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It starts out with a text, a kissy emoji, and Harry’s inability to say no.
It ends with Harry and Louis pressed up against each other in the small storage cupboard in Harry’s hallway, Louis blinking up innocently at him like he has no idea what he’s done wrong.
“ Louis ,” Harry sighs, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose. “A small get-together, you said. With some friends to exchange holiday love and joy before the new year. Emphasis on the word small .”
Louis frowns. “It is small-”
“There’s at least thirty people in my living room right now.”
“For me,” Louis finishes. “And there’s only twenty six.”
“Twenty six!” Harry exclaims. “How do you even have that many friends? You know what, don’t even answer that. Just explain to me why you decided to throw a New Year’s Party party in my flat without telling me.”
“I did tell you. Remember this morning, when I came by to drop the cupcakes off? You told me they were cute.”
“And then I asked you why you had three dozen for only a small get-together and you just smiled all coyly at me. That would have been the perfect opportunity to tell me you’re throwing a rave in my house in the name of 2016.”
“Oh my god,” Louis groans, face falling forward onto Harry’s chest. Harry feels him mutter ‘a rave ’ more than he hears him. “Are you actually mad at me?”
Harry sets his chin down on top of Louis’ head with a heavy sigh. The fabric from the Santa hat Louis is wearing itches at his skin a bit, but Harry ignores it. “No, Lou. I just wish you would have told me.”
“Oh, come on,” Louis says, pulling away from Harry as well as he can in a three by two foot storage cupboard. “We both agreed that your flat is bigger than mine, and that you don’t wanna have to deal with me sleeping on your couch when my grumpy old neighbor gets me evicted for playing music past seven pm. So what if it might have maybe gotten carried away a little bit somewhere along the line.”
Harry clenches his jaw at him. “Do I even know everyone out there?”
Louis smiles at him and shrugs. Harry pointedly ignores the way stomach flip-flops. “I can introduce you?”
Harry stares at him for a few long moments. “You owe me so many favors.”
Louis grins, rises up on his tiptoes, and pecks a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry banishes the tiny thought that bubbles up that wishes the kiss would go on for longer to the very deepest pits of his mind. “Love you,” Louis quips before opening the door and flouncing out, leaving Harry red-faced and clutching an elf hat that he has no idea how got there.
+++
The party ends up being nice. It’s adult for Louis, Harry notices, impressed. Alcohol is brought out not even an hour after it starts, of course, because even if Louis is maturing he’s still Louis , and green frosting is smeared across the carpet Harry just had dry-cleaned from when Zayn and Niall decided it was a good idea to try and catch cupcakes in their mouths, but it is an adult party. It really is. Louis even managed to organize a gift exchange, which is how a scowling Harry ends up being stuffed into a sweater of reindeers humping that he unwrapped by a cackling Louis.
Everyone is out of his flat by eleven, because it’s the night before New Year’s Eve and everyone needs their rest for the godforsaken parties they’ll be going to tomorrow evening. Zayn, Liam, and Niall hugged Harry goodbye before they left, wishing him a goodnight and promising to all hang out together soon, but Louis seems to duck out before saying goodbye.
Harry would say it’s like Louis to leave after throwing a party in someone else’s flat without even helping clean up first, but it’s really not. Especially not when there’s half a dozen cupcakes still begging to be eaten sitting on Harry’s breakfast bar. He seals them back up in their container and sticks them in the fridge, thinking he gets at least one good thing out of his whole ordeal, then pulls out the carpet scrubber from beneath the sink to set about getting the frosting caked into his carpet out.
It’s a brown carpet, at least, so the stain won’t show too much as it would if it were a lighter color, but Harry stills debates with himself a full minute whether or not he should make Zayn and Niall buy him a new one before deciding no, it’s the holidays, god damn it Harry, and he will not be the Scrooge Louis accused him of being while trying to convince Harry to allow the party (get-together) in the first place.
So, heavy sigh in hand, Harry gets down on his hands and knees and starts scrubbing, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth. He gets kind of into it, actually, so much so that he doesn’t register the footsteps behind him until a heavy weight is plopping down onto his back. Harry doesn’t scream. He doesn’t.
Louis jumps off, eyes wide, startled by the scream. Once the initial fight-or-flight response leaves, though, a laugh tears out of Louis’ mouth, loud and contagious and somewhere an angel just gained their wings. “Oh my god!” he screeches, falling down onto the floor dramatically, clutching at his stomach while he laughs.
Harry can’t help but laugh himself, even though he knows the reason for the laughter is Harry being scared. He makes up for it by throwing the carpet scrubber aside and grabbing Louis instead, one hand wrapped around Louis’ wrists to keep him from fighting back and the other landing delicate little punches to Louis’ chest. The punches are more like taps, really, but they could pass.
