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Chapter Text

When Louis is fifteen some twat calls him "princess". It's not the first time, but this time he's picking Lottie up from school and the offender is possibly twelve years old. Louis' pretty sure when he went to primary school he didn't know shit about homosexuality, let alone slur words. He'd been too busy with classes or eating glue or whatever; he didn't make a habit of walking around the schoolyard calling fifteen-year-olds "fags" or "princesses".

He quickly discovers Lottie is as naive as he'd been. They run out of the school (a race, he tells her as he leaves his dignity behind), and when they stop she's still giggling. "Princess Boo!"

It's his sister, and he knows she has no idea what she's saying, but he still feels this tightness in his throat. It's probably the running. "Don't call me that."

She looks at him with all the innocence of tiny blonde eight-year-old girls. "Why?"

"It's not nice."

"Why?" Thankfully it's not the beginning of an endless cycle of questions he can't answer. Just an incredibly awkward conversation with his little sister. "I want to be princess when I grow up. You can be princess too."

"How can I be a princess?" he asks too sharply. "Even if I somehow marry Princess Gemma I'd only be Duke of Edinburgh or something."

Lottie rolls her eyes with such skill it might be genetic. "You idiot, if you marry Prince Harry you could be Princess of Wales."

Louis swears. Mentally. He really thought he could avoid this discussion. "Uh, that's not really. Uh. Okay, so like, there's – homosexualism – when a boy – "

"I know what it is," she interrupts him, thank god. "I watch telly, you know. I'm still right. If you go into Prince Harry's closet he could fall in love with you and then you'll be princess. But I won't visit Wales. They're not nice to sheep."

Louis would like to comment on all the plot holes in that statement. He settles for, "What on Earth do you watch on telly?"

She shrugs and actually starts skipping away.

***

***

When Louis is nineteen his life turns upside-down. Simon Cowell puts him in a band with Zayn Malik and Liam Payne, they become instantly, amazingly and inexplicably popular, they make it to the X Factor finale and almost immediately go on tour. In 2011 he sings for thousands of people with his two new brothers, and thinks he might as well be in heaven.

When Prince Harry is seventeen his life turns upside-down. He graduates from school and before he starts attending college to take art or whatever princes study, he goes on a trip to Italy. His Instagram account is full of Vespas and bracelets. The rags are full of pictures of him snogging Italian boys.

It starts with blurry shots in The Sun. It continues with in-depth Guardian analyses about why the Prince "turned gay" (the messy divorce of Queen Anne and Prince Des, being the youngest sibling and, with the Act of Settlement amended, not succeeding the throne, how he's declared he won't join the RAF and began the "moral decline of the British Crown"). It doesn't really end. 2011 is not a good year for the Prince of Wales. Louis, as objectively as a British subject that's been in love with the prince since he was ten, thinks that if a royal gets so much shit, a pop star can take it when his management specifically requests he won't "make any claims" himself.

Only, then Harry turns eighteen and easier prey to reporters, and the first time he's being interviewed on the BBC he comes out of the closet. He just. Does that.

Louis' arranged a grand viewing party at his flat (party of Liam), because fuck it, any self-respecting Englishman should be up-to-date with palace gossip, and that means tuning into the occasional interview on the telly. He thought that the strangest thing would be that he himself had been interviewed on the very same couch as the Prince of Wales. He'd been wrong. The strangest thing is that the interviewer quite elegantly brings up the Italy Shitstorm, and Prince Harry sort of blinks, then smiles devastatingly and says, "Yeah, so basically, I fancy blokes too?" and Louis swears he hears the neighbours dropping mugs. It's not just his hands that have gone numb.

That's where the comparison to Prince Harry ends, really. Because the Prince of Wales is out of the closet and Louis' in a fake relationship with a model.

To his credit, something unprecedented occurs the first time they meet with management after the royal coming out. When they tell off Zayn and Liam again about "Ziam Mayne", Louis tells them off right back, and the moment they say the two magic words (Social Climate), Louis says, "We have a bisexual fucking prince, Jesus Christ, the icecaps are melting", and tweets that he and Eleanor have gone their separate ways.

He doesn't dare to do more. And sometimes he reads the horror stories online, and remembers being fifteen and picking Lottie up from school. Sometimes he thinks about how much power they possess – two thirds of the world's biggest boy band being on the queer side of the Kinsey scale – how much they could help people, teenagers. He doesn't dare to do more.

Louis meets Harry for the first time on New Year's Eve, 2013.

Nick has invited the entire band to the "sickest party this side of the pond", and Louis really couldn't resist. They drink a lot, quickly and not at all thoughtfully, so Louis thinks he's earned the right to pin all his problems on alcohol. Not that he's much of a drinker, or that he has that many problems, but there's always some blaming to do when he dances with men. And it usually isn't Zayn's skills as a DJ. The floor is packed enough that an innocent bystander couldn't possibly spot who Louis' dancing with and who to tag on Twitter.

When a group of teenage girls starts circling him, Louis rolls his eyes. It's an acceptable response – Liam is the one who smiles and hands out autographs and pictures and small pieces of his soul. Louis' worked quite hard to brand himself as ‘The Bitchy One’, ‘The Hard To Get One’ or whatever. He just doesn't have the patience. Maybe he had, once, before he started getting stalked in lifts or cornered in public toilets.

Of course he feels like an absolute shit when he realises the girls aren't trying to approach him, but rather someone directly behind him.

It's nothing compared to how he feels when he turns around. He gasps way too loudly, as always when he's drunk and – well, basically always. "You look like Prince Harry!" he yells. Louis is an obnoxious drunk.

Prince Harry makes his way toward him, probably to make sure he's heard right, and then he just pulls out this movie-star, absolutely Earth-shattering Colgate smile out of nowhere. "And you look like Louis Tomlinson."

Louis' caught off-guard; from boys he usually gets "that guy from One Direction", maybe "Louis" just because it's a memorable enough name (right in the middle between Liam and Zayn). Well, there were also the boys that wanted in his pants. Wanted some of this. This Thang. He's extremely drunk and thinks he sees what's happening here. "S'your sister a fan or summat?"

The Prince's smile broadens even further, and he's wearing this incredibly stylish shirt and he's incredibly curly and Louis might incredibly add him to the Thangs category. "She is, surprisingly enough."

Louis considers taking offence. "What, she's not a teenager?"

The Prince looks gobsmacked. "How much have you had, Louis?"

He's not very well going to lie to a person who looks like the Prince of Wales. "This side of completely pissed, Person who Looks Like the Prince of Wales."

Suddenly something happens – Zayn's apparently ditching the mixer and picking up a mic. An insane wave of clapping, shouting and actual waving floods the floor, and suddenly Louis finds himself flush against the prince's chest. The prince who is ridiculously tall. Like, he looks shorter on telly. Also, his hands are enormous. Louis knows this because the prince has his hand on Louis' hip to ostensibly keep him from getting trampled, and his stupid hand nearly covers the entire expanse of his lower back. The prince leans down to say in Louis' ear, "Do you mind taking a picture? My sister's gonna need proof when I tell her I met you at a party she ditched."

Louis shrugs. If there's someone he wouldn't mind falling prey to in lifts or public toilets, it's tall, fit boys. He lays a hand on the prince's hip and stretches up to say, "You'll post it on Twitter?"

"Definitely."

Louis rolls his eyes, mostly for show. "Then I'll need your number. In return for the humiliation."

He's usually more careful. The fact he doesn't care about closets as much as he used to doesn't mean he's not in one, and the fact the band's more popular than ever doesn't mean they're infallible. Usually: when he's more sober and less in need of a shag.

Instead of answering, the Prince of Wales pulls out his iPhone and presses up against him. Louis has a bad feeling when the flash nearly blinds him. He blames the pre-gaming he's done with Zayn. "Happy?" he shouts over the crowd.

Prince Harry shamelessly smirks at him while shoving his phone back in his pocket and pulling out a pen and a piece of paper. Which is just so ridiculous in this setting that Louis has to let out a laugh. It dies a nasty death when the prince's huge hand covers Louis' arse – to put the paper in his back pocket. "Cheeky," Louis comments.

The prince laughs. "You're gonna flip your shit tomorrow."

"Let me guess, because you're gonna fuck me so – "

Suddenly Louis' being dragged away, in the complete opposite direction he is destined to go, and in five seconds he manages to lose Prince Harry in the sea of people. "Li, didn't you see I was talking to someone?"

"Oh, sorry," Liam says, though continues to drag Louis toward the stage.

Louis tries to struggle. Unsuccessfully, as always. "I didn't come here for a show, mate."

"Zayn asked for some help," Liam justifies.

Louis looks around. No sign of his prince. His sigh is filled with suffering and woe. "Fine, I guess."

Chapter Text

He's so glad he hadn't stayed in with Gemma at Clarence House, both because she and Will would have ignored him completely, and because he's at one of Nick's parties. Surrounded by celebrities, Harry can blend in, as much as a prince can. When he was a kid, and again when he was seventeen, he wondered what is was like out there, to be normal, without bodyguards or paps everywhere, without the papers declaring a national crisis every time he slipped and fell (and there were a lot of them; Harry might be Sophia of Hanover's clumsiest descendant).

Now he's been on enough humanitarian missions to know he's fucking lucky. Today he's not the Crown Prince. Besides, he's happy as long as the people he loves are happy. And Gemma's about to marry the love of her life, so Harry's over the moon.

Thinking of that reminds him to send Gemma the picture he took with Louis. For a moment he wants to add that Louis' an outrageous flirt and, as Harry's suspected, as gay as they come, but he doesn't really want to make her jealous. And he's a good guy and all that.

Also "you're gonna fuck me" has been replaying in his mind ever since Louis pressed his lips to Harry's ear and he hasn't really gotten over it. He doesn't even get a chance to; Louis hops on stage athletically, despite being smashed out of his mind, and his horribly blue eyes reflect the spotlight. He's short and tan and his features are sharp and Harry thinks he's more beautiful than anybody in the club right now.

Instead of singing one of their songs, One Direction starts to sing Teenage Dirtbag. The crowd is so loud that Harry sings along at the top of his lungs, and there's something so relieving about being part of an audience. Louis seems to feel the same sort of relief, only in the spotlight, with the band. He smiles freely and laughs with Liam and Zayn. They look like they've been together for ages, rather than two years.

It's worth saying Harry isn't actually a crazy fan. He is the Prince of Wales and second in line to the throne. Also, he prefers his music much more indie. He still feels emotionally invested in this stupid boy band because it helped him get through 2011.

When the Perth Agreement was introduced to the prime ministers, Gemma and he didn't speak for a month. That had never happened before, but then again, Harry'd never been bumped down the line of succession before, so.

He'd always known, even when his granddad was still the King of England, that he would be king one day. And when he was little he thought it was fantastic, thought he could wear a crown and enact laws that would let him stay up past bedtime and command Gemma to eat his veggies. And then he grew up and his etiquette lessons and responsibilities slapped him in the face. He'd learned that in order to be a good king he had to be a good prince, and a good son, and a good brother, and before he realised it, his entire life became dictated by others' wishes. Or rather, his wish to please others. Harry didn't dare disappointing his mum, let alone an entire commonwealth.

Then it was announced the UK's proposed legislation would be published in 2012. Harry knew the entire kingdom was in turmoil, not to mention his mum or sister, but for the first time in his life he felt like it was his turn to wallow. Because it didn't feel like a weight being lifted off his shoulders (and directly onto his sister's head). It felt like losing a part of himself, like he had no idea what he was supposed to do anymore, like his character had been changed in the middle of the book and no one bothered to warn him. It wasn't like he thought he'd drop off the radar; he was still the Queen's son. But he was no longer the crown prince, and he thought that ignoring Gemma would allow him to ignore his identity crisis.

Considering it was the most dramatic emergency to happen to the crown since his parents' divorce, Harry met the entire fleet of publicists at the palace's disposal, got to hear instructions regarding his "rebranding". The only good thing to come of it was meeting Niall, one of the publicity minions who may or may not be an Irish lord himself.

Niall spoke like royalty, but the first time Harry saw him he was lighting a spliff in Buckingham Palace and leaving oily handprints all over the queen's most posh settee. When he saw Harry he cursed with a brogue, glancing miserably between the joint in one hand and the crisps in the other as if trying to decide what he should hide. Harry burst out laughing, not bothering to cover his mouth like his tutors had told him to do a trillion times, and said, "Hey, don't worry about it." After a moment he said, "I'm Harry."

Niall laughed, stuck the joint behind his ear and reached out a hand to Harry. "Niall Horan, one of the prince's slaves."

"I hear he gives you lot a hard time," Harry commented, sitting down next to Niall.

"And I heard that behind closed doors he smokes up like us commoners," Niall said, passing Harry the joint. He'd watched Skins, heard about the declining morals of teenagers, about peer pressure and bad influences. Harry really couldn't blame the teenagers if the bad influence was as charming and harmless-looking as Niall.

After the first hit he coughed for five minutes, and Niall laughed at him shamelessly until Paul burst into the room red-faced. For a moment it looked like he was debating performing the Heimlich on Harry, or strangling him barehanded. Then he spotted the joint and paled.

Niall quickly hid the bud in his pocket, much too late, and Harry smiled at Paul with all the grace he could muster. "You won't tell my mum, right?"

Paul considered that for a few moments, then said, "The last thing Her Majesty needs to hear is that both her children smoke on their free time, Sire."

"Ah, sorry 'bout that," Niall said.

Harry stared at him. "You gave Gemma drugs? Those are bad for you."

Paul politely looked away and didn't comment. Niall raised an eyebrow. "She needed it, mate."

Harry got it. "I need to talk to her. Is she still in Spain?"

Before Paul could answer, Niall said, "I can fly you out."

"What?"

"To Spain."

"You can fly a jet?"

Niall shrugged. "I also have a lot of shoes."

Paul cleared his throat. "Your Highness, Princess Gemma returned to London last week."

So Harry said goodbye to Niall, got into the car, and stumbled into Clarence House. Gemma looked up at him with huge eyes the moment he found her.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

"I'm sorry," she replied.

"It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either."

He just hugged her, and somehow they ended up watching the first few episodes of the new X Factor. Usually he only watched these shows for the auditions, but Gemma kept him hostage all the way to the live shows. When One Direction performed he couldn't stop giggling, mainly because Gemma was clapping like an idiot.

"I understand you have a favourite?"

Gemma elbowed him. "I just find them talented."

"And fit."

She buried her face in Harry's shoulder, making him laugh harder. "Shut up," she mumbled.

"Well, they are. Fit," he said, eyes drawn to the oldest one, Louis Tomlinson, with the fringe and the blue eyes and the cheekbones. He almost missed Gemma peeking at him curiously.

He'd never really needed to come out to her; she sort of just... got him. If not, there's One Direction to blame. She put her head back on his shoulder and said, "I quite liked Spain."

He started playing with her hair. When they were little he loved to braid it, before their maid would catch them, sigh, and begin to restyle the princess' hair. "I'm glad, Gem."

"Maybe you should get out of England too. Meet new people." His hand froze, and when he looked down Gemma was already looking back.

There was subtext in her words, her eyes, but Harry's very straight-forward and it took him a moment to understand. "Uh, where would you suggest?"

"Italy has very fit lads, if memory serves."

His heart leaped to his throat, and he snapped his eyes back to the television. He couldn't believe he'd avoided Gemma for a month. "After the series finale, yeah?"

She curled into his side and he almost sighed in relief. "Sure. But can you vote for my boys?"

"Only if you let me keep Wales." He blurted it out, and for a moment wondered if it was too soon, for her, for him, for this moment with this stupid boy band on telly.

Fortunately Gemma was the best sister in the world, so she just laughed. "Sorted." (By miraculous bureaucracy, he actually got to keep Wales.)

When he retold all that to Niall over a spliff, Niall chuckled and said, "If you're really into music now, I've got someone you should meet."

He introduced him to Nick Grimshaw, who introduced him to Ed Sheeran, and Harry sort of wanted to make all three of them his princesses because. They didn't want to be. And they knew they were much cooler than him despite him being a prince and all. (And sometimes Harry couldn't understand how the public didn't see him for the goofy, spotty eighteen-year-old he was, and sometimes he realised most people saw the monarchy as an outdated money-waster and him an inbred dick, and sometimes he wanted to give it all away and didn't know how.)

When One Direction was eliminated Gemma and he threw a pity party, during which Gemma threatened to issue a royal warrant for Simon Cowell's head, and Harry said he wasn't sure that was legal.

