that because there’s been quite a bit of shite mixed in with the good stuff.
Part of the good stuff is that Louis is in remission now, thanks to Harry, and when they’re alone in bed together, Louis can’t resist stroking the smooth white scar along Harry’s hip, can’t help being a bit in awe of it ‘cause Harry’s saved his life in every way possible. Not just from a life of loneliness and too much takaway and bad romantic comedies (although they still watch their fair share of those), but from death itself. Which is something, isn’t it? Louis can’t even think of how he’ll ever repay Harry, because giving someone your bone marrow’s a bit hard to top, but he’s happy to spend the rest of his life thinking of ways.
“So no one seriously has any New Years’ plans?” Harry asks for the millionth time to the collective groans of the others. Liam turns red and looks away because he’s crap at lying and Niall shoves another bit of roast in his mouth, chewing it with far too much enthusiasm.
“Oh God Louis, just tell him already!” Louis’ mum finally blurts out.
“Tell me what?” Harry asks, looking round at all the expectant faces around the table, warm and soft in the candlelight.
“Thanks you lot,” Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning from ear to ear. He holds a hand out to Harry. “Come on then, love.”
Harry follows him, slightly bewildered, but really just happy to be with Louis after everything and to have Louis healthy and gaining back some of his old stamina after the grueling year they’ve had.
Louis moved in at Harry’s insistence in February, as it was easier for Harry to play nurse during Louis’ rounds of chemo and take care of the kids when they were all in one place. Harry’s learned more about cancer than he’d ever hoped to, but one good thing has come out of it because Harry’s going back to school for nursing (he thinks he’d like to work in Pediatrics). Louis takes a leave of medical absence from work and since he’s was home a good deal and able (when he’s well enough) to ferry the kids back and forth, Harry’s already got two terms under his belt and Louis couldn’t be more proud.
But moving in together was more than just a convenience thing for them. Louis’ apartment lacked a certain coziness and well, lacked Harry as well, if he’s being honest. Even Matilda seems happier - for the big yard, where there’s lots of mice and birds to keep her busy. In the beginning, it was a bit cramped until Harry relented (Louis swearing up and down it wouldn’t destroy his mother’s memory if they had loads of gay sex in her former bed) and moved them into the master bedroom. Which is just as well, because Harry moans like an absolute slut when Louis has him in bed and he’d rather not have to hear the twin’s running commentary on that.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Tomlinson?” Harry asks, when Louis leads him to their bedroom, but Louis shakes his head, turning on the light.
“I don’t have to try for that, do I?” he teases.
Harry notices right away. There’s an envelope pinned to his map that hadn’t been there before. “What’s this?” he asks, pulling it down with slightly trembling hands, removing and replacing the pin in Paris.
“Go on, open it up,” Louis grins and Harry does and gasps when he sees the two plane tickets to Paris and the hotel booking and the careful itinerary Louis has spent the last two months planning. Being sick and then recovering has had some advantages after all, plus with all the rent Louis has saved, he’s able to give Harry the vacation he deserves.
“Oh Lou,” Harry sighs dreamily, before reality sets in. “What about the kids?”
“My mum’s watching them. We leave day after tomorrow. Just the two of us.”
“But this is too much-” Harry protests, tears glistening in his dizzyingly large eyes, which now that Louis thinks of it are probably more blue than green.
“It’s more of a gift for me really. I want to kiss you on top of the Eiffel Tower,” Louis teases, but he’s cut off as Harry leans in and kisses him breathlessly.
“I want to kiss you in every country on the map,” Louis says, their foreheads knocking together before Harry leans in to kiss him again.
“I want to kiss you until my heart stops beating and I can’t kiss you any more.” And then they both fall back onto the bed, a tangle of indistinguishable limbs and rumpled clothing and sticking-up hair. The envelope falls onto the floor, forgotten for the moment, in the desperate, searching heat of their kiss.
But tomorrow - tomorrow - they’ll start out on their great adventure, which, when they weren’t paying attention, had already begun itself in a little garden cemetery with a bouquet of yellow roses.