(They really couldn’t.)
“Lemme go!” Louis cries, twisting under Harry. “You’re really about to murder your best friend just cause I scared you?!”
Harry abandons the punching for digging his fingers into Louis’ side and tickling, instead, right at the spot Louis is most ticklish. Harry absolutely deserves the kick to his groin that Louis serves out, but that doesn’t stop him from groaning loudly and flopping down on top of Louis.
“Oi!” Louis huffs underneath him. “You’re crushing me.”
“You kicked me in the balls,” Harry says back, a little breathlessly.
“You tickled me. No one tickles me and gets away without a kick in the balls, Harold.” Louis uses Harry laughing softly to roll them both sideways so that Harry is not on top of Louis anymore but lying right next to them. Harry’s head lands right in the clump of icing he had been trying so diligently to remove. He doesn’t move it.
Louis smiles at him, eye crinkles and all, and even if Harry was a little bit mad before he isn’t now, not with how the fairy lights around Harry’s flat sparkle off Louis’ skin like he’s made of actual glitter, not with how Louis’ ears stick out slightly from his head, offset by the Santa hat he still has on, not with how close Louis is, so close that Harry can see his lips are stained a shade darker from the wine he drank earlier. Harry wants to kiss those lips. He really, really, really wants to kiss those lips.
Louis beats him to it. It’s not, like, an actual kiss, but it’s close enough that as soon as Louis leaves Harry will call Zayn up and whine about how gorgeous Louis is and why doesn’t he realize already that Harry is in love with him? Zayn doesn’t need to know the actual details, okay, including the fact that Louis kissed his nose and not his lips. Those details are private.
“Thank you for letting me have my party here,” Louis whispers. Harry wants to tattoo his voice onto his beating heart.
“Course. Thought you left without helping me clean up.”
Louis scowls. Harry can’t help himself when he grins, not when Louis looks so damn cute. “You really think that lowly of me?”
“You’re my best friend, love. I know more about you than you do yourself, even your flaws.”
“Hey,” Louis protests. His eyebrows crinkle together in the middle, and yeah, Harry knows that Louis would never actually leave without helping cleaning up, but it’s worth saying it just to see that expression on Louis’ face.
“Prove it to me then. Go clean up.”
Louis sits up for a moment, swivelling his head around to survey the room, and he kind of reminds Harry of a timid little meerkat. But then he plops back down next to Harry with a heavy sigh and an excuse already falling from his lips, “We can do it tomorrow.”
“ We ?” Harry asks, a single eyebrow arched.
“Yes, we , Harold, you helped throw the party too.”
“Fair enough. You’re staying tonight, then?”
“Yeah. It’s snowing right now, anyway, I don’t feel like going home in that.”
Harry frowns. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to get a heavy snowfall overnight. You probably wanna head home before that hits.”
“Oh bloody hell, Harry,” Louis sighs, clicking his tongue. “you’re too paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid , I just think you should leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“You should definitely leave.”
“I’m not leaving!”
“What if you get snowed in! Do you really wanna spend a week in this tiny flat with me? You’ll get sick of me.”
“I think the question is more like, would you get sick of me ?” Louis throws back. “Why are you trying to get rid of me so hard? Got someone coming off? I’m always up for a threesome, you know.” He says it teasingly, Harry would know, as he’s been subject to Louis’ teases since they met in uni freshman year, but the scowl on his face and the underlying hurt in his voice tip Harry off that this is more of a don’t-let-Harry-know-I’m-upset kind of tease and not an actual piss-Harry-off-as-much-as-possible-while-staying-cute-so-it’s-impossible-for-him-to-actually-be-mad-at-me kind of tease.
Harry frowns and reaches a hand out, laying it on Louis’ bicep. He can feel the chill of Louis’ skin, even through the jumper he is wearing, and resists the urge to become a mother hen and force Louis to go snuggle up in Harry’s bed while Harry makes them both a cup of tea. That will come later, of course, but first Harry needs to convince him that he’s just concerned that Louis will get snowed in and doesn’t actually want him gone.
“Hey,” Harry says, sliding his hand a little lower, towards Louis’ wrist. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“What?” Louis asks, his scowl deepening.
“You and I both know that the day I don’t want you around is the day you, like, murder my mother in cold blood or something. And even then…”
“That’s ridiculous,” Louis sighs.
“So is saying that I don’t want you around.”
Louis turns his head slightly to meet Harry’s eye, eyebrows raised. “Unless it comes to sex. You always ditch me when you wanna take someone home.”
“That’s not true,” Harry says. “You’re just making stuff up now.”
Louis pauses, then grins. “Remember that time you fucked a can of sardines?”
