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Harry tightens his arm around Louis's waist, pressing a yawn against his neck. "Shh," he mumbles.
"I didn't say anything," Louis tells him, yawning after a second.
Harry scoffs. "I can hear you thinking."
"One of us has to," Louis murmurs, sleepily patting his hand.
"You'll be fine," Harry mumbles, kissing his neck again. "My mum's going to love you."
"You don't know that," Louis insists, scooting closer back against him, tugging Harry's arm/blanket further over him. "Maybe I'm terrible with mums."
Harry hums a little. "Never brought a boyfriend home before, though, she doesn't have anything to compare you to."
Louis blinks. "What?" he asks.
Harry just pats his hand, breathing evening out. In a few seconds, he's asleep.
Louis isn't -- obviously he isn't opposed to being his boyfriend, but in his experience usually that decision comes with -- a discussion, at least a mention.
Thinking about it, his cheeks go pink and he tucks his face against the pillow, grinning.
Boyfriend.
Whatever.
*
Louis wakes up, as has been his habit lately, with a mouth full of hair and a knee against his ribs.
He very delicately removes himself, shifting Harry's arm so he can at least breathe comfortably, even if he still feels a bit like he's being cuddled to death. (He doesn't mind it at all, really, he could see enjoying waking up like this for the rest of -- well, for as long as Harry doesn't mind it.)
Harry snuffles a little, actual cartoon character that he is, and tucks his face more firmly into Louis's neck. He's always like this when he's waking up, always gets a little bit clingier before he actually wakes, and Louis turns to kiss his forehead, the corner of his eye, his jaw.
Harry smiles, patting Louis's belly. "Morning," he tells him, sliding his leg down and between Louis's, feeling up his side. "You're warm."
"Best stay right here, then," Louis tells him seriously, gently extricating himself so he can lie on his side, gently tucking Harry's hair out of his face. "It's freezing out in the wide, wide world. You'll catch your death."
Harry giggles, kissing his palm. "S'that mean we can sleep like this at my mum's?" he asks. "Suppose we could each have a separate duvet, make sure we don't accidentally touch…"
"Oh, can't have that, can't touch one another," Louis agrees as seriously as he can. He remembers last night, remembers I've never brought a boyfriend back, and this whole -- everything he's saying makes it sound like that's what he means, but. Harry's easily the most romantic person Louis has ever met. He wouldn't drop an opportunity like that.
(Unless he doesn't want to date him at all, exclusively or otherwise, his brain helpfully supplies, but -- Louis knows how stupid that is. It's not an active worry, anyway, just something in the back of his mind, there for only a second before Harry nuzzles him or demands they go out for breakfast and tea.)
Harry pouts at him. "Why d'you look so serious? Is it because you're getting old?" he asks, patting Louis's side. "I promise, I'll be here even when your back goes. I'll do my very best to keep you young."
"Fuck you," Louis says, laughing, though it does break him out of his mood, or whatever. He turns onto his side and leans in for a little kiss, keeping it as chaste as he can, as an apology for the words; Harry knows he doesn't mean it, knows he never means it when he swears at him, but he does get pouty if it's not immediately softened.
"You're not old," Harry murmurs with that kiss, getting his arm around him and smiling. Louis could have predicted that response -- he's no good at teasing, really, gets through one sentence and has to make sure everyone knows he still loves them, didn't mean it. "You're young, yeah?"
"I'm not as young as I once was," Louis says, as serious as he can manage it. That, in the end, turns out to be not very serious at all.
"That's because tomorrow's your birthday," Harry tells him, finally pulling away from the flurry of little kisses. "Which reminds me. We ought to get going."
Louis groans. "Let's leave tonight," he sighs. "Want to keep you like this."
Harry sticks his lower lip out, petting his cheek, very soft. "There's wine at my mum's, though," he tells him, voice lilting up. "Wine and biscuits and the whole place smells like cinnamon…"
"Can we watch a film?" Louis asks. He's resigned to the idea of spending the next few hours in a cramped, cold car, but he has to put up at least a touch of a fight, keep his reputation and all.
"Oh, didn't I tell you? That's my mum's one rule," Harry tells him, rolling his eyes. "Nope. No movies, Christmas or otherwise." He pauses for a second. "I'm teasing," he tells him.
Honestly, Louis is sleeping with a child. An above-age child, to be sure, but a child nonetheless. "Yeah, I know," he tells him, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. "Shit. Can we get breakfast on the way, at least?"
"I'll buy you McDonald's," Harry promises, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Louis can feel his smile pressed there. "Can have whatever you like, won't say a word."
Louis doesn't buy it; Harry is incapable of keeping his health comments to himself, but over the years he's gotten at least marginally used to it. "Fine," he says. He looks him over, smiling. He's so pretty, is the thing, Louis has known him for years but he still gets surprised by it sometimes. "What should I wear, then? Don't want your mum to think I'm corrupting her son."
"She knows you," Harry tells him, rolling his eyes again but getting up, heading over to his dresser. "Just wear a jumper and some -- jeans, I don't know."
