Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

  “Oh.”

  Harry doesn’t say anything when the sound slips from Louis’ mouth, he just pulls his sleeves over his hands and scrubs his face, letting the picture slip from his fingertips and fall to the floor.  Louis begins to stride into the room, but he stops himself short of a second step, a bit wary of crossing any lines and upsetting Harry any further.

  “Are you…okay?” Louis mumbles, his lips tugging downward. 

  He shakes his head, because could that question have been any more stupid? He just really doesn’t know what to say. This is his fault and he knows it, as well as hates himself for it. He and Harry are nearing a year together now, and in all that time they’ve spent together not once have they fought. Sure, there’s been a few bouts of anger thrown in there once in a while, there’s bound to be because relationships always have lows in between their highs, but it’s never something of this magnitude, where Harry is curled in on himself, hurt because of Louis.

  “Peachy, really,” Harry snaps, because what the hell is Louis expecting him to say? Yeah, he’s fine. It’s nothing. No, this is something that’s been eating away at the corners of Harry’s mind for a while now, and the copious amount of champagne he’s indulged in may have lent a hand in Harry having this breakdown now of all times, but he can’t do it anymore. He can’t go on pretending like he doesn’t know about the picture Louis keeps at his bedside, and he can’t go on pretending like it doesn’t hurt him to know that Louis doesn’t want him to know at all, let alone want him in that entire side of his life, most probably because it still means more to him than it should.

  “I’m—I’m sorry Harry, I—” Louis’ voice breaks in his throat, because where does he go from here? How does he fix this? Saying anything at this point will surely upset Harry further, and there’s nothing that Louis doesn’t want any more than that. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You never tell me about her.”

  “I’m not about to give you the details of my ex,” Louis defends. Defends what, exactly? He’s not sure. But his voice however, well, his voice is sure that there’s something in his heart worth defending.

  “She’s not just your ex, Louis, she’s the mother of your daughter!” Harry shouts at him, throwing the picture in Louis’ direction. It falls short of where Louis is standing at the door, his back pressed up against the closed plank behind him.

  “Apparently not by choice,” Louis says, sourly, of course, because she made the decision long ago to flee from the child that needed her.

  “That’s what I’m talking about! You’ve got so much hurt and so much hate bottled up inside you over her and you never let me help you relieve you of any of it. I love you, Louis, and because of that there’s one thing that I hate, and that’s being closed off by you.” Harry heaves the truth out all in one breath, his speech quickening as the words roll off his tongue and into the silence of the room around them.

  “How long has this been upsetting you, Harry?”

  “I thought I felt threatened—perhaps you kept that picture around to remind yourself of a better time…but I know—I realized that what’s really hurting me is that you’re holding onto this piece of seventeen year old you, and that Louis is a Louis that I don’t know, and you’re not exactly rushing to let me help him,” Harry admits. He doesn’t let his eyes stay on Louis, they avert to the floor at his feet and stay there like there’s something that’s caught his attention.

  Louis chooses this moment to bend down and pick up the photograph from between them, but he realizes a moment too late that this is a bad idea, as his knees give way and he falls to the floor on all fours. When Harry looks at him his eyes are filled with plea, wanting to be let into the parts of Louis’ life that he’s tried to forget for so long now. 

  Louis happens to look back at him with the same expression, his eyes begging Harry to forgive him of this, because he’s never left Harry out of anything that means something to him on purpose, he just doesn’t know if he can bring himself back to a time where the person Louis hates—hates, hates, hates—walked away from a child—their child, her child—and left them abandoned; left Louis, an overwhelmed child himself to raise one of his own. He doesn’t know if he can relive all of that to explain it to Harry, because nobody knows the pain of watching their child, the most precious, loved, and adored part of their life be abandoned by one of the two people who are supposed to love them unconditionally.

  He crawls toward Harry then, the two of them still harbouring that layer of desperation over their irises in the dim light of the room. He props himself up against the bed just as Harry has, and he reaches for one of his cold hands sitting in his lap, and it takes two of Louis’ own to encase just one of Harry’ entirely.

  “There’s so much of her in Genevieve,” Louis mumbles. “And I see it every damn day. But that’s not the worst part, y’know? The worst part is that one day Genevieve is going to wonder about her mother; she’ll always know what parts of herself she has in common with me, because the world will probably go up in flames before I walk out of her life without a fight, but she’ll want to know about her mother, and even worse, she’ll want to know why she left.”

  “I’m so sorry, Louis,” Harry whispers, pulling him into his chest, where Louis talks over the heartbeat he can hear clearly sounding in his ears. When did this become Harry comforting Louis? Louis doesn’t know, but if this is what Harry needs, Louis will give it to him—he’ll give him everything.

  “It’s nothing you’ve got to be sorry for, love.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m also sorry I’ve got us holed up in the bedroom when everyone’s out there celebrating in our living room,” Harry says, his voice deeper, trying to hide the fact that he was crying. He smooths a hand down his face to scrub away the remaining tear tracks, wiping his nose on his sleeve and sniffling into the fabric. “I’m sorry, this is stupid.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Louis murmurs. He pulls himself up on two feet, wiping the imaginary dust off his pants and grabbing Harry’s hands before heaving him up off the floor as well. “It’s my fault.”

  “Let’s just—this is, um, it’s whatever—let’s just get back out there,” Harry sighs. He takes a moment to ruffle his messy hair and brush his fringe out of his face. 

  “Are you sure?” Louis asks, because seeing Harry crushed over something at the fault of himself, whether it was intentional or otherwise, caused an inconsolable grief in his chest, and a corresponding pain to twist around in his gut. 

  “Yeah, positive. We can just—” Harry lets out an exercised breath, feeling one hundred percent foolish. He blushes crimson, the heat soaking up what little was left wet on the round of his cheeks, and he grabs Louis’ hand, leading him toward the door with a shake of his head. “We’ll deal with it in the morning or something.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Louis nods, and they head back out to the living room to make their awaited engagement speech, hand-in-hand, Harry gulping down what managed to stir up inside of him earlier, and he lets Louis do all the talking.

❖

  Oh god, is the first thing that comes to Louis’ mind when he wakes up the next morning. His thoughts continue to bounce off the walls of his head, unable to find his voice in the back of his throat.

  “Are you awake?” Harry murmurs against Louis’ skin, lips pressed into his shoulder blade, lanky arm wrapped around his chest. Louis shakes his head no, and okay, it might be a white lie or whatever you wanna call it, but he wishes it were true. He wishes he was still asleep, and even though the idea is just as preposterous as it is utopic, he wishes he could just sleep forever.

  “Bad dream,” Louis croaks. “Need to sleep off bad dream.”

  Harry kisses a freckle on his back, between the knobs of his spine. Louis’ only problem now is that he’s awake; he can smell the sweat and champagne that has ghosted off of his pores and worn into the weave of his pillow, he can feel his hair sticking up every which way and tickling the back of his neck, and he can certainly feel himself melting at the contact between Harry’s lips and his skin.

  “What kind of bad dream?” Harry asks, letting his fingertip run over the ridge of Louis’ ribcage.

  “The kind where you were mad at me,” he harrumphs. He makes a mental note not to drink champagne anymore, well, at least not such an outrageous quantity. 

  Louis can hear the cogs working in Harry’s head, he’s thinking so loud he might as well be screaming. He turns around, his cheek pressed against a cooler part of his pillow (and god, it smells like hangover and needs to be washed), his body still encased in Harry’s arms. There’s a little wrinkle between Harry’s brows that have been drawn together, and his tongue is pressed against his teeth, threatening to spill out everything he’s not sure he should say.

  “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” Of course it was a rhetorical question. Upon what circumstances would he have asked that if he didn’t already know the answer? It’s not like he was looking to get himself into any more trouble.

  Harry nods.

  Louis nods.

  “Okay, well,” Louis sighs. His hands lift a little to their own accord before falling back onto the bed in a defeated kind of way. “Are you still upset?”

  Harry shrugs.

  Louis nods.

  “I’m going to go take a shower and use a whole goddamn bottle of mouthwash,” he says, his mind and efforts officially caught up with his defeated self. There’s not much more he can do in this very moment, so he kisses Harry’s forehead, gets up out of bed, and drags himself all the way to the bathroom clad only in his boxers.

  He pulls a towel from the rack and turns on the tap, letting his hand run under the water while it takes a moment to heat up. The bathroom door clicks open as Harry slips into the room behind him, placing his hands on Louis’ hips where he’s bent over the tub.

  “We met when we were fifteen,” Louis murmurs so soft he isn’t sure Harry even heard him over the running water. He adjusts the shower head, and says, “dated for two and a half years,” as he lets Harry tug his shorts to the ground, kicking them to the side and stepping under the spray of the water.

  He waits until Harry joins him in the shower, drops of water sliding down the flat planes of his torso. Louis wants to let his hands slip down Harry’s body like that, leaving his fingerprints superimposed in the shower drizzle. He wants to, but he doesn’t. “You don’t have to talk about this right now, if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to; not now, and probably not ever, if I’m honest. But it’s important to you, so it’s important to me that I do so, Harry, because if I keep putting this off then next time won’t just be a missing fiancé during our speech, I’ll be left without a husband at the altar,” Louis manages to get it all out in one breath, a regurgitation of his thoughts, kind of like the vomit that wants out of his gut. The best way to push it down, he supposes, is to carry on. “We were sixteen when we found out she was pregnant, and that—um, that really sort of sucked.”

  “I thought it was every seventeen year old kid’s dream to have a baby?” Harry jokes, trying to show Louis that yeah, he’s upset, but things are manageable. Fixable. He’s not going to run off on them any time soon, so he’d really like to see Louis’ hands stop shaking at his side.

  “Apparently that’s not the case. Or so I found out,” Louis says lightly. Harry grabs the bar of soap, smoothing it between his hands until he’s got a pile of bubbles to lather Louis’ skin with. “It was so different then. Like, looking back now, it may be hard to believe, but I was petrified. I was on the very edge of a panic attack. I was freaking out, I mean, there was a fucking baby growing, literally growing in her belly, and she’s explaining everything to me and all I’m picturing is a cell that multiplies in to two, and then four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, a million!”

  “Well, yeah, Lou, that’s how these things go. You too were but a single cell literally growing in a woman’s belly,” Harry laughs.

  “I will never forgive my high school biology teacher for traumatizing me with what I definitely didn’t need to know about exponential cell growth,” Louis says. “Anyway, I’m freaking out about this baby is like, growing, and then I’m thinking about how once it’s born it will keep growing? And need guidance and support and all that, when of course, Zayn decides to call me, and why I answered his call in the middle of that I will never know, but he was off his horse because this new video game was about to be released.”

  “Shit,” Harry says as the bar of soap flies from his hand onto the bathmat at their feet. “Can you grab that for me?” And so Louis hands him back the bar, which he then uses to clean himself up.

  “It was then that I realized that I had to give all that up—spending time with Zayn, video games, footy after school, etc. because there was this little person who needed me. Of course, that sounds like a logical epiphany, harmonious, even. But in reality it just scared the piss out of me. And so I decided that no way could I do this, so I told Zayn I’d meet him in five and I turned from Ruby and started away,” Louis’ eyes fall to the floor of the tub, a certain thickness growing in his throat. “I walked away; whether I meant it at the time or not, I walked away. She was going on about bringing life into the world and all the things I thought at the time to be over-glorified bullshit about babies and families and I couldn’t handle it, so I turned my back on her and my daughter.”

  Louis talks a lot. He knows it, Harry knows it, and just about every single one of their neighbours probably knows it as well. It comes with great surprise that Louis doesn’t say anything after that for the rest of their shower. Not when he shampoos Harry’s hair, fingers threading through those adorable curls. Not when his hand wraps around Harry’s cock, stroking soft all the way down until his fingers fondle the head, thumbing over the slit, working the length in his palm. Not even when Louis wraps himself in a towel (as does Harry), and they waddle off, shivering, into the bedroom to dress for the day.

  Louis boils some water for tea, filling a couple of mugs before steeping a bag in each and stirring in all the right fixings, his metal spoon clinking around in the porcelain. Harry doesn’t expect him to, but Louis chooses this quiet time over the tinkering of tea making to expound his thoughts into words he doesn’t want to hear aloud, but he braves it and continues to tell Harry everything.

  “I realize that was a mistake,” Louis says, but he has to clear his throat and repeat it before it’s audible. “I realize it now, and I realized it then. I got in my car and my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get the keys in the damn ignition. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a bad father Harry, I never was.”

  “I know Louis, I know you’re not,” Harry comforts, pulling Louis into his arms and curling his fingers around his biceps. Louis sniffles back tears and Harry doesn’t let him go. “Nobody knows that better than I do, Lou.”

  “So, I went back inside her house, and I just—I put my hand on her belly and I said ‘It’s all gonna be okay, little guy.’ And for some godforsaken reason we thought it would be a good idea to tell her parents about it that night, which, in my shoes, was yet another thing to fear, obviously. But they didn’t get mad, they just acted as if it were a problem with a clear solution. ‘We’ll get that taken care of Ruby,’ ‘There’s no way you’re going through with this, you’re just kids!’ ‘All these ins and outs in the medical world, we can fix this mishap right up.’”

  “Louis,” Harry says, smoothing his hand down Louis’ back.

  “I’m going to be sick thinking about it,” Louis says. “It’s not even that they didn’t want her, Harry, they didn’t even want her to live.”

  Harry doesn’t know what to say. He’s lived his life before Louis and Genevieve came into it, and of course things would have taken an obviously different route if they hadn’t, but after the last year of his life he doesn’t want to know what it would have been like. He wouldn’t go back and reroute anything he’s done, because whatever he did to lead him to the two people he holds dearest in his heart he considers his best decisions. He doesn’t want to think about a life that doesn’t include the shrilled laughter of his favourite four year old.

  “Of course she didn’t…um, go through with it. She told me we’d be okay without them, and I believed her, I really did. I went to every appointment, met every doctor, took care of her every single day. And about seven months into the pregnancy was when I asked her to marry me. I assume you saw the ring, which, boy am I kicking myself in the ass for now,” Louis rolls his eyes at himself. Harry nods, because of course he fucking saw the ring you idiot. “Her parents weren’t exactly supportive of her going through with the baby, so she was living with me at my parents’ house at the time, and it just felt like, y’know, something I should do.”

  “Did you really want to marry her, Louis?” Harry asks, though he wishes he could’ve bottled up that question with all the other ones he’d never wanted to regret letting slip through his lips.

  “Yes,” Louis admits. “I mean, I felt obligated, but. But, yes, I genuinely wanted to marry her. I thought I was in love with her, and I wanted our baby to be born into a family, so.”

  “Thought?” Harry asks. He bites his tongue to keep from saying anything else, because now he’s the one figuratively kicking himself in the ass.

  “Harry, if being in love is what I feel when I’m with you, then I’ve never been in love before.”

  “Okay,” Harry says, trying his hardest (and failing pathetically) to keep himself from smiling so wide his cheeks grow sore. “Okay, yeah. Okay. You can carry on now. I mean, if you want to.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Louis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you too,” Harry says, throwing his efforts to the wind. It’s probably not an appropriate time to feel his warmest or smile his hardest, but there isn’t enough will power in the world to keep himself from feeling like exploding when Louis looks at him like that, and further confesses things like that. Sue him. Louis smiles at him in return, and Harry can feel embers from the flame that is his heart coursing through his veins.

  “Where was I? Right, so, I waited for sixteen hours, refusing to take a seat in that stupid fucking hospital waiting room while she was in labour, because I didn’t want to miss a thing. I bounced around on my feet in the hallways, asking doctors when it was okay for me to see her, asking if I could be in the delivery room, asking if she could get painkillers. I was a mess Harry, but it was the best day of my life,” he finds himself laughing now, into Harry’s shoulder. It’s breathy and a bit choppy, but it’s laughter nonetheless, and Harry’ll take it. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Did you have to wear one of those hospital gowns to be in there?” Harry asks, plying out Louis’ soft happiness about the arrival of his daughter while it lasts.

  “I had to wear the damn thing just to feed her ice chips, let alone stand in on her giving birth,” Louis tells him.

  “Very hygienic,” Harry nods considerably.

  “I should have known right then,” he sighs. “I asked her what she wanted to name our little baby girl, and she made a bit of a face, which I considered to be indecisiveness, and then she told me she was leaving the job to me. And holding her, well, she never held her for long without wanting to pass her off, and I never thought anything of it. I mean, she sugar-coated it, you know? ‘Look who loves her daddy,’ and ‘You’re so good with her already, Lou. Why don’t you take her?’”

  “So she coaxed you through the abandonment of your child?” Harry asks, so utterly and completely baffled.

  “For the most part, yeah,” he says. “And when we got home there was always something. ‘I’m in too much pain, can you bathe her?’ And don’t even get me started on late night feedings, god forbid I wake her up to nurse. ‘Louis I pump for a reason, babe. There’s a bottle in the fridge.’ She just didn’t want to be around her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs.

  “How does a mother do that?” Louis asks, as if Harry’s holding all the answers to the things he’s never been able to comprehend. “How do you carry around a baby for nine months, give birth, hold this little human being that is a miraculous and perfect combination of both her parents and then just fucking leave when she’s a month old?”

  Harry doesn’t know what to say by this point. He can feel Louis’ shoulders quaking, and his lips are pressing I’m sorrys into Louis’ hair as he feels his t-shirt dampen.

  “She didn’t even say goodbye, Harry,” Louis chokes. “She just left me a note. Me, as if I’m the one who deserved anything from her. As if her fucking daughter wasn’t of enough importance to spend the two seconds it would take to acknowledge her fucking existence—I can’t do this anymore Harry. I can’t, I’m done.”

  “It’s okay, that’s more than okay,” Harry whispers, his hand stroking circles into Louis’ back. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore, let’s just—here,” he says, wiping Louis’ tears away with the pad of his thumb.

  “I don’t want to have to tell her what happened,” he says, broken and continuing to break into Harry. “She knows she’s not around, and that she’s never coming back. But one day—Harry, one day she’s going to ask why and I don’t want to tell her that.”

  “When that day comes, whether it’s in two years or twenty, you’re not going to have to do it alone,” Harry promises. 

  Louis whispers how much he loves Harry against his lips, kissing him like he’s a lifeline, and he’s just barely got himself pulled together when Genevieve’s bedroom door creaks open and the little girl wanders into the kitchen. She walks up, squishing herself between the two of them and grabbing a hold onto Harry’s leg.

  “Do you feel better now Harry?” Genevieve asks softly, and he picks her up, placing a kiss on her forehead.

  “One hundred percent,” he says. He grabs Louis’ wrist with his free hand and takes them both over to the table, sitting them down in their respective seats. “What shall we have for breakfast today?”

  Genevieve asks for a cup of tea (with lots of milk in it so it’s not too hot and lots of sugar so it’s not too tart) and Harry prepares that while he pulls out everything he’ll need to fry up some omelettes in a pan. Harry makes note of the way Louis’ lips are still tugged downward into a half frown and he spends the rest of the day catering to what Louis needs to bring that tight lipped toothy grin back to his beautiful face.

❖

  “We have a date!” Harry exclaims as Louis comes home from work, just barely through the door. It’s been about a week since the engagement party, and although it might seem a little fast, Louis and Harry don’t want to wait, remember?

  “A date?” Louis asks, pulling his jacket off and hanging it up in the closet.

  “For the wedding,” Harry explains. “It’s perfect, really, there was this couple that was supposed to get married on April 19th at Rain Bar, but they’re postponing their date, so it’s up for grabs if we want it.”

  “And do we want Rain Bar?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows. He’s never even been to Rain Bar, if he’s honest.

  “I looked into it, and the place is gorgeous Louis, probably the closest thing we’re going to find to perfect in a wedding venue,” Harry says, letting out a sing-song sigh that Louis takes as a plea. “And if you want to check it out the manager told me I could just give her a call and we can set up an orientation time, so, it’s up to you.”

  “I’m sure we could pawn Genevieve off on Zayn for a little while,” Louis nods. “Give this Rain Bar a call and we’ll go check it out.”

  Harry clasps his hands together, dawning a smile that shines with nothing less than delight, and he turns to make his phone calls with the exact newlywed-to-be enthusiasm that the venue manager is expecting to hear. She asks Harry if half seven that night would work for their schedule, to which he tells her that yes, she’ll be seeing them then.

  “Alright, I’m gonna go clean up then. Throw Zayn a text and tell him we’ll drop her off after dinner and pick her up on our way home,” Louis smiles and Harry does just that.