If Harry gasps, he can’t really be blamed, yet he wouldn’t admit to it with a gun to his head. He slaps a hand over Louis’ mouth, mouth open in horror, and glances around the room to make sure no one overheard even though he knows it’s just him and Louis in the room. (If not, one of the boys would have been screeching at the pair to go get a room long ago, as per their usual practice when Harry and Louis get so much as five feet within each other’s body space.)
“Stop saying it like that!” Harry exclaims.
Louis licks his hand.
“There is a very big difference between sleeping with someone on Halloween that was dressed like a can of sardines and actually fucking a can of sardines.” Louis laughs around his hand, eyes twinkling. He twists underneath Harry, trying to free his mouth for speech, probably, but Harry is bigger and stronger and manages to keep his hand firmly clasped to Louis’ mouth, his other hand circling Louis’ wrists and holding them together above his head.
“I’ll take my hand off if you promise not to say it again,” Harry says.
Louis nods.
Harry slowly removes his hand from Louis’ mouth, hesitant, ready to slap it back on if Louis speaks again. He doesn’t, though, for a few long moments in which they just stare at each other, Louis’ hands still above his head. There’s absolutely nothing dirty about it. A beat of silence more, then just as Harry says, “Thank you,” Louis snickers, “You still fucked a-” and Harry slaps his hand back over Louis’ mouth.
It stays like that for something like another half hour, until Harry gets too exasperated and Louis gets too bored, and they go about their nighttime routine together, which, Harry notes as Louis makes a face in the mirror at him while they’re brushing their teeth, is familiar and far too domestic. He’s going to have to do something about that, before he tricks his body into thinking that he and Louis are actually married.
They fall into bed together after that, Harry lying flat on his back, Louis lying against him with one leg splayed over Harry’s and his arm around Harry’s chest, head in the space between Harry’s shoulder and neck. And maybe this isn’t doing anything to combat the domesticity of the situation, but Harry is tired and painfully in love with his best friend and he thinks he deserves this, okay. He really does.
Painfully in love, even if a few minutes later, after Harry had thought Louis had already fallen asleep, Louis mutters, “Fuckin’ perv,” against Harry’s neck. Painfully in love, even if Harry’s too tired to protest.
+++
Harry wakes up with a heavy weight falling on top of him, pushing the air from his body.
“Wake up, Harry! We got a white Christmas!”
And, oh, would you look at that, the weight is another person and not actually Harry’s ceiling fan that fell and is about to crush him to death. He ignores the voice, though, because as ecstatic as it sounded Harry is much too tired for it to be any earlier than nine in the morning and he just, doesn’t handle mornings well. Besides, the voice had said it was Christmas, and it’s clearly not. Christmas was a week ago.
Or was it? Maybe Harry thinks Christmas was a week ago, but the Christmas he is thinking of was actually fifteen years ago and today is another Christmas and he has a family and a stable job and Harry has severe amnesia and can’t remember his son that’s currently on top of him, waiting excitedly for his father to wake up for Christmas, unknowing that when his father opens his eyes he’ll be greeted by someone who thinks of him as a stranger?
He cracks an eye open. It’s Louis.
“Lou,” he groans, burrowing further into the bed. “‘s not Christmas.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” Louis agrees. Harry really wishes Louis would leave it at that and let Harry go back to sleep, but then Louis is pulling the duvet from where Harry had is comfortably tucked under his chin down to his stomach, running (cold) hands over wherever the blanket leaves exposed, mostly being Harry’s chest. This is definitely not okay. Definitely, definitely not okay, especially with how Louis has resituated himself into a more comfortable position overtop of Harry, which ends up being straddling his his hips. Harry is at serious danger of popping a stiffy right now, which would probably be the worst possible thing he could do after his best friend wakes him up, especially if the snowfall overnight was as bad as predicted and Louis is trapped with him for a while. He needs to end this right now before his body betrays him.
“You’re pressing on my bladder,” Harry mutters, yawning. “I’m gonna piss all over you if you don’t move.”
Louis quirks an eyebrow, then smiles. Harry knows that smile, that smile that promises Louis is up to something mischievous, but he has no time to react before Louis presses down farther into Harry’s hips, in attempt to get Harry to piss himself, of course, but that way his bum is situated right against Harry’s dick and he is in severe, severe danger of popping a stiffy. Like, is-already-getting-hard danger.
Thanking the gods for making him bigger than Louis, Harry grabs Louis’ hips and rolls the pair sideways, stuffing the duvet between their bodies the second Louis is off of him so he doesn’t try anything again. But this is Louis, of course, and he does try something again. Harry is already half off the bed, though, by the time Louis lunges for him, so he’s able to shake him off, and throws, “I will actually piss all over you!” over his shoulder while he stalks off to the bathroom.