"You're just jealous of my love of Payne," she said.

"I hope you end up alone so I'd still have a chance to succeed the throne," he spat back, mock-offended. (Obviously six months later she got engaged to a gorgeous student she met at St Andrews.)

A day later he convinced his mum that his mental stability depended on a trip abroad, then convinced Niall to take him out to Italy, and then there was the whole coming out of the closet thing. But what's important is that when One Direction released an album, he bought it for Gemma. It was a mistake. She made him listen to the entire thing with her, and the singles were stuck in his head for weeks.

Anyway. Harry heard One Direction's first album, and voted for them on the X Factor, but he is not a crazy fan and he did not look up their shows on YouTube.

The New Year's party is the first time he's seen them on stage, and after hearing their clean songs on the album, it's sort of surprising how much they dick around in front of an audience. Laughing mid-song, missing the lyrics, talking shit.

Harry isn't a crazy fan, but for the duration of the impromptu show, he feels like one. 

***

Louis wakes up the next day with a headache and a sinking feeling in his gut. He fumbles for his phone to check the time, only to find eight missed calls from Lottie. Halfway to a heart attack he sees she also sent him a text ("I have to hear about it on twitter???"), so he guesses nobody's at hospital.

When he clicks the link she's emailed him, he sort of wishes for that heart attack.

Prince Henry Edward Anthony Richard Styles posted a picture of himself and Louis. It might just be the least flattering picture of Louis online, but Louis' got an arm around his shoulder and Harry's a head taller than him and he barks out, "Zayn!" before dashing to the toilet.

"It was a nightmare, right? It didn't actually happen?" Louis whines when he jumps on Zayn's bed.

Zayn grunts like a wounded baby animal and tries to knock Louis off the bed. He rasps out, "Let me sleep twatbag."

"Zayn, I talked to Prince Harry last night. The Prince Harry. Chatted him up and everything. Accidentally." Louis is hysterical. It might be the effect of Lottie's hysteria. It might be because he hadn't recognised Prince Harry and it's the Tower for him.

"What I don't understand," Zayn says after a short struggle, during which Louis shares what he remembers from last night and somehow gets under the covers. "Is how you didn't know who he was. You've been following his Instagram since you were a little girl."

Louis strains for a spontaneous heart attack. "He didn't have an Instagram when I was a little girl, he opened it on 2010. Before it was cool, might I add."

"I hope you didn't tell your hipster prince that."

Louis sighs. "I don't remember what I told him, Zayn, that's the absolute worst part."

"I'm sure you were your usual kind and charming self."

Louis glares at him. They both know he hasn't been kind or charming in a while. Zayn smirks at him and Louis rolls out of bed to brush his teeth again.

He rings Lottie up around noon, and she answers after half a second. "If I'd known this is what would get you to pick – "

"Boo, seriously, tell me absolutely everything."

"About the sex?"

"Ew, no." Louis laughs at the distaste in her voice. Then it's his turn to be disgusted. "Actually, what does his—"

"Oh my god, we didn't have sex. We chatted a bit, I reckon, and then he took a picture of us."

"And what'd he say? What'd he look like? Was he really nice, or like, too posh and prince-y?"

Louis drinks half his tea and decides that lying would only get him into more trouble. "So I was a bit drunk."

Lottie swears. "Brilliant. You met our hero. And you don't remember what he said. Because you were plastered."

Louis feels like an idiot again. He definitely doesn't mention the fact he didn't recognise the prince and is facing execution. There's no point in making her cry before it's due. "I wasn't plastered, Jesus."

"At least did you get his autograph?"

Louis widens his eyes. He nearly spills his tea when he leaps from his chair like Spiderman. Thank fuck his clothes spend more time on the floor than the laundry machine. Louis is totally going to use this moment the next time Liam reprimands him for his mess of a flat. He finds his trousers from yesterday and gets a crumpled piece of paper out of the pocket, blinking when he sees it's not a phone number, but a short note. Hope the hangover isn't too bad. PS my sister really is a fan. Harry xx

"Lou?" Lottie asks. Right, still on the phone.

"There's an autograph!"

"Good. Mail it over, would you?"

Louis is about to agree, because what is he going to do with the Prince of Wales' autograph, but what comes out of his mouth is, "No, it's mine. But," he quickly adds, "I can tell you something top secret."

Lottie considers her options. Apparently curiosity wins out. "Well?"

"Princess Gemma is a fan of the band."

"Awesome. Can I post it?"

Louis thinks of the unflattering picture posted without his permission and the related piece posted on the Metro website this morning. "Definitely."

They chat for a few minutes, until Lottie says, "Lou, can I ask you something?"

"Yes. You're adopted."

"I'm serious, dickhead."

"Well?"

"When you're Prince of Wales will you still come 'round?"

Louis remembers her asking this when he first moved to London with Zayn and Liam to be a pop star. He doesn't see it changing anytime soon. "Don't worry. I'm not overly fond of sheep." 

***

"Are you here to tell me off?" Harry asks when Niall comes into the room with a copy of The Sun.

"No, I was just at the loo," Niall explains, sitting next to Harry and folding up the paper.

Harry shrugs, and goes back to googling cat videos. He has a system when it comes to hangovers: strong tea and the Internet.

"Harry, I'm joking," Niall says, snorting at Harry's frown. "I'm with the PR monsters, remember? Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were gonna post a picture of you and Louis Tomlinson?"

"Well, it just sort of happened?" Harry folds his legs to his chest and bites his lip. "I didn't mean to get you into trouble."

Niall hits him upside the head. "Never mind that, have you seen the papers?"

Harry generally avoids papers. When he learned French, his tutor made him read Aujourd'hui en France every morning, until he started having political arguments with his mum. When he turned to English papers all he could see was gossip and bullshit about his mum, his sister and him. The tutor disappeared anyway after the Italy Shitstorm, so it's not really a good example. Anyway, "No."

He peeks at The Sun's cover page. British Nobility meets Royalty: Louis and Prince Harry shocking pic!

Okay, he hadn't seen that one coming. "What, um, what does it say?"

"You know, same shit they always say when you're within a kilometre of anyone attractive. It's like they forgot he's got a girlfriend."

"He doesn't though," Harry says, much too quickly. "I mean, I think I heard once he doesn't. Anymore."

Not that Niall cares. "Can you imagine what would happen if you do get on that?"

Harry smiles uncontrollably, and quickly covers his mouth. He never imagined, but if someone were to bring it up, he wouldn't really mind getting on Louis Tomlinson. "What?"

"Fucking hilarious. Forget Brangelina mate, you'd be the It Couple of the fucking century!"

Harry cracks up. Not that Niall's wrong, but it doesn't mean Harry imagines. Girlfriend or not, according to Wikipedia Louis' still in the closet, and Harry would never out someone. All the shit he's gone through at seventeen was worth it because – well, because he drew an insane amount of celebrities out, donated thousands to organisations like Stonewall and The Trevor Project, and he sort of became a role model. More selfishly, it was worth it because it had been his choice. Because when his old publicity team gave him shit for the Italy pictures he refused all their spins and said he couldn't lie to his people. Like, literally. He was a shit liar. His mum cried for ages, and at least half of it was because she was proud of him. Harry's proud of himself to this day. But he knows it's not for everyone.

All of this is irrelevant, of course, until he even gets near getting on Louis Tomlinson. "I don't think I'll woo him," he decides.

"Whatever," Niall says, stealing Harry's computer to show him a video of a tiger on catnip. Niall still amazes him.

"Like, I won't do it actively. I think." He's pretty sure he'll resist.

"I really don't give a shit, mate."

Chapter Text

Louis fell in love with Prince Harry when he was ten and Harry was eight and peeked behind the Queen's elegant gown for his first public appearance—a shy smile and a mess of curls. He fell for him when he caught Lottie putting up a magazine cover of Harry on her wall and all she had to say for herself was, "He's such a good person, yeah?" and, yeah. He fell for him when Harry gracefully accepted his demotion. He fell for him when Harry came out and stayed out.

The point is that when it comes to Prince Harry, Louis doesn't fancy himself a busy, important, international pop star, but a silly twenty-one-year-old that's proud to be British because of one silly royal. And when he thinks about the tweet Harry posted and the overreaction from the media, he doesn't feel like a busy, important, international, closeted pop star, but like someone whose bizarre life had become more bizarre, someone who's lucky, someone who might possibly be a twelve-year-old girl.

So Louis keeps Harry's note in his bedside drawer, and tweets a reply to their picture. He's half cheeky, half in complete shock over the fact he's tweeting something the Prince of fucking Wales might see.

By the time they wrap up rehearsals he gets something like a million and two retweets and replies. Usually Louis doesn't bother reading them, but this time he finds himself digging in because he—hopes, vaguely, maybe, that Prince Harry will reply, and the Sun and management can fuck off, okay. With any other man he'd be discreet and by-the-book, but this is the Prince of fucking Wales.

Going over Twitter confuses him more and more, and he suspects his followers have switched languages, until he spots: "Larry new Ziam? sshfsdg feels #LouisForQueen" and suddenly it dawns on him. Shippers. He and the Prince of Wales have shippers. He and the Prince of Wales have Zayn and Liam's shippers.

'Your people have found me', he sends Lottie.

'I broke Twitter', he sends Zayn.

'Kiss Ziam goodbye', he sends Liam.

"@Louis_Tomlinson I must confess, I thought you'd have better taste :P #favouriteboyband", Her Royal Highness Princess Gemma writes him. Princess Gemma. Writes him.

When the UK lost its shit over the prince and princess opening Twitter accounts, Louis didn't imagine there would ever come a time he'd actually be communicating with them. It's totally worth it when Princess Gemma tweets Lottie ("Support group for poor sisters of superstars?") and Lottie almost faints.

The first night Louis spends with Liam since hell broke loose is, of course, the night it gets worse. He manages not to talk about the Internet relationship he's sparking with the prince while Liam talks about the actual relationship he's maintaining with Danielle. In fact, he actually forgets about it, until they settle in for Tea and Telly Night and, yeah, that's Prince Harry on Ryan Tubridy's sofa.

"Did you plan this?" Louis asks.

Liam looks away. "No, I always watch The Late Late Show."

"We were supposed to watch footie."

"Honestly, Tommo." He looks at Louis sharply. "Your prince is being interviewed. How about some patriotism?"

Louis really wants to say that his being patriotic is the reason he doesn't watch Irish telly, but then Prince Harry tells a terrible joke and Louis is too busy covering his face in second-hand embarrassment. Harry's curls have been tossed left and he's wearing this slutty button-up and his eyes shine. Looking back, the absolute worst thing about their meeting, other than how much Louis cocked it up, was the knowledge that it's not Photoshop, or tricks of the light, or an overpaid make-up department. Harry's eyes actually shine, like a goddamn Disney princess.

"So you've been very busy since Christmas," Tubridy says. There's a dangerous glint in his eyes. Louis does not like him.

"Yeah, we always look forward to the message," Harry replies with a sweet smile.

Tubridy laughs with the audience. "I didn't mean the Queen's Christmas Message, all due respect. I think we all want to hear what's going on between the royal family and One Direction."

Prince Harry shrugs. "Well, I think at this point they're more famous than us."

"I hate us," Liam says. Louis agrees. It was bad enough when people compared them to the Beatles, he doesn't need them compared to the fucking princes’ of the United Kingdom.

"Have you been to a concert?"

"Uh, no, haven't had a chance," the prince answers, and it's such a good lead-up to the miserable New Year's story that Louis' already preparing to lock himself in the toilet, but instead Harry says, "But I voted for them on the show."

"Am I—what the fuck?" Louis asks Liam carefully. He suddenly pictures Prince Harry, wearing a silk robe or something in Buckingham Palace, watching Louis sing on television. Liking him enough to text the show.

"One tweet from him in 2011 and we would have won, you know," Liam says. He's got a point.

"So you're a true Directioner!" Tubridy exclaims. Prince Harry smiles like sunshine. "Do you have a favourite? In the band?"

Prince Harry weighs this heavily. "The fair thing... well, the fair thing to say is that I like them all equally? Or like, a combination or something?"

If the crown were a democracy, Louis is pretty sure no one would make Harry king. If they were in Game of Thrones, he would have no bannermen. He's the absolute worst speaker. Then again, he's Harry, so he'd probably still have a shot.

"Give us a straight answer, Your Highness."

Prince Harry blinks a few times. Suddenly Louis realises he's about to give an honest answer and his heart, for some reason, flutters. "Um, I guess if I had a favourite, it would be the fit one."

Louis snaps his gaze to Liam. Liam's already looking at him. "Zayn?" they both say. The audience's screams mute out Louis' breaking heart.

"Which one is the fit one?" Tubridy presses.

"Uh, Louis Tomlinson."

This time Louis is probably the only one who breaks his tea mug. He jumps off the couch, then on the couch, then shakes Liam's shoulders. "Did he just say that?"

Liam pushes him away, so Louis kicks him and starts cackling. "He just said that! He likes me better than Zayn!"

"I don't, I seriously don't, I am the opposite," Liam comments, crushed under Louis.

"You're not the Prince of Wales, your opinion is irrelevant. Liam."

***

"Thought you weren't gonna seduce him," Niall comments.

"Thought you didn't care," Harry replies.

He's sure Niall would have had an ace comeback, if they weren't on horseback.

Niall obviously wins. With Harry's knowledge and understanding of the polo game, he should probably be a lot better at polo. Failing at it still beats sitting at home and pining for Louis Tomlinson.

***

Louis is drumming when Josh walks into the rehearsal room. He thought it would beat sitting at home and pining for Prince Harry, and he's not a half-bad drummer, but he didn't exactly ask Josh to use his kit. For some reason, his instincts tell him to hide the drum sticks behind his back, as if that would help him any.

"Uh," he says.

Josh raises an eyebrow, but then just goes to the guitar stands. Josh is a good lad. "What's up?" Louis asks.

"Oh, right," Josh says, as if just recalling he had a point. "I need to talk to you about Prince—"

Louis hits the cymbals. With his forehead. He immediately regrets that decision, but a part of him is still glad he did it. If Zayn has turned the band against him, he's well and truly fucked. "Et tu, Brute?"

"No, like, not in the bad way." Louis raises an eyebrow artfully. "Not that there's a bad way! Who wouldn't want to marry the prince? Even though I reckon he should've gone to Sandhurst and enlisted." Louis raises his other eyebrow. "Anyway, I've got a mate who works at the palace and he mentioned they want to surprise Her Highness and book us for the royal wedding rehearsal."

Louis hits the cymbals again to cover the pathetic noise he makes. "Like, at the palace? Like, Buckingham Palace?"

"I s'ppose, I don't think they'll fly us out to another palace."

Louis laughs without meaning to. Then, extremely subtly, he asks, "Will Prince Harry be there?"

Josh, extremely subtly, takes the drum sticks away from him and smacks his hands with them. "Might be at his sister's wedding, yeah. Now get the fuck away from my kit. And don't tell anyone I told you."

Louis gets the fuck away from the kit. "Why?"

"Management's supposed to announce it today, if it's really happening. I only told you so you could get the crazy out of the way before facing our bosses."

"What are you prattling on about?" Louis asks while ordering ten t-shirts with the Union Jack, Queen Anne's post stamp, and "Keep Calm and Carry On" variations from Urban Outfitters. He throws a pair of red skinnies in too, because why not.

Zayn narrows his eyes when Louis gets back to the studio. "What is it?"

Louis settles next to him and presses all the possible buttons. "What?"

"You look more unhinged than usual."

Louis glares at him. Perhaps doing that, coupled with the huge grin, does make him look like a bit of a maniac. "I know something you don't know."

Zayn glances at Liam. "Does he know something I don't?"

"Could be. But it's probably something completely meaningless, so—"

"Hey, you twats—"

That's when the producer joins them and they have to man up and go over the set for the European tour.

Josh's warning helped, somewhat. Louis manages to keep calm during the meeting with management. The second he steps out though, he tweets, "going to Buckingham Palace! Sickkkk".

Zayn and Liam tweet something along those lines too, okay, it's only the fans' fault that "#LouisForQueen" trends worldwide again. He's not even mad. He's going to perform at Buckingham Palace. He's going to meet Prince Harry and get a chance to fix his first impression. Oh, and meeting the queen and all that. His life is just bizarre.

***

"You're kidding me." Harry blinks at Niall for at least three minutes.

"I did it for Princess Gemma!" he insists, waving his pizza around. "I know their drummer—"

"Nialler, it's just weird that you know absolutely everyone in the UK."