  When they get there Louis’ eyes are wide and he takes the place in with a deep breath. The outer walls are bricked with old red stones and there are twinkle lights strung from the overhang of the roof. The manager, who introduces herself as Lisa, meets them just inside the tall glass doors.

  “You must be the Tomlinsons?” She asks with a smile. 

  “That would be us,” Louis confirms, his hand navigating the short space between them to find Harry’s.

  “Well, congratulations on your engagement, guys. Here at Rain Bar we would love to host the ideal wedding ceremony and reception to follow for you. We are fully licenced to suit civil ceremonies and can accommodate a party up to fifty persons,” she explains, handing them a Rain Bar brochure and a copy of their catering menus.

  “Let’s get started around, shall we?” She says, and she leads them past the hosting podium and the coatracks and takes them right over to a sizable room, empty save for rows of chairs split with an aisle down the middle. “This is known as our boardroom, where the magic happens; we’ve still got chairs set up from a ceremony held just this past weekend. Of course everything in the venue is subject to your decoration, so we can follow suit with your colour schemes and flower canopies and the likes.”

  “Yeah, Lou, look,” Harry says, pointing to the rows of chairs. “Gem was talking about a black cloth for chair covers matched with a red bow. How nice would that look?”

  “Oh Curly, you’ve already got this all mapped out, haven’t you?” Louis muses.

  “Shut up.”

  “Of course that would look nice,” Louis says, finally giving Harry what he wants to hear. “I like the idea of a flower canopy too, actually.”

  “Daisies and tulips and lilies?” Harry grins.

  “Read my mind, babe,” he nods.

  “There’s a sectional area off to the side if you want to have music as well; we’ve had both instrumentals and lyrical at ceremonies held here in the past,” Lisa tells them, pointing to the designated space for a quaint chamber orchestra. 

  As they wander in awe down the aisle and towards the altar, she trails behind them slowly, keeping her papers clasped tightly in her hands. Though when Rain Bar isn’t hosting celebrations or grand business meetings it’s just a simple restaurant, she finds her work to be one of her favourite places, if only because when she’s not serving drinks she’s parading young and terribly in love couples around the place, watching them glow.

  “Have you thought about going traditional with the aisle, or doing something a bit more liberal?” Lisa asks them as Harry pulls Louis by the hand around the room, exuberant to say the least.

  “We haven’t really thought about that sort of thing yet,” Harry says. “We’ll figure something out.”

  “For convenience we can accommodate whatever you prefer; just one of you walking, or both, if you’d like. Unless you’d like to just meet each other up front, that would work too. Contemporary weddings are orchestrated and tweaked to suit the couple’s liking, so you don’t have to worry about being modified by the history of marriage ceremonies. But, you’ve got time to run things over with your planner and map these things out,” she explains. 

  “Yeah,” Louis nods for the both of them. He’s sure the matter won’t go undecided for long, Harry is bound to bring the thought up with his sister and the three of them will come to some sort of quintessential aisle agreement.

  “In the meantime, how about I take you over to the dining area?” Lisa offers. Before they know it they’re swooped away, completely monopolized by the gorgeous chandelier lit room, the large and modernized glass bar, and the extravagant terrace. It’s nothing less than a fact that neither Harry nor Louis has seen a place with such beauty. They picture their wedding night and the scene falls easily into the room before them. 

  By the time she’s lead them through the whole place they’ve fallen more head over heels for it, and they make sure to tell her that they are interested in the open date. After making arrangements to drop off the deposit they leave wired with anticipation, already starting the seven week countdown until the wedding.

❖

  February seamlessly rolls into March, and the wedding plans pause for no one. Except Genevieve, of course. With her birthday only a few days away, Louis finds himself completely aghast; there’s no way his little girl is already going to be five!

  “So the big day is coming up. What kind of cake do you want for your birthday little one?” Harry asks her after they’ve finished dinner that evening. He really should have thought that one through. She is her father’s daughter.

  “Are you really asking me that?” She’s never seemed more perplexed than she is in that moment, the expression on her face a spitting image of her father’s. Harry shrugs.

  “We are a chocolate-cake-only family, Harry. No white cake shall ever pass through our door,” Louis snuffs. The worst part is, he’s serious, too. “White cake is practically a criminal offence.”

  “You sound like a cult,” Harry laughs.

  “A chocolate cake cult is a cult just as good as any to be a part of.”

  “You’re strange,” Harry rolls his eyes.

  “But you love me.”

  “I suppose I do,” he sighs. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that I like white cake.”

  Louis just isn’t having it, and shaking his head begrudgingly he says, “That’s it, the wedding is off. I can deal with most of your quirks, Harold, but this one crosses the line.”

  “Oh, what was that? Did I hear you say you want a three tiered white wedding cake? Iced in creamy white also?” Harry’s brows rise with the flow of his sarcasm and Louis squirms in his seat and crosses his arms.

  “Harry?” Genevieve murmurs, interrupting the banter. He looks to her and smiles sweetly, waiting for her to carry on. “We can have white cake if you want.”

  “Not a chance, kiddo. It’s your birthday, so we’re having your favourite,” Harry says matter-of-factly. Genevieve lets out a sigh of relief, because, well, she really loves chocolate cake.

“Good, it’s settled; chocolate cake,” Louis declares. “Now, bath time for my little girl, because you’ve had glitter glue on your face since you got home from school.”

  “I’ll take a bath…if I can get a bouncy house for my birthday.”

  “Creative ultimatums, I like it. Not sure a bouncy house will fit in the flat though, we might have to throw the couch out the window to make some room,” Louis considers.

  “Talk bouncy houses while you wash up,” Harry says. He piles plates up in one hand and points swiftly down the hall with the other. “The bathroom is that way.”

  And so they take to it: bath, pyjamas, cartoons, and bed. As Genevieve slips under the covers, Louis grabs a book from her nightstand and flips through its pages until he comes across a poem they’ve yet to read. They settle on Walt Whitman’s A Promise to California.

“A promise to California,

Or inland to the great pastoral Plains, ad on to Puget Sound and Oregon;

Sojourning east a while longer, soon I travel toward you, to remain, to teach robust American love,

For I know very well that I and robust love belong among you, inland, and along the Western sea;

For these States tend inland and toward the Western sea, and I will also.”

  Genevieve stretches and lets out a yawn just as Louis folds the book closed. He kisses Genevieve goodnight and leaves the room, Harry just single step behind him. Just behind the door he closes, his beautiful little girl sets in for a night of slumber, and pretty soon he will be too.

  The next morning brings all of the Birthday Eve promises. A completely unsuspecting Genevieve is fed, bathed, changed, and brought to school, her father doing the same before heading to work all the while knowing Harry is up to party planning with all the jazz and glitter a five-year-old could possibly dream of.

  Zayn lends a hand, picking up a car-less Harry and joining him on a trip to every party planning venue in Manchester. By the end of their mission they’ve got a back seat full of balloons, streamers, confetti, banners, and beads galore. There’s a different coloured party hat for everyone invited, because, well, Harry couldn’t help himself when he saw them. Who knew hats came in that many shades? He sure found out when he got to the Party Warehouse.

  “Which do you think she’d prefer, just chocolate, or double chocolate fudge?” Harry asks Zayn as they stroll through the baking aisle of the grocery shop; thankfully their last stop on the party planning expedition before heading back home for some lunch. 

  “It’s Genevieve,” Zayn says explanatorily.

  “Good point,” Harry says, thinking about cavities and juvenile diabetes while tossing a box of double chocolate fudge cake mix into the cart. Oh well, you only turn five once, right?

  “Sprinkles: pink sugar crystals or rainbow hearts?” Zayn asks, holding the two containers up.

  “Pink,” Harry resolves. “But get rainbow candles.”

  “On it.”

  They move on from the baking section soon enough, flitting through other aisles until their cart is overflowing with party foods, sodas, and munchies. 

  Harry is decidedly done party planning for the rest of his life when they get back home and he and Zayn are left to lug all of their bags from the car upstairs by hand. It isn’t until they’ve got every last bag in the flat that Zayn asks if maybe it would have been a better idea to have left most of the stuff in the car. What if Genevieve sees it?

  Harry’s response is nothing less than a flop onto the couch and a dramatic sigh. “I’ll just throw it in the bedroom closet. She’ll never go in there, and the party is tomorrow anyway.”

  “Okay. So what’s for lunch, boss?” Zayn asks, falling to the sofa beside Harry.

  “Are you opposed to quesadillas?” Harry asks, though it’s rhetorical. Who is opposed to quesadillas? Nobody. Probably. He heaves himself up and gets out a frying pan, and he’s chopping up some cooked chicken when Zayn enters, taking a seat in Louis’ usual place at their kitchen table.

  “So how has the engaged life been going for you?” Zayn asks, making quiet conversation.

  He throws the chicken in the pan to heat it up, pondering that for a moment. Not much has really changed, except for the fact that he gets butterflies when he catches sight of the ring on his finger. He’s pretty sure things will feel different as the wedding approaches, if not after they are officially married. “It’s good, I suppose. I kind of feel like I’m in relationship limbo, you know? I mean, we’re not just dating but we’re not married yet, so.”

  “Ah,” Zayn nods. “Exciting though, isn’t it?”

  Harry shrugs, “If I’m honest I’d feel much happier when it ends. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life than I am ready to be married to Louis.”

  “He’s more than ready to marry you too, or so I’ve gathered. And he’s really lucky to have you, y’know.”

  Harry smiles, but he doesn’t quite agree with Zayn. Louis is lucky to have him? No, he’s much luckier to have Louis. And Genevieve. Yes, much, much luckier.

  “I just mean, like. I don’t think anyone else could take care of Louis and Genevieve quite as well as you do,” Zayn tells him. Zayn, Louis’ best friend for as long as he can remember, is fully appreciative and approving. Zayn does know best.

  Harry is flattered, of course, and he throws a thank you to him. But the cogs in his brain start turning because, well, it could have been someone else. In fact, for a while it was someone else. It was someone else who took for granted every moment she had with Louis and Genevieve, neglecting the opportunity to take care of those two absolutely beloved people.

  “Hey Zayn, can I ask you something?” Harry says after a few beats of silence. Zayn nods, and Harry continues to be cautious of boundaries by asking further, “Something about…Ruby?”

  Zayn splutters for a moment, finding his voice in a cough to clear his throat. He should have seen this coming, but what does he say? No? The situation with Ruby is really none of his business, but it also involves Louis. And Louis is Zayn’s business. And especially Harry’s. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just…about her. I guess. I don’t know, Louis doesn’t like to talk about it much, you know, because he worries about Genevieve. I mean, I understand, of course, but he wakes up every day and tends to a little girl who is a constant reminder of his past with her. It hurts him, I know it does, but he refuses to talk about it, and I’m left with nowhere to go and nothing to do when I try to help him,” Harry explains, speaking in a very light kind of way, hoping that Zayn won’t back out of talking about this too. He knows he’s putting him in an uncomfortable position, but if anyone can help him in this predicament, it’s the other person on the face of the earth who knows Louis Tomlinson just as well as he does.

  “Well, how much do you know already?” Zayn questions, admittedly a little bit worried about where this could potentially go.

  “I know enough from the pregnancy forward. But he still considers her ‘just an ex’, and if she were just an ex I wouldn’t care, in fact, I probably wouldn’t even want to know anything about the two of them being together. But she’s not ‘just an ex’, she’s the mother of his child.”

  “I know what you mean, but I don’t know what to say, Harry. She was his girlfriend for a couple years. They did everything any couple would do; junior prom, meeting the parents, sneaking out at night, their fair share of public displays of affection,” Zayn sighs. “He was happy with her, I guess. But I did always get the feeling she was holding out for something more. I’ve never told Louis that before, so I won’t vouch if you say anything about this to him.”

  “I won’t,” Harry promises. “I have absolutely no intention of telling him I brought this up with you.”  

  “Yeah, probably not a good idea,” he chuckles.

  “So she wasn’t happy with him then?”

  “What can I say, she took him for granted. Louis is my best friend, and has been for almost twenty years now, Harry, and I mean it when I say nobody deserves to be loved and cared for more than he does.” Zayn would go to the ends of the earth to make sure he gets that declarative point across. He loves Louis, and more than his fair share of shit in this world has been done unto him. Harry though; their chemistry, their relationship, just everything about Harry in general seems to have been Louis’ own bit of saving grace. “He used to bring her up every so often, but he hasn’t at all since he’s been with you. Maybe he doesn’t talk about what he should have gotten from her anymore because he’s getting more than he ever could have dreamed of from you.”

  “How am I supposed to help him, though?”

  “You are helping him Harry, just by being you.”

  Harry knows Zayn’s right, so he presses his lips together and continues to fry up quesadillas. Zayn and Harry are friends, through Louis, of course, but in the near year they’ve spent in each other’s lives they’ve never had a remotely serious conversation. Until then. And it’s nice to see their mutual love for Louis and Genevieve become a tangible feeling. It’s also nice to see their friendship isn’t superficial or for Louis’ sake.

  “Shit,” Harry groans. “We forgot to get her birthday present.”

  “We’ll have to make another trip after lunch,” Zayn replies, grabbing dishes to help Harry plate the food.

  Louis is very aware that he’s going to regret every part of this when he has to wake up for work the next morning. But here he is, still awake at an ungodly hour of the night, fervently hoping that tomorrow he won’t fall asleep on the phone at the centre.

  Harry is curled up in bed, sleeping soundly, Louis assumes. He told him a handful of hours ago that he’d be heading to bed soon, but he really had no intention of it. Now it’s way past dark, and it doesn’t help that he’s got every light in the flat off, spare the television that blinds him slightly when he stands up.

  It’s 3:33 in the morning and he tip toes his way down the hall, creaking Genevieve’s door open, trying to be as quiet as possible. He pulls back the sheets on her bed, crawling into the tight space left beside her on the mattress, and he brushes a few strands of her hair through his fingers.

  “Hey munchkin,” Louis whispers. “Come on, wake up princess.”

  Louis checks his watch, and the clock turns to 3:34 the second her eyes flutter open, blinking a few times out of habit to adjust to the light. Except there is no light, so she’s a bit confused. “Daddy? What time is it?”

  “It’s 3:34am, the exact moment, five full years ago, that my little baby was born,” he explains. She blinks a few more times at him, trying to register in her sleepy state what exactly that means. “It’s officially your birthday, sweetie!”

  “It is?” She asks, newfound delight flooding her soft voice. She pulls herself up onto her elbows first before moving to sit up completely, leaning tiredly into her father’s warm side.

  “It sure is. Come here, munchkin,” he says, opening his arms up for her. Genevieve shimmies over and crawls onto his lap, opening up more space in the bed for the two of them to sit comfortably. “This also means that exactly five years ago, right down to this very minute, was the first time I got to hold you,” he says, pulling her in closer to his chest as he reminisces on the little baby, his little baby, that was at the time no longer than his own forearm. “You’re a little bigger now than you were then, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I grew Daddy, I’m not a baby anymore!”

  “Don’t I know that, my beautiful big girl,” he coos, kissing the top of her head and resting his cheek lightly against her hair.

  She sits gingerly in her father’s arms, feeling the birthday adrenaline spike her veins. Nothing gets anyone as excited as their birthday does. The air seems fresher, favourite foods taste better, hugs feel warmer, and even love feels fonder.

  “You know, I was the first person to ever hold you.”

  “Like, in the whole world?” She gapes.

  “In the whole wide world,” Louis nods. “That was before you even had a name!”

  “What did you call me then?” Genevieve asks, because she’s not sure how the whole thing works, but the fact that people don’t have a name for a little while seems a bit absurd to her in that moment.

  “I was holding you in my arms, just like we are right now, and I pressed a kiss to your little nose—” Louis pauses the story only long enough to lean in and kiss the tip of her nose, “just like that. And I said, ‘hello, my little munchkin’, and then you started crying. Quite loudly, as I remember.”

  “Is that how I got my nickname?”

  “That it is,” Louis grins, hoping it’s dark enough that she can’t see the tear that’s beading up in the corner of his eye.

  “I love it, you know,” she tells him matter-of-factly. “And I love you.”

  “I love you more,” he whispers back. “Happy birthday munchkin.”

  “Thank you,” she says with a big yawn. “Daddy will you stay with me until I fall asleep again?”

  “Of course I will baby,” he nods, humming an old familiar tune he used to sing many moons ago to get her to sleep. It works like a charm, and he sets her down, crawling out of the bed and giving her another kiss, whispering happy birthday one last time before leaving the room to join Harry in his own.

  “How was work?” Harry asks Louis as he pushes through the door of their flat just after noon-hour. He took the afternoon off for Genevieve’s big birthday party, which of course starts the minute she gets home from school. “You didn’t get into bed until pretty late last night.”

  Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and pulls him in against himself, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that unfortunately part mid-kiss for a yawn. “More like early this morning,” he corrects, leaning in to make up for lost kiss time. “But this is waking me up. Kiss me more.”

  “Actually don’t kiss him more, thanks,” Zayn says as he walks by, expectedly causing Harry to blush a little. Well, good thing his rosy cheeks wake Louis up some too.

  Harry’s arms slink down his back until he finds Louis’ hand at his side, fingers locking as they make their way down the hall. In the living room Gemma is standing on a chair, taping streamers to the ceiling, letting them hang own the wall like a waterfall of multi-coloured birthday party decorations. There are party hats upon party hats stacked in various shades on the shelf, and Liam is blowing up balloons in the corner of the room, tossing them about to liven up the place. Louis sees his mother throwing a pink cloth over their coffee table while Niall flips through old mixed CD’s that Louis had thrown together over the last few months, trying to compile a playlist of all Genevieve’s favourite songs to play when the birthday girl arrives, and there’s a huge white poster strewn out across the floor in front of Zayn with an array of paints and brushes and glitters to decorate the banner with.

  “It’s like we’ve got the seven dwarves of party planning working in here. Hi-ho guys, take a break,” Louis laughs.

  “Who are you calling a dwarf, Louis Tomlinson?” Gemma calls out from her chair-makeshift-ladder.

  “Touché,” he says, raising his brows and putting his hands up innocently. “Well, if you’re not going to take a break, and you’ve got everything covered…can I score a nap before she gets home?”

  Naps don’t do Louis any good, and there is absolutely no chance of him being in a festive mood after being woken up from short slumber. If he were to come with an instruction manual, that would be thoroughly pointed out in print. So instead of letting him doze, Harry simply suggests, “You can nap if you want, but you could also help me ice the cake.” 

  “Or how about I just watch you ice the cake?”

  “Or how about I ice the cake, and you can ice me?”

  “Better be chocolate frosting or else I’m not licking anything off of you,” Louis says.

  “What you licked off me last night wasn’t chocolate frosting and I don’t think you had a problem with it then,” Harry deadpans.

  “Touché. Again.”

  Louis is much quieter once he’s sitting at the kitchen table with Harry, pink glittery sprinkles in hand. He grins as he starts throwing them on the cake before Harry finishes icing it, and he learns very quickly that Harry has every intent on making this perfect.

  “You don’t fuck around when it comes to birthdays do you?” Louis accuses, retracting the hand Harry outright slapped.

  “Certainly not Genevieve’s, anyway,” Harry says earnestly, sticking his tongue out. “Wait until I finish this and then you can cover it with as many sprinkles as your little heart desires.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” Harry smiles, his eyes twinkling at Louis. He’s a fool. He’s an absolute fool when it comes to this man. Albeit a proud fool. 

  Jay skitters into the room just as Louis is falling asleep while sitting upright, and she hits him over the head with the birthday card she’s about to fill out, causing him to jump awake, his eyes bursting open with a rush of newfound alert.

  “Louis, honey, you’ll probably find it easier to stay awake if you actually do something,” she laughs. “Why don’t you help me wrap Genevieve’s present?”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He asks with a cocked brow, full well knowing it’s not.

  “You’re right. How about you run to the store and pick up some ice cream to go with the cake instead.” It’s meant to be a suggestion but he knows she won’t take no for an answer, so he pulls himself up from the table and drags his feet across the room as he heads for the door, letting his hand linger and trail over Harry’s back as he goes by. Once he’s left the room Jay leans in close to Harry, muttering, “I’ve known that boy 22 years, and in all that time he could never wrap a present if his damn life depended on it.”

  “I heard that,” he quips from the hallway that he’s still trudging down with tired, lead feet.

  “Good,” his mother says back, smiling.

  It’s quiet, very quiet in the flat when Harry throws Louis a text saying they’re on their way into the complex. All the lights are off in the flat and everyone is bundled up in the dark together, elbows knocking into ribs and knees knocking into shins; everyone waiting for Genevieve to open the door.