He shouldn’t be surprised that when he comes back into the bedroom, Louis is nowhere in sight. Sighing, and somewhat bracing himself for both a sneak attack and for what he is about to see, Harry pads over to the window and pushes the curtain open. He’s met with a dazzling brightness he hadn’t prepared himself for, a brightness so intense that he has to close his eyes for a few moments until they adjust to the light and he can open them back up.
White upon white lies outside his window, shimmering and sparkling, reflecting the sunlight. Every surface is blanketed by a thick coat of white, like all those years ago his ancestors and the other folk had built London from snow and not stone. “Wow,” he breathes, because scary as it is that there’s so much snow that he can’t tell the sidewalk from the road, it really is beautiful. Majestic, even, like they all went to bed on Earth and woke up in some alternate dimension where magical snow kingdoms actually exist.
Just as he frowns, letting the curtain fall shut, a loud clatter sounds from his kitchen. Harry sighs, pulls a sweatshirt over his sleep shirt, and walks out into the kitchen. He finds Louis up on one of the counters on his knees, digging through one of his cupboards, face in a scowl of concentration. Harry pointedly ignores the way that what with Louis’ arms reaching up above his head, a full two inches of skin is visible, the curve of his hips and back. Harry most definitely does not spend half a minute looking before he makes his presence known.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
Louis doesn’t turn to acknowledge him, but Harry thinks he can see a smirk on his lips. Maybe Louis knew he was there, after all. “Your measuring cups.”
Harry blinks. “Why?”
“So I can make bloody pancakes, why do you think? I’m starving, Harry.”
“You’re fine,” Harry mutters with an eyeroll. “Get down before you break your neck and I’ll get them. They’re not even in that cupboard.”
Louis drops his hands and gets down from his knees so he’s sitting cross-legged on Harry’s counter, one socked foot lying directly on top of the cutting board. Harry eyes it with a sort of air of resignation.
“Help me down,” Louis orders.
Harry frowns. “What?”
“Help me down.”
“You can’t - You can’t get down on your own? It’s like, two and a half feet.”
Louis scowls at him, forcing Harry into submission, and he raises his hands in surrender and walks over to Louis. Louis stretches his legs so Harry can help him down easier, which ends up actually being Harry lifting his entire body weight up and setting him down on the floor and Louis being as difficult as possible.
“You’re a brat,” Harry mutters.
Louis grins and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Harry curses himself for the twentieth time in the past day for making platonic kissing a part of their friendship. It was great. Harry falls in love? Not so great anymore.
“Make me pancakes,” Louis sing-songs, then flounces away. Harry shakes his head and makes him pancakes.
+++
“It’s only noon , Harry,” Louis says some time later. “They’ll get it cleared up. If not Britain’s entire economy would collapse.”
Harry grunts at him, too engrossed in the boss battle on his TV screen to fight back. Even if he started the argument.
“Oh!” Louis cries, clutching Harry’s bicep. “Get him from the side, the side!” Harry gets him from the side and his character’s head gets sliced clean off. He gapes at the screen.
“The other side!” Louis shrieks, throwing himself at Harry and throwing punches that actually hurt a bit. “I meant the other damn side! Give me the controller!”
“No!”
“Give me the fucking controller you incompetent-”
Harry manages to free himself and hops up off the couch with a cry of triumph, and thrusts his hand holding the controller into the air. Louis turns to look at him, mouth falling open in a gasp. “You did not fucking go there.”
Harry smirks. “I fucking went there.”
“Fuck off,” Louis mutters, eyebrows furrowed, but Harry can see the tiny dimple in his cheek that means Louis is holding back a smile. Louis isn’t actually as mad as he’s acting to be.
But then he delivers a well-aimed kick to Harry’s groin and stalks off to Harry’s bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. Maybe he is mad.
+++
Louis makes a reappearance half an hour later when Harry starts making himself a grilled cheese and Louis is too hungry to feign anger any longer.
“Hey,” Louis says, draping himself across Harry’s back, “make me one.”
“Make yourself one.”
“Need I remind you who is the guest in this household?”
“Certainly not you. You threw a party here last night.” Harry sweeps his arm around the room, the trash from the party they still haven’t cleaned up serving as evidence for his statement. He takes his grilled cheese and sits on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, allowing Louis room to make himself a sandwich. Louis doesn’t complain again, just glares at him and goes about cooking.
“What were you doing it my room?”
“Masturbating,” Louis quips monotonously.
Harry snorts, inhaling a bit of his sandwich, and has to down half a water bottle before he regains control of his body enough to speak. “You joke, but you actually would do that.”
“Right, well, I wasn’t joking. I actually just masturbated in your bedroom.”
Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Like, jerking off, or fingering yourself?”
Louis turns and gives him an offended look. Harry’s half afraid he’s going to slap him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asks instead, stealing Harry’s empty plate out from under his nose and flipping his own grilled cheese off the pan and onto it.