"Anyway, I know their drummer, and I know Gemma fancies them, and I hope you're gonna cry like a little girl. And it's your birthday. Everyone wins."

Harry snatches Niall's pizza away. He's quite sure he’s not going to cry like a little girl.

He might have sent Niall to check if he could go to a One Direction concert, after the New Year's, and Niall eyed him cagily and said he wasn't allowed to, not after nearly getting crushed at a Script concert.

"I highly doubt a few teenage girls would trample me to death," Harry said.

Niall loaded up a video from a One Direction show. Okay, so maybe a thousand million teenage girls would do the trick. He considered sneaking into a show, but after two minutes realised he couldn't pull a stunt right before Gemma's rehearsal dinner.

So Niall, definitely a publicist, probably an Irish viscount, possibly a fairy, brought the mountain to Harry. He won't cry like a little girl because he will look like a fucking movie star when he meets Louis Tomlinson again.

Just then Gemma rushes into the room, her long gown tailing behind like a hurricane trail.

"You're kidding me," she says to Harry.

"Niall did it."

She continues to throw herself at Niall, and there's a pizza crisis to manage, but Niall shuts up and blushes, so Harry takes a quick picture and uploads it to Twitter.

Will texts him after a few minutes to ask who the hell the guy his fiancée's crushing is. Harry forgets the imminent rift between Gemma and her future husband when Nick texts him a link to Liam Payne's twitter. Where there's a picture of Louis crushing Zayn and sticking out his tongue at the camera.

He texts Nick, 'Cheers for the heads-up'.

'Just invite me to your wedding'.

Harry doesn’t answer and ends up following Liam, Louis and Zayn on Twitter instead. He thinks it's a good basis for their relationship. A handful of tweets (knowing it all ends up splattered in the rags) and the mysterious friendship of Niall and the drummer (knowing one of them is the other's dealer). That's all he has to build on before the wedding rehearsal.

He lurks with Will at the corner of the Palace's most lavish ballroom. They drink overpriced champagne like water and look at Gemma mediating a conversation between mum and Will's parents.

"I think she's more excited about this bloody band than our wedding," Will confesses.

Harry snorts. "You learn to live with the fact she likes Liam Payne better than you."

"Is Liam the one with the buzz cut?"

His eyes widen. "You've never heard of One Direction?"

Will frowns. "Do I look like a Martian? I just can't tell them apart, Jesus. Which one's Ziam?"

Harry does Gemma a favour and backpedals from that conversation before spilling champagne on the floor, her fiancé or himself. He would feel bad indefinitely if he ruined a suit that cost more than most cars.

Niall fucked off an hour ago, and for every person Harry likes or recognises there are thirty royals he's supposed to avoid almost as much as they'd like to avoid him. He takes another champagne flute from a waiter and clings to the wall, slithering like the world's clumsiest secret agent until he reaches a door. He just needs a few minutes to wind down.

Harry's been touring Buckingham Palace for nineteen years: he knows every secret passageway; almost all of the staircases have been stained by his blood and shame after one fall or another; and he could probably draw a map of the labyrinths in his sleep. When he suddenly hears the familiar voices of the lads from One Direction, he follows them distractedly, and then sort of gets lost in his own home. He presses his ear to a random door, feeling like a kid eavesdropping on his parents fighting again. Only the ones fighting are Louis and Liam instead.

"We're performing after the ceremony, Lou," Liam clarifies. Harry's not sure when he got to the point he recognises their individual voices. It's obvious to him now. Liam's got this nice, steady baritone, Zayn's got a unique edge, and Louis' voice is fragile and cheeky and lovely. It's obvious now, but a month ago he probably wouldn't have spotted them in a crowd.

Well, maybe he does know how he got to this point. He promised Niall he wouldn't woo Louis actively, but he never said he wouldn't abuse the Internet. It's pretty passive to stare at concerts and pictures. He does not like the thought of his browser history getting leaked now. He'd even prefer "gay porn BDSM" to "one direction louis shirtless".

"I just wanna have a look, Christ's sake, the queen is there. The Queen of England, Liam. I know you've wanked over her since you were thirteen and found your dick."

Harry frowns and tries to forget the last ten seconds of his life ever happened.

"Yeah, while you were wanking over her underage son, let's talk about that."

Harry arches an eyebrow and tries to restore the last twenty seconds of his life.

"Prince Harry's totally legal, shut up, I'm morally—Oi, Zayn, don't even say it." Louis is speaking extremely loudly, like he's trying to provoke Harry somehow. His heart's beating faster.

"He's just Harry, lads. I guarantee the magic will fade once you see him try to play footie. Or any sport. Or do anything." So that's where Niall fucked off to. Gossiping about Harry, no less.

Well, now would be the perfect time to march into the room and get rid of Niall once and for all. He's pretty sure Paul would do it for him. Or at least exile Niall to one of their islands. He breathes in and opens up.

Zayn Malik is sitting closest to the door, leaning towards the window with an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. The first thought that crosses Harry's mind is that Zayn looks like he stepped out of one of the 16th century portraits from the upper floors. (Perhaps without the iPhone and the smoke.) Liam is sitting on the posh settee, wearing a sensible suit and looking generally dazed. Louis is next to him, probably trying to distract him from the shock of being in the royal palace. He's wearing a t-shirt with Harry's mum's face on it, a blazer on top, and trousers tight enough to shame Harry's own.

In a lit room and only slightly buzzed, Louis' cheekbones look even more prominent, his eyes more blue, his hair windswept just so. If Harry is a prince, Louis is a Disney prince.

However much Louis had managed to calm Liam down, the effect was properly ruined when Harry shuffled into the room. Liam actually jumped up, and is now staring at Harry with panic in his eyes. It might be the most British reaction he's ever gotten. Niall bursts out laughing. "Liam, do bow so I can tell Princess Gemma and make her love you more."

Before anyone even considers it, Harry raises his hands. "No need, honest. Um. Nice to meet you. Big fan."

Liam forces on a smile that looks borderline homicidal. Louis smiles like he's just gotten the Christmas present he's begged for all year. Harry wants to make him smile like that until the day he dies (perhaps at the hands of Liam).

Liam is the first to recover. "Nice to meet you, likewise."

Harry spots Zayn perk up. "Yeah, very big fans. You know, Louis here—"

"Anyway," Louis cuts him off, marching straight to Harry and grabbing his arm. "Let's talk."

Harry feels as overwhelmed as Liam, maybe. Louis is stronger than he looks, and is currently dragging the Prince of Wales off to the corner of the huge den like a man on a mission. Harry wants to embark on adventures with him.

"Uh, you should know I'm totally not a crazy fan." Still seems worth saying. He should’ve probably stopped there. "Not that there's something wrong with them. Well, unless there's something actually wrong with them, then I guess it's wrong. One time we were in Italy and found the best gelateria in Rome—the original San Crispino or something—and they had like ten flavours, and the guy making them recognised me. I ate this chocolate-mint gelato I can't find anywhere in England."

Louis stops and stares at him. "Have you tried mixing chocolate ice cream with mint ice cream?"

Offended, Harry says, "Are you mad? That's like mixing PG Tips with Earl Grey or something."

"If the crown were a democracy I would vote for you." Louis looks completely serious. He might be one of those people that say whatever comes to mind and then stand by it.

Harry smiles when he says, "Should've told that to the parliament last December."

"I did! Zayn helped me write a very strongly-worded letter. I even complained to Cameron when he appeared in one of our videos. The British people back you, Your Highness."

Harry barks out a laugh and Louis looks smug. "I think we're past Your Highness, to be honest."

Louis raises an eyebrow and gives a teasing smile. "Have we now?"

"The first time we met you asked for my number and said something about a fuck—"

Louis clasps a hand over Harry's mouth and looks quite stern. He steps closer to Harry and glances around warily. "There are spies here, Your Grace. I don't need the heir apparent to hear I forgot about her existence and tried to shag her little brother. While I was off my face."

Harry waits for Louis to remove his hand and give him permission before saying, "The only spy here is Niall, and what makes you think I haven't told him everything already?"

Louis plants his hands on his hips and pouts. Things are bad. "You seem so nice on telly. I'm beginning to think it's all a big prank on the public."

Harry shrugs. "You know what that's like."

He doesn't mean it literally, but the amused expression is wiped clean off Louis' face and he appears completely serious, perhaps for the first time since Harry's met him. Before Harry manages to apologise two thousand times, Louis sticks out his tongue. "What else is the royal family hiding?"

Harry leans towards Louis. Because he's about to share a secret. Also he smells nice and he wants Louis to enjoy it. As a public service to his people. "The first thing Gemma will do as queen would be to knight Liam."

"Come off it, he's halfway there, that doesn't count."

Harry tries to think of something spicy. "She and I still draw moustaches on our family's stamps."

Louis' grin is all teeth and crinkles, and Harry has trouble breathing. "That's the worst you could think of? Me and Zayn would have torn this place apart."

"Well, Niall tossed off in every room at the palace." That should count as gossip. "Sorry I'm not meeting your expectations, Louis."

Louis stretches up to wrap his arm around Harry's shoulders. "It's alright. There's always room for improvement, Harold."

Harry clears his throat. "You know that's not my—"

"Yes, yes, I read the bloody Wikipedia page."

"Those things are really inaccurate."

Louis sighs like Harry's existence tires him. "I guess I'll just have to get to know you better."

Harry rolls his eyes, ignores the roll in his stomach. "If we must."

When Paul appears it's a bit like a bull careening into a China shop. "Your Highness, I –" He spots Louis' hand and looks to Harry, waiting for the signal to "help help I'm too nice to get rid of them myself do it for me". Harry takes Louis' hand and knots their fingers together. Paul, being Harry's valet for ten years, doesn't react. "The ceremony's beginning, Sire."

He cringes. Nothing could tear him apart from his brotherly duties, but if something could come close, it might be spending more time with Louis. "Well, uh, good luck at the gig and all."

Louis looks mildly confused, like he's forgotten the reason he's in Buckingham Palace. "Yeah, cheers," he says, mostly to himself.

They detach.

*

It's like performing at the Olympics, or SNL, or any award show. Louis suspects he's steady on his feet solely thanks to two-years of experience and the adrenaline. And Liam's worried eyes. And the Prince pulling funny faces. Yes, that makes it easier.

They finish a half-hour set and shake hands with the queen—oh my God—and the princess, and the prince, and the eighty thousand other cousins that are there, until Louis' ready to get the fuck out of Buckingham Palace. Quite gallantly, Prince Harry picks up on his distress signals and says something to his manservant-bodyguard. A minute later, possibly using magic, the prince appears at Louis' side. "Ready to get out of here?"

Louis tries not to seem too desperate. "I suppose."

Harry grabs his hand and pulls him out of the ballroom, through some corridors, until they reach an intimate little balcony. The night air is nice for February, but still cold as balls, so Louis allows himself to stay close to Harry. Who still has a firm grasp of Louis' hand.

"You're really good," Harry says.

Louis tries his hardest not to appear mental. "Are you kidding? I nearly pissed myself. The queen was there."

He tries to understand how Harry didn't get it, only to remember that Harry is the prince, that he knows a fucking prince. Not a metaphor, not a cliché, not Liam and not a slur—an actual prince. "You've her face on your t-shirt," Harry points out.

Louis shrugs. He is so calm and collected right now. "I like to express myself."

"Well, I did assume that had something to do with the boy band thing."

He shoves Harry's shoulder and Harry lets out this laugh like he's being casually possessed by the devil. It must terrify Harry himself, and he quickly covers his mouth with both hands and it might be adorable.

"Keep laughing, you've said it yourself—we're more famous than you lot."

Harry's smile turns into a slow smirk that kind of shatters Louis' hero-worship thing. "You were watching?"

"Liam's fault entirely."

"So give me the dirt on Liam. I promise to tell my sister and probably Twitter."

So Louis does.

At some point Harry gets a call, and he looks at Louis apologetically. "I've gotta—I'm sorry –"

Louis pulls out his phone, to pretend he has more interesting things to do than flirt with the Prince of Wales, and gapes when he sees it's almost midnight. And Liam's called him two hundred times.

When he looks up Harry's already hung up. He still looks hesitant, not quite ready to say goodbye. And there went Louis' ability to breathe.

"So I want—okay, so, basically two years ago—" he cuts himself off again. Louis gives him a moment to think. "So I don't want to get you into trouble with your label, and I don't know if we could, you know. But I really want to kiss you? Like, before, I don't know. Before midnight."

Louis starts breathing again, if only to laugh. Harry looks so dismayed that Louis has to drift closer and put his arms around his neck. "Sorry, a prince has just asked to kiss me before midnight. I'm not turning into a pumpkin, Harold."

Harry looks baffled and Louis wants to kill things. If he's just ruined the moment, he will never forgive himself.

"Cinderella?" Harry asks extremely slowly. That's how he normally speaks, though, lazy drawl and permanent bedroom voice. The first time Louis' watched an interview with him he thought YouTube was lagging or something, but it turns out the prince just has all the time in the world. Maybe that's how they spent two hours on the balcony without noticing.

So, Cinderella. "I have a million little sisters; I basically grew up on princess movies. Never thought I'd live one out, though. You're welcome to kiss me anytime, by the way."

Harry puts him out of his misery as he leans forward. His lips are soft and his cologne is high-end and Louis swears he can hear fairy godmothers and is about to float away. He buries his hands in Harry's curls and kisses back with all he's got, because this cannot be their last kiss, that wouldn't make any sense.

They draw apart only when Harry's phone rings again, and Harry sighs, frustrated, into Louis' mouth. Louis could hear that one again, please and thank you.

The Prince picks up with a curt "What?", and Louis busies himself with playing with Harry's hair. "Look, Paul, I'm heading back now." Louis ignores the fluttering in his heart. He doesn't even pull Harry's hair.

The truth is he has no idea if they could ever be a real couple. He doesn't know what the band would say, and he doesn't know what the Queen of England would say, and he can't pretend this is something he could take back, or that it only affects them. But, he knows this moment is theirs, and that no one knew about this. All Louis' done is snog a fit boy he's been mooning over for years. He's determined to protect that. He won't let the bubble burst.

It gets harder when Harry hangs up and looks at him, torn. They're about to say goodbye. They're balancing on a precipice.

In a stroke of genius, or desperation, Louis takes Harry's hand. "Wait. Before, uh, I wanted to ask you something."

Harry's eyes are huge when he says, "Yeah?"

"D'you mind if we take a picture?" he asks. "For my sisters."

Now Harry's smile is huge. "Will you post it on Twitter?"

It would be fair. Louis looks at Harry, red lips, wild hair, cheeks flushed from the cold (and speaking of Disney—Snow White), and says the truth. "No way."

Harry kisses him again, once, on the lips, and Louis quickly pulls out his phone before he pulls out a speech about how much he'd like to be princess. Harry drops a kiss to Louis' cheek the moment the phone flashes and Louis refuses to look at the screen. He has enough girlish butterflies in his stomach, thank you. "I'll send it to you," he promises, hoping Harry would even want it, that this is as epic as he thinks it is.

Harry has a really dumb smile plastered on his face. He looks at Louis with a mixture of "I'm really happy" and "I want to lock you in my bedroom", so Louis thinks maybe this is epic. "You'll need my number for that."

Louis looks away when he says, "Niall's already leaked that, I'm afraid."

Harry swears. "I can't believe it. I had this whole plan to programme it into your phone while you weren't looking, in case you wanted to call me sometime."

Which, what. He doesn't know what's more outrageous, Harry's honesty or the notion Louis wouldn't want to call him. "I'll. Yeah. I'll call you. That, uh. That's not something you should worry about."

Louis can already hear Zayn laughing at him. He can see him in the corner of his eye, smoking on the balcony and dropping punch line after punch line about #LouisForQueen. Louis' life is a hashtag.

Harry kisses him again, then slips into the corridor. The last thing he says to Louis is, "Feel free to lose a slipper."

Chapter Text

"Would you stop torturing yourself?" Gemma asks, sitting on Harry's legs and crushing him.

Harry's too honest with himself to pretend she's misjudging his situation. He's loitering around Clarence House, staring at his iPhone, and torturing himself. "Sorry, Gem," he apologises, shoving her off his legs so they could settle in.

"Are you waiting for a call back from a job? No, wait, I forgot, your job is to suck the blood of the British people."

Harry tickles her and nearly gets an elbow in the eye for his trouble because Harry's life is tragic. "Remind me how much the taxpayer is spending on your wedding, Your Highness?"