  Louis’ sisters are here now, their father took them downtown for a while so everyone else could finish decorating the place without having a group of girls running behind them trashing it, but of course they wouldn’t miss Genevieve’s birthday for the world. Louis is absolutely astounded that their parents managed to get all four girls to sit quiet without fighting for a few minutes, but it’s really happening right before his very eyes. All four of his sisters sitting still and quieter than he’s ever seen them before in his life.

  A key turns in the knob and everyone can hear Harry telling Genevieve to head in, though it’s muffled through the door. In no time it’s creaking open and she pokes her head in the flat, her fingertips finding the light switch in the entryway.

  “SURPRISE!” 

  Everyone is shouting and clapping and heading toward Genevieve, but Louis cuts through all of them until he’s lifting his baby girl—no, sorry, big girl—up into his arms, holding her as she gasps at everyone in the room; everyone that’s there for her.

  She’s escorted through her home in her father’s arms, only being let down to greet everyone there and thank them for the copious birthday wishes. The twins hug her first, then she gets a kiss from her both of her grandparents, finds the warm arms of her Uncle Zayn, and after reaching everyone else in the room she finally finds Gemma.

  “Did you plan this party too?” Genevieve asks when she picks her up. She can’t help but play with Gemma’s pretty coloured hair while she laughs.

  “No sweetheart, this was all your Dad, Harry and Zayn’s doing, I just hung the streamers,” she smiles. She bounces Genevieve up against her hip and says, “Happy birthday little girl.”

  “I’m not little anymore!” She protests.

  “Right, right, I almost forgot…you’re five! When did you get so old?”

  “Today, at 3:34 in the morning, I think,” Genevieve shrugs, and Louis, who caught the end of their conversation while passing by, lets out a little laugh and sends a wink to his daughter.

  It’s decided by the birthday girl, of course, that presents shall be opened right away. She takes a seat crossed-legged on the living room floor next to the coffee table that is covered in a massive pile of bags and packages. After she’s torn through everything, the flat looks like a pink tissue paper tornado has barrelled through the place. An abundance of ‘thank you’s are passed around the room, reciprocated with warm hugs one after another. 

  When Zayn approaches her, she’s trying to take the doll Niall had gotten her out of its packaging, her face contorted in concentration as she pulls at the plastic. “Hey Genevieve, there’s one more present left,” he says nonchalantly. She looks around the two of them, her face growing puzzled.

  “Where?”

  “Come with me,” he says, pulling her up off the ground by the hand and leading her down the hall to Louis and Harry’s bedroom. When he opens the door, she finds herself face to face with a little bicycle, accented with training wheels and a big red bow tied around the handle bars. “Happy birthday!”

  “Thank you, Uncle Zayn! Thank you!” She jumps into his arms, wrapping herself around him in thanks. His embrace is warm and familiar, smelling like leather and happiness. She fervently hopes he’ll be the one to teach her how to ride it. “I love it!”

  “I thought you would,” he laughs. “Now, how about we try it out, yeah? Ride it down the hall back to the party?”

  “Yeah, okay!” She pulls the bicycle out of the room and hops on the seat, a little wobbly at first, but she gathers herself on it properly and pushes the pedals with her feet until a perfect cycle starts and she’s driving right to the living room. Zayn’s behind her the whole way, a hand on her back to make sure she doesn’t fall back.

  “Whoa, where’s that from, baby?” Louis asks, reaching an arm out to steady her as she figures out how to stop.

  “Uncle Zayn got it for me!”

  “Well thanks for getting me beat,” Louis harps at his best friend. “There go all my cool dad points.”

  “You’re still a cool dad,” Harry whispers, attaching himself to Louis’ side and smoothing a warm palm over his hip.

  “You promise?”

  “So long as you’re a part of the chocolate cake cult, I do,” Harry nods.

  Of course, Louis is content with that. He helps Genevieve down off the bike and she zips across the flat to find the twins, shrilling laughter from the three of them filling the room.

  The night ages fast, and Louis finds Genevieve half asleep on the couch, most likely a crash in result of the sugar high she’s been strung out on all night. He wishes everyone a good night at the door on their way out, thanking them for coming and assuring that Genevieve loved every moment of it. Gemma and Niall are the last to stray around the flat, picking up napkins and cups and pulling streamers from the walls. Louis shoos them both, thanking them for their help earlier, but he and Harry will take care of the mess tomorrow. Sighing in defeat, Gemma places a kiss on the little girl’s forehead and gives her brother a hug, with one for Louis to follow, and then she follows Niall out the door.

  The party is officially over, and Louis picks a sleepy birthday girl up off the couch and carries her to bed, silently wishing her one more very cheesy happy birthday before turning the light off the closing her door behind himself as he leaves.

❖

  “Alright boys, here’s the plan,” Gemma states pointedly at the two of them. They’re sitting on the sofa together, hands held between their laps. Gemma had arrived at their place bright and early that morning, whirling through their flat like the busybody she is, making them breakfast with a long, and figurative, of course, to-do list in her back pocket. Everything is so well organized, Louis almost expects her to have actually written it down, pulling the nonexistent sheet out to read off their agenda for the day.

  “Lay it on us,” Louis quips, and she tells him in her own way to shut up. He settles for putting his hands up in defense, silently promising not to utter another sound.

  “Thank you. Okay, first things first, in case you weren’t aware, there’s only five weeks to your wedding. Which, in case you also weren’t aware, will be probably the most elegant and thoroughly planned evening either of you will ever spend in your hopefully long and tightknit lives.”

  “Probably?” Harry challenges, cocking a brow.

  “Scratch that; definitely.” 

  They both nod, because that’s more like it.

  “Alright, so you’ve got a meeting at the florists at one o’clock. You have to come to a final decision on flowers today, and I’m talking all of them. You’ve got about an hour and a half to decide on everything from boutonnieres to table garnishments to canopies. From there, you’ve got an appointment at Slaters for a tuxedo fitting. I’ve told them what designs you’re interested in and a general size idea, but they need to be tried on and taken in if need be. Then we hit Rain Bar. They want some sampling done and hopefully have your menu picked and set in stone this afternoon.” 

  Gemma pauses, taking a breath while giving them time to process that. They’re a little wide-eyed, but everything makes sense and sounds manageable. They’re extremely grateful for Gemma’s involvement, otherwise they might have found the whole planning ordeal a bit overwhelming.

  “So why did I have to get up at seven in the morning on my day off?” Louis whines. He’s showered, been fed, and driven Genevieve over to Zayn’s and it’s only 8:30. He usually tries not to get up with the sun when he doesn’t have to be.

  “Because you’ve got invitations to prepare and drop off at the post office,” Gemma explains. “Then we’ve got an hour to slot in lunch before your first appointment.”

  “We should do, like, an assembly line for the invitations,” Harry suggests.

  “Have I ever told you you’re a nerd?” Louis asks with mock genuinity. It’s just what Harry is. A charming, thoughtful, and heartwarming nerd.

  “It’s usually followed by a proclamation of love,” Harry shrugs, his mouth smirking around the words.

  Louis’ lips tug up into a smile, and when he says, “Well, my dearest nerd, if I didn’t love you I wouldn’t get up before the sun rises on my day off to send out our wedding invitations, would I?” Harry’s smirk melts into a smile to match.

  “Anywho,” Gemma sighs, staring at the ground as though she’s found thorough interest in the grains in the floorboards. “I’ll address the envelopes. Louis, you can seal them. And Harry your job will be to slap a stamp on ‘em.”

  And so they formulate the routine at a pace that works, and soon enough they’ve got a stack of wedding invitations that are ready to be mailed out. Harry couldn’t possibly be further pleased by the efficiency of his assembly line idea.

  They finally get all of them addressed, sealed, and stamped, and over the course of the morning all had gone over perfectly. Except, well, you know…

  “My tongue is on fucking fire,” Louis harrumphs with a great lisp. He sighs. “This is the end for me. I never thought the cause of my death would be envelopes.”

  “You’re so melodramatic. Grab a glass of water,” Gemma says, sticking her own perfectly normal feeling tongue out at him.

  Harry, being Harry, tries to kiss it better, but his face scrunches up. “You taste like glue.”

  “You’ve kissed me before I’ve brushed my teeth, and yet it’s glue that’s a turn off for you?” Louis shakes his head, astounded, leaning in to swipe another kiss from Harry’s lips. “Taste any better?”

  “No. But I’m sure I’ll get over it,” he mumbles, kissing Louis several times more before Gemma coughs and they jump back, pretending to be embarrassed, as though this rarely happens to them. Which everybody knows is awfully far from the truth.

  After they drop the invitations off at the post office and have lunch at a small café just downtown, the three of them stroll briskly through the doors of the florists shop, met face to face with a thick odorous wall of spring and new life and breezing pollen. The lady on shift today is walking down an aisle of roses, spritzing water onto the flowers with a spray bottle, keeping them both lively and lovely.

  “Are you my one o’clock?” She calls out to them, making her way over. “Tomlinson-Styles for a wedding, if I’m correct?”

  “That you are,” Harry grins.

  It isn’t long before they’re submerged into flower talk. The lady pulls out an album of previous wedding floral décor they’ve created before, and the boys are in awe. 

  They decide that for canopies they’d like to stick with a light on light scheme; white roses, daisies, and lilies to hang overhead in the ceremonial room, and for tables they will stick to the sharp colour scheme they’ve got going on with their upholsteries; picking arrangements of ivory and burgundy open roses.

   Just as they’re about ready to make their way out of the shop, Louis stops dead in his tracks, reaching his hand out and curling it around Harry’s bicep to pull him in close. “Excuse me,” he says softly, turning to look for the shop keeper they’d just spent the hour perusing floral arrangements with. He looks from her to the bunch of little flowers he’s picked up, the loveliest shade of purple he’s ever seen. He reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing over the gossamer green stems before thumbing over a few tiny petals. “What are these?”

  “Those would be ipomoea purpureas. Or morning glories, if you will,” she tells him.

  Louis tugs at the stems of a couple little purple flowers, pulling them out of the bunch and tucking the morning glories into Harry’s hair, nestled just behind his ear. Splashes of purple jump out from behind those wild brown curls, and yes, it looks perfect. Delicate, beautiful, stunning; the list could go on and on. Louis is content. Harry is smiling wider than what one might think is even physically possible, his dimples concave with his uncontained happiness.

  “I think I’ll be taking that bunch,” Louis blushes. “Couldn’t help myself.”

  “No charge today, Mr. Tomlinson. Good luck to the both of you in your marriage,” the shop keeper says when he brings them to the till. She’s practically melting at their fond, but can you blame her?

  They take their leave with a thank you and a quick goodbye, as well as a handful of little purple morning glories that Louis has every intention of pulling apart and decorating Harry with throughout the day. 

  The afternoon sun is beating down on them as they walk down to Slaters to be fitted for their tuxedos. Black on black, as they decided. They’re greeted at the door by a short man in expectedly well-tailored pants with a pencil tucked behind his ear and a measuring tape around his neck like accessories.

  “I’m Louis Tomlinson,” Louis says, reaching a hand out to shake the tailor’s. Then, pointing next to him, he says, “and this is Harry. We’re here to try on wedding tuxes?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. My three o’clock,” the man mumbles, reaching for his pencil and pulling a palm-sized agenda from his back pocket to scribble in. Once he’s done he puts everything back in its place and he pulls a finger in to gesture ‘follow me’, and so they do, Gemma skirting not far behind.

  “I can’t wait to see you in your tux,” Louis says to Harry, under his breath, of course. This is his first time actually being let in on the wedding planning, and the whole thing is illimitably surreal. He can’t believe he gets to share this experience with Harry. He can’t believe he’s marrying Harry. He’s decided the whole thing will become much more tangible to him once the two of them are all dolled up in what they plan to wear on the big day.

  “Can’t wait to see you out of your tux.”

  “Play your cards right, Styles, and you might just get what you bargained for,” Louis teases. Though, really, he may not be teasing all that much.

  “Okay, gentlemen. I’ve got a 40 short, double breasted, black Santinelli,” the tailor says, holding up a dressing bag. The idea of unzipping that to reveal the suit gives both of them butterflies.

  “That’s mine,” Louis says, reaching out to grab the dressing bag from the man. 

  Once he’s got it in his own hands, the man turns to grab the other from the rack beside himself. He hums considerably. “I had this Fellini picked out for you based on your description, but seeing you in person, I’ve changed my mind. Hold on one second, sir.” And out of nowhere the tailor is buzzing to the back of the store, returning with an entirely different dressing bag. He hands it to Harry after eyeing him up once more, just to be sure he’s made the right choice. “Here, try this on for size. It’s a 42 regular, slim fit, black Lambretta.”

  “Thanks,” Harry says, taking the bag in one hand, fondling the zipper in anticipation with the other. “Where should we...?”

  “To find the dressing rooms, go straight down that hall,” the tailor says, pointing behind the both of them. “Make a left, and you’re there. Take as long as you need, I’ve got all afternoon to make the adjustments.”

  Really though, he should have known. For years to come, every time he looks back on this day, Louis will still blame the man and his poor choice of words. They very much so do take their time.

  Harry slides his suit on nice and slow. There’s a mirror in the dressing room, and he watches himself step into each pant leg, and pull each arm through. He imagines his wedding day, and what it will feel like on the day when he’s fastening the buttons and slipping his hands into his front pockets. 

  “Hey baby, come out when you’re done,” Louis says softly, tapping on the door of Harry’s dressing room. 

  Harry sucks in a huge breath, holding it in while he pinches his lapels between his thumbs and forefingers, and he shrugs better, more relaxed, into the jacket on the exhale. He is about to see Louis Tomlinson in the outfit he’s going to marry him in. His heart is beating so fast he’s sure it’s about to make a one-way trip jump right out of his chest cavity. Time feels impossibly slow as he reaches for the door handle, turning it, and pushing the door between him and his man open very, excruciatingly slowly.

  The first thing he notices is how the deep black fabric wraps around Louis’ shoulders deliciously. It’s like this tuxedo was made just for him, the way it hugs around his frame perfect to the mold of his body. It accents the width of his biceps before creasing in all the right places at his elbows, and god double-breasted was perfect on him—the lines of buttons making a narrowing path down his abdomen until the jacket cuts off at the hips. And, let it be known that Louis’ legs are by far the most beautifully sculpted legs Harry has ever seen. He’s completely blown out of the water by the way the pants, and that sinful looking seem line, compliment everything from the thickness of his tastefully muscular thighs all the way down to his tiny little ankles, that, of course, are currently hidden by a pair of shiny black dress shoes.

  “Wow,” Harry breathes. Louis opens his mouth to say something, but Harry claims this moment as his. “I don’t know what the hell I did to get myself here, but fuck, I must have done something right if I get to marry you.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong,” Louis dismisses. “Because I have a long list of skeletons in my closet and mistakes I’ve made, and so obviously it’s nothing short of a miracle that I, of all people, get to marry you.”

  “I love you,” Harry says, shaking his head like who even is this fucking guy? oh yeah, mine. And Louis doesn’t let a moment pass before he’s uttering the same words back.

  “Hey babe, c’mere a minute,” Louis says as Harry bends down to fix a crease in his pant leg. He stands back up almost immediately, and Louis turns him around with a puzzled look on his face. He flicks a piece of white fabric that was sticking out on the back of Harry’s neck, patting the spot contentedly after it’s tucked back in. “Sorry, your tag was sticking out,” he says, and Harry blushes. Louis doesn’t let his hands fall from where they rest now on Harry’s broad shoulders. Through the door gap of the partially open dressing room they can see themselves in the mirror, and Louis looks into the eyes of Harry’s reflection as he begins softly massaging circles into his upper back.

  “Oh god, isn’t this some sort of bad luck thing?” Harry bemuses after a couple minutes. “Should we be seeing each other in our wedding outfits before the wedding?”

  “I thought that superstition only applied to wedding dresses?” 

  Okay, yeah, Louis’ got a point. Harry shrugs.

  “But maybe, we should take them off? You know, just in case,” Louis suggests, raising a brow.

  “Uh, just to be safe. Yeah,” Harry says, his voice unsure and his words a little choppy. To be honest, his thoughts have been completely harebrained, probably in result of every drop of his blood shooting right to his cock since Louis began touching him.

  “Let me help you,” Louis says, his voice low and sultry, hot breath hitting the back of Harry’s neck. He leans in, wrapping his arms around Harry’s chest, unclasping the buttons of his shirt in one swift movement as his fingers run over them.

  Harry’s head lolls back onto Louis’ collarbone, his jaw unhinging, leaving his mouth open as he heaves out panted breaths. Louis’ hands splay out over the bare skin of Harry’s chest that now peaks out from behind his open pleated shirt, and his heart flutters rapidly beneath Louis’ palm. He shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, and Louis peels it off the rest of the way, tossing it to the side and bringing his hands back to Harry’s body as though his fingerprints exert the negativity drawn to the positive magnetic field of his lover’s torso.

  Louis unclasps Harry’s trousers and he shimmies them off his hips before stepping out of them. It’s blindingly fast after that, one might go as far as to say needy, even, as Harry barely takes the time to loosen Louis’ pants at the waist before he’s hastily pulling them down to his ankles. And god, there is absolutely no way they’re coming off, or the shoes for that matter, because he hasn’t got the will power anywhere within to stop himself from grabbing Harry’s hips and hoisting him up against the wall of the change room. 

  Harry wraps his long, lean legs around Louis’ waist, one hand grasping the sweat slicked skin of Louis’ shoulder and the other bracing the wall behind himself for support. Louis slides his hand down Harry’s thigh, slowly feeling over every morsel of his skin, igniting a very powerful heat in the both of them, and eventually he follows the curve of his leg and firmly plants his hand right where Harry’s waist melds into his arse, fingertips digging into the round of his bum.

  “God, you are so beautiful,” Louis says between laboured breaths, his free hand reaching up to push Harry’s fringe out of his eyes, so close to the other boy that he can see his own reflection in them.

 His hand falls to where their bodies meet, skimming over Harry’s groin, where his muscles are pulled unwaveringly tight. Without any further hesitation, Louis wraps his hand around both of their achingly hard cocks, taking himself in his palm and Harry in the curve of his fingers. As he pulls upward into a concentrated stroke, he elicits a whimper from the back of Harry’s throat and rut of his hips, pushing himself up further into Louis’ hand.

  The friction between them builds as Louis jerks them steadily in his practiced hand at a rhythm that satisfies the both of them. He smooths his thumb over the head of his own cock, knees buckling slightly before he regains control, and then grazes over Harry’s as well, and Harry pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as Louis takes his grand old time circling the crown and teasing the slit.

  Grinding skin against heated skin, Louis’ hand tightens around their leaking cocks, swiping precum on the pad of his thumb on the stroke back down to the base, and he can feel himself getting closer and closer with each twist of his wrist. As he speeds up the pace of his full fist, his other hand slides further down Harry’s arse until he’s brushing over his hole, pressing his forefinger against the tight ring of muscles that make him quiver and quake at the touch.

  One final brush over Harry’s hole and his whole body is tensing, legs clenching tighter around Louis’ waist, hand slipping down his chest. His fingers tremble over Louis’ nipple in just the right way and white hot pleasure bursts within them, both of them coming onto the roof of Louis’ hand as he jerks them through their entwined moment of euphoria.

  And really, that’s that, the tuxedos are a perfect fit.

  Louis spends the next few days orchestrating how he’s going to break it to Gemma that he wants—no, needs—to do some very small yet crucial parts of the wedding planning on his own. He has decided this months ago, actually, the very same day that he picked out the engagement ring. Louis wants to be the one to surprise Harry with wedding bands at the altar, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t. He knows he’s got to talk to Gemma about it first, but the bottom line is, he’s going to do this.

  What he doesn’t expect is that as trivial and stubborn a person Gemma is (god knows she’s related to that quirky idiot Louis is so head over heels for), she’s actually quite supportive and trusting of Louis taking things into his own hands, especially when it comes down to this. The last few days he’s spent planning to convince Gemma to leave this one small piece of the large wedding puzzle to him was a waste of his own efforts. The phone call lasted a mere 43 seconds and in that minimal time span he’d talked to her about it and been given good graces in his wedding band ventures. No convincing necessary.

  So it’s on this day, March 19^th—exactly one month to the big day—that Louis sets out to find the most perfect set of wedding bands that will find home on the fourth finger of the two of them for the very rest of their lives. 

  And of course, fate has it out for him again.

  Upon his first steps into Fraser Hart jewellers he’s directed over to the glass case that houses rings for various occasions, necklaces made out of pricey metals he’s never even heard of, bracelets with all sorts of charms and gems; the whole bit. He’s offered a catalogue, because if nothing catches his eye they would be happy to order in something that does suit his fancy, but he tells the lady behind the counter that he’s already spotted something he knows his fiancé will love.