“Seriously, though, what were you doing? Reading my journal?”
“Yeah,” Louis says through a bite. He finishes chewing and swallows before speaking again. “I was looking through your closet.”
“My closet?”
“Yes, your closet.”
“...Why?”
“I wanted to see if you had any cute clothes that I could steal.”
Harry frowns, knowing where this is going. “Did you find any cute clothes?”
Louis turns his body to fully face Harry, and, slapping his hand on Harry’s shoulder, molds his face into one of pity, like a parent having to tell their toddler they sent their dog to ‘live somewhere better.’ “Not a single one, my friend.”
Harry lays a gentle slap to Louis’ cheek, and keeps his hand there afterward, because why not. “I have plenty of cute clothes, fuck you.”
Louis makes a face and turns away. Harry’s hand falls to his shoulder when Louis does so, but he still keeps it there, squeezing once or twice just because Louis doesn’t protest.
“Take it back, say I have cute clothes.”
Louis laughs and shrugs. “On you, maybe,” he admits. “You can work the hipster garbage look. Anyone else…”
“Oh, I see where this is coming from,” Harry says. He finally lets go of Louis, but only so he can pull Louis’ chair closer. This close Louis is practically sitting in his lap, which. Totally fine. Definitely absolutely fine. “You’re insecure and you take your self-doubts out on me.”
Louis quirks an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s where this is coming from?”
“Oh, absolutely. And I am going to stifle that seed of insecurity right now. We are going to go into my closet right now and we are going to put my clothes on you and we are going to prove that you too, my friend , can pull off the hipster garbage look.”
Louis picks up the crust on his sandwich and eyes it, then drops it again and shrugs. “Okay. Only because I’m bored.”
“That hurts, Louis,” Harry says, placing his hand right above his heart. “It hurts right here.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Shut up and get on with it before I change my mind.”
Grinning, Harry takes Louis’ hand and leads him away from the kitchen, through Harry’s bedroom, and into the closet, which, true to Louis’ word, does look like someone had rifled around in it.
“Ironic,” Louis says. He doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand.
“What is?”
“Two queer guys holding hands in a closet.”
“Well would you look at that,” Harry deadpans. “We might as well just start fucking right now.”
Louis breaks out in a cackle, shaking his head and hiding his face in his hands.
“What?” Harry asks through his grin.
“You’re so weird.”
“You love me.”
Louis lowers his hands, still laughing, and shrugs. “The unfortunate thing is that I love you as a best friend and brother and you’re secretly in love with me and want to have babies with me.”
And, well, if that just doesn’t hit too close to home. Harry clears his throat and turns around to start rummaging through his shirts, trying to find one Louis would fit into. He settles on a black shirt, sheer in the front, solid in the back, and turns to give it to Louis with a small smile on his face.
Louis stares at it incredulously. “You are not getting me in that.”
“Why not?”
“I take it back,” Louis says, shaking his head. “You’re not in love with me, or you wouldn’t put me in that. You just wanna fuck me.”
Harry shrugs and turns back around to find another shirt.
“Harry Styles!” Louis shouts indignantly. Harry braces himself.
“Yes, love?”
“You do wanna fuck me! I can’t believe you!”
Harry frowns as he places the black shirt back in its spot and instead takes down a more modest floral-print shirt. “Where did you ever get that idea, sunshine?”
“You shrugged ,” Louis huffs. “That’s as good as a yes.”
“Is it?” Harry asks, like he truly is curious. He rifles through his trousers drawer until he finds an old pair of black jeans that are a bit too short on Harry and may fit Louis, and a pair of black Chelsea boots. Turning back around, Harry bows and presents the clothes to Louis like a peasant presenting his king with a gift, and smiles up at the smaller man. Louis is staring at him with a very unimpressed look on his face, lips in a thin line, eyebrows furrowed inward, and crossed arms. Harry straightens back up.
“Oh, come on,” he groans. “You can’t actually be mad.”
“It hurts,” Louis sniffles, wiping a finger under his eye for dramatic effect, “knowing my best friend is only nice to me so he can get in my pants.”
“Let’s hurry this along then, so you can cut me off from your life and start the process of healing. Strip.”
Louis gapes. “You’re fucking awful.”
Harry only grins.
“Get the fuck out of this room, I can’t believe you,” Louis sighs, but even as he turns Harry catches the grin on his face. “Can’t believe I let you see my bare ass.”
“And what a nice ass it was!” Harry singsongs as he flounces out of the room. He squeezes Louis’ shoulder as he goes and manages to whisper, “Acceptance is the first stage of grief,” before Louis shrieks and pushes him the rest of the way out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Harry wanders over to his bed and flops down on it, burying his face in one of the pillows. It smells like Louis’ shampoo, he notices, inhaling again. Definitely not creepy.