Gemma kicks at him until he finally manages to sit on her legs. "You know I'd prefer getting married at San Sebastián, you dickhead. I'm doing this for grandmother."

It's true, yet Harry can't feel sorry for her. She's too in love. "Tell me that again when I die alone."

Gemma stops trying to pull his hair. "Ooh, it's that kind of call you're waiting for." Harry sighs for two minutes. "You know you won't die alone."

Okay, Harry is an optimistic sort of guy and knows it will all work out and he's young and also a prince, and he really doesn't go for the self-tortured look. It's just that. Louis said he'd call. And it's been like twelve hours. "It's been like twelve hours."

She rolls her eyes. "Maybe she's having a lie-in." Harry doesn't answer. "He's having a lie-in?" Harry buries his face in the sofa.

"Haz, go make us some popcorn. I recorded twenty episodes of TOWIE. Maybe there'll be a One Direction song again."

He makes an inhuman noise as he rushes to the kitchen, stumbling over his own feet. It takes him fifteen minutes to operate the industrial popcorn machine Niall got him for his birthday (more a gift to himself than anything). When Gemma starts calling out to him excitedly, she catches him off-guard and nearly makes him drop the popcorn murder machine on his foot. "Hazza!"

He shuffles to the living room and sees her waving his phone around. "I knew it! I called it! Niall owes me a thousand pounds!"

Harry snatches his iPhone out of her hand and collapses on the fainting sofa. Louis has sent him the picture from last night on WhatsApp. And added two x's.

Harry does not send back a million x's. Re: not a teenage girl. He writes, 'Better than the last one xx'

'And this time I can even rmmbr it!'

Harry's stomach turns. 'I'd be offended if you didn't'.

Louis sends three x's.

It's Harry's fault when Gemma gets on his legs again. He's lost his edge due to Louis-exposure. "Let me have a look!"

"No," Harry says, holding the iPhone away from her. She uses his awkward position to get at his armpit. This time he nearly elbows himself. "Mum!"

Gemma snorts. "She's not here, crybaby. I'm allowed to abuse—Jesus, three x's? This is more serious than we thought, Haz."

"I know."

"Think about what the taxpayer would say about funding a gay wedding."

He arches an eyebrow. "Have you changed the law already or are you just warming the seat like mum?"

It takes Gemma a few seconds to remember Harry can't get married to a man in his own kingdom. Before she could pity him or go on about how brave it was to come out in the first place, Harry says, "Forget weddings, I have to text him first."

"You think I'm letting you run this conversation? You'll talk about giraffes for two bloody hours."

She's... bloody right. "What do you suggest?"

Kidnapping his phone seems to be it. She types out 'What now?' and waits a moment before sending, to give Harry a chance to argue. He's pretty sure he's thirteen again. If there were a reality show about the royal family, this would be Harry's defining, character-building moment. The one that would make countless YouTube watchers smack their foreheads in second-hand embarrassment, and then push the replay button to watch it all over again.

Louis answers after a minute. 'tour, u know. Band stuff'

And Harry totally didn't ask about Louis and the band, but the thought of Louis in another continent while Harry's stuck on his rain-soaked island makes his stomach churn.

Gemma figures out a solution way before him.

***

Louis had thought talking to the Prince of Wales on the phone would make him nervous, but after an hour-long chat about giraffes, "the Prince of Wales" officially becomes "the Leggy Lovable Oaf ".

He still sees Harry's face staring back at him in the papers every morning, so it's not like he's completely forgotten who he's talking to, but at least on the phone he's less overwhelmed by Harry's general loveliness. He's sure it brings out his own wit and charm. At least, that's what he tells Zayn when he explains his conversations with Harry.

"Conversations. Plural," he clarifies.

"Very impressive, Lou," Zayn says, far from sincere.

Louis narrows his eyes. "We talk every day. I don't know how he has the time, he should be running a country or something. Do you think he's—"

"Don't worry, England won't fall because of you. However, if you don't concentrate at rehearsals and end up getting mauled by the gigantic floating beam they want to add to the tour we're going on next week, you'll be in trouble."

Louis curses. "I'm here. At a studio. When I could be snogging the Prince of Wales. Do you see the problem there? I'm tempting fate, Zayn, and fate is a fickle bitch."

That's when Liam finds them. He doesn't even have to say anything; Zayn puts out his cigarette with a sigh and drags his feet (and Louis) into the studio.

***

It happens right after the Copenhagen show. Okay, so they left the stage, changed, had their group hug and then piled onto the bus. It happens an hour after the Copenhagen show, while Louis' blow-drying his hair and tweeting.

Prince Harry calls him.

Louis' overwhelmed by the need to lock himself in a secluded room and whisper like a teenage girl. He's already locked in a toilet. To be fair, he burnt his fingertips with the blow-dryer, so he swears like an Englishman more than whispers like a teenage girl. He sounds totally cool when he answers. "Hello?"

Prince Harry snorts. "Someone stepped on your tail?"

Louis would like to drown himself in the sink. "Blow-dryer accident, actually."

Now Harry's letting out his booming laugh. Great. They haven't talked for two days and Louis actually missed him and now he feels like the leading character in a romance novel. "Missed you," Harry says. Louis is a tragic character in a tragic novel.

"Me too. Remind me why we didn't meet up when we were in the same country?"

"Because a certain pop star had to practice choreography, though going on the things I saw on YouTube you've been practicing the Macarena for two weeks."

Louis smiles. "And we need the practice, Harold, if we don't want Liam to take out someone's eye."

"Liam dances like he's getting paid to do it."

Okay, Louis needs to tell Liam that Harry's just called him a stripper. It might be better than the time Josh muttered, "Can't believe I'm working for Destiny's Child," and sparked a week-long discussion about which one is who. They settled it by singing Bootylicious at an O2 show. No one was ready for Zayn's jelly, and he obviously killed it and was crowned Beyoncé, though Liam and Louis did put up a fight. Louis may not be an independent woman, but he damn well is bootylicious. Could do with some dancing lessons, though. "I don't want to take out anyone's eye."

"You're alright too." Louis just barely stops himself from replying. Sometimes Harry finishes a sentence and sometimes he just stops in the middle to build it up. Louis' started to tell apart his pauses. Things are Bad. "Like, there's the—hips thing—that's alright."

Louis grins. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, Lewis, come on."

"And when I'm on my knees, prayin'?"

He's about to make a few more helpful suggestions, when Zayn knocks on the door. "Lou, get out already, I can hear you on the phone. Does your mum know about international charges?"

Louis jumps to his feet. "Harry, international charges."

"So, uh, you haven't heard the news?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I'm not international?"

Louis needs the Queen's fainting sofa. "You're in Denmark?"

"State visit. We only got here a few hours ago, so I couldn't call before the show. Uh, I hope that's alright?"

Prince Harry's a good lad, all in all. He can sound perfectly polite while arranging secret state visits to stalk Louis' band. Only he really should have given Louis a warning. "No, it's really not." It hurts to even say it. "We're flying out to Amsterdam tomorrow morning."

There's nothing to do in Denmark, they said. Louis could have done the Prince of Wales. Someone is going to get a serious talking-to.

"Really?" Harry sounds crushed.

"Do you wanna get together tonight?"

"We just got here; we're really supposed to stay at the royal residence. Wait, did you say Amsterdam?"

Louis tries to remember. Denmark, the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, Italy, France, home. He thinks. "Liam!" he yells, hears Harry swear on the phone.

"Do you need a toilet roll or something?" Liam asks, deeply concerned.

"Liam, this is the most important thing you will ever tell me—we're flying out to Amsterdam tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah. Tommo, what are you—"

"Yeah, yeah, I said Amsterdam," he quickly tells Harry.

"Let me call you back." This might be the first time in history Prince Harry sounded assertive. Louis likes it.

The last thing he reads before nodding off is: 'we'll know tomorrow morning xx'

The first thing he reads after waking up is: "Young royals' first diplomatic visit since the announcement of future King Willem-Alexander!"

'What have u done???' he fires off, barely seeing the keys.

'It was planned months ago', Harry lies.

Louis can't stop smiling. It becomes bothersome when he can't chew his breakfast and Zayn nearly teases him to an early grave. He doesn't even care.

***

"You're sure no one will find us here?" Harry asks Niall for the fiftieth time. It just doesn't seem that smart to spend a state visit at a coffee shop that sells more weed than coffee. Being a prince and all.

"Hazz, Hazz, Harry," Niall says, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. He may have already had a few tokes. "Does this look like my first trip to Amsterdam?"

He should have guessed Niall would know absolutely every dealer in every country in Europe. "No."

"Then trust me."

And Harry trusts him, obviously; Niall's the one that arranged a visit at the royal palace overnight, but—"Just, is it okay to drag Louis here? They're supposed to be good boys."

Niall rolls his eyes and chews on another cookie slowly. "If you put all their tattoos together, you could cover the entire British museum with a really weird mural."

"That doesn't sound right."

"Look, it's perfect because of their clean image. No one will look for you here. And we have a private room. Paul's undercover outside and will make sure Louis gets to the right place."

He's sort of a genius. "You're sort of a genius."

"Why do you think you pay me so much?"

"I pay you?"

Niall snorts and hands Harry a brownie. "You need to chill, mate."

Harry seriously considers it when there's three consecutive knocks. Niall makes a weird bird call, and when Paul opens the door he looks murderous. "Well, I'll go see what coffee they have," Niall says, patting Harry's back.

He feels a tangle of nerves and excitement climb up his throat, until Niall steps out and Louis shuffles in.

Louis shuffles in.

He's wearing expensive sunglasses and a beanie and casual clothes and he's gorgeous. When he spots Harry on the farthest sofa he grins and Harry bites his lip.

"I must say," Louis starts, taking off his sunglasses, as Paul leaves and locks the door behind him. "When you texted me this address, I had no idea it was this sort of coffee shop."

"Niall says it's the perfect place," he says, distracted, tracking Louis' slow movement across the private room.

"Obviously he'd say that. I hope he's currently trying to get Liam high."

"I thought you had an interview in two hours." Not everyone can have the Prince of Wales' flexible schedule.

"Exactly. It'll be hilarious." Louis finally sits down next to him. Harry needs a moment.

He soaks up Louis' presence after two weeks without—his polished look, his little smirk, his mad energy. They've only known each other officially for two months. Harry knows this is an overreaction. But they just—get on, have from the start. It doesn't seem like an overreaction when Louis' smile could put the sun to shame.

"Did Niall fly you out?" Louis asks. He slings his arm over the back of the sofa and spreads his legs, violently invading Harry's personal space. Harry pulls up his legs and leans on the armrest so that he's facing Louis. After a second's consideration he shoves his feet under Louis' thigh.

"No. This visit was planned in advance, Louis. Beatrix—I mean, they're sort of crowning a new king in two months, so we came 'round and –"

"And Niall's boxed?"

Harry lowers his head. "Maybe. Queen Margrethe has two puppies running around her all day, but she can't exactly chase them, so every visit turns into a dogsitting session. She makes Gemma and I do it, you know? So while mum talked politics with the Queen's sons, Niall had to watch her grandkids."

Louis bites his lip like he's trying to decide if the story's over. Harry can't believe he waited him out. Even his mum would have interrupted him. And she's his mum. And the Queen of England.

"So he's pleased you've cut the visit to Denmark short?"

"Oh, 'course. Did you know they used to call the future king Prince Pils? We didn't really know him, but he seems nice. His mum's hilarious."

Louis' smile dims for a moment. "You're not missing out a visit at a palace at the Hague or something, are you? If I –"

What. "No, no, you're the reason I came, what."

"I thought it was already planned."

This time Harry doesn't ask for permission to kiss Louis. They have an hour and a half, and Harry is going to spend the hell out of it. Louis can't stop smiling, which becomes bothersome when Harry's trying to kiss his face off, so he pinches him until Louis makes a deep sound and pushes Harry back to the armrest. A second later he's throwing himself on top of Harry's legs and kisses him in earnest.

This time it's much less Disney and a lot more passionate. Harry fists Louis' shirt when he pulls him closer, as close as he can. Louis tangles his fingers in Harry's curls and bites his lower lip with his perfect teeth.

"This is the best state visit in history," Harry points out when Louis releases him and just—stares for a long while.

"And I haven't even blown you yet," he says with a wink. Harry's sure he's gulping like a cartoon, and hardens in five seconds flat.

"Don't make promises you won't keep," Harry cautions. If his voice weren't so affected, it would probably help the seriousness he's trying to impress upon Louis. He should remember this the next time he kisses Louis. Damage to his image.

Louis lies on top of him with elbows on either side of Harry's head, and Harry can stare up at his bitten lips and blown pupils and wild fringe. He rolls his hips without thinking, rutting against Louis, making him close his eyes and sigh a little. He should remember this the next time he fools around with Louis. Damage to everything.

He has no choice but to get his legs out from under Louis, instead wrapping them around Louis' thighs to keep him trapped. It's still not enough, and his arms are thankfully long enough for him to palm Louis' arse and drag him closer. One of them grunts. Louis raises his head from Harry's neck and says, "Okay, that works."

"Could be better," he says offhandedly. Louis lowers his head to Harry's neck again and bites down, hard. His hips fly up just as Louis thrusts down, and Christ, he didn't think it would feel this good with both of them still fully dressed, but Louis' got him to a point of arousal where it feels like he's touching his cock directly. But he's not, so. "Lou, seriously, we should—"

"Shut up," Louis snaps, and slides his hand down Harry's thigh so his legs are wrapped tighter around him. Harry feels a rush because of one of those actions, and one day they should look into that but.

"I'm not going to send you out with stained jeans; they'll say the Prince of Wales isn't a gentleman."

Louis bursts out laughing. It's not exactly appropriate—not with Harry's hands cupping his arse and Louis rubbing against Harry's crotch like it's the last thing he'll do—but his laugh is rough and sounds more turned on than amused. "That depends on what I'll sell the rags. The Prince of Wales took advantage of me in Amsterdam under the influence of a brownie—"

Harry kisses him again and unzips Louis' jeans, slipping his hand into his pants and trying not to make a noise of surprise. Louis' dick is larger than expected. Like, in relation to the rest of him, a ratio Harry has calculated once or twice in his head. It's a nice surprise. He starts to think of ways to really take advantage of him, then abruptly stops when Louis pulls back. Only to lift Harry's hips off the couch and pulls off his jeans and pants in one pull.

Harry feels... cold, exposed, sprawled on a couch half-dressed without Louis between his legs. It gets—yeah, hotter, when he sees Louis just kneeling on the other end of the couch and gaping at Harry, cock tenting his pants obscenely. When he thinks he might explode he kicks out a leg and shoves Louis, getting him to snap out of it and get rid of his own clothes.

Harry blinks, then stretches towards Louis to pull him back over him. This time when they press together Harry doesn't think he'll ever be able to breathe. It's just that Louis'—crazy, a bit, and hyperactive, and in Harry's arms he feels like a live grenade. "If you don't stop squirming, the next hour will be very boring," Harry admits.

Louis laughs. "I think that's the quote I'll sell to the rags. Prince Harry only lasted—shit."

Harry meant to pinch him, not roll them to the floor. But while they're there...

***

They're cheerfully snogging on the sofa when Harry starts bargaining. "Have dinner with me?"

Louis doesn't know how Harry expected an answer if he wouldn't stop kissing him. He tries to think in the meantime. He's not overly successful. Eventually he manages to say, "We have a radio interview and then some Dutch telly show, then meet and greets. Come to the show?"

He kisses Harry's neck and gets him to swear. It's a bit disappointing to realise he's cursed because: "We're having dinner at de Dam with the Queen, I can't ditch Gemma. Could I sneak into your hotel after?"

Louis looks up at him sharply. "Do I look that cheap?"

Harry's smile is deceptively innocent. "We'll just have tea. I won't even take your top off."

Tempting. "Well, security –" will probably let the Prince of Wales in, right. "I'm sure you could get in."

Harry sneaks into the band's suite ten hours later in a three-piece suit, and it takes him ten whole minutes to stop sounding posh enough for dinner with the Queen of the Netherlands. Which is all for the best, because the Prince of Wales is no gentleman.

Louis even bothered putting the kettle on, but two minutes after Harry got into his room they both sort of forgot about it. Which might be anti-English on some level. Then again, an hour later Louis is fucking the Prince of Wales, so he thinks he's serving his country. Harry wouldn't stop asking, after all.