"Fashion icon Harry Styles," Louis says in a deadpan, getting up and walking over to him. He goes up on his tiptoes and rests his chin on his shoulder. "We could wear our matching jumpers," he offers.
Harry looks fucking delighted, as Louis expected. "Are you fucking with me?" he asks.
Louis sighs. "No," he tells him, patting his belly and pulling away, heading to his closet and searching for it. "I mean it. My Christmas gift to you," he teases.
"The best gift I've ever received," Harry says, grinning. He pulls his on and then somehow fits himself into a pair of jeans with minimal jumping into them. Louis is, as always, astonished and a bit -- well. Turned on.
Louis finds his own after just a moment of searching. They really are awful sweaters, gifts from Nick two Christmases ago, but Louis is fond of them regardless. "I won't shag you while we're wearing these," he warns Harry, getting his own jeans on (much, much looser than Harry's).
"But it's the season of loving," Harry sighs, tying his hair up in a little knot and coming back over to him, kissing his forehead. "What if I did a, like -- striptease but kept the jumper on?"
"No," Louis says. He's lying and they both know it, but he has to at least pretend he has any willpower left.
*
They make it to Harry's mum's about ten minutes before the snow starts; by the time Louis has been endlessly quizzed by Gemma on whether Harry's really as responsible as he makes it seem, Louis can hardly see outside for all the snow.
He sits on the couch, Harry curled up next to him, laptop open and a series of Christmas specials playing. It's quiet so as not to disturb Anne or Gemma, in the next room, but that makes it feel all the more -- intimate, or whatever.
Harry lets out a little breath, tilting his head up. "We should go for a walk," he tells him.
"In this weather?" Louis asks, looking out the window again. "We'll freeze to death."
"We will not," Harry insists, sitting up and very gently taking Louis's laptop out of his hands, setting it on the ground. "Come on. I've got boots you can wear."
Louis is going to argue, really he is, but Harry looks so eager and earnest, he can't. "Alright," he tells him, shaking his head. "But if you shove any snow down my pants I will leave."
"I would never," Harry scoffs, hand on his heart.
*
It isn't as cold as Louis expected, at least not once he's bundled up, hat and scarf and all. It's not snowing too terribly, either, so he doesn't complain, even as Harry takes his hand and drags him far, far away from the house.
It's not until they're well within the woods at the back of the property that he says, "What did you want, Harry?" and squeezes his fingers. It's possible Harry doesn't feel it, considering they're both wearing a very thick pair of gloves, but the intent is there.
Harry turns to look at him, mouth open and cheeks pink (though, Louis reminds himself, that might be the cold). "So," he says.
"So," Louis says back, because he's a bit of a tit.
"I think we should start the new year off right," he tells him, tugging his scarf down, presumably so Louis can hear him.
"I agree," Louis teases, stepping a little closer and grinning at him. "What's that mean, then?"
Harry nods, once. "We've been sleeping together for a while, now," he tells him.
"We have," Louis agrees, resting his hand on the small of his back.
"And I don't want to, like -- make it weird or anything," Harry says, "but it's -- we sort of live together, right? I've got things at your place, you've got things at mine…"
"True," Louis says, grinning a little wider at that.
"And I haven't -- since we started, I haven't slept with anyone else."
If it wasn't so bloody cold out, Louis might start crying; as it stands, he's pleased that this way he can keep himself at least marginally under control. "Neither have I," he tells him.
Harry stops his -- whatever this is, his speech -- and looks at him. "Really?" he asks, and now he's smiling, too, stupid dimples showing.
"Yeah, really," Louis tells him, giggling a little.
"So I think we should date, then," Harry tells him, finally rushing the words out. "And properly move in together. My mum already thinks we live together --"
"And you've already told her you're my boyfriend," Louis interrupts, going on his tiptoes again to kiss his cheek and then the corner of his mouth.
"How d'you know that?" Harry asks.
Louis pauses. "You told me," he tells him. "Last night, said you'd never brought a boyfriend home before."
"Oh," Harry says, and then, "oh, fuck."
Louis leans back a little so he can look at him more clearly. "What?"
"I ruined it! I had all these romantic plans…" Harry sighs.
He's an idiot. Louis is in love with an idiot. "Shut up," he tells him, pulling him close in a tight hug. "The whole thing was plenty romantic, don't worry about that."
Harry hugs him back, pressing his stupid smile against Louis's neck. "S'that mean you agree, then? Think we should move in together?" he asks.
Louis would tease him if he didn't hear that hint of actual worry at the end of his words, which is -- stupid, for one thing, and entirely unfounded. "Yeah, I agree, you tit," he tells him.
Harry laughs a little, nuzzling his neck. "Good," he says happily.
Around them, the snow has picked up speed; Louis is loving this moment, but his ankles are at least three-quarters frozen. "Can we talk about this inside?" he whispers, kissing the side of his face, just under where his hat ends. "Make our grand plans when I can feel my fingers?"
"I suppose," Harry tells him, looking him over once he's pulled back. "Got to listen to my boyfriend, after all."
Louis shakes his head at him, but he's grinning too hard to care much at all.