  “Can I see those ones please?” Louis asks, pointing to the white box that encases the rings that have already won his heart over. She unlocks the cabinet doors and grabs the ring box, asking to make sure she’s got the right ones, and then she hands them over to Louis so he can get a good look.

  The rings are identical, 18ct gold flats with a thin strip of white gold around the middle, accenting them for quite a beauty of a display. He can already imagine what a ring like this will look like around one of Harry’s outrageously long fingers, whether it’s in the setting of something like their wedding day itself, or far more mediocre, like grocery shopping or folding laundry.

  “I love them. I’ll take the set, please,” Louis grins, handing the jewellery box back over to the employee.

  She brings him over to the register where he fills out the paperwork for purchasing and sizing, and she rings him up, and just like that the task is taken care of. Not that wedding band shopping for Harry something Louis even remotely considers to be a task.

  “Your rings will be ready for pick up this Friday,” she says, and she hands over his receipt and wishes him a great day on his way out the door.

❖

  The rest of the month goes by much the same; planning and ordering and making final decisions, but time seems to move slower and slower as each day brings them closer to the date. The hours not dedicated to the wedding are consumed by work, entertaining a rambunctious five year old, and having quiet nights in, bathing in the comfort that almost-married life typically brings.

  What was to be just another one of those quiet nights in for the small family turned out to be a night that held something in store for both Louis and Harry that none of them had been expecting. It all starts with a knock on the door at roughly 9 o’clock.

  “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” Genevieve jumps up from the couch, scurrying over to greet whoever has come knocking. Louis gets up, stretches, and follows her down the hall until he’s met with the faces of Niall, Zayn, and Liam.

  “Excuse me, Lou,” Niall says as he whirls between Louis and Genevieve, heading for the living room where Harry is curled up on the couch with his legs tucked beneath himself. He reaches out and grabs both of Harry’s hands, pulling him up effortlessly. “Let’s go. Atta’ boy, Harold! Come with me.”

  “What’s going on?” He asks, scratching back his floppy hair. Niall brings his hand up to gesture that his lips are sealed and he throws the imaginary key over his shoulder with a shrug.

  Once they reach the doorway Harry looks out down the hall, only to see Liam walking away with Genevieve clinging to his back shouting out something about a sleepover. Zayn is pushing Louis further into the flat behind him as Niall pulls Harry out, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a flimsy piece of material. It’s a sash, apparently, that’s powder pink and says Mr. Tomlinson in big sparkly letters, and Niall throws it over Harry’s shoulder, patting it lightly against his chest in satisfaction.

  “They’re going out, and we’re staying in,” Zayn explains. “Two days until the wedding, boys. Bachelor parties.”

  “Where are you going?” Louis asks Niall, reaching out to fix a wrinkle in Harry’s sash. He likes the sight of Harry draped in his name. Pretty soon it will be his name too, and Louis is absolutely giddy.

  “Sorry, that’s information that cannot be disclosed,” Niall says without a whole lot of sympathy.

  “Can I at least change first?” Harry asks, looking down at himself. He’s wearing jeans and an oversized jumper that has a patch on the shoulder that his mum had sewn on for him a long, long time ago when it’d split open at the seam.

  “Nope, sorry. Bachelor Party rules,” Niall quips.

  “That’s not a rule,” Harry argues.

  “I’m throwing the party, I make the rules. Zayn’s throwing his party, Zayn makes up his rules,” Niall explains as though it’s just basic common sense. “Now, we need to get going, so, let’s be on our way. Arrivederci and whatnot.”

  Harry sighs and leans in to kiss Louis goodbye, a passionate, tongue-swiping-against-teeth kind of kiss, just for the enjoyment of making Zayn and Niall uncomfortable. They don’t part when their lips do, as Louis touches their foreheads together. “Be safe, okay? I need you back in one piece,” he murmurs, kissing Harry’s lips once, twice, three times more, just for good measure.

  “Alright, Styles,” Niall places his hands on Harry’s shoulders, desperately trying to ease his best friend away from what seems to be his literal other half. He’s resorted to coaxing. “Listen, you’re my best mate. You have been since we were, what? Ten? And now you’re about to get married. Married. After you tie the knot or whatever I promise I’ll leave you alone, but right now, and I mean right this second, it’s time for me to drag your bachelor ass out for a night on the town to get right drunk. You get me tonight, and then you get Louis for the rest of your life. So, without further ado, can we get a fucking move on?”

  Harry figures he can do that for his best friend at the very least, so he straightens up, fixes his pretty sash, and puts on the pleasantest of grins. “Kiss me I’m single,” he says with a wink, and Louis does just that before Harry lets Niall drag him out the door shouting something obscene about getting fucked up.

  Of course Niall takes him to a nightclub. 

  And he has barely got his foot over the threshold when he’s offered his first shot. 

  It’s dark in there, spare the bass sensitive strobe lights that manage to blind everyone in the room simultaneously, so he can’t really make out what kind of drink is in the little shooter glass he’s holding. And he doesn’t really have much time to figure it out either, because as he squints at the liquid sloshing around in front of him, Niall knocks his elbow up and practically throws the drink down Harry’s throat and pounds one back himself. Harry splutters for a moment, and he’s pretty sure the burning sensation down his throat is destroying his ability to breathe, but once someone gets a beer in his hand though he’s good to go.

  “Not so bad, innit?” Niall asks, ruffling up Harry’s hair. 

  “Sure,” Harry says, somewhat sour. There’s music playing so loud it’s actually hard to hear, but boy he can sure feel the vibrations of it in his bones. The lights keep changing with the rhythm of the bass, or flickering on and off, and it’s giving him a bit of a headache, if he’s honest. And he’s not even going to mention that he’s been in there all of maybe seven minutes now and his toes have been stepped on a frustrating amount of times. “It’s not so bad.”

  A woman walks by, probably a decade older than them and very scantily dressed, and she leans into Harry. She’s got a round tray of shooter glasses in one hand, and she places the other on Harry’s hip. “Mr. Tomlinson, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Harry says, trying his best to squirm out of her grasp. “I’m, um, getting married.”

  “That’s too bad,” she says, though her spirits don’t seem to be that down about it at all. She pretends to nibble at the corner of his ear, clashing her teeth together on the mock bite, and she slaps his bum before handing him one of the shot glasses from her tray. “Cheers!”

  “Oh, no, this isn’t bad at all,” Harry drones. “Can we go home now?”

  “Not a chance, mate. Do that shot. You’re getting irresponsibly drunk tonight,” Niall says, and he chugs back the rest of his cold beer. “Maybe that way you’ll complain less.”

  It works out so that Niall has to order Harry’s first few drinks and then convince him to actually drink them, but as the night goes on, Harry becomes far more enthusiastic. Alcohol and music pump through his veins, he finds himself awestruck at the lit up dance floor, and he grabs two more drinks and drags Niall out there. After about an hour he finds he’s collecting the sweat of everyone else (not to mention his own), his hair is a disaster pointing every which way, and the hem of his sweater has ridden up the side of his toned stomach, revealing the leafy laurel inked into his right side.

  “Niall, Niall,” Harry says, sounding more bubbly than a bottle of champagne. He tugs on the sleeve of Niall’s white t-shirt until he successfully gets his attention.

  “What?”

  “I’m getting marrrrrried,” he giggles. And then hiccups. And then almost trips.

  “Yeh, you are,” Niall nods, polishing off his drink and leading Harry back over to the bar. “That’s why we’re celebratin’! What’re we drinkin’ next?”

  “Something marrrrrrried people drink,” Harry hiccups again.

  “What, like sangria?” Niall jokes.

   Instead he leans over the long glass bar and asks the bartender for two of his number one picks, and he nods vehemently before pouring and mixing and decorating, and finally sliding the tall glasses across the countertop to him. Niall takes one in each hand over to Harry, who’s leaning up against a stool just behind him. He has no idea what they’re about to drink, but can they really even taste much at this point, anyway? Probably not.

  They’re fruity, that’s for sure. And different tastes wash up against their tongues one after another. It’s carbonated, citrusy, and loaded with rum and another liqueur that Niall just can’t put his finger on. Anyhow, they’re damn good.

  The deejay stops the music with a few cool sound effects, and everyone looks around the dark room, puzzled. “Everybody put your hands together,” he announces, and everybody’s clapping, drink in hand, bodies pressed against others. “This one’s goin’ out to Harry Styles, or Mr. Tomlinson, whichever he prefers. Congratulations buddy, this one’s for you.” It’s needless to say that Harry absolutely flips his shit. He’s grinning like a fool, throwing his hands up in the air and all but tackling Niall as he pulls him in for a hug.

  “Congratulations!” A group of young girls chime as they walk past the boys to the bar. One has a feather boa around her neck, a tiara on her head, and a pin that says Happy Birthday on her chest.

  “This is my best man,” Harry boasts, slapping a hand on Niall’s chest. “I’m getting fucking married, holy shit.”

  The birthday girl takes the plastic tiara off, detangling it from her own hair and placing it on Harry’s head of wild curls. “This Mr. Tomlinson is a lucky guy,” she says with a wink.

  “No, no, I’m the lucky guy. Tell them Niall, tell them how fucking perfect Louis is,” Harry says, looking like he about to implode when he lets Louis’ name roll off his tongue. It feels kind of weird, actually—his tongue. He’s so drunk everything has lost meaning, and he’s not sure anything is functioning properly. Even his tongue. “Louis. Louis. I’d like to go home to my Louis.”

  “We’ve got one more stop to make before we head back. So, finish this up and we’ll find us a cab,” Niall says, clinking their glasses together. He doesn’t have time to see the drink slosh around in his glass because he’s closing his eyes and tipping it back to finish the contents of it in one quick swig.

  “Hey, best man,” someone from the birthday girl’s entourage calls out as Niall turns, an arm wrapped around Harry to keep him upward. He cocks his head back to her, interested. “You got a date for the wedding?”

  While Niall took Harry out for the night of his life, Zayn kept Louis in to play a series of drinking games. Louis must admit, these games took much, much worse of a toll on him when he was a teenager than they do now. Now it’s been four hours and he’s just tipsy. He’s not sure how Zayn on the other hand is right fucked. Louis’ having fun this way though, and he won’t be hung over with everyone else for their rehearsal dinner, which is a win-win.

  “Right, uh,” Zayn begins another round. Not that he even has to with the way he’s slurring. He devotes all the concentration he can string together in the moment to finding fool-proof ways to get Louis drunk. “Never have I ever, uh…proposed!”

  Louis grins and clinks their glasses together before tipping his back for a drink.

  “That was such a good one, mate, I think you should drink more,” Zayn pouts. His eyes are glassy and he shuffles closer to Louis where they’re sitting crossed-legged on the living room floor. He has to push the deck of cards away before he knocks it over completely, but he manages. Even in his state. “Bro, come on.”

  “That was the least creative one you’ve pulled out of your arse all night,” Louis laughs. “But I’ll drink more, just for you.”

  “Sick! Get on my level,” Zayn’s practically dancing where he’s sat, shoulder to shoulder with Louis, watching him as he chugs what’s left in his glass.

  “I don’t even know how to get on that level anymore,” Louis chuckles. Though he extends his glass out for Zayn to pour him another, and that’s a start.

  “It’s because you’re a dad,” Zayn sighs. “Hey! I have a dad.”

  “Good lad,” Louis nods. “I have a dad too.”

  “I think, though, that my pal Genevieve has the best dad.”

  “You’re supposed to say that, you’re my best friend,” Louis rejects. It’s no different coming from Zayn to him than it would be coming from his mum. In fact, at this point in his life Louis is closer to Zayn than he is with his mother, so, it probably means even less coming from him. It’s the whole unconditional love thing. You can’t just love someone and be their best friend for 20 years and then turn and tell them they’re an awful parent. He’s pretty sure, anyway.

  “No, mate, listen. And I would tell you the same shit if I was sober and barely knew you. You’re a great goddamn parent, alright?” He takes a minute to conjure up exactly what point he’s trying to make here, because he’s about nine drinks too far into that bottle of vodka to sling his thoughts together quickly with coherence. “Look at how hard you work to give your daughter the best she can possibly have, Louis. You’re careful, and you always always keep her best interest in mind, and you surround her with loving and assuring people to be her tightknit role models. I’m fucking proud of you, Louis. And I mean it, because I love you, mate, everything that you do. And that little girl of yours does too,” Zayn spiels, the whole while Louis is blushing beet red, looking at the floor and fingering through a lock of his hair. 

  He’s never been told anything like that, not really. It was kind of nice, and endearing. Louis’ got a truck load of little sisters that he loves unfathomably, but he’s so grateful to have a brother in Zayn. So grateful that he can’t even put it into words. He’s known Zayn since before he could even talk, and while he has become family, he still puts Zayn up on that highly respected pedestal that he has kept him up on since, well, probably the time he introduced Louis to the power rangers.

  “That means a lot, ya’ sap,” Louis says, nodding his head back and forth. He pats a hand down on Zayn’s leg, says, “I love you too,” and heaves himself up off the floor to grab a couple beers from the refrigerator. 

  Time passes just as quickly as the ale bubbles burst all the way down Louis’ throat, but it’s still far too long a wait before Harry is back home, nesting himself the way he does in Louis’ arms. Zayn pushes the bottles on the coffee table in front of them aside and digs around his back pocket until he pulls out a baggy and a lighter. Louis gets a full whiff of what’s inside as soon as Zayn unzips it, and he scoots a foot or so away.

  “No way,” he says, crossing his arms. “I’m supposed to be responsible. We literally just had this conversation, Zayn. It’s not happening. I’m a father!”

  “Not tonight, you’re not. Get your ass back over here, Tomlinson. Tonight you’re a bachelor, remember? No kids, no wife—err, you get the picture; no one but you. And me, of course,” Zayn rejects. He pulls the spliff from the bag and tosses the cellophane aside, running his thumb over the wheel of the lighter a few times to spark a flame. He knows Louis will crack, he’s just got to mull it over first. The flame licks up into the air three more times before Louis’ shoulders cave in and he reaches out and literally grabs the joint from between Zayn’s fingers.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Louis mutters. “My daughter is at your house, I’m getting married in like, what, thirty-six hours? To a man who has been carted off god knows where, with god knows who, doing god knows what—”

  “Louis, babe, relax. He’s fine, he’s only with Niall. I know exactly where they went and what they’re doing,” Zayn assures. He isn’t empathetic for long, though. “Now hit that thing and give it to me.”

  “Fuck. Right, okay,” Louis breaths, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply—maybe a little too deep, he comes to realize—when he ignites the flame and lights the tip. He coughs, a lot, a huge puff of smoke coming out his mouth and nose all at the same time, and he can feel every morsel of his throat burn up and down, and he’s genuinely surprised when he doesn’t cough up blood onto the back of his hand. He shrugs, because, okay, maybe he’s being dramatic. It’s not that bad, but then again, the taste of it is still pretty potent on his tongue.

  “Again,” Zayn encourages, his dark ravenous eyes looking hopeful as ever. He knocks his elbow against Louis’ ribcage, successfully either annoying him into it or just giving him the courage to bring the blunt back to his mouth.

  He pulls off it again, a stream of smoke dancing off the burner between them. This time he’s a bit more careful with the intensity of his inhale, and he lets the lightness take over his head and the pressure build in his lungs before he exhales; the smoke curls around his lips as he breathes it out.

  “I haven’t done that since high school,” Louis shakes his head, but that does nothing to stop the buzz. Fuck, he feels like he’s fifteen again.

  As Zayn takes a hit, the hefty cloud of smoke in the room becomes apparent to Louis, and in his hazy state he manages to uncross his legs and crawl all the way across the living room floor until he finds the wall, opening the window to air the place out. He’s back just in time for more. In fact, he’s back just in time for a lot more.

  The lock of the door jiggling doesn’t even register to Louis as he takes another hit, filling himself up what feels like head to toe with smoke and he hands the joint back to Zayn. His eyelashes bat a few times before his lids close, and when he opens them again he sees Harry stumbling into the room, Niall’s hand on his bicep to help keep him upright. 

  Louis doesn’t even think about it, he just gets up and takes a few lethargic steps over to Harry, latching his fingers in those rogue brown curls that are not otherwise tied down by the plastic tiara, and kissing those sinfully red lips harder than he ever has before, the bridge of their noses knocking together as he pulls on his hair. He leaves his lips breathless and it’s Harry letting the smoke out on the exhale, in such a proximity that the cloud engulfs Louis.

  “Did you enjoy your night?” Louis asks against his lips, the back of his throat sounding a bit roughed up. He doesn’t move back, doesn’t untangle his fingers from Harry’s hair, and definitely doesn’t let his lips leave Harry. At all.

  “I’m supposed to reply with, ‘ask me in about thirty years’, I think,” Harry says, though he’s second guessing himself, so he looks over to Niall for approval, which he gets in a drunken thumbs up. “I am allowed to ask you to come to bed, though.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Louis laughs against his skin. He pulls the lanky monstrosity that is Harry Styles (soon to be Tomlinson) into the crook of his arm, resting his cheek on Harry’s collarbones as he says, “Boys, you know where extra blankets are; I’m taking my man to bed.”

  “Did you and Zayn have fun?” Harry asks softly as they crawl under the covers.

  “You know what? You can ask me that right after I ask you about your night precisely thirty years from this very day,” Louis winks, though it’s a little sloppy because he’s a little high and a whole lot of tired, and of course, it’s completely invisible in the dark anyway. Harry hums against Louis’ skin and pulls himself closer, and Louis feels…wait, what is that? “Harry, are you still wearing your sash?”

  “I might be,” Harry blushes. “I quite like the idea of going by Tomlinson.”

  “I quite like the idea of that too,” Louis nods, his cheek pressed against Harry’s messy hair. It’s comforting, the way the locks dance so very softly upon his cheek, even as he moves so slightly.

  “Goodnight Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry chimes.

  “Goodnight to you too, Mr. Tomlinson.”

  When Harry wakes up the next morning he clambers out of bed and holyfuckingshit he’s going to throw up just about everywhere, so he immediately claps a hand over his mouth and it’s not so much of a stumble as it is an ungraceful sprint to the toilet. The contents of his stomach paint the toilet bowl, and wow, what the fuck did he drink last night? He’s pretty sure he’s invented a new colour, because he’s never seen anything like that before.

  “How’re you feeling, babe?” Louis asks with a hint of laughter behind his voice, because he’s feeling fucking great compared to everyone else. He runs a hand through Harry’s hair, smoothing it out of his face as he retches one last time.

  “Superb,” Harry groans, though the one simple word takes all the strength his body can conjure up. He pulls himself up on shaky legs and flushes the toilet, letting Louis’ warm arms encase him. He’s got the cold sweats going on, and his clothes are sticking to him in all the wrong ways and he just wants to split open his skin and crawl out of himself. He sighs heavily into Louis’ shirt before asking quietly, “Toothbrush, please.”

  Louis hands him his toothbrush and tells him to meet him in the kitchen, because he’s pretty sure someone’s got coffee on and he’s so tired that if he’s going to function anywhere near well today he needs at least half a pot. What a delightful surprise it is to see Gemma pouring coffee into mismatched mugs and popping toast in and out of the toaster and onto plates, setting the table with breakfast for the four of them. Well, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon, so it’s not really breakfast, is it? The specifics aren’t really important, anyway.

  “Can you go wake the others up? They’re looking right comfy in the living room, but we’ve got to get a move on. The rehearsal starts in two hours,” Gemma says, just as Harry walks extremely slowly and carefully into the room, latching his fingers into Louis’ shirt from behind and resting his forehead against his shoulder blade.

  “Gem, if you could just bring it down a level, please,” Harry begs, softly, of course. “Your voice is sharper than knives.”

  “Oh, take a paracetamol and relax,” she laughs. The shrilling noise leaves Harry whining and clutching the fabric in his fingers even tighter.

  Louis goes to wake up Zayn and Niall in the living room, Harry tagging along because he refuses to let go of his shirt, but he stops dead in his tracks when he sees them, because it’s way too fucking cute. Zayn is sprawled out on the couch with a pillow tucked under his head, and another pushed right in front of him for Niall, who’s sat upright on the floor, leaning against the couch with the back of his head knocking into Zayn where their pillows meet. There’s a big blanket tossed haphazardly over the two of them, the sheet only reaching halfway down Zayn’s legs, leaving his feet exposed because of the way the blanket hangs off the couch to cover Niall as well. Louis almost doesn’t want to wake them up. But he doesn’t really have a choice, not really, what with Gemma just one room over. And when he thinks about it, the best men are probably a necessary part of the rehearsal.