The closet door opens again maybe five minutes later. Harry jerks up off the bed and stands beside it, watching as Louis walks out with a grumpy expression on his face. He looks...He looks good. Really good. So good that Harry sweeps his eyes up and down Louis’ body once for a few long moments, and then resists the urge to look again. Even though the clothes, particularly the pants, are baggy on Louis, he pulls it off, and Harry kind of wants to scream because of course Louis would look ten times better than him and in Harry’s own clothes. Typical Louis.
“So? Have we reached the conclusion?”
Harry finds as he goes to speak that his mouth has gone very, very dry. “What conclusion?
“That you’re the only person alive on this planet that can pull off the dirty hipster look?” Louis gestures at the hat he’s wearing for emphasis, like he can’t believe he’s actually doing this.
“Are you kidding me?” Harry protests, stepping forward a few steps. “You look great.”
“Define ‘great’,” Louis says back, turning to watch himself in Harry’s body-length mirror. Harry comes to stand behind him and wraps a hand around Louis’ body to undo the top two buttons; Louis had had them buttoned up all the way to his throat before.
“Even better now,” Harry smiles.
Louis rolls his eyes at him through the mirror, then lifts his phone and opens it up to the camera app. “At least let me take some selfies.” Harry nods and begins to step away, but Louis catches his hand and keeps him there. “With you. My Instagram followers think we’re cute.”
Harry blinks. “They think we’re cute.”
“Right,” Louis says back, pulling Harry into a better position. “Here, wrap your arm around me from the back. We have to maximize the cuteness, see. Isn’t that cute? Imagine all the likes I’ll get.”
“Your followers think we’re cute.”
“Yes!” Louis huffs. “Like I said twice before.”
“All two hundred of them.”
Plastered to Louis’ back, Harry can’t see Louis’ face directly, but he can see it through the mirror still, and doesn’t miss the way his cheeks tinge slightly pink.
“Exactly, Harold. Any more questions?”
Harry pauses. “Want me to kiss your cheek?”
Louis looks surprised at the least, if the way his eyes widen and lips slightly part is any indication to go by. It only lasts a second or two though before he waves the surprise away and replaces it with an air of nonchalance, shrugging against Harry’s chest.
“Yeah, if you want.”
Laughing once, twice, Harry swoops in and plants his lips on Louis’ cheek, holding himself there long enough that the fake shutter sound from Louis’ phone has gone off a few times, and then even longer. It must be a solid two minutes he’s standing there, lips against Louis’ soft skin, neither of them saying anything. Harry’s heart is close to stopping in his chest.
“Okay,” Louis whispers. Harry reluctantly pulls his lips away and peels himself away from Louis’ back. He notes the way Louis’ entire body jerks when he goes, as if begging for Harry to come back, but Louis doesn’t say anything himself so Harry doesn’t, just stands there and holds Louis’ stare through the mirror until Louis swallows audibly and hurries back into the closet. He goes so quickly that Harry barely registers the movement until he’s gone and Harry is left standing by himself. He breathes out a heavy, shaky sigh and flings himself back onto the bed, this time burrowing under the duvet for not warmth but comfort from what just happened.
Which, speaking of, what exactly did just happen? Harry isn’t sure. Probably wouldn’t be able to find words to explain it if someone asked. Something did happen, though, something significant, and the longer he lies there by himself, slowly sinking further and further into the mattress, his anxiety levels spike more, because surely it can’t be a good thing.
Louis realized , Harry cries inwardly. Louis knows, fuck, shit, fuck . What does he do? What do I do ? Does he talk about it? Bring it up? Ask why the hell Louis told Harry to kiss him then clammed up when it happened? It wasn’t even that big of a deal, was it, taking a fucking selfie together? Where do he goes? Does he run? Can’t run, the snow .
“The snow,” Louis breathes from above him, and Harry jumps. He hadn’t noticed Louis coming back out of the closet.
“What about it?”
Louis breaks his gaze away from the window to look down at Harry. “It’s coming down even harder now. I just looked on my phone, London declared a state of emergency. So I doubt I’m getting home tonight. Or rather, to that party I was gonna go to.”
“Justin’s?” Harry asks, because even though he already knows he’s struggling to find anything to say right now.
“Yeah.” Louis sighs and sits down on the bed near Harry. (This time, luckily, not on top of him, but still close enough that Harry can feel his body heat even through the duvet.) “At least we have each other, though, right? Ringing in the new year being trapped in a flat with your best friend. Nothing better.”
Harry grins, and agrees, “Nothing better.”
+++
So, true to Louis’ word, he doesn’t make it home that night. Harry remains hopeful, though; for what, he’s not really sure. He’s too scared to delve into that part of his brain labelled ‘Louis’ and therefore is unable to determine if he wants Louis to stay or to go.