***

Louis, quite adorably, attempts to make Harry breakfast. Instead of waking up to the smell of tea and kisses, he wakes to loud swearwords and the smell of burnt toast. Quite alarmed, Harry shuffles out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, to find Louis in joggers, an oversized t-shirt and distress. Harry steps up behind him and hooks his chin over Louis' shoulder.

Louis sort of sags against him, which makes something warm curl in Harry's stomach. The feeling dissipates when he sees the state of the counter Louis' leaning over. "I hope you make good tea, because bad breakfasts are immediate grounds for break-up," he comments, voice sleep-rough.

Louis turns around and crosses his arms, not really pushing Harry away. Harry's got him trapped against the counter. "You can't dump me now, you know. I'll tell everyone about your nipples. Or cock size. I'll sell my story."

"I'm big, though," Harry points out.

Louis pouts. "Frighteningly so. You could conquer the colonies back with that thing. The world should know."

So Harry's doing a shit job of protecting Louis from himself. IE: not wooing him so as not to out him. They don't actually talk about the—closet thing, but they can't quite avoid being major celebrities. Three days into their reunion isn't exactly the time to have serious relationship talks, though. Harry decides they can joke about this.

He snorts and leans a bit closer, hooking his arms around Louis' neck. Louis' hair's a mess and he's still got a bit of stubble going on. Harry wants to kiss him quite desperately, and smiles when he realises he can. "Well, I'll tell the world you have smelly feet."

Louis rolls his eyes, but Harry can tell he's about to fold. He's inching his hands towards Harry's waist. "The world already knows that. They know everything about us."

He could. He could bring it up, point out the obvious lie. Instead he starts singing softly, "They don't know about the things we do, they don't know about the I love you's, but I bet that –"

"Jesus," Louis interrupts him, hands finally clasped around Harry's hips. "You actually listened to our album?"

"I wanted to impress you," Harry says, running his thumb over Louis' neck.

"To get into my pants."

"Obviously. Do you know how hard it is to get a celebrity's attention?"

Louis rolls his eyes. "You are so full of shit."

"What, you're very ruggedly handsome and intimidating," Harry defends.

"I know that, I mean that all it took was a tweet."

Harry grins. "That's 'cause you're easy. Oh, that's what I'll tell the rags."

Louis arches an eyebrow like he's been practicing for years. "That I'm an easy lay?"

"Well, for me."

"Only because you have your princely magic," he counters, waving his hand around to gesture Harry's princely magic. "The curls, the dimples, being ridiculously tall. It has to be the work of a satanic fairy godmother."

"Well then she must have put a spell on your arse too." Before Louis can say anything Harry grabs Louis' bum, and as an afterthought, lifts him to the countertop and settles between his legs. Louis laughs a bit breathlessly and ducks down to kiss him, just for that. Harry's too distracted to mention he may have broken some appliances with his macho move.

"We disgust me," Louis comments, casually tangling his legs around Harry. "Zayn can't know this is our pillow talk."

Harry frowns and deadpans, "But I already invited him to a threesome."

"Well then you have to cancel it, or Liam will be upset we didn't invite him."

That's when Liam drifts into the kitchen, shouts, "Oh my god, the Prince of Wales is naked in my kitchen," and flees to Zayn's room. A second later he flees from Zayn's room, shouts, "Oh my god, there's a naked Irishman in Zayn's room," and then he disappears altogether.

Louis' eyes, which may have drifted to Harry's lips, snap up in clear blue horror. "What the fuck. Zayn and your Irish lad?"

Harry smirks. "They're adorable. I caught Zayn waking Niall up last night with his hair."

"Fuck's sake. Is everyone gay for each other? Like in prison? Are you actually magic?"

He waggles his eyebrows ridiculously. "Yes. It's my big colonial dick that does it."

Louis considers this, looking down at Harry's dick, half-hard since he woke up and, yeah, found himself pressed up against Louis. Before the smart reply even falls from his lips, his stomach rumbles. He drops his head to Harry's shoulder and laughs. "Does your magic extend to breakfasts?"

"Sure. You should probably go check up on Liam."

"You should probably put some pants on. That beast is only mine to look at now," Louis adds, untangling his legs and putting his hands on Harry's chest to lightly push him away. Harry leans down to peck him once on the cheek and then goes to find some pants.

He might be deliriously happy. No need for serious talks.

***

They have a whole week in the Netherlands, thank god, but it makes saying goodbye before the flight to Antwerp a lot harder. Louis has to lock himself in a closet to do it over the phone, so Zayn wouldn't hear a single word.

Then during a Belgian morning programme he gets a text from Harry. 'Always wanted to check out Godiva shop in Brussels'. Liam elbows him discreetly and Louis immediately parrots, "The fans amaze us everywhere, really," his smile so genuine it hurts.

When they wrap up, Liam asks if he's okay. Helplessly, Louis shows him the text. "God," Liam mutters. "He's coming to Belgium?"

Zayn snatches Louis' phone, and pulls his cigarette out of his mouth to laugh. "Never thought we'd have a groupie from Buckingham Palace."

Louis sighs deeply. "Groupies get on the tour bus."

Liam thinks for a few seconds before asking carefully, "Have you heard from the bosses?"

"Not yet." He's been feeling tense from the moment he said goodbye to Harry three days ago, hasn't been sleeping well. It's getting harder to ignore that under the euphoria there's a gut-wrenching fear of the management's reaction when they get wind of this. The bigger problem is that under that, there's another layer of sugary madness that runs his Twitter. 

He might be provoking them. He might not have a clue what he's doing. Maybe being able to grind with Harry in a smoky, crowded club at Amsterdam has left him with a false sense of security. Maybe spending two days with Harry in Belgium, mostly undisturbed, has left him with a death wish.

(Mostly undisturbed meaning:

It lasts until that night's show.

One of Louis' favourite parts of the concert is the Twitter questions. It's not like they're all-business during the show—not with Louis' tendency to nibble between verses and Liam's tendency to tackle people to the ground—but during the questions Louis feels connected to the audience. It's also a chance to blow off steam and be his usual idiotic self. If Louis could spend the entire show doing handstands and random rapping, he'd be content.

Thing is, he likes to embrace the spontaneity of it, and never really listens when they're being told the questions that were picked. Louis is considering a reform in this when he's caught with his pants down, metaphorically. (For once. Louis no longer lets Liam sneak up behind him during his solos. He's not the trusting man he once was.)

"This one's for Louis," Zayn says delightedly. Louis, having just Macarena'd his arse off, is still trying to catch his breath when he looks at the giant screen behind him. If it's possible to blush and pale at the same time, that's Louis' face right now. "Larry4me asks what you think about Prince Harry."

Louis could really use a good poker face. All he has is scrunching up his nose. There's no way out. "Well, the prince is on a whole new level of charming," he admits, and the crowd nearly deafens them. He can't help but smile.

Louis lives for the stage, can't wait for the tours. The adrenaline and laughs and giving himself to the music, knowing fully and amazingly that everyone in this arena—his two boys and the thousands in the audience—love him, are on his side. When he's onstage it's easy to forget about management and drama and frustration and mean streaks. He doesn't think much before saying, "Everyone loves him."

"That's right," Liam says, barely audible over the screams. "You do."

Louis bursts out laughing. "We thought you were such a sweet guy once," he says and tackles Liam to the ground. Zayn and Dan rescue them with a random "God Save the Queen" rendition.

After that concert and the tweet he posted this morning, there's neither a paper nor a blog that hasn't connected the European One Direction tour with the string of state visits Prince Harry has been on. The cheaper ones went for blurry shots of marks Louis may or may not have left on Prince Harry's neck. The classier ones went for witty headlines like, "FAIRYtale come true!"

He used to be more careful. Louis scolds himself from the moment they leave the concert hall. He scolds himself while texting Harry, 'knackered, cant meet 2nite ):'. He scolds himself until he passes out, somehow, on the bus.

Management doesn't sit him down for a Talk. They must have realised at some point their berating isn't as intimidating as it was when he was a nineteen-year-old kid. Sometimes Louis thinks he's stayed in the closet because he's in too deep, gave too much to the character, because it's too late. Sometimes, when drunk and lamenting, he thinks this whole mess has nothing to do with the label, that he's sticking with "straight Louis" because he's selfish and cowardly and didn't cope with it all that well before they shot to fame, never mind after.

They don't give him shit, but at the Berlin airport he spots a magazine with a "new" "leaked" picture of him and Taylor Swift, and he doesn't text Harry, and he doesn't expect Harry to tell him he's followed them to Germany, and Harry doesn't tell him he's followed them to Germany because Harry hasn't followed them to Germany.

When Zayn and Liam tear up Friedrichstraße Louis says no to shopping and stays at the hotel, nursing half a bottle of red wine before Zayn joins him and polishes off the other half.

"Lou," Zayn starts, and Louis groans and turns up the music. You can count on Liam to talk about footie rather than his feelings. Zayn isn't as predictable. "Louis."

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry I give you and the Prince shit all the time."

Louis raises an eyebrow. "No you're not."

Zayn shoves Louis' shoulder. "Okay, I'm sorry I didn't realise how serious this is."

"What are you on about, this isn't serious."

Zayn hands Louis a new bottle, and waits for him to start drinking before saying, "He's someone I can see you coming out for." Of course, Louis nearly chokes on wine. That's two of his favourite things ruined: shopping and drinking.

Zayn lights up a smoke while Louis recovers. "You should know the chances of me talking about my feelings are lower than the chances of me stepping into an active volcano," Louis says.

Two bottles later his head is in Zayn's lap. "It's just different, you know? He's not some bloke I met at Tesco and wanted to shag. It's the Prince of fucking Wales. He's slumming it here."

"Mate, of course it's different, but it could be brilliant," Zayn says, tangling his fingers in Louis' hair.

"How is that a good thing? If we—come out, it's, like, not just my image on the line, or even the band's. It's the British crown. The bloody Queen will know I'm bumming her son."

Zayn tugs a little on his hair. "Lou, you're, like, gonna be more popular than Kanye and Kim. You'll really only add to each other's—whatever, image. Do you really think our management won't want the band connected to the royal fucking family? Do you know what it'll do to our sales figures? Not to mention people will stop talking about Ziam."

Louis has a million and one things he'd like to say to Zayn about Ziam. About how Zayn had been in love with Liam for an entire year before moving on to Perrie, and then breaking that off and turning to Harry's Irishman. But they can't both have a cry here. "You sound like you thought this through."

"Yeah, well, I talked to Niall about it."

An entire lifetime of eye-rolling has led to this one perfect eye roll. "You're taking advice from a peddler?"

Zayn squirms. "I'm taking advice from a professional publicist. Christ, Lou, no one cares if you come out for him—half the boys in England would for His Royal Jailbait."

"I'd have to take a look at those numbers to –"

"As for privacy," Zayn cuts him off, "Me and Liam have already started coming up with plans to help you. If we could sneak the prince into shows or set up meets—we'll be like proper spies, you know? He's stalking us anyway."

Louis knew from early on he wouldn't have made it as a solo artist, not like Liam or Zayn. He knew that if Simon Cowell hadn't put him in One Direction he would have expired by the second week out of sheer stress. But then there are moments where he appreciates the band as people, where he remembers Zayn and Liam are the best mates he could have ever asked for. "Zayn, that's—you've actually thought about it?"

"'Course, but Lou, you must have thought about it too. You're not that much of a tit." Louis pinches him hard. "What's really the problem here?"

He doesn't even know what to say. It's been two years and no one's asked him that. The most popular royal of their generation came out of the closet while Louis stepped into one and no one's ever asked him why. "He's the Prince of Wales. Do you know what would happen if I break his heart?" He means it'll all be for nothing, but Zayn could interpret it as the Queen's guard would move just to stab me with swords, and Louis' okay with that.

"So don't."

Louis sounds bitter when he says, "Haven't had that much luck before."

Zayn actually grabs his face roughly so Louis would have to look him in the eye. "Louis, it wasn't your fault."

Zayn's this fit layer cake. Outside he's all dark and mysterious, and inside he's a giant, awkward dork, but then there's a secret layer where he's brutally honest with everyone but himself, and he agonises over everything because he cares so fucking much. "Shoot me if I remember this tomorrow, but you have to realise you really are kind and thoughtful and hilarious and hot and there wouldn't be a band without you. And in the really unlikely case Harry breaks your heart, I'll break his face." Louis barks a surprised laugh, now sure Zayn's had too much. "Okay, Liam will break his face and I'll Twitmerk him until no one likes him anymore."

Louis sort of clings to Zayn. He finds a German-dubbed sitcom. He doesn’t text Harry. Zayn's words were too powerful, and he was too drunk, and they had a whole week in Germany. Eventually he just tweets.

Chapter Text

The flight from Hague to Rome is two-hour long. Harry's flight from Hague must go through a rift in time and space, because the first hour feels like ten, and the second seems like twenty minutes. After a week and a half of agony, heartbreak and torturing himself, Harry feels fit to burst with nerves.

"He actually wants to meet up, right?" he asks for the tenth time.

"Sire, if he doesn't, I'll sic the MI5 on him," Paul grunts.

"We can do that?" he asks, wide-eyed.

"When it's appropriate."

Harry laughs weakly and pats Paul's back. He may have preferred Niall here for moral support, but Niall's had to piece together the shards of Harry's dignity for a week and a half while relaying messages from Zayn, so he deserved a break. Paul sort of has to be here anyway.

The last thing Niall told him was, "This is really too much drama for me to care about, but are you sure about this?"

Harry said, "Only one way to find out."

"You bloody romantic. Good thing the royal family has no actual power these days."

Harry... well, quite agreed with him. Because he knew this would happen—he knew the label would object, that Louis would get cold feet, that they couldn't be a normal couple once someone found out. That's why he Really Didn't actively woo Louis. Until he Actually Did. Because Harry's the guy that takes risks, believes in love at first sight and destiny and all that shit, the same way lunatics believe in aliens. He actually thinks Louis and he are worth it. So instead of texting Louis, he looked up when One Direction hit Rome and had Paul get him on a plane.

The moment they land he pulls out his beanie and sunglasses and hopes power-walking through the airport would dissuade curious eyes. He hopes Louis knows San Crispino doesn't have a private room and will be swarming with tourists. He hopes Louis knows what he's doing. He hopes Louis would even be there.

When the car reaches the Trevi Fountain he makes Paul stay behind, and five seconds later gets lost in a sea of people. Maybe Louis' sort of a genius as well. No one will look their way twice at a tourist trap.

By the time he finds his way to the gelateria his white t-shirt's clinging to his back. It's the sticky Italian heat. Or the fear Louis won't find the place, or that he's too busy doing interviews, or that he didn't even mean today, and Harry so totally should have called ahead, what the fuck was he thinking.

Only, Louis' there. He's just leaning against a lamppost, wearing sweatpants and a tank and sunglasses. With his tan and tattoos he looks like any Italian punk. He's eating gelato and pretending to scroll through his phone, while his eyes are darting everywhere like he's nervously waiting on a blind date. Harry needs to keep his shit together.

When Louis spots him walking over, he freezes mid-lick. It's hilarious.

Harry stops five steps away and clears his throat. This is the climax. This is the most awkward moment he could have imagined.

Then Louis says, "Chocolate-mint is a rubbish combination."

Harry takes three steps forward and snatches Louis' cone. He licks the gelato like he owns it. It's still great. "I think it's a brilliant combination."

Louis takes one step forward and lifts his sunglasses. His eyes are bright in the sunlight and Harry nearly coughs up some chocolate-mint.

"You read the tweet."

Harry bites the cone to buy time. "Obviously. I thought—I mean, I hoped."

Louis looks away. "Sorry. I kind of lost it. More than usual."

"It's okay," he says without thinking. "If you wanna—not see each other. I get it."

Louis' eyes shoot up and he gapes at Harry. "You thought I had you fly out to your favourite gelato place in bloody Rome to break up with you?"

He tries really hard not to smile. "So why did you?"

"To seduce you, obviously. And apologise. And say—yeah, I don't wanna stop seeing you. That would be like, the worst thing I can think of ever."

Harry gives up and grins. "Very romantic. Have you thought of it yourself?"

"Zayn helped. And wine," Louis confesses. He hesitates. "Did it work?"

The gelato starts melting, so he just finishes the whole thing and pops his sticky fingers in his mouth. He's suddenly very aware of the single step separating them. "Consider me seduced."

Louis takes off Harry's sunglasses. "Can I kiss you before I turn into a pumpkin?"

Harry bites his lip and glances around. "You sure? They could recognise you."