  He shakes Zayn softly until his eyes flutter open, and then he does the same to Niall, easing the boys into consciousness. The smell of coffee wafting into the room probably helps to wake them, and Louis is grateful neither one of them pulls a Harry and makes a beeline to the bathroom. Instead they just wince at the sunlight, and ask with very scratchy, tired voices what time it is.

  “After noon,” Louis says. “One o’clock to be exact. Breakfast is awaiting in the kitchen.”

  “Thank fuck,” Niall mutters, pulling himself up off the floor, his joints cracking every time he moves. He stretches, his back popping now too, and he lets out an exhausted yawn before schlepping himself on over to the kitchen. Not but a moment later they’re all in there, mug in hand, sitting across from each other at the table. There’s nothing but the sound of them munching on toast, but even that is raucous to Harry, piercing through his head with an enthusiastic pain.

  A lively little girl all but bursts through the door, Liam not too far behind her, and she runs to the kitchen and jumps onto her father’s lap. Her hair is knotty and thrown up into the sloppiest ponytail he’s ever seen, and there’s a rather large and unidentifiable stain on her left pant leg. Liam has got big dark circles under his eyes, his brows are pulled together, and his shoulders slumped. Behind him he pulls a suitcase, as well as Genevieve’s bag that’s slung over his arm.

  “Why, hello Mr. Mom,” Louis grins. “How was your venture into my life for the night?”

  “It was great. Awesome, really. Anytime,” he deadpans. He yawns and continues, this time much lighter. “I mean, I won’t jump up and volunteer to take her for the night probably like, ever again, but you know. I think we did alright, yeah?”

  “Liam let me paint his nails,” Genevieve grins. At least someone looks happy and well-rested. “And we had marshmallows and hot chocolate for breakfast. Oh, and Liam said we were best buddies.”

  She seems quite content having spent the night with a now worn out Liam, and Louis is glad. “Best buddies, huh?” He asks, and Genevieve nods. “But, you missed me, right?”

  “Of course, Daddy! And Harry,” she shouts, jumping off of Louis to go hug Harry. Harry flinches, of course, but he wraps an arm around her lightly, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Harry, are you okay?”

  “He’s not feeling so great today,” Louis tells her. He gets up and pulls her by the hand away from Harry, leading her down the hall. “Let’s go run you a bath, okay sweetheart?”

  “I brought your stuff over,” Liam tells Niall, tapping his fingers idly against the handle of the suitcase beside him. Niall nods and mouths a thanks as he brings his mug back up to his lips, letting the steam coming off his coffee warm him up. “Our tuxes for tomorrow are in the car, should I bring them up? We’re all getting ready here, right?”

  “That whole superstition thing,” Gemma says doubtfully. “They really shouldn’t be seeing each other before the wedding. So, Louis will be staying at your place with you and Zayn tonight, and you’ll be getting ready together tomorrow, and Niall and Harry will stay here. I’ll take Genevieve for the night, if that’s fine by Louis. I’ve got some girly things planned with Mum and Jay back at the hotel.”

  Once things are figured out they all finish up at the table, carrying their plates to the sink, and Zayn hooks himself onto Liam’s arm, letting him lead the way out the door after biding their quiet goodbyes. Niall cozies himself on one end of the couch, throwing a blanket over his legs and hoping to fit in a catnap before he’s queued up to get ready, which, unfortunately for him, only ends up lasting a mere nine and a half minutes. The time sweeps by as Gemma packs things Genevieve will need for her stay at the hotel that evening and to get ready for the wedding tomorrow, Niall ransacks Harry’s drawers looking for aftershave, and of course, Harry and Louis are able to put aside their hangovers and unfathomable wedding jitters for a couple minutes as they swap handjobs in the shower. 

  “Are you ready to do a quick run-through of the biggest day of your lives?” Gemma asks with perfect posture and keen solidarity. She’s like a commander to them at this point, and she’s standing in front of the door with a line-up of the other four facing her. Louis resists the urge to salute her as she opens the door and bellows a hand in the direction of the hallway to instruct them out. She slaps his shoulder when he throws her a smirk on the way out the door, and says, “Wedding rehearsal, here we come.”

  The rehearsal runs through without a single flaw, and to Louis and Harry, life is looking too good to be true. They’re on top of the world at this point, as now that things have settled down they all gather around for a big rehearsal dinner with their close family and friends. Of course, they picked none other than their restaurant for the occasion, having a grand table set up on the terrace to fit all fifteen of them around comfortably.

  “We’re going to make this short and sweet, I promise,” Harry begins to say, standing in front of them all, handing in hand with Louis, of course, just after their waiters bring everyone’s drinks around.

  “Because we all know Harry could hold us up here all night if we didn’t,” Louis jibes, pinching Harry’s hip with his free hand. Harry squirms and gives a little jump before scowling at Louis and looking back up to their families.

  “As I was saying,” he emphasizes, though it’s light, and he squeezes Louis’ hand tighter within his before he goes on. “Short and sweet, we promise. But first, to get a little sappy, I should have you all know that this very restaurant, on this very terrace, actually, is where I took Louis out on our first date. And would you look where we are now?” He’s breathless, from shock, most likely. He can’t believe how far they’ve come together, and now they’re coming full circle at the very place they began at. It’s a bit of a sentimental piece of their world, alright, and Harry can’t believe he’s still as smitten today as he was then. Or, well, he can, because it’s Louis. But you get the picture. “And, yeah, so, we just want to thank you all for loving and supporting us, being such an important part to both of our lives and life we’re about to start together, and for helping to make all our dreams come true.”

  “Harold here couldn’t have put it any better; we’re truly blessed to have families like you. Thank you all for being a part of this, or us, rather. We couldn’t have asked for better people to have tonight, tomorrow at our wedding, and of course, here to share the rest of the important days with for the rest of our lives. We love you all more than we can possibly put into words. So, with that, we thank you kindly,” Louis says, wrapping their little speech up nicely, and he flashes them a truly genuine toothy grin.

  “Cheers!” Zayn and Niall shout harmoniously, raising their glasses. “To Louis and Harry,” Zayn chimes further, and everyone raises their glasses, clinking them together as they repeat back, “to Louis and Harry.”

  “Cheers, guys,” Harry blushes, and he smacks a wet kiss on Louis’ cheek before they take their seats.

❖

  A whirlwind of events take place after their dinner party, starting with everyone separating to their own wedding-preparation-headquarters. Louis’ and Harry’s families all head back to their hotel rooms collectively, and Gemma wastes no time gathering Anne and Jay, Genevieve, and all of Louis’ little sisters and taking them down to the hotel spa to lounge sporting the purest form of clay pore masks, shaking off wedding adrenaline in the most relaxing way. Niall and Harry collapse onto the bed as soon as they get back to the flat, talking into the late hours of the night until finally the rising sun pulls him out of bed with a promise of the day. Zayn and Liam take Louis back to theirs, and maybe they should have thought this one through a bit more because there are two very important sources of stability in Louis’ life, and on the night of his bachelor party perhaps Zayn should have realized he is a wreck without Genevieve and/or Harry. Just as Louis is about halfway done flipping his shit, it occurs to Zayn that his method of calming definitely worked the last time. And that is how Louis finds himself staring at the ceiling, contemplating life at 3am on the night before his wedding, and somehow waking up despite the fact that he does not remember falling asleep at all, and smelling quite like cannabis if Liam does say so himself, and of course, with only 45 minutes until he is due to be at Rain Bar to be wed.

  Niall is clasping cufflinks (“Harry, mate, you look right handsome. It’s time to get out there and marry that man.”) while on the other side of town Zayn is pinning on a boutonniere (“Louis, mate, you have two different shoes on, pull your shit together before Harry changes his mind.” “Very funny, you wanker.”). 

  And somehow they both end up at the venue, on time and put together, and when they meet Louis pulls Harry in for the most absolutely necessary kiss on the freaking planet, probably, and he twines his fingers in the back of Harry’s hair while the other slides down his impossibly long torso until sticking its landing on his hip.

  Gemma rounds the corner and runs (well, she tries her best to, anyway) in the bluest blue dress and impossibly high heels known to man, linked hand in hand with a much smaller girl who is dawning a crimson dress, little black flats, and a flower crown made of tiny roses sat atop her loosely curled hair. Louis could cry. Louis does cry. His baby girl looks all grown up. And somewhat like a cinnamon heart. A grown up little cinnamon heart.

  She extends her arms out for him, the universal sign of, I am still light enough to be carried, please lift me off the ground so I do not have to take another step and so of course he picks up her majesty and she curls into her father, tapping the wetness beneath his eye with the pad of her thumb and after deciding that yes, it is a tear, she leans in to blot it away with a kiss. “Don’t cry daddy, today is supposed to be happy!”

  “I am so unbelievably happy, princess,” he sighs, knocking his forehead against hers and pulling Harry in closer with the hand still pressed to his side. “So, so happy.”

  Louis is happy, and with absolutely no doubt about it he will continue to be happy, but a bit of trouble does come along with that whirlwind that is pre-wedding, wedding, and wedding reception.

  When they head inside they find the place is phenomenally decorated, there are so many flowers and lights and candles that the place looks fucking immaculate. It’s by far the prettiest place any of them have ever seen, and they owe such a great thanks to Gemma for helping to set this place up. She and their mothers have spent almost every waking hour of the last three days here putting everything together and insisting to the boys that they can handle it by themselves, that they wanted it to be a surprise when they show up. And that’s exactly what it is. Neither of them could have ever imagined the place to be so perfect.

  They and their families all trickle over to the board room where the ceremony will take place, and find that the people they cherish most are filing in one by one, couple by couple, and soon the room is filled with delighted people ready to take part in these two boys that they all adore getting married.

  “Who’s ready to get married?” Gemma says quietly, her melodic voice filled with the most excitement anyone has ever heard. Blushing lightly, the both of them give each other a look before turning back to her, giving a definitive nod each because hey, they’re more than ready to get married. “It’s time for us to go take our seats, but, god, I love you guys. Good luck little brother,” she says, placing a kiss on Harry’s cheek before finding the hands of Daisy and Phoebe and leading them with the rest of the pack, Louis’ father, her own, and Liam, all the way up to the front of the room, saving two seats for Anne and Jay as well, of course.

  Zayn and Niall make their way to the front, standing together on opposite sides of the podium and looking back down the aisle at their best friends who wait anxiously to walk up there themselves. Jay hands Genevieve a little basket of flower petals and tells her to toss them lightly around while she walks up to the front by her Uncle Zayn, just like she practiced in the rehearsal yesterday. Genevieve nods, and puts a serious face on, because, y’know, being a flower girl is serious business. Especially at her own father’s wedding. Those flower petals have to decorate the ground they will walk on perfectly. She can handle it.

  Mendelssohn’s classic, Wedding March, begins to sound from the organ that has been channelled to the front of the room in the space designated for the ceremony music. This is it, they’re about to be fucking married, Louis thinks, and well, so does Harry. Zayn waves Genevieve on up, giving her the cue she needs to move forward, one step at a time to the music that fills the room, throwing flower petals handfuls at a time in front of her as she makes her way up. As she reaches the front of the room, everybody in the crowd stands up, awaiting Louis and Harry’s entrance, and Zayn reaches a hand out for her, pulling the little girl up into his arms.

  “Hey, Gen, can you do me a favour?” Zayn whispers to her softly, and of course he receives a nod in response. He fishes around in his jacket pocket, producing a small velvet box, and he places it in the palm of her hand. “Wait for my cue, and when it’s time, I need you to give this to your dad, okay?”

  She nods, but she’s no longer paying attention, squeezing the little box in her hand as she smiles and waves to her father, who is walking slowly up the aisle toward her, with the biggest smile she’s ever seen on his face, arm in arm with her Grandma Jay. Following right behind him is Harry, looking long and lean as ever, linked arm in arm with his own mum as they make their way down the aisle. Louis pulls Jay in for a hug and a kiss, and he parts from her to join his daughter up at the front, and Harry does the same, whispering, “Love you, Mum,” as he turns for the front as well. Harry mouths a ‘love you,’ as he runs a hand down the length of Louis’ jacket clad arm, and receives a silent ‘ditto’ in return.

  The music settles down softly, and the minister makes his way over to the podium, his loud bellowing voice pulling the attention from everyone in the room, especially that of Louis and Harry’s. “I would like to thank you all for gathering here today to witness one of life’s greatest moments: the lawful marriage of Mr. Louis Tomlinson, and Mr. Harry Styles.”

  The room falls quiet, impatiently awaiting the man to carry on. From Zayn’s arms, Genevieve reaches forward and tugs on Louis’ shoulder, getting his attention and pulling him in so she can fix the crooked boutonniere and all is well. “Love is like a flame that burns brighter with passion, and when two people marry, they make the promise to keep their flame burning endlessly and without waver. From what I’ve been able to gather from these two men right here in the time that I’ve known them, it’s that their flame won’t be fizzling out any time soon,” the minister jokes. Well, he’s really only half joking. Everyone’s seen how Louis and Harry act. “Now, Harry and Louis, are you ready to make this promise?”

  “I believe we are,” Louis nods for the both of them. Hell, he was ready to make this promise, like, yesterday.

  “Okay, then we won’t waste any more time, Louis, let’s start with you,” the minister smiles. Louis gulps. This is fucking it. “Louis Tomlinson, do you take Harry Styles to be your husband? Do you promise to honour, cherish, and protect him? Loving him today, tomorrow, and forever?”

  “I do,” he nods.

  “And Harry Styles, do you take Louis Tomlinson to be your husband? Do you promise to honour, cherish, and protect him as well? Loving him today, tomorrow, and forever?”

  “I do,” Harry’s feeling kind of light headed at the moment, kind of like he’s going to pass out because he’s fucking marrying Louis Tomlinson.

  “And now for the rings; the unbroken symbol of promise and love. By placing these rings on each other’s hands you are promising to keep your flame burning bright, infinitely.” Zayn nudges Genevieve to hand the ring box to Louis, who opens it before Harry, watching his glistening eyes as they take it in.

  “Louis, those are beautiful,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing out over Louis’ hands. “Jesus, put it on me already.”

  “Hey, hey, we’ve got forever, remember? What’s the rush?” Louis jokes, but the stern look he receives from Harry sends him plucking the ring from the box, while simultaneously drawing a chuckle from everyone else within hearing distance. “Okay, Harry, my love, this ring is my gift of endless love for you. I will cherish you every day for the rest of my life. With this ring, I thee wed.” And Louis slides the ring down the fourth finger of Harry’s left hand, bringing that very hand up to his lips to press a kiss to the roof of it.

  “And Louis,” Harry begins, pulling the second ring from the box. “This ring is the symbol of my promise to keep our flame burning. There is no start, and there is no stop to it; it just is. And that is the nature of my love for you. So with this ring, I thee wed,” Harry feels like his emotions just came up vomit style, but he doesn’t care because he’s sliding that ring down Louis’ finger like it’s his fucking job.

  “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you lawfully wed,” the minister announces uproariously. However, everyone looks to him, expecting him to go on. “What are you waiting for? You may now kiss your husband!”

  And really, that was all the cue they needed. Louis grabs the lapels of Harry’s suit jacket and pulls him in, kissing that impossibly soft mouth of his. Harry swipes his tongue across Louis’ bottom lip and his hand finds his way to Louis’ lower back. They’re married.

  Zayn sets Genevieve down and she pushes herself between Louis and Harry, and when they break apart Harry pulls her up into his arm between them and she kisses both of them on the cheek. “You’re married now!”

  “Yes, munchkin, we sure are,” Louis grins. He pulls Harry into him once more, “Come here you fool,” and he says against his lips, “my beautiful, beautiful husband.”

  Now, Louis’ not sure whether or not he should be taking something like this as a bad omen, but, he hasn’t even been married for a full thirty seconds before a bit of a problem decides to thrust itself upon his shoulders. Everyone’s starting to head out of the boardroom, flocking over to the bar for a drink or out to their cars for the intermission between the ceremony and the reception. Well, everyone except one person who Louis catches sight of out the corner of his eye, feeling every ounce of air that was meant to fill his lungs jam up in the back of his throat like it’s been caught in 5 o’clock traffic.

  Harry looks to him, his fingers gripping Louis’ wrist tightly in his concern. “Harry, I need you to take Genevieve out to the car,” he says flatly. Genevieve places the palm of her hand on Louis’ cheek, pulling his attention and softening his features in one simple gesture. “Time to go get ready for wedding photos, okay munchkin?”

  “Louis?” Harry asks, obviously perplexed.

  “Take my daughter out of here,” is all he says before pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek and turning from the both of them as he heads to the back of the room where a woman in a frilly purple dress remains seated.

  “Wondered how long it’d take you to notice me sitting back here,” she winks, standing up and patting her dress down neatly against her thighs.

  “Get out,” Louis deadpans.

  “Okay, yeah, I figure—”

  “Get out,” Louis’ ears are ringing and his heart is beating a million miles an hour, if not more, and his fists are clenched at his side. He lets the words roll off his tongue venomously one more time. “Get out.”

  “Can we please be reasonable here? This is a wedding for god’s sake,” she laughs, making light of the situation at hand. The chime of her laughter cuts through Louis like a knife, if not because he remembers it so clearly, but because he hears one pain-strikingly similar to it about a hundred times a day.

  “Listen to me,” he hears himself say before he can even register that he’s begun talking. “This isn’t happening. Not here, not ever. I need you to get out and stay the fuck away from my family. Funny, you’re usually pretty good at doing that, aren’t you?”

  “Love, look, I—”

  “Lou,” Harry exasperates, slightly out of breath as he runs up. His shiny black shoes hit the ground harder than he intended as he’d made his way over there, and now he’s got a hand on his husband’s shoulder. He knows this woman; he’s seen her in pictures, he’s seen her in Louis’ daughter. Harry’s hand slides down Louis’ arm until he finds his hand, weaving their fingers together, and he looks pointedly at Ruby. “With all due respect, I think it’s time you leave.”

  “This one’s a bit more of a gentleman than I’d thought,” she smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m on my way out. A friend of a friend’s told me Lou was getting hitched down here, so. Just thought I’d drop by here to give you this. Never really know when a good time to do these things are, but, here we are,” she giggles, attempted to break the tension. She hands an envelope to Louis, and his fingers latch on to it so tight he leaves dents in the paper. “Give that to her, will you? When it’s time, I mean. You’ve done quite the job with her, I’ll give you that. Your daughter is absolutely gorgeous.”

  “You’re right, actually, she is my daughter. So last time I checked showing up uninvited to my wedding to have me give her some letter from someone who doesn’t mean shit to her is a bit uncalled for, don’t you think? She is not your daughter, so I don’t know why you’re here, pretending this piece of fucking paper is going to make up for the guilt you feel over running off on her,” Louis says through tight lips, squeezing Harry’s hand tighter with each word that rolls fiercely off his tongue. “Even if this pathetic excuse of an apology could have made up for something, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because you were never her parent. She’s got parents. She certainly doesn’t need this.”

  “You need to go,” Harry says, not leaving any room in the statement for her to be confused about. “And please, in future, resist any temptations you may have that heed you to make yourself welcome to the presence of my family, because you’re not.”

  She nods solemnly and slings her little black purse over her shoulder, turning for the door. The second she leaves the room Louis crumples into Harry, letting him hold him while with shaky hands he scrunches up the letter into a ball of waste in his palm and tucks it into the back pocket of his trousers. 

  “Well,” Louis sighs, letting his lungs deflate as he blows out a gust of long withheld wind. He pulls himself off of Harry, wiping his clammy palms down his thighs before shoving them into the pockets of his jacket and putting on a faux grin. “Ready to go take some wedding photos, husband?”

  “We don’t have to go right away, Lou,” Harry breathes, stepping toward Louis again, if not just for the sake of being close to him, then because he can see through this c’est la vie façade Louis’ putting on and has decided to keep close in case he decides to faint or something. “We can take all the time you need, okay?”

  “I think I’ll need more time than I can probably get right now to recuperate, so at this point it’s best that we just get out there. And I should probably find Genevieve,” he says, letting his shoulders sink in a bit. His hand navigates the space between them until it finds Harry’s, and with locked fingers they make their way out the board room and toward the miraculously sunny outdoors. And of course he does not expect anyone to hold it against him when he more than thankfully takes the glass of wine the bar tender offers him on his walk by the bar. Nor does he expect it to be held against him when he finishes the glass before he’s even actually made it outside, a mere 6 steps away from where it was handed to him.

