Work Text:
The rain is pitter-patter-ing against the windowpanes and it’s a dreary day, with no sun and just a cold, wet atmosphere outdoors; Louis hates how it’s nothing but rain, mud, wind, clouds, but at the same time, he supposes it’s alright because the weather outside means he can spend all day indoors cuddled up underneath blankets and limbs entangled with Nick.
After the tea is made, of course. Louis’ sitting on the counter right now, wearing Nick’s striped pyjama bottoms (which are folded thrice and still too long), his legs dangling over the edge, toes almost, but not quite touching the tiled floor. He watches Nick, sitting at the table reading the paper, nose crinkling and eyebrows furrowing at one of the stories. A smile makes it’s way upon his face as the older male runs his hand through his hair, pushing it up and back, so that Louis can catch a glimpse of the contrast of his skin, because okay, maybe he isn’t paying so much attention to Nick’s forehead and nose, per se, but rather the freckles that are there, scattered on pale skin.
(The smattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose and even on his forehead reminds Louis of the sky at midnight—so much like the stars and constellations littering the blue-black canvas of night. Except more beautiful. Louis sometimes wishes he were a poet or at least half decent with words, because he could just go on forever trying to describe Nick and his freckles and his eyelashes and his smile and his laugh and just, stupid, stupid Nick and what he does to Louis.)
Louis is pulled out of his thoughts however when the kettle makes a sudden noise; Nick startles, ruffling the paper in his hand a bit, and after setting his newspaper down on the table, jumps up to make the tea.
“Hello there darling, hand me a couple mugs?” Nick turns with a grin, coming face to face with Louis.
“Yeah, one sec,” he blinks, because freckles (and maybe he’s being silly but he just wants to kiss them and kiss Nick too, and he’s going crazy for sure, trying to restrain himself from leaning forward and making that distance between their lips and faces disappear into nothing.)
So instead, he twists to his right, reaching for the top cupboard; he finds that his fingertips just barely catch on handle of the door. “Damn it,” he says under his breath, and settles for swinging his legs up and kneeling on the countertop to get the mugs.
Nick just watches the scene, amused, and chuckles as Louis nearly slips off the counter.
“Oh hush it, Grimshaw,” Louis scoffs, playfully shoving Nick in the arm after giving him the cups.
“Watch it,” he warns, pouring the hot water in. “Or you’ll get no tea.”
Louis shuffles backwards in mock horror, and Nick just shrugs, smirking, in a what-can-I-do, sort of way.
Louis does end up getting his tea though, the steaming hot liquid sloshing around in his red mug; he sips it quietly, watching Nick fold up his papers and put them away. Their kitchen light casts shadows dancing across Nick’s face, and Louis’ lying if he says Nick’s not beautiful. His thick eyelashes, which only look longer from the angle of the light, the slight stubble along his chin and jawline from not having shaved in a couple of days, and his freckles, like little smidgeons of salt and pepper.
And apparently as Louis’ so concentrated on the beauty in front of him and pale skin covered in freckles, the look he’s taken upon his face makes Nick chuckle, and well, Louis is struck by the fact, once again, that even Nick’s laugh is beautiful and makes him die a little bit inside. God damn it.
“Don’t furrow your eyebrows like that, they’ll stay that way if you keep ‘em like that too long,” Nick says after finishing laughing, voice suddenly taking a mock serious tone, as if he were a man of a hundred years of wisdom. Nick raises his own eyebrows while taking a sip of his tea, and Louis can only stare at Nick’s freckles some more, because, beautifullovelygoddamnpretty is the only thing that comes into his mind (and he doesn’t want to say that out loud, not really).
And It’s not like Louis’ obsessed with Nick’s freckles, honestly; they’re just pretty. And he just can’t seem to pry his eyes off them, particularly today, for some reason. He doesn’t know. Maybe it’s something in the tea.