"They better have, I've been standing here like a proper knob since nine in the morning, scared shitless I'd miss you. Also, I don't care," Louis says, and it's obviously a lie, but he's been so brave and lovely and Harry really does want to kiss him before he turns into a pumpkin.

"You're in the middle of a tour," he adds.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry's neck. "I know, Harold. We've thought it through—we have two shows in Rome, one in Milan and three in France. If a picture of us happened to get leaked on Twitter or something, it'll be enough time to gauge the fans' reaction after the initial shock. It'll also be good buzz for the UK tour. I'd rather do it now than drop the bomb at the royal wedding or something unrelated to the band. It'd be like cheating."

Harry blinks, a lot, trying to calm his heartbeat. The royal wedding is three months away. Louis is… planning ahead. "You've got it all figured out."

"Yeah, well. We could be like Kanye West and Kim Kardashian," Louis says, flushing.

"Who am I then?"

All the bashfulness slips away when Louis fixes him with a sharp look. "Have you seen my bum?"

Harry laughs, then instead of covering his mouth he leans down and kisses Louis. Louis' smiling, his hands tightening around Harry, and he tastes like chocolate and he's soft and inviting and Harry knows it's only been two weeks, but it still feels like he's been starving. He wraps his arms around Louis' hips. It's surreal, doing this in a busy street in the middle of the day.

Louis lets go of him slowly, then keeps pecking him on the lips, like he can't really tear himself away. Harry needs a cage for the butterflies in his stomach. The moth covering his abs was supposed to be metaphorical.

"D'you think someone took a picture?" Harry asks. He could turn around and check, but that would mean looking away from Louis' mouth, so un-bloody-likely.

Louis bites his lip, apparently keen on killing Harry and finishing this affair the quick way. "Let's make sure."

He pulls out his iPhone and takes a picture of himself planting a wet kiss on Harry's cheek. They both look moronic, probably because they're smiling like morons. He loves that it's just a chaste kiss on the cheek, but looks anything but platonic.

People have been taking Harry's picture since the moment he was born, but this might just be his favourite one.

He blinks when he sees Louis log into Twitter. "Lou," he says, brushing a hand over his wrist. "If you do this you won't be able to deny it afterwards. It'll be, like, the end. Are you sure?"

He can see Louis' determination waver, the dents in his armour, his hands shaking. Harry remembers that moment. It was the most important decision he's ever had to make.

"I don't want to deny it anymore." His eyes are steely when he looks at Harry again. "It'll be the beginning."

He posts the picture. Hashtag: LouisForQueen.

***

It's not the end of the world. It's the worst weeks of Louis' life, for sure, starting with calling his mum and each sister from Rome only to hear they were already being hounded by paps. Louis expected a shitstorm to follow his coming out, but there was really no way to fully brace for impact. After two years in the spotlight, he thought he was as thick-skinned as can be. It was terrifying to find out all it took was a few (thousand) cancellations and angry parents to have him crying his eyes out.

He gives up on Twitter and the blogs after one too many haters made him feel fifteen again, and the band has to cancel everything but the concerts for their entire fortnight in Italy. Louis dashes out of at least two management meetings in near tears, and at least one after yelling, "Then fire me already, I'll get a job at Buckingham fucking Palace".

The sole comfort is Zayn and Liam keeping their promise to find odd hours for Louis and Harry to meet. Harry's the one making him pancakes and getting pummelled at FIFA and getting him to feel loved-up after he checks his Twitter feed. Harry's the one stroking his back and telling him in hushed tones how people were clamouring for his abdication, how half their staff had resigned, how most of the peerage is actually made of twats. (Harry also confirmed that he'd love to make Louis his housewife. It's good to have a back-up plan.)

But then they land in Paris, and it's like the gates of heaven at this point. The French love One Direction, and if there had been any ticket cancellations they were sold-out again in minutes. More importantly, the French adore Prince Harry, and when Louis' called into another meeting with management, instead of getting shit he gets a million requests from different tourist sites for Harry and him to make an appearance and perpetuate the whole "city of love" thing.

He barely sleeps, and feels defeated and miserable most of the time, but when he asks Harry if he wants to be on a cheesy postcard, Harry says, "It would be way more popular than my mum's stamp, I should've taken up with a celebrity ages ago", and Louis laughs wildly.

They hire out a boat tour along the Seine and completely miss the sights because they're busy snogging.

It's not the end of the world.

***

They've postponed it for as long as they could, but eventually the day comes to return home. The band's PR team snatches Louis from Harry's arms the moment they set foot in Heathrow. Harry supposes that's reasonable—they've been away for two months and after all that's happened, the band needs a thorough briefing before falling prey to the paps and reporters.

Harry sort of botches that when he automatically kisses Louis goodbye. It sounds like a thunderclap in the middle of the airport as everyone everywhere start taking pictures. He's not really sorry, though; Louis' particularly tan and soft and happy after their time in Paris, has started to recover. Paul has to manhandle Harry into the car.

The only publicist there to greet Harry is Niall, and the only briefing he gets is a high-five. It's only a prelude. As soon as they're at the palace, Helen, his lead publicist, wants Harry to go over all the press releases that have been drafted in his name while he was ducking everyone's calls and being a general nuisance. For the first time in his life, he says sternly, "I'm the Prince of Wales and you will give me ten minutes to see my family". It actually works.

Ten minutes become an hour, because Gemma wants to hear every single detail (giggling madly when she hears Louis' invited himself to her wedding), and his mum has to lecture him about responsibility and foresight and how his postcard with Louis (which at this point might out-sell the Eiffel Tower in every tourist shop in Paris) is in no way superior to her postage stamp. He really does plan to meet Helen, but then Louis writes him, 'u should see these sales stats. silly me, thought we couldn't be more famous. all it took was a royal boyfriend'.

When Harry points this out, Gemma tells him the British public has felt cheated out of juicy gossip, since the story broke overseas, and for all these weeks the reporters have only been sharpening their claws. Harry blinks. "That was their only problem?"

She considers her words carefully. "I won't say there aren't homophobic arseholes in our kingdom. But according to Niall the reactions have been generally positive. I can't see why not, you guys are painfully adorable."

Harry fully agrees. "We totally are. Much more than you and Will."

Gemma sighs. "I know, god, I sort of want to un-invite One Direction. Everyone will be taking your pictures and no one will even see me in McQueen."

Before he can rib her some more, Louis texts him again. '80 interviews today help??'

He makes an executive decision to push back his meeting in favour of watching Louis' interviews. It is PR-related, he reckons. And Niall's already high-fived him. "Wanna watch some telly?"

Gemma nods and cuddles up to him on their couch. When his fingers linger over the remote she says, "Channel 4's been doing all this promo for an exclusive interview with One Direction. Chatty Man, probably."

He kisses her forehead.

It's not like they've been in hiding for a month. They gave statements, even a couple of interviews, but always to foreign press, never on telly, and Harry did most of the talking. He sensed that he's more comfortable with this whole "Larry" thing than Louis, and just took the lead. Louis was the one having to suffer through a sexuality crisis in front of the entire world, after all. Also, when anyone asked Louis about Harry he blathered on about Harry's curls and smell, so for once it was actually better for Harry to take over.

On Alan Carr's couch Louis looks small and hesitant and beautiful, and even though Harry can see his phone isn't with him, he sends him twenty 'good luck!!'s.

"Our guests today need no introduction," the host starts. "If you haven't been living under a rock for the past two years you know One Direction, and if you haven't been living in Mars for the past weeks you probably know why I'm deeply offended." The crowd laughs and Carr carries on. "Louis Tomlinson, when you started chatting with Prince Harry on Twitter four months ago, did I not ask you if we're to expect another royal wedding?"

A few tweets appear on the screen behind them, including the first picture Harry's tweeted, and the last one Louis did. Louis smiles charmingly. "Well, four months ago it really was an online thing."

"Trust me, I've sent one or twenty tweets to the prince hoping he'd notice me, yet somehow I'm not the one who spent two months in his pocket." Now the screen is flashing with pictures of them kissing in Rome, holding hands at Parco Sempione, cuddling on the banks of the Seine. Harry really didn't think they were being that obvious, Jesus.

The crowd—cheers. That's the most important part, really. Harry watches Louis flush and smile tightly, but he can tell he's loosening up.

"Told you, you're adorable," Gemma says.

Harry's so embarrassed by all the pictures; he's tempted to tell her Louis' a lot less adorable coming all over Harry's chest, but that just seems like a gateway to more embarrassment, so he bites his tongue. Carr has no pity for Louis. "How did you bag the prince? The fans are creaming themselves; we want to know all the gory details."

"Trust me, you don't," Liam says over the laughs, and Louis looks at him adoringly for taking the attention away from him. "We love Harry and all, but ever since he joined the tour Louis' been completely useless."

While the audience aww's and aah's, Gemma asks, "I take it they've stopped calling you the Prince?"

"Around the time they've seen my bollocks, yeah." He's not really paying attention to her. Zayn's got this glint in his eye when he's taking a swig from his beer.

"They've been together since our show at the palace back in February," Zayn confesses. "A week later we left for Europe, and Harry just kept showing up."

"Have you considered a restraining order?" Carr asks.

Louis rushes to say, "They were state visits, totally planned ahead." Harry can't see if he's keeping a straight face, because his own face is planted in the cushion.

"I sound like this desperate nutter," he tells the couch sadly.

Gemma strokes his curls. "That's 'cause you are, sweetheart."

"I don't even like their music."

"Shut up," she says when the audience settles down and Carr fires off another question.

"So Louis, what's it like getting up on the queer side of the bed?" He gives them a second to consider a serious answer, probably to build up for a joke. Or maybe he's actually interested.

It's a question no one can save Louis from, and he shifts a bit, trying to buy time. "People need to get used to it, I think. For me it's been two years in the making, but for everyone—well, most people, it was a shocker. I'm proud to say the fans have really embraced us, and the boys have always been there for me." A chorus of yeah's comes from Zayn and Liam, Zayn wrapping an arm around Louis' shoulder.

"Why now, then?" Carr presses.

"I guess it's... worth it now." Louis buries his face in his hands while Carr (and Gemma) make gagging noises, the crowd cheers like mad and Harry wants to be there. He wants to ask Niall where the Channel 4 studios are and just go there and kiss Louis until he can't breathe.

"That's all very nice," Carr says, an edge to his voice now. "Well, last time you boys were here you said you've had some experience with Swedish girls flashing you. Has there been more mooning action now? Some cock and balls shoved in your face?" There it is.

They move on from that topic, somehow, and Louis keeps answering all the questions because he's Louis, but he's stopped looking nervous. When they wrap up (after losing another dance-off), Harry's not surprised to get a call from Louis.

"Holy shit," Louis whispers as soon as Harry answers.

"I know. You look really good in that button-up."

He thinks he can hear Louis roll his eyes. "That was good, yeah?"

"It was perfect."

"Because, like, I've always thought the fans would hate me for lying all this time, but it's not like—"

"Hey," Harry cuts him off. "You had to do it. And now everything's alright. If you ask me, some good came out of waiting."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Now everyone's talking about the epic love story with the Prince of Wales, so it's not that big of a deal that you came out of the closet."

Louis pauses. "It's not like I've used you or something."

Harry chuckles. "I know that, love. All I'm saying is we gave the British people a fairytale. So no one can say the crown doesn't pay its dues."

"You sound like my little sister."

"And on telly you talk like my mum, what's up with that?"

Louis swears, quite majestically. "Your mum, the Queen of England. Jesus Christ. Haz, the Queen of England knows I'm despoiling her son."

He so hopes his mum still thinks he's—spoiled. "She likes you. She asked the planner to save you, Liam and Zayn a seating arrangement at the wedding."

"Jesus Christ."

Harry can see him, freaking out in a locked toilet, trying not to fuck up his hair and make-up because they have another taping soon, possibly he's planning a random bungee jump with Liam to take the edge off after the tour. He can also see him in a sharp suit, sitting at Harry's side as his sister gets married and whispering jokes in Harry's ear so he could ignore all the uniformed cousins and disappointed aunts.

He might be a bit choked-up when he asks, "So what now?"

"Well, your people gave my people a stack of papers with rules and proper etiquette for, like, royal consorts, so I guess I could start with that. I need to get the hand wave down, at least. It's the least I could do after you joined our tour."

Harry bites his lip. "Will you really read it?"

"If it keeps me from embarrassing you in public, absolutely not."

He laughs. "I could teach you proper etiquette as we go."

"The princess movies always skip this part, you know? Other than The Princess Diaries, maybe. Or the one with Colin Firth and Amanda something."

Harry has no idea how the million and one Directioners take Louis seriously. "I could show you the world, shining, shimmering, splendid. Tell me, princess, now when did you—"

"No, oh god, I take it all back, I don't want to be the Princess of Wales, this is goodbye."

As Harry laughs he thinks he can hear another voice on Louis' end, probably Zayn, say, "If we had to go through all that and you're not the Princess of Wales, I swear to god I will overthrow the crown."

"I don't need you lot! I'll start a band with Harry!"

"Will you just get out of the bloody toilet, we have to go to the Beeb."

Harry sighs when Louis says to him, "I gotta go."

"I know. Good luck with that."

"Wait, uh, when can we—I mean, when will you be free? I want to visit my sisters as soon as I can, but, I mean."

Harry bites his knuckle. "I'm sure the Queen of England will understand if I sneak out tonight."

"God save that woman."

"I'm sure she's never heard that one before."

Louis makes a cut-off sound of indignation, but he gives up just as quickly, probably has Liam knocking on the door. "So, well, I'll see you tonight. Love you."

Harry's really glad there are no paparazzi inside the palace. He's pretty sure his grin makes him look mentally unstable. "You too. Bye, Lou."

Chapter Text

Harry has a secret flat at Primrose Hill. It's posh and tidy and far too big for him, and it used to be his Fortress of Solitude, the place he went to gaze over Regent's Park and forget for a few hours that he's the crown prince. Nowadays he only stays there before exams, where Louis can't distract him. Kind of like how he stays at Clarence House when he has to spend time with his family, where Louis can't distract him. Somehow all of his houses have been reduced to that—miserable places where Louis is not, so naturally Harry spends most of his time at Louis' flat.

Harry's never actually told him how depressing the state of his secret flat has become, but Louis has a way of picking up on these things. When Louis goes home to Doncaster for Christmas, he asks Harry to stay at his and house-sit for him. Of course, before he did that he asked Harry to come home with him, but Harry immediately refused, unwilling to let a swarm of paps ruin Louis' family Christmas.

They celebrated Louis' birthday extensively in advance, anyway. The car waits half an hour for Louis to stop kissing Harry so he could actually get on it and go home on the 19th.

So he has Reasons for staying in London. It really is a safe bet that if he shows up at Doncaster they'll be hounded. Also, there's virtually nothing Louis loves more than his mum and sisters, and Christmas is this classic family holiday thing. Harry's sort of scared he'd get in the middle of that.

He's close with his own family, but you can't quite get around a royal upbringing, a lifetime of prim and proper, and Louis' really anything but that. Harry can only assume his family is as unruly. He doesn't want to ruin that by bringing a prince for dinner, even if that prince is himself.

He stands behind his decision for five whole days. He stays at Louis' flat, waters the plants, plays FIFA and Mario Kart, dicks around on the Internet, lonely lonely lonely, goes out with Niall, Zayn and Liam (all of whom have really unfounded concerns about Harry going on a rampage if he were on his own for too long), until they all go home for the holidays as well. Harry knows he should do it too, but Gemma's pregnancy hormones terrify him and his mum and Robin are working so hard, and this place has become his home at some point. When the fuck did that happen?

"I'm bored out of my mind," Harry says when Louis picks up.

Louis snorts. "Is that it, then? You were only keeping me around for entertainment?"

"You mean you didn't know? I have no one to cook or clean for now."

"You've never cooked or cleaned a day in your life, Haz."

Harry sighs and flops around on their bed. "I make you breakfast all the time."

"But Niall always ends up eating it. The man's a bottomless pit. Isn't he there to entertain you?"

He feels pathetic. "He's probably eating his weight at his dad's house in Mullingar. I miss him."

Louis aww's. He's ridiculous. "Don't you have royal things to do?"

"I do, actually. Spent all day yesterday at the palace with my mum. She's sort of freaking out; she wants to give Gemma all this pregnancy advice but she doesn't want her not to feel capable. But it's like, why have a mum if you can't get pregnancy advice? If you knock me up I'd like to get some tips from my mum."