Regardless of what he wants, Louis stays, and regardless of the fact that there is only two of them, it’s still New Year’s Eve and by nine o’clock Louis has raided Harry’s cabinets and pulled out every bottle of alcohol he could get his hands on. And now he’s also dancing around Harry’s kitchen to the 90s music station Harry had flipped to on the TV.
“Harryyy,” Louis calls from the kitchen, and Harry can hear the whine in his voice, but he looks up anyway. “This beer is gross, I don’t want it anymore.”
“Give it to me, I’ll drink it.” Deep down Harry knows this is probably just a trick for Louis to get him drunk after Harry initially refused, but Harry likes that beer and won’t let it go to waste. Grinning, Louis bounces over to him on feet clad in the most garish Christmas socks Harry has ever seen, (they probably came from his sock drawer, though, so he can’t make fun of Louis for them), and hands him the beer.
Harry gets it, and also a phone to the face. “Ow,” he mutters, glancing down at Louis’ phone, which has landed in his lap. “What was that for?”
“Look what Liam commented on the photo I posted.”
Harry frowns, and picks up the phone. “‘You two make me sick. I refuse to believe that you’re not fucking,’” Harry reads aloud, an eyebrow arched. “I thought the photo was cute.”
“It was . See how many likes it got? Twenty five! That’s a lot of likes, Harry.”
“I bet Liam’s just jealous.”
“Oh, definitely,” Louis agrees, not giving Harry any time to protest before splaying himself over Harry’s lap. “He’s in love with me and is waiting for me to admit it.”
“Too bad he’s straight.”
“The thing is,” Louis goes on, ignoring Harry’s comment, “is that I am in love with him, but I’m waiting for him to tell me . See? A bad case of supposed unrequited pining. Truly tragic.”
“Someone should write a book about you.” Harry pats his thigh consolingly. Which, looking back on it a full three seconds later, with Louis staring at him with something like surprise in his eyes, maybe that pat was a little too intimate, especially with Louis lying over his lap. Yeah, definitely too intimate.
Harry goes to retract his hand, but Louis reaches out and clasps his own hand around it, threading their fingers together, pulling the pair back down onto Louis’ lap. “Don’t,” he whispers. “I like it. When you touch me.”
Harry blinks. “You’re an affectionate guy,” he says, and he hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question but the way his voice lilts up at the end makes it sound like one.
“Exactly. I’m an affectionate guy.”
The pregnant silence that lingers between the two for the next few minutes is an awkward one that Harry isn’t accustomed to. Even when he first met Louis, they had clicked so well right off the bat that there was no awkward silences while getting to know each other. This might be the very first one, and Harry absolutely despises the way it makes his throat itch and his skin crawl. Awkward silences aren’t supposed to feel like that. They’re supposed to make you feel anxious, sure, but not like this. He supposes not every awkward silence is caused by the man you’re in love with, aka your best friend, telling you he likes it when you touch him, though. So Harry has an excuse.
“Drink,” Louis says finally, then sits up so he’s more sitting on the couch than Harry’s lap. Harry misses his weight immediately.
Harry drinks. He drinks the beer, then totally abandons his refusal to get drunk and downs the (gross) drinks Louis throws at him that are composed of gin and vodka and whatever fruit juice Harry has in his fridge. They get him drunk, though, no matter how they taste, and by the time there’s only fifteen minutes till the new year he and Louis are lying on his kitchen floor facing each other, completely inebriated.
“Let me ask you something,” Harry says.
Louis kicks Harry weakly in the stomach and giggles in response.
“Are you really in love with Liam?”
“What?” Louis gasps, jaw dropping open in a way that Harry didn’t know was actually possible. “No! Why would you even think that?”
“Well, you said…”
“It was a joke!”
“Just making sure.”
“Why?” Louis asks, scooting closer to Harry on the floor. “Are you the one that’s secretly in love with him and don’t want me getting in your way?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s unfortunate. Falling in love with one of your best friends.”
“Tell me about it,” Harry huffs.
“I’ve been there before, you know. It really does suck. Especially cause they’re always touchy with you and your heart is trying to convince your brain that they’re like that cause they’re mutually in love with you when really they’re just your friend.”
Harry’s heart aches the more Louis talks. He really wants him to shut up. “Yeah,” he agrees.
Louis sighs and falls silent for a moment, before speaking again. “Have you ever been in love with a friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Who?”
Harry twists his head to look Louis in the eyes. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“But is it someone I know? Or someone from your past?”
“I might have mentioned him once or twice, yeah.”
“Well?” Louis urges. Harry wants to scream. Harry wants nothing more than for this conversation to be over. “Did you ever tell him you love him?”
“Nah. Never found the right moment to.”