So he can only sputter pathetically and stick his bottom lip out, doing nothing to fix his furrowed-eyebrows situation that Nick kindly pointed out.
Nick also points out that Louis’ not acting himself today, and Louis only responds with, “I’m fine, really, can we go cuddle on the couch though? I’m a bit cold.”
And Louis smiles when Nick shrugs (obviously pleased with the idea), and tickles Louis on the way to the sofa, almost causing hot tea to spill out all over their tiled floor.
The red mug of tea makes it’s way to the coffee table though, right beside Nick’s own, thankfully not missing any liquid. Louis turns around and Nick is already splayed across the plush cushions, long limbs hanging over the edges.
“You big lazy lump,” Louis says, trying for disapproving, but unable to keep the affection out of his voice.
“Come cuddle with the big lazy lump then,” Nick answers, waving Louis over; he snuggles closer to Louis after he joins Nick on the couch.
(He’s like a puppy, honestly, Louis thinks to himself, as Nick presses his stubbly chin into the side of Louis’ cheek. Not that he minds, of course; he likes puppy dogs. Especially big snuggly ones like Nick Grimshaw.)
And puppy-like he is, indeed; he even lets out a little whimper and pouts as Louis wiggles and shimmies out of Nick’s grip after a moment, readjusting so that his body is parallel with Nick’s, and his chin is resting on his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Nick chuckles, breaking the longer than usual silence in the air, getting rid of the pout and sitting up a bit. Louis just smiles and pokes Nick’s cheek with his nose.
“Nothing.” he replies simply, grinning and puckering his lips into Nick’s cheek, then jawline.
“My mouth is over here, love,” Nick makes an exaggerated kissing sound and purses his lips.
“Not trying to get your mouth, old man,” Louis answers, amused at the confusion flitting across Nick’s face. Instead of explaining, Louis just noses Nick’s cheek once more, then presses his lips right to the dusting of freckles there.
Nick’s laughs quietly then, while Louis continues giving Nick’s cheek soft kisses.
(Nick quite likes Louis’ kisses; sometimes they are rough and hard and just all teeth, tongue, and bruising force, like after they’ve both had a few drinks and are feeling more than a bit desperate and needy. But sometimes, like now, Louis’ kisses are so soft and so gentle and so loving and so much like a butterfly’s wings, delicate and then just making his whole body tingle, right down to his toes.)
“I like your freckles,” Louis almost whispers, in between kisses, with a soft smile. His lips find the bridge of Nick’s nose and hover right over the sprinkling of freckles there, before pecking a trail up to his forehead, kissing each and every cluster of them (leaving sort of a fire in it’s wake; Nick can’t help but smile and smile and smile some more.)
Eventually, Louis kisses a trail back down to Nick’s cheek, and his lips turn up in the corners, watching Nick blush a bit and grin, lying on the sofa underneath Louis.
“Your freckles are pretty,” Louis says as an explanation, cheeks colouring pink as Nick stares up at him with big eyes.
“You’re pretty,” he responds simply, and the Doncaster boy just wriggles and bends down so he can sneak a kiss right onto the corner of Nick’s mouth; he smiles as Nick grips the back of his neck to guide him to his lips instead, and okay, he doesn’t mind that.
He doesn’t mind it either, as Nick pulls him into his chest so tight that he can hardly breath, and he smiles as he hears Nick’s muffled “I love you” pressed into the crook of his neck.
He says it back, whispering it again and again until he doesn’t know where the I love you’s start and end; over and over and over until he thinks, feels, knows those three words are etched into their skins as promises of forever, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou as steady as Louis’ heartbeat, hammering in his chest right now.
And well, his tea is surely cold by now, long-forgotten on the coffee table, but he doesn’t mind it at all as Nick’s fingers brush through his hair and occasionally stroke his cheek, two heartbeats fluttering in unison and soft kisses exchanged as the rain keeps falling down, down, down, into a steady rhythm.