Louis laughs freely. Harry feels something clench in his chest; he misses him so much sometimes. "My mum had five babies, you'll get plenty of tips. And I promise not to knock you up before I make an honest man out of you."

"Tell me about your family," Harry asks, instead of the ten thousand things he should say on the actual topic. Between Twitter replacing the #LouisForQueen rage with #GayRoyalWedding2014, and reporters asking him about civil unions and policy, Harry can't be arsed to think about this during Christmas hols. He's barely twenty years old for fuck's sake.

He hears something shift, like Louis' settling down somewhere, maybe his teenage bed. "Well, the twins have grown a lot, but they haven't forgotten me, so that's good."

"You call them once a week, how could they forget you?"

"I dunno, I always think they'll stop recognising me one day. I know it's ridiculous, but like, I can't help it. Fizzie adores me for some reason, could be because my mum cooks up a storm whenever I come home. It's gonna be hilarious when I put on the Santa costume. Lottie's still at that age where she's a little shit, but—well, you know how close we are. Oh, did I tell you she put up a picture of us from the wedding on her wall? Like a celebrity poster? She totally forgot to take it down before I came. Blushed like a tomato. She's amazing. And, I dunno, it's Christmas so everyone's cheery. Sort of."

"Sort of?

"Well, you know. I kinda miss Liam."

Harry snorts a laugh. "You shit. D'you wanna Skype or something? Can you?"

"Ha! I knew you only called for a wank!"

"What can I say?" He knows Louis can't see him, but he's still waggling his eyebrows. "But no, I wanted to see your sister's poster."

"Well, I kind of don't wanna log in because I don't think I could log out and we have to go storm a Tesco soon. I'll take a picture on my phone and send it, though."

"Of your cock?"

"No, of my sister's ridiculous wall. Oh, there she is."

Harry can hear Louis' sister on the other line, and all thoughts of cock are promptly derailed. "Boo, what the hell are you doing in my room?"

"Fizzie's still kipping at mine," Louis explains.

"Why? Did you have a sleepover without me?"

"Yeah, but only because we don't like you."

"Would you piss off already? Who are you even talking to?"

"Your boyfriend."

Harry snorts when he hears her outraged, "Oh my god, would you just—no, I know, it's yours!"

Louis stops teasing her for two seconds to say, "Yeah. Wanna talk to him?"

"Christ no, what would I even say?"

Harry bites his lip. "He's really lame, you shouldn't be intimidated," Louis assures her, which, thanks.

"I—okay."

"Haz," Louis tells him. "Lottie wants you."

"She's not the first Tomlinson to," Harry replies.

"Lottie, why am I in love with the single least funny person on Earth?" Louis asks, and then his sister's on the line. Harry gulps.

"Hi," she says. She sounds a lot like Louis, barely-contained sarcasm, only she's a bit breathless and girly.

This is Harry's time to charm. "Hello. You're Charlotte, right? Heard a lot about you."

She giggles. For two minutes. "Call me Lottie, really, Your Highness."

"Then call me Harry."

"That's ridiculous. I mean, uh, I—uh. Okay. I'll." She sounds flustered, and really, Harry's got this down.

"Are you looking forward to Christmas?"

"Well, I was, but Louis' been a right bummer. He's totally pining for you."

Louis mutters over the line, "I am not—who the hell says pining? Have you been into fanfictions again?"

"Oh my god, Louis, I'm on the phone with the Prince of Wales, shut up."

"Yeah, tell him to shut up," Harry encourages.

"I can't take this hostility!" Louis yells, and Harry hears him give Lottie a smacking kiss, much to her sputtering rage, and then a door slams. He can imagine her wiping her cheek furiously, like he's seen Liam do after Louis' assaulted him.

"So what are you doing for his birthday?" he asks, conspiratorially.

"Well, Christmas. We're doing a huge dinner, and then Stan's gonna take him out. He was supposed to ring in the new year with us but I don't think he'll last that long."

"How d'you mean?"

"He really misses you. Started bickering with mum, like, feels lonely," she says. "And it's your anniversary, innit?"

Harry wants to curl up and die of joy. "You think he wants me there?"

"What, here? Yeah. Like, it'll be sick. Can you even do that? Don't you have royal things to do?"

"Yeah, but I wanna meet you guys during hols."

"Oh my god," she says, probably unintentionally, and Harry can feel himself folding like a paper plane.

"I think I'm gonna do it. Tomorrow though, on his birthday. Let's keep it between us?"

"My lips are sealed! Only, can I tell my mum? So she doesn't have a stroke when a prince shows up at her doorstep? Louis talks about you all the time but it's not really the same."

Harry smacks his own forehead. "Yes, of course, you should do that. Could you also maybe give me your number, so you could tell me if there are paps out before I come in?"

"Oh my god yes."

The next day he takes his Capri for the three-hour drive without telling anyone. Well, he tells Paul and his mum, but that's totally it. He's gone rogue, he is. Badass prince on the run. A trail of security guards behind him. Visiting his boyfriend's family for Christmas.

Harry's always been sort of pathetic, it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. The sun's high up by the time he reaches South Yorkshire, and of course, One Direction's new single is playing on Radio 1.

The new album has hit big, just as Harry and, well, everyone but Louis had predicted. Which is excellent, because Harry's sacrificed a lot for it. And he obviously wants the band to be successful and all that. But really, Harry's given up things.

Between the recording and Harry's first year of uni, they couldn't see much of each other for weeks at a time. Louis told him once that's why he liked keeping Harry in his flat—so they could at least sleep in the same bed, if not at the same time.

When Lottie gives him the green light, Harry parks the Capri near the house. Then he sort of lingers in the car to collect himself. Going rogue is hard. Meeting Louis' mum and sisters might be harder. Being so close to them, to him, strips away his Reasons for not coming up with Louis in the first place. Buried under the practicalities, there's really just Harry's fear of rejection. He has no idea what Louis would do if his family disapproved of Harry. He's really just glad Lottie's already in his corner.

Harry shuffles all the way to the front door, thinks about calling Louis, and then just fixes his blazer and knocks. A short, blonde girl with huge eyes opens the door a second later, and she flushes as soon as she sees him, her mouth dropping open. They're both staring.

"Lottie, yeah?" he asks, hoping to break the ice.

"Yeah," she says distractedly. "I feel like I should bow or curtsey, what's the drill here?"

"Oh, you really don't have to do that," he clarifies. "Let's say we're both on holiday. I'm just Harry."

She rolls her eyes as if to clarify how he absolutely is not, but she is magnanimous enough to let it go. "Well, just Harry, welcome to the Tomlinson home," she says, leading him inside. "Lou's in the living room."

The Tomlinson home, as dubbed by her, is very—well, homey. Wood panelling, big windows, a radio blasting Christmas songs, and cluttered paraphernalia that comes with being housed by four girls. The living room has a fireplace, cosy-looking couches, and a very loud Louis, currently wearing deer antlers and hefting two identical little girls on each arm.

"I think you've been conning Santa," he declares in his most posh voice, which happens to be an imitation of Harry. "One of you has been good and one of you has been naughty, but you think he can't tell you apart." The twins are giggling helplessly into his shoulders. "While I appreciate a good scheme, you've forgotten that lying to Santa makes both of you naughty, and he'll be very cross when I—oh my fucking god—"

Louis' started shaking his arms and dipping the girls, but during the process he turned around and spotted Harry. He hopes their shrieking might have muted out Louis using the word "fucking". It doesn't really bother Harry, though, as he's too busy staring at him.

Louis' wearing deer antlers and a jumper he's absolutely swimming in, one he's nicked from Harry at some point. He's barefoot and happy and lifting two of his favourite people in the world. The point is that Harry hasn't seen him in a week and he looks bloody fantastic and Harry loves him so much it hurts his chest.

"Surprise motherfucker," Lottie says from Harry's side. Harry lets out a scandalised laugh just as Louis mutters, "best birthday present".

He dumps the girls unceremoniously on a cushy couch, making them yelp, and then starts sprinting his way. Harry braces for impact—but Louis was after Lottie, and he picks her up and dunks her on another couch. She huffs, but seems unable to stop smiling. Harry can relate. That's when Louis finally launches himself at Harry.

He staggers back a few steps, but catching Louis really isn't an issue. Louis has a habit of jumping on Harry when he gets tired of walking or moving or really, whenever he feels like it. Harry just slots his arms under Louis' bum to keep him in place as Louis clamps around him like a leech. He's laughing, a bit overwhelmed. Louis smells like home-made cookies and cinnamon and he just fits in his arms like Harry hopes to fit in his home.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" Louis asks, uses the excuse to whisper in Harry's ear. His arms might go a bit weak at that, but he'll be damned if he drops Louis in front of his sisters.

"Was around, thought I'd pop in," Harry explains.

"See, that might have worked in Copenhagen, but no one comes to Yorkshire without a reason."

Harry snorts. "I came to visit your mum. You just happened to be visiting at the same time."

Louis clenches his legs around Harry's waist and pulls back a bit to look him in the face, hands still around Harry's neck. He's beaming, so hard there are crinkles by his eyes, and his fringe is pushed back by deer antlers and he's radiating warmth and joy and love. Harry could never keep up with a prank like Louis could. He confesses without prompting, "I missed you and it's your birthday. Also you might hear on the news that I've absconded Buckingham Palace."

"I'll be sure to ring BBC News," Louis promises, before leaning in for kiss. It's chaste, sweet, and Harry can taste cinnamon and he literally has Louis in his arms and he's disgustingly giddy.

"Ew," Harry hears one of the twins say.

"I bet he'll drop him," the other one says.

"He's not gonna, you idiot," Lottie reprimands, sounding suspiciously choked-up.

Louis gives Harry another smacking kiss, mostly for show and sounds effects, getting another "ew" from their audience. Harry laughs and spins Louis around. He feels ridiculous, but Louis' the one with the antlers, so he thinks no one will notice.

Louis leans in again to whisper, "Thank you for coming," and then more loudly he says, "Unhand me now so that I might pass judgement upon my royal subjects."

Harry sets Louis down obediently, saying around a smile, "That's not really how the queen speaks."

"Well, not all of us know the bloody queen, Harold, I do apologise," Louis snaps back.

"Don't talk to the bloody prince like that!" one of the twins says as harshly as any tiny blonde eight-year-old could.

"Don't swear," Lottie scolds her.

Harry sidesteps Louis and flops on the couch where the twins are lounging. They immediately perk up, staring at him with open interest. "I agree, your brother is very impolite," he says. It seems that ribbing Louis is the way to get sympathy in this family. "I'm Harry."

"We know," they giggle. "I'm Phoebe, she's Daisy," the one with the pigtails says. Harry glances over their heads to Lottie, who's shaking her head.

Harry looks at the twins severely. "You know how Louis said it's naughty to lie to Santa? Well, do you know what happens when you lie to a prince?"

The twins' eyes are huge when they ask, "What?"

"You turn into frogs."

"It's true," Lottie adds. "Remember that frog we found at the park last week? It was a girl from my class. She told the prince she likes One Direction, lied right to his face. Proper frogged her, he did."

Harry tries to keep a straight face. "So, Daisy," he says to the one with pigtails, "would you like to start over?"

The twins deliberate in hushed tones, and then Daisy says very seriously, "Princes can't do magic."

"Really? Do you know what my last name is?"

They whisper to each other again. Eventually it's Lottie that says, "No, actually."

Harry pauses, and then says dramatically. "It's Potter."

Lottie snorts while the twins' eyes light up. "Really?" Phoebe asks. "You're all wizards? Is that why the princess is so pretty? Do you have a wand? Or a scar? Did you go to Hogwarts or to Pigfarts like in Lottie's musical? Is it legal for you to have a muggle prince?"

"Boo isn't his prince yet, stupid," Daisy says, and Phoebe pouts adorably.

"Boo?" Harry asks, not having heard that nickname before.

Lottie's smirk is devilish. "We have much to discuss about my brother."

Louis finally joins the conversation, perching on the armrest of Lottie's couch and stepping on her foot. "If you embarrass me in front of the Prince of Wales I will show Zayn everything."

"You will not, you filthy liar, I put it all down," she replies, narrowing her eyes.

"I have it printed and ready to be delivered," he threatens.

Whatever that means, it has Lottie biting her tongue. Harry can't ask for an explanation because the twins are all over him with questions about Hogwarts and Quidditch and Lord Voldemort. He may have overstepped it.

He manages to distract them with a long-winded story about the time he and Gemma got lost in Edinburgh Castle. He's saved only half an hour later, when the front door opens and yet another sister rushes to the living room. "Boo, mum got you the—bloody hell."

Louis' mum comes in next, saying, "Don't swear, young—bloody hell."

Which Harry guesses is an appropriate reaction when coming home to a prince braiding your youngest daughter's hair while her twin braids his hair and two of your other children are stuffing their mouths with cookies and pulling funny faces at each other.

Harry twists his head toward the door, careful not to pull Phoebe's hair, and smiles brightly. "Hello, ma'am."

She seems absolutely gobsmacked, unable to reply.

"Don't bow," Lottie advises around her mouthful of cookies.

That seems to snap Louis' mum out of her daze. "Charlotte, if you finish all the cookies before dinner you won't have any dinner. Louis, remind me how old you turned today? Daisy and Phoebe, that's actually very pretty." They preen while her eyes settle on Harry, finally. "Your Highness, welcome. Do you need anything?"

"No, really. Your home is lovely. Call me Harry, please."

"I—" She hesitates, her eyes snapping to Louis for a moment. "Then call me Jay."

"Done." He grins, dimples and all, and she smiles back. Harry decides ensnaring the entire Tomlinson household isn't bad for a day's work.

"Come on, girls, stop bothering the prince. There are twenty bags in the boot and there's dinner to prepare. Single file to the kitchen, now."

Harry decides Jay Tomlinson is the best woman on Earth, after his own mum.

"But I didn't bother him! I wasn't even here! I wanna braid his hair too!" the girl that came in with Jay whines, younger than Lottie but older than the twins.

"Come on Fizz, go help mum," Louis encourages, getting up to kiss the top of her head. "You could put bows and flowers in his hair later, like Rapunzel," he promises, ignoring Harry's look of alarm.

After some grumbling, all the girls shuffle off to the kitchen. It seems unbearably empty all of a sudden, quiet after the explosion of girls. Of course, it's not quiet for long, not with Louis there.

He groans exaggeratedly and flops down next to Harry on the couch, draping his legs over his lap. He smirks when he fingers the braid currently sticking up Harry's fringe. "This is highly unprofessional," he announces, unravelling it slowly.

Harry sticks out his tongue. "You have cookie crumbs all over my jumper. And your antlers are crooked." He makes no effort to right them. Louis looks adorable, cookie crumbs and all.

He pouts much like his sister, but drops the act soon after. He runs his hand over Harry's arm, finally settling over his palm, tangling their fingers together. "I can't believe you're here. Were you going for an award or something?"

Harry shrugs, stroking Louis' delicate ankle with his free hand. "I got bored at home. Told you. We should get more plants to water."

Louis laughs. "We could stop by Kew Gardens on the way back."

"Just because it's called the Royal Botanical Gardens doesn't mean I can pop in and pick up plants."

"Then we'll just have to get a puppy," Louis says, long-sufferingly. "Did you know Liam's dog is called Loki? We should get a golden retriever and call him Thor."

"For the sake of stopping this discussion I'm going to kiss you." Louis glances towards the kitchen, but before he can oppose, Harry stretches over to him and catches his lips in a kiss.

The internal debate lasts all of two seconds before Louis melts into him, threading his fingers through Harry's hair and pulling him closer, opening his mouth willingly. After a week of severe deprivation, Harry can't help himself. He kisses him hard, stroking his tongue and then biting his lip. He tries to right Louis' legs in his lap, but Louis' squirming so much that he ends up tossing one leg over Harry's shoulder, and Christ. "Did you get these legs playing footie?"

Louis hums thoughtfully, or maybe just because Harry's kneading at his thighs. "You're the ridiculously leggy one. Though I do spend most of my free time climbing my boyfriend like a tree, so I'm limber." To prove his point he grabs Harry's blazer and pulls him down for more snogging. The second it takes Harry to realise he's nearly folding Louis in half is the second it takes him to get hard. He's almost dizzy with it.

They jump when a door slams and Louis' mum calls out. "Boo Bear, we forgot to pick up a couple of things so I'm taking the girls out for a couple of hours!" Soon after that another door slams, and Harry hears Jay unlocking the car. Seriously, second favourite woman on Earth.