“Are you ever going to?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You should!” Louis exclaims, and sits up, still clutching an empty bottle of beer. Harry half-ponders over why Louis is so pressed over this subject, but he’s consumed too much alcohol for his brain to properly ponder things right now, so he lets it drop.
“Why does it bother you so much?”
“Harry,” Louis whines, slapping Harry’s stomach. Harry is too drunk to do anything about it except laugh.
“Five minutes till midnight!” the lady on the television program announces, and Louis glances over it with wild eyes, like that means he’s only got five minutes to live, like he’ll die the second 2016 rolls around.
“Hey,” Harry says softly. He loops a hand around Louis’ arm and thanks whatever god is listening that his kitchen floor allows Louis to slide so easily over to him. “Hey,” he says again, lifting his hand off Louis’ arm and placing it on his chin instead, forcing Louis to look at him. “What’s wrong?”
(Four minutes.)
Louis is silent for a long while, emotions flitting across his face so rapidly that Harry would struggle putting a name to them when he was sober, let alone now. Right now all he can do is lie there and stare at Louis and hope that Louis trusts him enough to open up about whatever is bothering him.
“I just want to know one thing.”
“Of course,” Harry breathes.
“Why didn’t you tell your...your friend, that you love him? Loved?”
“Present tense,” Harry confirms, sighing, and lifting his free hand to scrub at his own face. “He means the world to me. I don’t want to ruin what we have together just because he’s too beautiful not to fall in love with.”
(Three minutes.)
“Well what if he loves you too?”
“He doesn’t.”
“You don’t know that!” Louis exclaims, slamming his open palm against the floor like a toddler throwing a fit. “You’ll never know until you tell him! Tell him, Harry!”
“No.”
“Harry!” Louis shouts, and scares Harry how angry Louis is getting over this simple thing. It’s really not something to get angry over, is it? Is it?
(Two minutes.)
“At least sit up,” Louis huffs, eyebrows pulled in towards the middle of his face and lips pressed tightly together. Harry sits up.
“Could you just explain to me why you’re getting so riled up over this?”
“Because I’m your best friend and I want you to live a long and happy life with the man you love.”
“But you don’t even know who it is. What if you hate him and we get engaged and you’re forced to go to the wedding of someone that you hate?”
“I know it’s not someone I hate,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes in a way that’s definitely not sarcastic. He meant that eyeroll. “You said it was one of your best friends, and you’ve already denied it’s Liam, which leaves Zayn and Niall. So which one is it?”
(One minute.)
“Neither,” Harry says. “I can promise you that it’s neither of them.”
Louis pauses for a few long moments. “You promise me?”
“I promise, Louis. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“No,” Louis agrees, “you don’t lie. You just refuse to tell me things?”
Harry groans, pulling at his hair. This conversation is infuriating. “Well why won’t you just fucking tell me why you want to know so bad! It’s not like the world is going to collapse!”
“It wouldn’t collapse if you told me, either!” Louis shouts back.
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Louis, I swear to God ,” Harry spits, “you are getting on my every last nerve right now. Fucking tell me.”
(Ten seconds.)
“Because I want it to be me!” Louis shouts, louder than either of them have shouted so far, loud enough that his voice goes hoarse. “I want it to be me,” he says softer, voice almost in a whisper, “because I’m in love with you and I just wanted you to love me back.”
(Five seconds.)
“Say something,” Louis begs. “Please just say something-”
And then the balls drops, the new year falls upon them, and Harry is surging forward and kissing him like his life depends on it, hands cupping the either side of Louis’ face just so he can touch him more. For a few seconds it’s just Harry kissing him, Harry pouring his heart out through his lips, finally getting to release the love he’s held for Louis for so long, but then Louis gets over his shock and kisses him back. He scrambles to get up in Harry’s lap, knees on either side of Harry’s waist, Harry’s back against the kitchen cabinet, and it’s not comfortable but it doesn’t really matter right now because the only thing Harry can feel is his lips and Louis’ skin under his hands, the rest of his body numb. Louis tastes like alcohol and the chips they’d eaten earlier, but he also tastes like Louis. He tastes like happiness , and fuck it if Harry is being too romantic and sappy, but Louis tastes like the beginning of the rest of his life.
They only pull apart when their lungs are begging them for air, and even then Harry doesn’t let them go far. Louis rests his forehead on Harry’s, their lips brushing against each other but not fully kissing, Louis panting and giggling into his mouth. Harry’s heart is so full of love in his chest that he fears it’s going to burst and he’ll die right here on his kitchen floor on the first hour of the new year in his best friend’s arms.
“You knew? That I loved you?” Harry whispers, quiet, because he doesn’t want his voice to break the moment.
“I always know,” Louis says back, his blue eyes twinkling in the dim lightning, deep and beautiful and luring Harry in like a siren to a sailor, and leans in to kiss him again.