  “Everything okay?” Zayn asks, taking the empty glass from him and setting it on an iron wrought table beside the large glass door. 

  “Yeah, well, we handled it. She’s gone, right?” For some reason Louis’ intuition is screaming at him to take a once-over the whole place, making sure she’s really gone. I mean, he’d gone the whole ceremony without noticing her, who knows how long she could manage to stick around unnoticed?

  “Yeah, yeah. She drove away. Didn’t give me the nicest of looks,” he says sourly. “Hey, are you alright though? She didn’t like…?” Zayn cuts off, looking back at Genevieve, who’s chasing Daisy around the car.

  “No, and I don’t really want to make it any bigger of a deal than it is,” Louis waves the whole thing off. “Right now I’ve got some wedding photos to go take with my husband, if you don’t mind.” Zayn throws his hands up, signalling he’ll leave him be, and Louis steps backward slowly, pulling Harry along with him.

  “Daddy—oof—!” Genevieve squeals, until she quite literally runs into Louis’ leg. Okay, so, she misjudged that stop, flinging herself full fledge at her father. She reaches up, up, up, until he lifts her and slings her so she’s sitting comfortably up there on the curve of his hip. “Are you okay now?”

  “Oh, yes. Actually, you are just the lady I’ve come looking for. Now, what do you say we go find the man with the camera and take some pictures?” Genevieve nods enthusiastically, latching her small fingers into the fabric of Harry’s tux, making sure he comes along. “Harry’s not going anywhere, munchkin; we couldn’t possibly take any pictures without him.”

  “Good,” she says decidedly, patting down the wrinkle she’d put in his sleeve.

  “Louis?” Harry croaks. “Are you sure you don’t need a minute or two?”

  “Listen, Harry,” Louis begins, setting Genevieve down and wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck, looking into those incredibly green eyes while he carries on. “There are so many parts of today I want to remember for the rest of my life, I’m not giving that an ounce of my conscious. Right now all I want is to take some god damn wedding pictures with my hot ass husband, our best fucking men, and our daughter. So help me god if I don’t.”

  “Okay, okay,” Harry rolls his eyes at him, placing a hand on each of his hips. “Got it. Backburner. Now kiss your hot ass husband and let’s go take those god damn photos, Louis Tomlinson.”

  And so they do finally get to it, everyone piling up in their cars and heading off to a nearby river with the greenest trees and gossamer landscape and thankfully the weather held out the whole hour they’d spent outside there, taking what might seem to be the most gorgeous set of wedding photos known to man. 

  A very pleased photographer managed to get some nice shots of just the two of them, shots with Genevieve, shots with just Zayn and Niall, shots with their entire families, and best of all, shots of everyone together, laughing and caressing each other fondly. This day isn’t just a unity for Louis and Harry, they realize, nor is it a unity for their families as well. This day has united their entire lives together; pulling all their loved ones, their passions, their aspirations, etc. together. It’s completely unbelievable, but here they are. The photographs, every single one, display happiness in its purest form, and it can be honestly said that not a trace of worry, nor anger, can be found in Louis’ wide blue eyes.

  Everyone makes it back to Rain Bar with a few minutes to spare before the reception begins, and Louis follows Zayn out to the back of the building where his lifelong friend plucks a cigarette from his pack and brings it to his lips. Louis was sure Harry and Genevieve were somewhere in tow, but it seems they hadn’t followed them back here, and Louis is left alone with Zayn in search for air from the tidal wave of worry he’d been avoiding washes right through him.

  “Answer this honestly,” Louis says with a hint of light, passive aggressive laughter behind the melody of his voice. Zayn realizes he’s not ready to have this conversation as he lights and inhales. “Have I don’t right, by Harry?”

  Zayn lets that question sit and age in the silence between them for a moment, letting the smoke curl around himself more so than his thoughts, vaguely hoping the tainted O2 will suffocate him in that moment. “By choosing Harry for yourself, or for Genevieve?” Zayn asks, not because it really makes a difference, as it’s clear the answer remains the same all around. The phrase is merely to get Louis to see that, which, under normal circumstances he knows he would. But what with her showing up today, well, Zayn gets it.

  “I know I’ve chosen right for myself, but that’s not the point. I’d live my life miserably if that’s what it takes to make the right choices for my daughter,” Louis explains. Just as Zayn is about to explain why Harry is right for Genevieve in all the same ways he’s right for him, Louis chooses to rephrase. “Was I right to send her away today?”

  Zayn taps the ashes from his cigarette. “Did she ever love Genevieve?” He asks so softly Louis wonders if Zayn thinks he’s fragile enough to shatter, but he shakes his head nonetheless. “And today, did it seem as though that has changed?”

  “No,” Louis admits, biting his lip. His eyes follow the burner on the end of Zayn’s smoke as the amber light it brought up to his mouth, and then back down to where his hand rests by his thigh.

  “And what about Harry? Can you say the same?”

  “Of course not,” Louis scoffs. There’s not a time he can recall Ruby expressing love for Genevieve, very much unlike there’s not a time he can recall Harry not expressing love for her. The two scenarios are incomparable—and, yeah. He should have realized that before he’d even let himself talk in the first place. Zayn has a habit of making him feel that way, actually.

  “Then I think you’ve got your answer,” Zayn offers, and really, that’s just about all he can give. He flicks the cigarette to the ground and stamps it out, offering his arms out to Louis, who comes to him for a hug like that itself is all the reassurance he needed, and everything else was but a waste of breath. “And boy am I glad you chose right,” Zayn laughs against Louis’ hair, “I’ve got one fine plus-one to your wedding now, but I sure didn’t when we were seventeen.”

  “Come on you wanker,” Louis says, pulling out from Zayn’s embrace and pretending to jab his ribs, “you’ve got a bouquet to catch if you expect to be married next.”

  Louis can feel his heart fluttering in his chest as they queue up to walk into the reception hall, announced as husbands, and he’s pretty sure it’s going to fly right out of his chest. 

  Gemma does a fantastic job as MC, welcoming Niall and Zayn to the crowd as best men, Genevieve in tow as flower girl, and then finally she’s all but shouting into her mic, “Everyone stand up and put your hands together for the newlywed couple, Harry and Louis Tomlinson!”

  They walk past the threshold to a room full of people they know and love, who are all here to celebrate them, and Louis finds Harry’s hand between them, weaving their fingers together as they walk across the hall, glowing brighter than ever. “I fucking love you,” Louis tells Harry softly over the dull roar of applause, shouts, and half joking wolf whistles in their celebration, and Harry leans into Louis’ neck to repeat the statement back to him. He ends up raising their joined hands over Louis’ head, maneuvering them to twirl Louis and bring him in right up against himself, placing the type of kiss on Louis’ lips that would probably be considered not socially acceptable if this weren’t their wedding, and if people weren’t expecting them to parade their love around in front of everyone because of it.

  “What do you say the boys we’re here in honour of share their first dance as a married couple?” Gemma suggests, raising her brows excitedly at the room full of people who can barely manage to peel their eyes off Louis and Harry for the better part of anything Gemma’s saying. “Let’s get to it, yeah? The song they’ve chosen to share with us tonight is Found You, by Ross Copperman.”

  Harry lets their hands mingle together between them for a moment while their preferred song starts, pulling Louis in with the melody and taking his place as lead right off the get go. Rightfully so, as Louis can’t dance for shit and finds himself a bit nervous to be doing this in front of so many people, but he does have a bit of a surprise for Harry. He’s been working with Zayn a bit on his dancing techniques, so at least he isn’t quite as bad as he would be under normal circumstances. It’s not much, he’s no Fred Astaire, but at least he’s learned how to keep his rhythm.

Well, I saw you there just the other day  

you smiled at me in a secret way

  Harry’s hand splays out on Louis’ older back, Louis’ hand on Harry’s shoulder gripping him for dear life because god he loves this, doesn’t ever want to let go. If he could melt into Harry right now, he would, without looking back.

So I let you in and you captured me 

I’m your prisoner, it’s what I want to be 

  Their free hands are clasped together, and Harry brings them in so his is pressed against Louis’ chest and vice versa, just as Louis lets his head rest on Harry’s shoulder, lips so close to his skin it’s a miracle they’re not touching. A twitch of his nose swipes against stray chocolate curls and Louis feels like home. So much so that for the next few minutes he’s able to forget about the fact that there’s even anyone else in the room.

When it feels like it’s love 

All the stars lift you up 

To place you high above 

On top of the world 

I’m just glad that I found you

  Harry sings to him softly, a mere whisper only to Louis, like it’s a secret. This may be their day of celebration, a day they get to share with everyone, but Harry and Louis both’ll be damned if they don’t get something of their own.

  It starts as a hum,

Like a thief you came to steal my heart

  and halfway through humming the next line Harry can’t contain it anymore, he breaks out to speak the words to him, because this is it. This is all he wants and this is all he wants to be,

I’ll surrender now, because you broke my guard

  okay, so, it’s actually Louis; this stanza, anyway. It’s part of the reason he picked this song, actually. If there’s any song in the world that describes the both of them so wholly, it’s probably this one.

  Harry lets his thumb brush over the roof of Harry’s hand, down his knuckles and drawing goosebumps. And by this point he’s full fledge singing under his breath to Louis, the hot breath slipping past his lips hitting the shell of his ear.

Such a pretty face, it warms my soul

And your sweet blue eyes, they shine like gold

  “Kiss me,” Louis murmurs, lifting his cheek from Harry’s shoulder, and kissing him first despite his request to be kissed; pressing his lips against Harry’s jaw, leaving a trail in his wake before pressing a final peck to the corner of his mouth. Their knees knock together as they cave into each other, and Louis decides he’s done bothering with the romantics of holding Harry’s hand between them, choosing to wrap his arms around both his shoulders and play with the hair at the nape of his neck instead.

And you know it must be right

‘cause it’s burning up inside

I can feel it in your eyes

I want you to know, yeah

I’m just glad that I found you

  Harry’s hand slides from the small of Louis’ back to his hip, his other hand finding slotting into the dip above Louis’ other hip bone, the flap of his jacket hanging over to conceal their touch. “I’m so glad I found you,” Harry murmurs against his lips, and Louis can’t help but smile at his cheesy arse of a husband. Louis hums a reply that sounds suspiciously synonymous to ditto, and Harry chuckles, “you ready for the big finale?” finding Louis’ hand to twirl him once more in front of everyone, clumsy toes stepping on each other with the spin.

Yeah, I’m just glad that I found you

  But before Harry can bring him down for the dip, Louis is reaching for the lapels of Harry’s jacket and reining him in for an exaggerated kiss; the kind you see in movies, like they haven’t kissed in weeks or months or years, or as if they’re drowning and their lips are the only oxygen reservoir for miles. Harry decides he can live without the dip if he gets to indulge in this. 

  When they break apart they both turn for the crowd, seated at the tables, as the waiters walk around filling water glasses and setting wine bottles on the tabletops. Gemma announces, “Can we have the mothers of the grooms come to the dance floor now, please,” and Anne and Jay set their glasses down, standing up and patting their dresses down before meeting each other in the middle of their two separate tables, sharing a teary hug before finding the other’s son.

  “Can I have this dance?” Harry asks Jay, holding out his hand for her, two which she blushes, calls Harry a prat, and accepts by grabbing his hand and letting him lead her out to the middle of the floor just as Heartbeats, a rendition by Jose Gonzalez starts softly, flooding the room around them.

  “Mum,” Louis greets Anne, pulling her into a hug, if not for the sentiment itself, then to have the opportunity to warn, “I hope to god our future kids don’t get their dancing genes from me.”

  “Oh, Louis,” Anne grins, her heels clacking against the dance floor as they make their way out to join Harry and Jay, “it’s not so bad, see?” She assures, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s what Harry always says, but if worse comes to worst I can always step on his feet and truly leave the work to him,” Louis jokes, swaying with the soft music. He counts in his head, one. step back. two. step left. three. step right.

  “Not happening this time around,” Anne says lightly. “I love you dearly, but no.”

  Harry and Jay laugh with their heads back as they dance by, and Louis smiles, admiring the way Harry carts his mother in circles around the dance floor, using the allotted space they’ve got to its full effect, but Anne smiles at Louis like he’s the next best thing to prance into her life, his short and choppy two-step dance and all.

  “Thank you so much, Harry,” Jay says to him, calming her giggles and letting go of his hand for a moment to wipe away a tear that’d escaped. He smiles at her warmly, not expecting her to go on. “I mean it. You’ve done so much for my family—well, they’re your family now—but I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done for them. For loving them the way you do.”

  “I’m glad you approve, because I’m not sure what I’d do without them,” he tells her, tightening his grip around her hand when he gets it back in his. “I don’t think I could’ve picked a better family to become a part of if I tried.”

  “I’m so proud to call you my son, Harry Tomlinson.”

  “As am I you, mum,” he says, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek as the song comes to a close. The music transitions softly into a beautiful melody, needless of lyrics, and someone taps his shoulder, Jay sending him a wink before letting him turn to find his own mum behind him, pulling him into a motherly embrace.

  Louis hugs Jay, swaying into her arms, finding Genevieve’s eyes as she comes up behind her, and he bends his mum down and they open their arms for the little girl to come in and hug them both, pressing a kiss to her father’s cheek.

  “Are you going to dance with me Daddy?” she asks as Jay backs herself out to give them some room, finding Anne and Harry a short distance next to them.

  “You bet I am,” Louis says, poking the tip of her nose. “It looks like they’re starting to bring out dinner, love. What do you say we eat, and when the music starts for real you’ll be the first lovely lady I dance with?”

  “Do I get to sit with you and Harry for dinner?” She asks, searching frantically behind herself to look for him. Just as much as Harry has become a crucial part of Louis, he’s become part of Genevieve as well, and it warms the hell out of their hearts.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way, babe. It’s the three of us with Niall and Uncle Zayn to our table,” Louis tells her. “Just like we went over yesterday, I promise.”

  She decides she’s happy with that, letting Louis pick her up now and find Harry, placing a hand on his waist and a kiss to his cheek, before leading all three of them over to the table and taking their seats next to their groomsmen. There are salad bowls filled next to everyone’s dish, where their meal is plated and their wine glasses have been filled generously by Niall, Zayn finding grape juice to fill Genevieve’s with.

  About halfway through their dinner Gemma starts tapping her fork gently against her glass, and everyone starts to do the same until metallic chimes out of sync fill their ears and they stand before everyone to kiss, swallowing down a mouthful of food and smiling happily into the kiss for everyone to see. As they take their seats and put their napkins back over their laps Gemma then stands, glass in one hand and microphone in the other, moving away from her table and over to the podium closer to Louis and Harry’s table, raising her glass up into the air.

  “Before we get started with speeches here, can we have a toast to my baby brother and his husband? To a life full of love and laughter,” she toasts, to which everyone else raises their glasses up in celebration, clinking with others’ and bringing their drinks to their lips. “Thank you. And now, should we start with the groomsmen? Zayn, it looks like you’re up.”

  He meets her at the podium with a hug in store, taking the mic as she hands it over, his own glass in his free hand and crumpled papers he digs around his pocket for forgetting momentarily that he’s holding a microphone as the sound of it scratching against the fabric of his jacket resonates from the speakers in the room.

  “Oops,” he blushes. “You know what, um. Screw it. Louis had me write my speech out and run it by him for approval, but sorry Lou, I’m throwing this one to the wind. Perhaps in light of how you live your entire life.”

  “Ha-ha,” Louis exaggerates a fake laugh and flips Zayn off discreetly.

  “I mean, something’s got to inspire me once in a while, right?” Zayn chuckles. “My best friend of 23 years, everybody. Louis Tomlinson. I’ve known the lad since we were in diapers, growing up with each other in Donny, wreaking havoc together in school, right up until we graduated and came here for uni.

  “I remember this one year, though, Louis thought it would be a great idea to skateboard off the roof of his house and into the pool in his backyard. And oh god, Jay, I’m so sorry we lied about what happened, and that you’re just being told the truth here today, but. Right, anyway, so we were probably like thirteen, and Louis comes to me with this real winner of an idea, and of course, being the man of better judgement than this idiot, I told him of course we shouldn’t. But did Louis ever listen to me? About as often as he listens to anyone else. And if you know Louis Tomlinson, you know he doesn’t listen to anyone.

  “So we end up concocting this rope lift over the branch of a tree that hangs close by the roof to bring our boards up. And we climb the tree to get up there, and by this point in our lives, the prats we were back then, we were practically professionals at making the jump from the edge of the branch that was flimsy as hell onto the rooftop. We set our boards down on the peak and did our old secret handshake we had back then, remember that Lou? Soz I can’t share that, though. Brotherhood stuff, that is. Louis tells me to go first, and by some miracle that I will never understand, everything came up aces. But when it was Louis’ turn his back wheel got caught on a shingle or something and he ended up losing his board halfway down the roof and skidding down until he literally fell ten feet onto the deck. He came out of it with a broken leg and a sprained wrist, which is actually how a lot of his schemes should have ended up, when I look back on it,” Zayn reminisces, and Louis turns a bright shade of red and sinks into his drink. Not exactly a memory he thought he’d be reliving tonight, but here we are.

  “Louis Tomlinson,” Jay scolds, and everyone else in the room erupts into laughter.

  “So, yeah, Louis and I got up to some wild stuff when we were kids, and while some of it probably posed a threat to our lives, I’m glad I was there to go through it all with him. Couldn’t have picked me a better best mate, even to this day. He’s all settled down these days; a father, now he’s married. But I still see the reckless Louis I grew up with once in a while. Watch out, Harry, because if I know Louis, and I do, he’s going to make the rest of your lives together pretty interesting. And I’m sure you know that to some extent already. 

“It’s an honour to be mates with you now too, Harry, and I wish you all the best with this one. Not sure you’ll need it, though, from what I’ve seen over the past year it looks like you’ve got the Louis department covered.

  “And that about wraps up what I’ve got to say, I think. So, thanks, boys, for having me in your life, for choosing me as your best man, Louis, and for having me speak on your behalf. It’s an honour,” Zayn smiles, raising his glass up to them and tipping it back when he brings it back down to his lips. “Ni, the mic’s all yours.”

  Niall rubs his hands together anxiously before grabbing the microphone and tapping it a couple times, just because it seems like an appropriate thing to do. He doesn’t use microphones very often. “Hard to take the stage after that one,” Niall laughs, “Harry was a bore growing up.”

  “I’ll have you all know I built a lego fortress in my youth,” he declares, standing up. Louis finds and grabs a hold of his sleeve, looking up to him with the kind of fond that crinkles up the corner of his eyes.

  “Harry, you were eighteen,” Niall deadpans. Harry looks mortally offended and mouths for Niall to kiss his ass before taking his seat again. “I’ll tell you though, I would’ve thought Harry to be even more of a bore as we got older. I always knew him to be the type of bloke to settle down, I mean, the kid can be so serious sometimes. The first time Harry told me about Louis, I’m pretty sure he’d only known him for like, a day and a half, and by god I would have sworn they were married already, what with the way Harry spoke about him. But you know what? Sure, he’s an honorary Dad, and now he’s married, probably planning a book club or taking knitting lessons, but this sure-fire settled down version of Harry is surprisingly much less of a bore than the stick in the mud child he was. No offense, Harry, you’re my best mate, but you were born 90 years old, I swear it.

  “Anyway, about the Harry we all know and love today; hair bigger than the moon probably, and more than a little bit obsessed with Louis,” Niall says, realizing he’s gotten a bit off topic. He can’t help it, it’s who he is. “Growing up, Harry used to tell me about all sorts of things. Lord of the Rings, that he wanted to be a singer, and even magic tricks when he went through a phase of wanting to be a magician so bad he’d taken up calling himself not Harry Houdini the 2^nd, but just, Harrydini. And here’s the thing: Harry can’t tell stories for shit. I know it, you know it, he knows it; he talks slower than molasses and forgets what he’s saying after about three words, and ends up restarting a majority of the stories he tries to tell. But lately, Harry just likes to talk about Louis. And Genevieve, of course. LouisLouisLouis all day every day, and you know what? It may come as a surprise to some of you, but not a damn conversation about Louis has put me to sleep.

  “I think it’s the passion, myself. But then again, Harrydini was pretty passionate, and yet no amount of magic or caffeine could keep me alert during a new trick. But I can listen to Harry talk about Louis for days at a time, the way you can hear him smile when he talks on the other end of the phone, the way he’ll repeat the point he’s trying to make about him to assure he’s hand selected the best possible words that his vocabulary can offer to describe Louis, the way he’ll cut me off because Louis’ home and just hang up on me. Absolutely heartwarming, that.