"Lottie's still here!" Lottie yells, unnecessarily loud, from the kitchen. Louis rolls his eyes and tucks his leg back between them, a bit more proper. "To make sure you don't shag in the living room. Also, don't shag in the living room."

"Rude!" Louis shouts back.

"So, Boo Bear," Harry says through a smile.

Louis looks at him with hooded eyes and throws his hands up. "Just shut it. Be a caveman and carry me to my old bedroom."

"Bridal style or over the shoulder?" Harry asks.

"You speak too much for a caveman."

"Ooga booga," he settles, and tosses Louis over his shoulder.

"See?" Louis says, but to Lottie, who's standing in the doorway and staring at them. Harry could possibly die from embarrassment. He bows to her, mostly to make Louis yelp. He then leaps up the stairs and away.

***

Ten minutes later Harry has Louis naked and pinned to his childhood bed, still technically his until Lottie moves in on her birthday. Though it's nothing like the king size they have at home, it's better than a couch or an inflatable mattress. Louis' grateful for that because... well, because Harry has him pinned to his childhood bed, and this is definitely a wank fantasy he's had one or three hundred times when he actually lived here, and in this one he fucks Harry into oblivion, so. The bed is good.

Harry seems to be into it, too. He tries to get his knees on either side of Louis but the bed's too small and he ends up slipping, his hips landing directly on top of Louis', making him gasp. They kind of have to be all over each other, here, and Louis loves that. He loves that after a week, Harry just showed up and now he's completely covering him, chest to toe, his skin smooth and warm and so, so good against him. It feels like he's touching him everywhere; even his curls are tickling Louis' nose when he sucks a bruise into Louis' neck.

"I wanna ride you," Harry whispers, timid. Louis used to be surprised at how forward he was, with him being a prince and all, but Harry makes shameless look natural. The way he's saying it now, almost asking, makes Louis wonder if Harry's intimidated by his home.

"Thought I was supposed to climb you like a tree," he says, cheekily.

Instead of smiling Harry just keeps breathing hard against his neck. "It's just. The bed's so small and I kind of want to box you in and keep you there, now that I have you."

"Jesus, okay," he says, because how the fuck is he supposed to say no to that. Harry rolls his hips eagerly, and Louis has to clutch his biceps to still him before they just rut away to the finish line. "But you have to be quiet. Lottie's lurking somewhere."

Harry bites his lip, looking crushed, because he's obviously the devil. "She's old enough to know about sex, isn't she?"

"She's also the most likely to post a sex tape of us if it'll make her famous on Tumblr." He pauses.

"What I'm saying is," Louis starts over, voice delivering the edge that usually gets Harry going. "If you make too much noise, I'll make you stop." It's not even that Harry's any louder than Louis himself, but Harry likes challenges, and he never tells Louis no, and his eyes go a bit glassy. Yeah, he's good to go. "Alright, love?"

Harry nods breathlessly, shuffles forward to straddle Louis' hips. The bed creaks. "There's lube in the second drawer," Louis says through a laugh, and Harry cocks an eyebrow as he leans toward the bedside table. "I got bored too, okay?"

He can almost hear Harry's comeback, but he bites his tongue, probably literally. Louis strokes his cock once, to show his appreciation, and then again because Harry reacts so beautifully—shutters his eyes closed and tosses his head back, stretching his impossibly long torso like a string. It takes everything Louis has not to flip them over when Harry grinds down on his cock.

Everything becomes more urgent from that point. He snatches the lube from Harry's fumbling hands and spreads it neatly on his fingers. Usually he gets Harry to prepare himself, because it's hot as fuck, but right now fingering him open gets Harry to curl forward, closer to Louis on this incredibly small bed. He can also take more from Louis, as his fingers are smaller and more dextrous than Harry's clumsy monster hands.

By the time he gets three digits in, Harry's bearing down on his chest so hard he's close to crushing him. He's panting through his teeth, visibly struggling to stay quiet, but keeps to his word and doesn't make his usual throaty sounds, not even when Louis twists his fingers the way he likes. He's muttering something, almost reverently, and they're close enough that Louis can hear he's chanting "it is what it is" and staring at Louis' chest tattoo. Which is his new focus point. Because he's insane.

Louis grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down for a dirty kiss. "So good, you're so good," he praises softly, and Harry lets out a stuttering breath, rocking back on Louis' hand. He looks like he's about to let something slip, but then he's kissing Louis again, sloppy and desperate and harsh. Louis pulls his fingers out without warning, tugging himself three times so as not to completely fucking lose it, and then he gives Harry a nod.

Harry's being good, doesn't need to be told twice. He lifts up and then sinks down way too fast on Louis' cock, making them both hiss. Christ, even after three fingers Harry clamps around him like he was made to take him. Louis can't even breathe for a few seconds, tightening his hold on Harry's curls. Harry nods with closed eyes, and Louis thrusts up carefully, hissing again at the feel of it.

Now that his hands are free, Louis circles Harry's wrists and drags his hands up, so that he's bearing down on Louis' shoulders rather than his chest. This way Louis is a bit less likely to die, and Harry's got more leverage. "Go, love," he says. Harry immediately locks his knees and lifts his hips just a little, then comes down hard.

It's only when he picks up a rhythm that he finally breaks—when Louis fucks into him on the downstroke and Harry lets out this beautiful cry, like he's drowning. Louis' hands fly to his sharp hipbones and grip him like a vice, making him stop. It only elicits another moan from him, having Louis buried deep in him and so, so still. He seems to realise a second too late what he's done, and he stares at Louis with wide eyes, nearly all-pupil. "I'm sorry," he whispers, voice rough.

"A minute," Louis decides. "Close your eyes. Don't move. Don't make a sound. You can only count the seconds out loud, if you'd like."

Harry stays there, quiet but for his laboured breathing. Louis can't even bring himself to count, just trusts Harry and uses the time to stare at him shamelessly. Harry's heart-stopping like this; slumped over Louis, damp curls in his eyes and his full lips bitten raw so he could follow Louis' instructions. His tattoos are shiny with sweat and his abs are clenched tight, cock curving up and dripping at the tip. He's shuddering, desperate to move just as much as Louis' desperate to slam up into him.

When enough time passes Harry opens his eyes, gaze coy and filthy at the same time. Louis releases his hips and Harry perks up immediately, rocking on his cock and chanting to himself. Louis could die like this, curses enough for the both of them. His skin might be on fire.

The second time Harry groans it's because Louis' started pulling his hair. Louis gives the same instructions, close your eyes, don't move, count to sixty, only now Louis sneaks his hands to Harry's nipples, twisting one while teasing the other, and he feels Harry's hands tighten on his shoulders like he wants to scratch him, but he stills himself and Louis loves him for it.

The third time Harry slips up it's because Louis' nailed his prostate, and with all the breaks, it feels like they've been at it forever and they're both sweaty and desperate and feverish, movements stuttering. Louis' hovering just on the brink, and Harry's wound tight like a spring, elbows and knees locked firmly, eyes closing without Louis even telling him. This time he counts out loud, voice rumbling even deeper than usual, and Louis waits fifteen seconds before wrapping his hand around the head of Harry's cock and squeezing.

Harry stops counting and swears quietly, careful not to budge, so careful. Louis wipes sweat off Harry's brow with his free hand and tilts his head to kiss his wrist. It doesn't make Harry smile like usual, but it centres him enough to go back to his count. Louis starts pumping him as steadily as he can, smooth with lube and pre-come. When they hit sixty, Harry lifts up and bears down with all his weight, same angle as before, with Louis' hand wrapped tight around his cock and stroking fast.

He doesn't get a fourth time to mess up because they come, hard, soon after. They stay together on the tiny bed for a while, Louis holding onto Harry and stroking his hair while Harry's patting Louis' stomach. "I love you so much," Louis whispers, and Harry curls into him even further, kisses his collarbone.

"Would you say..." Harry's voice sounds raw, weird from not using it properly for so long, and Louis is completely unprepared for the punch line. "You're glad I came?"

Louis laughs, tugging harder on Harry's hair. "If you can kill my buzz with your brand of humour, you can take a shower."

Harry groans. "Would that mean putting on clothes after?"

It does sound taxing to Louis. But. "And making gingerbread cookies with my mum. You always claim you can bake."

"I can, too. I had a tutor—"

"Harold, seriously, last week you tried to convince me you had a juggling tutor. You can't expect me to believe everything you say just because you're a pretty prince."

Harry rolls out of bed pouting, and lets it go only when Louis blows him in the shower.

They miraculously manage to get dressed, turn on the telly and cuddle inconspicuously on the living room couch by the time Fizzie and the twins rush into the house, shoes pounding on the floorboards. The sisters waste no time before tackling Harry to his back, completely ignoring their own brother, whose birthday is today. He should have seen this coming. He should ignore how his heart feels too big for his chest.

He gets up and helps his mum haul more groceries than they could possibly need, even to celebrate Louis' birth. And Jesus. After two runs they end up in the kitchen, putting everything in its proper place. There's a heavy silence between them, despite the cheery carols on the radio. "Mum," he says finally.

His mum immediately puts down the cheese she's holding and steps closer to him. "Sweetheart?"

He's still looking at the flour in his hand, couldn't possibly look her in the eye. "You know how—you know how you meet a boy and you really get on and he's charming and lovely and amazing, and you think that it's too good to be true?"

It must be hard for her to only say, "Go on."

"Well, what if the boy's an actual prince, and he actually stuck around for a year even when you've been shit, and he sort of moved into your flat and he loves you so much you can feel it when—" He takes a deep breath. "What if it's more than too good to be true, what if it just doesn't bloody happen?"

She doesn't seem to care that he can't look at her. She hugs him from behind gently, shorter than him yet encompassing him completely in her mum ways. "Love, I don't think there's something that's too good to be true. I think you and Harry worked hard to be where you are, and some things are just... good. From what I saw, Harry's good to you, and you're good to him. Some things you just deserve to enjoy. Some people you deserve to love."

He drops his head. "I'm just scared, sometimes."

She squeezes him a bit tighter, and he leans into it helplessly. "When you're with him?"

"No, I—" he bites his lip. "When I'm with him I feel safe." He doesn't know how else to say, he makes me so happy and I don't want it to go away. He doesn't need to, really. His mum obviously knows that both his dad and stepdad fucked off, that he's nervous and careful all the time, with his success, with his heart.

"There you go, then. You learn to stop being scared when you're happy. Just be happy, Boo." She leans up to kiss his temple and then lets him go in favour of putting the kettle on. He might love her more than ever. Once she's sure he's alright, she tacks on with a smirk, "Is this about the gay royal wedding thing I hear about?"

Louis' pretty sure the promise of tea is the only thing keeping him standing. "No, where did you hear that?" He doesn't even wait for an answer. "I will murder your daughter."

"You will do no such thing," she says sternly. "Nor will you marry anyone before you're twenty-five, I don't care if he's a lovely prince."

He can't help but smile at that. "So you approve?" he asks tentatively.

She stares at him. "Louis, he makes you happier than I've ever seen you. He's the bloody Prince of Wales and he's sitting on my couch and letting my girls put flowers in his hair. That boy is good news."

The kettle's done just when Louis leans over to kiss his mum on the cheek. "Good, because he'll want to help you bake and I can't guarantee he won't be completely useless."

"I can't let a prince bake in my kitchen." She sounds mildly horrified.

Louis would really like to see her try to tell Harry no.

***

They do try to go out. Louis' crowd is apparently used to celebrities, and they don't overly freak out at having Harry there, no more than Nick had when Niall had first introduced them. Louis wears his antlers but gives Harry the red nose, and they're grinding to Christmas remixes at some club. It seems like a thousand people try to get Louis' attention, but he won't let Harry out of his sight and Harry's incredibly pleased with himself.

"Happy birthday!" someone new shouts, actually daring to bodily separate them.

Harry's a bit shocked, but Louis' grinning wide when he says, "Stanley, you absolute shit!" and tackles the guy.

Harry keeps shuffling around a bit awkwardly, until Louis returns to his side and puts a hand on his waist. He can't explain how the small touch calms him.

"Haz, this is Stan, my best mate from home," he introduces.

Stan claps him on the back in an extremely bloke-y fashion. "Right, what are we drinking?"

"Beers," Louis answers.

Stan's jaw drops. "What? It's your fucking birthday, mate. Also, Christmas. At least let me get you some scotch. Or is it only fruity girly drinks now?"

Before Harry can form an opinion, Louis leans up to whisper-shout, "He's kidding, he's been cool with everything." To Stan, he says, "We don't wanna get hammered, my sisters will kill me if we won't open presents with them at arse-o'clock. And we have to be up and about for the Queen's speech."

"Why the fuck, it's the same—" His eyes snap to Harry suddenly. "She's your mum. Mate, your mum is fit. She has the queen thing down, but she looks like she could party. Also, your sister is fit. Is she preggers already, though?"

"Jesus Christ, Stan, be more obnoxious," Louis reprimands, pulling Harry tighter against him.

Stan grins. "Sorry, just thought your boy should know. I'm going to charm his pants off now."

He does, a bit. He drags Harry off to introduce him to more of their friends while telling ridiculous stories about Louis. He's funny. He hugs Harry goodbye when they duck out to the car.

"Lou, sure you don't wanna stay? It's your birthday and all," Harry says while buckling up, suddenly nervous.

Louis looks at him through the mirror in disbelief. "I'd really rather spend it with you, love."

So Harry kisses him, and it doesn't end in a fiery car crash, which is good. They stumble home at two in the morning, only to discover Louis' mum has made up the living room for Louis to sleep in, while Harry's been given Louis' bedroom. Exactly fifteen minutes after saying good night, Louis gives it up and sneaks to his old room, and then his old bed, and then his big spoon.

Harry's smiling into his hair as he winds his arms around him. "I think your mum wanted to prevent this debauchery," he whispers.

"I think my mum has unrealistic expectations of my virtue," Louis replies, snuggling against Harry's chest safely. "Or she's underestimated our ability to cuddle in a bed that's too small for my arse."

"Did I mention I like that?" Harry asks, subtly rolling forward to fit his crotch against Louis' arse. Ace.

It's true, he got thoroughly fucked on this bed not too long ago, but the road to mutual handjobs is paved with good intentions.

At 3 p.m., Christmas day, Harry, Louis, Louis' mum and sisters all sit in front of the telly for the Queen's Christmas Message. Stan may be right, it is the same every year, but it's his mum, regal and beautiful, and Harry feels it like a punch to the gut; missing her. It's Christmas. He loves Louis and his family, but he can see Gemma flipping out at being left alone despite having asked for a quiet first Christmas with her husband, can see his mum going over the message with Robin and making up word games to help her remember. Shit, he even misses Paul, and he's just outside with the security detail.

Harry feels indecently guilty. "I think I have to go home. On Boxing Day, at least."

"Oh." Louis seems to have a telepathic discussion with his entire family for twenty minutes before he tacks on quietly, "Can I come with?"

Harry looks at him incredulously. Under the what and why, he can't help but feel a flutter of hope in his stomach. "To Buckingham Palace?" he whispers back. It's a good idea to stay quiet; they don't need four teenage girls knocking on the palace door.

"Well. I heard that one pop star kissed the prince at the palace."

Harry quirks an eyebrow. He really has been spending too much time with Louis. "I seem to have heard a different version."

"Oh, never mind who's the filthy liar and who's me." Louis shrugs him off.

"Fine, you should come to the palace for a re-enactment."

"Fine," Louis snaps back harshly, but he settles his head on Harry's chest and wraps himself around him, so it's really all the same. "Maybe Niall would be back by then, and I'll be spared your company for—"

"Oh my god, Lou, Hazza, shut up already," Lottie hisses. They've come a long way in two days, he figures.

(When they opened presents this morning Harry couldn't physically stop apologising for both invading their home and not getting anyone any gifts. To shut him up, Lottie suggested that his gift to her would be to let her take a picture of him and Louis. She assured him that he'll never find it online so it shouldn't matter to him. The picture was then nearly compromised by Louis claiming he knew her Tumblr URL and her replying with all the Tomlinson sass the blogs seemed to love. Harry just pulled Louis to his lap and whispered, "Please let your sister do what she wants; I need to score some points here". So Louis kissed him and stroked his face to the sound of Lottie's camera phone.

)

Louis knots their fingers together, and then sings along with the twins and Rapunzel. This is the family that gives up Christmas movies for Disney films. And Harry's the prince with the flowers in his hair.

He feels home.

***