  “And I know I made Harry promise the other night not to tell Louis what we did when I took him out for his bachelor party of sorts, but I’m going to share this all with you,” Niall looks over to Harry and smiles at him, he’s just so happy to be here and to be celebrating his best friend. “I took him to a fountain, you know, the one downtown, where people toss in coins? And I asked him, if you could make one wish right now, what would it be? and I handed him some change, and he said, I wish I could spend the rest of my life next to Louis, and threw the coin over his shoulder and everything. I mean, I’m not going to lie, we were pretty inebriated. I was expecting him to wish for a full stack of pancakes, to be honest. And I know I just broke, like, every code of law in the rulebook of wish-making, but Harry, I’m pretty sure you don’t need superstition for that one. You might as well have wished for that stack of pancakes, because you don’t need to wish to be with Louis for the rest of your life; that’s already a given.”

  “I too just want to thank you for having me here today,” Niall tells them, “means a lot, really. Love you boys, and may you still look at each other like you do today when you’re old and grey.”

  The mic is handed off to the next in line, their parents, siblings, and other close friends speaking in their honour, and it fills the rest of the dinner hour seamlessly. Waiters and waitresses flit around the room clearing empty plates from the table, dropping new bottles of wine off that are just waiting to be uncorked, and assuring that coffee will be coming around shortly after dinner as well. After Louis and Harry have finished eating they part from their table with a kiss, deciding to join their respective relatives for a short visit to make sure they’ve spent time with and thanked everyone who came here for their unity today.

  “You boys look absolutely gorgeous,” Louis’ aunt says, pulling him in for a hug and placing a kiss on his cheek, sure to leave a lipstick print in its wake, making Louis laugh as he scrubs it away with the palm of his hand.

  “Thank you kindly Aunt Mary,” Louis says, returning the smooch and heading off in another direction, bumping catastrophically into Liam, who is trying to balance five champagne flutes in his limited two hands. “Christ, Liam! Give me a heart attack on my damn wedding day, why don’t you?”

  “Just the man I was looking for,” Liam says with a grin, “take some of these, yeah?” 

  And Louis helps him carry them over to their table where Zayn sits, trying to balance his coffee spoon on the tip of his nose, Genevieve cackling beside him. “Right boys, where’s my spouse at?”

  “Hello, spouse. You called?” Harry greets from behind him, catching wind of the spouse thing. They’re disgusting, honestly; Zayn lets the spoon clatter to the hardwood floor. Harry reaches to cover Zayn’s eyes with one hand and pulls Louis in by the neck with the other, kissing him diligently, like there’s a method that he’s learned in order to kiss Louis the way he deserves. They say practice makes perfect, and Harry is a damn professional. Zayn swats his hand away.

  Liam elbows Harry, handing him a glass of champagne when he’s got his attention. Niall walks up to the table and grabs a glass without acknowledging that his friends are in a small circle nearby. “Neat,” he says, going to take a sip.

  “Hey,” Liam shouts to him, Niall freeze-framing with the glass pressed to his lips. “Don’t drink that yet, you twat. Come here, it’s my turn to make a slightly shorter, slightly less significant speech, to a slightly smaller crowd.” They take their seats around the table, and Genevieve moves to sit on Louis’ lap, grabbing the glass from his hands to hold it for him. “I know I haven’t known you boys all that long—well, Harry and Niall, anyway.”

  “Wait, you two knew each other before—I thought Zayn didn’t tell you who he was dating until—” Harry asks Louis, a bit puzzled, but bubbly nonetheless.

  “I didn’t,” Zayn says, confused himself.

  “Hey, I thought you told him?” Louis asks pointedly at Liam. 

  Liam taps his fingers against his glass, disturbing the champagne bubbles inside. “Well, I figured now would be as good a time as any?” He laughs, “Anyway, can I get back to my speech? Right, so. Just over a year ago, I’d been out on a date with Louis. It was casual, believe me, the fucker stood me up after. Literally told me he threw away my phone number. Prick. But the point is, I knew when I met Louis that even if he wasn’t the one for me, he was going to be a really special one for someone else, and boy would that someone else be lucky. Louis is thoughtful, sweet, and has a pretty unique sense of humour, and those are a pretty good set of qualities to find in another person.

  “And then when Zayn said he was going to introduce me to his best friend, I got to meet the two of you, and I played the bitter shafted card with Louis for a majority of the night, yes, but. I got to see him with that lucky guy who won his heart, and while I knew whoever that guy might be would be lucky, but I didn’t expect Louis to get quite so lucky as well, because I wasn’t sure there was someone out there that truly deserves him. I was so wrong and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong, because would you look at Harry? He’s charming, kind, and settled, and somehow these two know how to even each other out in ways I will never understand.

  “What I’m trying to say, I guess, boys, is that I’ve never seen two people more meant for each other than you. And Harry, I’m glad Louis didn’t throw your number away,” Liam smiles, raising his glass up to the middle of the table. They all clink their glasses together and drink to that.

  “So, did you guys—”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” Niall laughs, “had to ask.”

  The speakers in the room sound Gemma tapping the microphone to get everyone’s attention, the melodic music dropping to a softer level, and she brings it up to her mouth. “Can we get the grooms up here, please? I believe it’s time to cut the cake!”

  They weave up to the front of the room, dodging a coffee cart and a chair someone had left untucked from one of the tables. When they get there Gemma tells them to take off their jackets, because this is going to get messy, and it may or may not take every ounce of Louis’ self control not to pounce on Harry, looking long as ever in just the tux vest over his white button down. He hangs his own jacket over the back of a nearby chair and takes a moment to breathe, sticking a finger in his collar to loosen the tie a little bit. He can do this.

  The cake is absolutely beautiful. Two tiers, one chocolate and one vanilla, of course, and they’re iced in decadent chocolate icing as well. There are floral imprints in the thick, rich frosting and each tier is topped with a white chocolate doily pattern shelled nice and snug on top. They decided to go traditional with a cake topper, nothing like those little bride-and-groom statues you see in (non)reality wedding shows, but something simpler: two golden wedding bands made of fondant, interwoven, and large enough to have the names harry and louis engraved in the circumference of them.

  So, the cake is a work of art, basically; Gemma had it custom made for them, and as much as it pains her to do so she hands Harry a knife. The photographer get some ace shots of him cutting a piece out of the bottom tier, and he hands the knife off to Louis as he plates his piece (that, admittedly, does look like it can induce cavities) and licks a smudge of icing off his finger. Louis cuts proudly into the top tier, a portion probably too big for Harry, but he can’t really find it in himself to give a fuck, because he gets to feed it to him in about fifteen seconds. 

  “You want some cake, Lou?” Harry asks, smiling at him like life is too good to be true. 

  “Don’t even think about it, you’re first.” 

  It doesn’t really go against the grain that he doesn’t listen, letting the fork clatter off the side of the plate as he grabs a piece of the cake between his fingers and presses it right up to Louis’ mouth. His eyes flutter shut as he says with utmost satisfaction, “I lo—” and is cut off by a sizable piece of vanilla shoved in his face. “Yeah,” he says around the bits of cake that actually made it into his mouth, “I deserved that.”

  Louis’ got icing on his nose and smeared across his lips, and Harry’s got a streak of it on his cheek and a bit stuck in his eyelashes, but he’s not entirely sure how that’s even possible, but he doesn’t bother dwelling on it because Louis is kissing him on the cheek and licking it right off him in front of everyone. He grabs Louis’ face in the palms of his sticky hands and kisses him, coming back with a chocolatey stain of his own on his lips, and he wipes a thumb down the slope of Louis’ nose to clean him off. The photographer is thorough and camera happy throughout the whole exchange.

  “Cake was good,” Louis says softly to him, “but you’re sweeter.”

  “Okay, uh. Cake for anyone else?” Gemma asks, holding her arm out to the chocolate floral display as waitresses cut and plate pieces of their gorgeous wedding cake to cart off throughout the room, and as they grab their jackets and head to wash up, music begins to sound from the speakers. “And hey, if you’re not having dessert, we expect to see you shake it down to the dance floor!”

  They wash the cake off themselves and Harry can’t help but blush when Louis’ hands find the curve of his arse after he’s dried them, pulling him in against himself. “Save a dance for me later, yeah? I’ve got to catch a girl out there,” Louis grins against his lips, kissing him once against the back of the closed restroom door, pulling away and leaving only enough time for Harry to promise him that, and he’s off, back toward the dining hall and skirting himself across the dance floor. He stops short in his tracks when he comes face to face with Genevieve, and he scoops the girl in question up into his arms in one swift movement, and she hugs onto him, her arms around his neck and legs wrapped around his waist.

  “Will you dance with me now?” She asks, and his affirmation is in the form of squeezing her tighter, smiling so wide his eyes crinkle at her hair in his face and her cheek pressed against his neck. He doesn’t ever want to lose this; he wants her to forever be this small, and to carry her around in the safety of his arms. It’s less of a dance and more of a sway, and her legs are dangling at his sides from where her knees crook over his hips, but it’s got no impact on how much Louis cherishes being able to dance with his daughter at his wedding.

  “Oh my,” Louis giggles, turning so Genevieve can see what he can see as the song starts to come to a close. Harry’s dancing with Niall, who looks a bit quick for the beat, like he’s trying to race it as he awkwardly moves Harry across the floor. They’re laughing so loud they barely notice the song has just ended, dancing right into the opening of the next song without a care in the world. “Wanna steal him? Harry called dibs on dancing with you second,” and she’s kicking to be let free so Louis sets her down, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she’s flying across the floor, the little red dress of hers not slowing her down for a minute. 

  Louis smiles fondly as Harry opens his arms to her, that big mouth of his splitting into a grin. How did I get so lucky? Louis thinks, because in all his wildest dreams, he never thought he would be the one to score the perfect family. Watching them meander across the floor, holding on tightly to each other and lazy limbs knocking into people around them, he knows that by some miracle, he fucking did it.

  “Husband and daughter,” Louis greets, a kiss each on the cheek. “I like that. Husband and daughter. Daughter and husband. It has a ring to it.”

  “Family,” Harry chimes, “good ring to that as well.”

  “Fathers? How about that?” Genevieve asks precariously. 

  “Oh yes, that one too,” Louis assures her. He pulls both of them in, his sizeable husband holding their little girl crushing into his chest. It’s quite possibly the best feeling in the world. “I love you both, so much.”

  The night ages too quickly, and after trading off dancing with just about every member of each of their families, they start to notice the dance floor clearing and people putting on their jackets and heading out to start their cars.

  “What do you say we get out of here, husband?” Harry asks, pulling Louis in by the hips. 

  “Let’s go say goodnight to our daughter,” Louis says in the affirmative, leaning in to kiss him before wrapping an arm around his waist and leading him over to where Genevieve is dancing with Zayn and Liam. “Hey munchkin, we’re heading out.”

  “Can I stay?” Genevieve asks, shaking her hips as she holds onto Zayn’s hand.

  “You’re going back to Uncle Zayn’s tonight, so be ready when he is, okay? I already gave him your jammies and Keats,” Louis tells her, and she lets go of said uncle to say goodnight to the two of them. Louis picks her up and kisses her on both cheeks, tells her he loves her and that he’ll see her in the morning before they head out for their honeymoon. Harry does the same, spare taking her from Louis’ arms, and far too quickly he’s brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear and they’re whispering goodbye.

  Their best men clap them on the back and whistle at them as they take their leave, and if not just for their amusement, than also for his own, Harry grabs Louis by the shoulder and dips him under the arch of the doorway, the palm of his hand spread wide on the small of his back as he kisses his husband open-mouthed, the sound of their friends hollering at them growing feint behind the hot ringing in their ears. 

  “I want to be alone the next time I kiss you,” Louis huffs against his lips, but he kisses him one more time and then shrugs into Harry’s arms as he stands back up. “Okay, the next-next time I kiss you. And I mean it. Take me home, husband.”

  “My pleasure,” Harry grins, anticipating the late and sensuous night ahead of them, sweeping his hands down his jacket and linking his arm through Louis’ as he leads them out to their car.

  Little do they know it’s been plastered with JUST MARRIED signs and it looks like a confetti-making-machine has thrown up in, on, and around the vehicle, but. When they come face to face with it, it truly does warm their hearts. 

  They’re married.

❖

“How did I know this was going to happen?” Harry asks, rhetorically, of course, as Louis is throwing mismatched clothes into a suitcase. Half of them have missed the suitcase partially or all together and his half of their bed is just a mess of his belongings. “I asked you to do your packing three days ago.”

“I’m handling it,” he mutters, scrummaging through his dresser drawers. “But while you’re here, have you seen the cap to my toothpaste?”

“Some people lose socks, you lose everything else,” Harry sighs. “Step out of the way, I’ll take care of it.” And when Louis doesn’t get the point, Harry quite literally shoos him away from the dresser and then out of the bedroom entirely. 

It takes him nearly twenty full minutes, but he eventually has all of the clothes Louis will need for their honeymoon folded and packed neatly into his suitcase, toiletries set right on top and he pulls the zipper until its sealed to perfection. Really, nobody can pack like Harry can. Except maybe Gemma. And his mother, for sure. Okay, so nobody can pack like Harry’s family can. In a duffle bag he throws a spare change of clothes and an extra toothbrush for Louis, along with a phone charger and a magazine for him to read on the plane, and the carry-on is officially taken care of as well. 

“What would you do without me?” Harry asks aloud after allowing Louis back into the room.

“What would I do without you?” Louis retorts, letting his hands slide over Harry’s ribcage until he’s trailing just low enough that—

“Hey now,” Harry coughs. “What did I say about best behaviour today?”

“Maybe I’m not a very good listener.”

“You’re definitely not a very good listener, that’s how we ended up here. But we’ve got to head out if you want to catch our plane, so we can spend a full week in Ibiza doing, well, that.” 

Harry is also very good at reasoning. Apparently so good that he can actually reason himself into talking Louis out of trying to indulge both of their needs right then and there. That kind of self control comes only with years of practice.

“I hate you for always being right,” Louis frowns, but for good measure he flicks Harry’s nipple over the stretched cotton of his shirt, and he definitely gets a rise out of the way he squirms.

It’s a lot easier to forget about the fact that he wants Louis to take him right there when there’s a knock on their front door, following by Jay waltzing in and Genevieve shouting hellos to her grandma.

“Hi mum,” Louis squeaks, a hand flying up to cover the bruise Harry’d left on his neck the night before.

“Covering up a blemish there, Lou?” She jokes. “You’ve barely been married a day, I get it.”

“Right, well. Now that that’s out in the open,” he says, trying to forget about the bite mark as he gives his mother a hug.

“Why do you and Harry have to leave?” Genevieve asks Louis, tugging on his sweatpants to gain his attention. She looks sad, her blue eyes wide and full of questions. Harry fears how Louis will react to her sense of abandonment, but he’s so very proud of the way he handles it.

Louis gets down on one knee so he’s at her eye level, and places both hands gently on her shoulders. “It’s just a little vacation, sweetheart. When two people who love each other get married, they take a trip somewhere after. To celebrate.”

“But we celebrated last night, when we danced,” she frowns.

“You’re right, we all celebrated together. But now it’s time for Harry and I to celebrate on our own, you know? Just the two of us. But we’ll be back so soon you won’t even have time to miss us, munchkin,” he breathes. “We’ll be back in just a couple of days. Does that sound alright?”

“You promise?” She asks. 

“I pinky promise,” he says, and they lock fingers together before her frown fades. Once it has, Louis knows she understands, and that she’ll be alright. And he knows he’ll be alright too. “Be good for Grandma Jay, okay?”

“Practice your counting homework and eat your vegetables,” Harry pipes in, and the two of them share a look that he probably wouldn’t be keen on seeing. Then again, he kind of guessed they would do that. 

“I will,” she smiles, pressing herself against his chest into a hug that feels like no other form of reassurance.

“I love you. So much, princess, so much you don’t even know,” he says into her hair.

“I love you too,” she says, and before he lets her go he plants a kiss on her forehead, and then she’s off to give similar goodbyes to Harry. 

With Genevieve still pressed to his hip, Harry follows after Louis in giving Jay a hug goodbye. “You boys have a safe trip. Enjoy yourselves, and just know we’re a phone call away over here, okay?”

“Sure thing, mum,” Louis says as he’s stealing Genevieve away for one last squeeze. He sets her down, pats the top of her head, and grabs his suit case as he takes in a deep breath. He doesn’t release the gust until he and Harry have walked out the door.

Nothing can bother Louis today. Not the fact that their plane was over an hour delayed, not the fact that the child sitting behind him on their connection flight kicked the back of his seat for nine consecutive hours, and not even the fact that it was raining upon their arrival in Ibiza. He’s in unfathomable bliss, officially married to Harry Styles. Harry Tomlinson? He can definitely get used to that.

“We came here to soak up the sun together,” Harry frowns, “the rain is inescapable.”

“I promise you we’ll leave here so tan our families won’t recognize us. But I didn’t come here for fine weather, I came here to spend alone time with you. Rain can’t possibly bring down a honeymoon, can it?” Louis asks mischievously, cocking a brow.

Harry thinks about that for a second, folding his arms over one another. 

“No time for a pro and con list, Styles, we’ve got a hotel room waiting for us.”

“Ahem,” he coughs.

“Tomlinson. Regardless, fuck your list. Tomlinsons don’t make lists anyway,” Louis says, throwing the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder. He picks up his suitcase with one hand and hauls Harry with him in his other.

If either of them thought the outside of the resort was beautiful, even with the light rain, then the English language simply does not have a word to adequately describe the inside.

Blossoming vines decorate the entryway, and the check-in desk is a long granite countertop with trays of fruity cocktails centred between receptionists, behind them is a wall of international clocks displaying the time in every possible zone, and what Louis considers to be his favourite part, is a lobby bar. The Lobby bar is very open concept, you can grab a drink as you check-in to the hotel at 7 o’clock in the morning, just as they are now. There’s feint Spanish music playing in the background, and Louis wants to rock his hips to the beat, but the blistering heat has him waiting until he can exchange his sweats for shorts in order to do that. 

“Can I help you?” A petite brunette receptionist asks from behind the desk. The Spanish accent that drives behind her English is musical. 

“We’re here to check in,” Harry says, folding his arms where they rest atop the countertop. “Tomlinson, for two.” Louis grabs a cocktail and plops the decorative pineapple right into his glass, adding, “The honeymooners package.”

“Well, congratulations are in order. Your room should be ready in about ten minutes, and I’ll have a bottle of champagne ready to be corked waiting for you. I just need a piece of ID and a signature from you,” she requests, and they both hand over their licences for a check, and sign a waiver before she continues. “Here are your room keys, you’ll be staying in 227. Enjoy your honeymoon!”

“We’ll do just that, thank you,” Louis says, grabbing his key card and slipping it into his wallet. He knows the next ten minutes are going to pass by excruciatingly slowly as he anticipates getting to their room, stripping and taking a quality shower with his husband.

They manage the time before they go up the red bricked stairs that lead them to their floor, the hallway of the same decor, and when they swing the door open they’re met with the beautiful room that will house them for the next seven nights. The pillow top bed is made with fine white sheets and fluffy pillows to match. There’s a television on a stand across from it, a mini fridge in the corner, and just as they’d been told atop that sits a tray with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a note card. Tied around the neck of the bottle is a red balloon, and the note left for them just says happy honeymoon, lovers in possibly the neatest script they’ve ever seen. 

They decide on a nap to recuperate from the long flight, curling into each other on top of the thick sheets, trying their hardest to fall asleep despite the sunlight that trickles into the room, somehow, on this drizzly day. It’s an uncomfortable rest, to say the least, as most afternoon naps are with how they leave you foggy and confused. It’s decided upon their eyes fluttering open that they’ll begin to settle in for the week ahead of them here. 

It takes them about 15 more minutes to hang light jackets in the closet for those breezy Ibizan spring nights, put their ID’s and extra money away in the lockbox, and their toiletries taken to the bathroom. The towels Louis finds in there are just as soft as the bathrobes found in the closet, and honestly, Louis just wants to wrap himself in all of their cloud-like warmth. He chuckles to himself when he notices the floor length mirror just perfectly angled so when they wash up in the boxy glass shower they’ll be able to see their reflection perfectly. That could be kinky, depending on what they get up to in there. And even the high heavens know they will. 

“This looks fancy,” Harry says, holding up the bottle of champagne to read the label. It’s to no avail, however, because it reads Spanish. 

“Pop it open and lets start this celebration,” Louis grins, and when Harry does the cork goes flying and ricochets off the high ceiling, white foam dripping down the neck. He fills both champagne flutes and hands one over to Louis. “I love you,” is all the toast he can muster up before their glasses clink together and they take a sip, letting the bubbles burst on the tips of their tongues. 

“As I you," Harry concurs. 

Soon they’re topping off their glasses and making more toasts to being married and in love, each one becoming more ridiculous than the last. After they’re washed over with sadness at the end of the bottle they decide to call for room service and crack the bottle of wine in the mini fridge. They twirl noodles with their forks and sip wine from where they sit on the bed, crossed legged and joyfully, oh so blissfully in love.

Harry leans in, red stained lips just barely touching Louis’ before they start buzzing more from love than from their late afternoon drinks. Louis lets his lips meld into his as Harry brings his hands up to cup Louis’ face, the pad of his thumb drawing out across the stubble along his jawline.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, pulling back to look into his eyes, his hand trailing down until it rests comfortably on his chest. Louis’ eyes are a shade of blue he could drown in, though he would be lying if he said he didn’t the moment he met him. It’s really what brought him to this point, this unconditional love, far quicker than what Harry ever could have dreamt love to be possible of.

“Nothing, just kiss me,” Louis slurs, partially speaking right into Harry’s mouth as he brings him in closer again. But Harry can tell. The mechanics of Louis’ kisses are off, and it’s not the effect of alcohol in his blood and on his breath, but more like the way he’s rigid, and the desperation behind it. They’re needy kisses, and Harry knows this is not want Louis needs right now, but if it’s what he wants for now it’s what he’ll give him.

Louis fists his hands into Harry’s shirt, his knuckles turning white as he clenches the material tighter in the grasps of his fingers than is probably necessary, and his mouth moves with the pace of his quickening heartbeat. Harry complies to every move, fixing himself to be what makes Louis feel in control of himself again, what makes him feel better. He attempts to bite down on Harry’s bottom lip, but before he can force his jaw to do what he wants it to it begins to tremble, his lower lip pushing out into a frown that parts their kiss, and he sighs into the space between them.

“I’m so sorry I’m ruining this,” Louis whispers, defeated.

As it turns out, something can bother Louis today.

“Is this about—”

“Ruby. Yes.” Louis lets himself fall back onto the pillows behind him, and he stares in silence at the ceiling until the room starts spinning. He’s not sure if it’s because of that, or because of Ruby, but something in his gut twists violently, and he jumps off the bed and sprints directly to the bathroom to let it out.

“Babe,” Harry consoles, smoothing circles into his back. “This isn’t—okay. This isn’t healthy, Louis.”

“It’s the champagne,” he decides. “Too much carbonation is all, Curly.” He wipes his face on a hand towel and searches his bag of toiletries for his toothbrush.

“How many times are we going to have to go through this?” Harry asks, helping him locate what he needs to wash the mixed tastes of backwashed alcohol and anxiety out of his mouth. 

Louis crumples into Harry’s arms, because he’s right. He can’t keep this up. It’s not fair to his husband to pretend his skin is thick enough to handle everything that comes his way, to keep him locked out of the guards he builds up around himself.

“This is your honeymoon,” Louis tries to smile, “I’m trying, Harry, I’m really trying not to ruin it for you.”

“This is our honeymoon. And we can’t spend it properly together if we don’t take care of this, Louis.” He loves the way Harry’s voice—no matter what he’s saying, really—sounds like the solution to all of his problems. He loves the way he’s sure he’ll reach the end of any tunnel so long as Harry is talking him through it. 

He opens his mouth to let it off his chest, but he clamps his mouth shut again in frustration, not knowing where to start. 

“Take your time,” Harry says, the warmth behind his voice coating over and tearing away at the pain that’s been building up in Louis’ chest.

Louis tries storm up how to string his words together in just a way that gets exactly what he’s feeling across, but, as it turns out, he’s got nothing. “I just can’t believe that she—she just showed up. She thought it was acceptable to just fucking show up like that.” He can feel crimson rise to the surface of his skin, not through blush, but hot red anger. “It’s like she doesn’t understand the concept of consequence, it’s like she doesn’t care that while she galavants doing whatever the hell she wants, the rest of the world pays the price. What if Genevieve saw her?”

“I know, baby, I know where you’re coming from,” Harry soothes, “I know how much this is bothering you, angering you, but—“

“But what, Harry?”

“But I don’t think it’s healthy to dwell on the ‘what ifs’, because a lot of things could have happened the other day, but we should focus on and be happy about the fact that nothing like that did take place,” Harry expresses, correctly, of course. Louis knows it, everyone knows it. “I think instead of justifying your feelings, maybe lets start with how you feel, and then we’ll get to the why part.”

Louis doesn’t know how he got a man so great, so patient. He can admit that patience are hard to keep around him, the way he squabbles and and makes a joke out of everything, and he himself is quite possibly the least patient man to roam this small earth. Harry balances him out. Grounds him, you could say. And with his feet planted like this, with his hand tightly within Harry’s where they sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, he says, “Scared.”

“That’s a good start.”

“Defensive. Yeah,” he nods to himself, properly acknowledging his feelings, “very scared, and very defensive.”

Harry isn’t able to get out a word of encouragement before Louis continues. 

“And that’s the why, I guess. She scared me—posed a threat, you could say. Which made me angry, and feel like I have to protect her. Genevieve, I mean. Made me defensive.” They just sit together for one silent moment, breathing that in and coming to terms with it. “Why, though? Why do you think she did it? Why now? Why ever?”

“Slow down, Lou, don’t get ahead of yourself here. You’re doing really great talking about this,” Harry smoothes his thumb over the roof of Louis’ hand as he whispers this encouragement between them. “To answer at least one of those questions, though, I don’t know. I don’t know why she showed up. But personally, I think she feels guilty. But it was just a letter, so I can’t say it was life-altering guilt. I think she needed to do some type of gesture that makes her feel better about herself.”

“Harry, do you think—“

“No.” He assures. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think she’ll be coming back.”

“I hope you’re right,” Louis sighs, and he lets go of Harry’s hands to wipe his palms down his thighs before he heaves himself up, pulling Harry up second, and leading him over to their bed. “I know we’ll be breaking just about every honeymoon law ever, but can we just lay down tonight, maybe watch a movie, and perhaps you can kiss me until I can no longer feel my lips.”

“I can do that,” Harry nods. “Rules were meant to be broken.”

In future they wish they could tell everyone they ended up watching a romantic movie, one with epiphanies and earth shattering love, and threw their cuddles to the wind with their passion. But instead they settle on The Amazing Spider-Man 2, and eat salted peanuts from the minibar and trade soft, closed-mouthed kisses until they fall asleep in each other’s arms.

The rest of their honeymoon does not go much the same; there are no more salty peanut flavoured kisses, no more Marvel before bed, and they last the rest of the week without needing an emotional revelation talk.

There are early mornings and shower hand jobs and afternoons in the Ibizan sun. There are dinners at dusk on the resort, a shooting star caught during a beach bonfire. There is sand in their hair and skin constantly touching skin. There are kisses soft, hard, wet, dry, passionate, slow, hungry, heated. There is skinny-dipping in the moonlight, sunrise yoga on the docks, and famous Ibizan party remixes sounding for at least 12 hours a day. They fall into each other’s arms at night, though there is sex—the best god damn sex they could’ve dreamt of—during just about every single time interval spanning the course of the week.

They take their leave one week from their arrival, sun-kissed, blissed, and ready to spend the rest of their lives together. They are Louis and Harry Tomlinson. Husbands.

Louis drops his suitcases in the hallway, lunging for the door with his keys, but Harry’s right beside him, things thrown somewhere, knocking at the door as Louis’ shaking hands jiggle the key in the lock. He can practically hear Harry mentally chastising him, ‘a credit card is much faster!’ But it doesn’t matter which is faster, because Genevieve is, throwing back the lock and opening the door to her dads excited faces. Hers is much the same, eyes wide and cheek splitting grin, and she jumps at Louis, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“I missed you so much baby girl,” Louis coos into her hair, “Did you miss me?”

“The whole time!” She shouts, a little too close to his ear, but, he’s not going to let her go for the world. Okay, maybe for Harry. He thinks that’s fair. And even if he didn’t, it would’ve been too bad, because Harry pries her right out of Louis’ grip, holding her close and  saying he missed her too. It feels right, having his family all back together again. He loves it. 

“Thank you so much, mum,” Louis says, giving her a hug next.

“Look at how bronze you boys are!” Jay laughs, pressing her palm to her boy’s cheek. “Did you enjoy your honeymoon?”

“So much,” Harry assures. “We brought you guys something, actually.”

They find it’s a great time to grab their stuff from the hallway, now that they’ve gotten to see their beloved daughter again. Louis pulls out a photo album of the place and hands it to his mother, while Harry hands Genevieve a little book on sea animals. They flip through quickly and quietly, Genevieve peering over at the photo album to see her dads, young and in love, soaking in the sun. She likes that they look so happy.

Genevieve lets out a yawn, and Louis kicks back into dad-mode. “It’s eleven o’clock, kiddo, you’re lucky grandma let you stay up this late—”

“You’re lucky too, son,” Jay says, patting his hair.

“I suppose I am,” he smiles, “but now that I’ve gotten to see you, love, it’s time for bed. Okay?”

“I am tired,” she obliges, giving her grandma Jay a kiss goodnight and heading toward the washroom to brush her teeth.

Louis’ got one surprise left for her, something he picked up at one of the airport shops. Once she’s crawled into bed, Harry takes his seat at her feet and Louis crouches down with his elbows propped up on the mattress beside her. “How about we try out some Emily Dickinson tonight?”

“We don’t have that,” Genevieve points to her small collection, frowning. That frown doesn’t last long as Louis pulls out the small bound collection of Dickinson and he lets Genevieve pick randomly from the contents page as to which poem they’ll be reading tonight.

“The Wind Took Up the Northern Things it is,” Louis says, flipping open to that page and letting his fingers slide over the words as he reads them aloud.

“The Wind took up the Northern Things

And piled them in the south -

Then gave the East unto the West

And opening his mouth.

The four Divisions of the Earth

Did make as to devour

While everything to corners slunk

Behind the awful power - 

The Wind - unto his Chambers went

And natured ventured out - 

Her subjects scattered into place

Her systems ranged about.

Again the smoke from Dwellings rose

The Day abroad was heard -

How intimate, a Tempest past

The Transport of the Bird.”

“Goodnight Daddy,” she whispers, half asleep. “Goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight baby,” they whisper back in unison, leaving a kiss each tingling on her cheeks as she drifts off to sleep. 

❖

  As spring gets older Louis gets the opportunity to present Genevieve with a bit of an offer. He’s just pulled her out of the bath, and they’re sitting crossed legged on her bed as he runs a brush through her long wet hair.

  “So baby girl, footie season is coming up,” he says without any weight added to the words. “Do you think you might want to sign up?”

  “And play football just like you?” She asks, turning to face him with her hands clapped together. When she smiles like that Louis can’t help but compare her to something more like the sun. He nods and smiles back at her, and her mind fancies up an image of what it might have looked like; her father young, and running, swift but fierce down a pitch. “Of course I want to! Silly question,” she says with a slight shake to her head. Well, that’s all settled then, isn’t it?

  “My little girl is gonna be the star of house league,” he decides. “I’ll register you tomorrow. League starts in two weeks.”

  “Will I get a jersey and everything?”

  While house league is probably best for Genevieve, as it’s her first year playing footie and needless to say she’s only five years old, perhaps it may not be the best for Louis. They all learn that quite quickly.

  “Coach, come on!” He shouts at the balding man with a clipboard held to his chest. What the fuck does he have a clipboard for, Louis thinks, it’s not like he’s done anything to fucking strategize.

  The man extends his arm out at Louis with the clipboard in his hand, essentially pointing angrily at him with both a finger and an utterly pointless chunk of particleboard. “Enough, Tomlinson!”

  “Why don’t you put miss daisy-picker over there on defence and let Genevieve go up with the ball. For once,” he spits.

  “Mr. Tomlinson, I regret to say this, but if you cannot get your husband to sit quietly for the rest of the game I’m going to have to kick him off the field,” the coach says to Harry, who just gives a subtle nod full of expectation. He should have known better than to let Louis sign Genevieve up for something most people would consider, well, non-competitive.

  “Yes sir, sorry,” Harry murmurs, placing a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Lou, she’s doing great on defence, look at her. She hasn’t let the ball get past her even once yet.”

  “That’s because the other team can’t play for shit, Harry. She’s only had to actually defend, once,” he says sourly. “And look at those offence players over there, they’re literally throwing grass at each other instead of trying to get the ball.”

  “This isn’t FIFA, Tomlinson; they’re five years old for christ’s sake. Now get off my field,” he demands, pointing at Louis again with that damn clipboard. That’s what irks Louis the most, y’know, the fucking clipboard he only uses to look the part.

  “Piss off,” he flips the coach off and turns away, letting Harry’s hand fall back down to his side.

  “We’ll meet you out at the car,” Harry calls after him. He approaches the coach and looks down at his feet when he talks. The coach sighs, knowing sooner or later he’d be approached for kicking the guy off the field every consecutive week since the season started. “Listen, football means a lot to him. He’s not really a prick, he’s just—okay, he’s kind of a prick sometimes. But it also means a whole lot to his daughter out there that she’s playing his favourite sport and every time he misses out on seeing her play, it’s just…do you think maybe next week, please, can you try to work out putting her on forward? I promise he’ll keep his mouth shut. Please, coach.”

  “Not you too,” he grumbles.

  “I’m asking,” Harry says raising his eyebrows at him mischievously. “It could be worse. I could be my husband.”

  “Well, if I’m going to say yes to one of you, it might as well be you. I’ll see what I can do for next week, Tomlinson. But I swear to god if I hear even one word, I will not hesitate—”

  “You won’t hear him, I promise,” Harry assures, walking back to his spot on the sidelines. When the game is done all the girls line up at centre field to shake hands, and Genevieve comes running off the field with a huge grin on her face, well, until she finds only Harry. “Good job out there kiddo! Why the long face?”

  “Where’s Daddy?” She asks, looking for Louis. Her coach is within hearing distance and a nice pool of guilt does seep over him.

  “Uh, I think he went to go get ice cream,” Harry tells her, a bit unsure if he even believes himself at this point.

  “He got kicked out again, didn’t he?” She rightfully guesses. She wipes a palm across her sweaty forehead, getting her hair out of her eyes, and she throws her water bottle down at Harry’s feet. “I hate this sport.”

  “Hey,” Harry starts, bending down to pick up her water bottle. He gets down on one knee so he’s at her level and he grabs her hand. “Give it one more shot, okay? Next week. And if it happens again we’ll pull you off the field too and you’ll never have to come back. I promise, next week will be better.”

  “How do you know you’ll be able to keep that promise?” She counters.

  “Have I ever broken a promise before?” He asks. He lets her think about it for a moment, eventually deciding that no, Harry keeps all of his promises, so she shakes her head and lets herself smile at him. “Now let’s go get Daddy, c’mon.”

  “Can you give me a piggyback, Dad?” She asks, but before he can even answer she jolts to his other side and hops on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Go! Go! We have ice cream to get to!”

  “Go baby, go!” Louis shouts, jumping off his seat on the stands and trampling over the blades of grass that stand between himself and the field with each step closer to the sidelines. “You can do it, munchkin, c’mon!”

  “Never thought I’d see the day you didn’t piss me off, Tomlinson,” the coach mutters, clapping a hand on Louis’ shoulder as he watches Genevieve scurry down the field.

  “Never thought I’d see the day you did your job right, Coach,” he quips, his lips stretching out into a very satisfied smirk. See, Louis thinks, choosing to leave his opinion unsaid, we could have saved all this time and aggravation if you’d just listened to me.

  “Watch it,” he warns, chuckling. They watch on as Genevieve kicks the ball up as hard as she can, Louis pooling with warmth inside as it does nothing but hop up into the air a little bit and roll about a foot away when it lands back on the ground. She makes a face at the ball as though she’s been utterly betrayed by it, but then tackles it head on again, striking a bit further up the field this time. “She’s feisty, I’ll give you that.”

  “Superstar, that kid is,” Louis corrects, because yes, he’s one of those parents; he’ll fucking gloat your ear off about his daughter, he doesn’t even care. There she is, kicking the ball at the net one more time and the whistle is blown just as it swooshes past the goalie who looks particularly interested in the grass stains she got on her cleats. “Oh my god, Harry!” He turns to see Harry jumping off the stands and joining him there, and all cool jumps out the window as they sprint onto the field and meet Genevieve by the net, Louis throwing her up into the air.

  “You were amazing!” Harry shouts, stealing her from Louis’ arms when she comes back down. She grins and bats her lashes, holding her hand out to lock her tiny fingers between Louis’.

  “Incredible!” Louis says, pressing a kiss to her cheek as he wraps his free arm around Harry’s waist, pulling the three of them in together. “So good, Genevieve. We’re so proud of you, princess.”

  “So proud,” Harry echoes, “You did so well!”

  “And you kept your promise!” Genevieve says, pulling Harry and Louis in closer. “I can’t wait for next week’s game!”

❖

  June brings flowers and sunshine, hopscotch in the alleyway and Genevieve putting the bicycle she’d gotten from Zayn to use. It brings summer with later sunsets and sweaty afternoons, barbecued dinner and campfires in Liam and Zayn’s backyard. Most importantly though, the beginning of this summer brings Genevieve’s graduation from nursery school. 

  Louis and Harry, the proud parents they are, dress up in appropriate attire, Louis rolling the cuffs of his button down and Harry nagging him to wear it properly until he has complained enough for him to let it go. Genevieve dawns a pretty little floral dress and white velcro dress shoes, and she’s got little tan tights that make her itchy but she bargains with Harry that if she keeps them on he has to take her out for ice cream later. 

  “What are we having for dinner on your big day?” Louis asks, picking her up and resting her on his hip, as per usual. She wraps her arms around his neck and shouts much louder than necessary that she wants pizza, of course. “Right, right. Of course,” he smiles, “pizza it is.”

  And after they’re finished eating they all pile their plates in the sink in turn, and it goes against the grain for Harry to leave them until after they get home, but they’re running later than expected as it is. They toss their pizza box in the recycling bin as they make their way to the car, and sooner than Genevieve can believe it she’s back at her nursery school and is running up to the other kids she plays with.

  “I like your dress,” a little boy named Dalton tells her, and she thanks him and gives a curtsey, and Louis swears he ages ten years on the spot. After nursery graduation she’s off to the convent. It’s happening. 

  “Ellie, please put the chalk down,” their teacher, Ms. Emerson, instructs, “and Nicholas, stop picking your nose honey, we’re about to do our walk on stage.”

  Louis chuckles softly at the frenzy, and gives Genevieve one last kiss on the cheek before heading out to take a seat next to Harry in the audience, and he’s just in time for the spotlight to shine on the gymnasium stage curtain.

  “Welcome mothers and fathers of this year’s graduating nursery class,” the tall lady in a high heels begins. “My name is Ms. Emerson, and as most of you know, I’ve had the pleasure of not only teaching, but getting to know your children during the time here in our nursery class. What a wonderful bunch of children they are, and for this evening we’ve prepared a special presentation for you.”

  Behind her the curtains open up and the group of children Genevieve goes to school with every day are sitting cross-legged centre stage, and on the walls behind them is some of their artwork they’ve saved over the course of the year. To spark everyone’s surprise, music begins to chime, and all of them partake in a rendition of a well known nursery song, and upon its completion is a tremendous round of applause.

  “Now, we’ll call across the stage the graduating nursery class of this year,” Ms. Emerson says, and one by one the children shuffle across the stage when they hear their name being announced to the audience of parents.

  Pity those who were close and unsuspecting, but they really should have second-thought sitting next to the Tomlinsons. When Genevieve’s name is being called, she walks across the stage, her eyes darting across the crowd of parents until Louis is standing up, clapping, and shouting “That’s my baby girl!” and she sighs in relief when she sees him. Other parents awe in her elation at the sight of her father, and she claps her hands together twice before catching up with the others and running toward her teacher for her graduate certificate. 

  The rest of the children follow suit, another large round of applause takes place, and they entire collection of them bows in sync. Ms. Emerson sighs noticeably in relief at their successful graduation ceremony, and announces to everyone that the graduated children can reunite with their families and invites everyone for refreshments. 

  “Do we want graduation refreshments, or ice cream?” Harry asks, taking a hold of her certificate so she doesn’t lose it. Louis scoops her up and swipes strands of hair out of her eyes as she contemplates this.

  “Let’s get out of here!” She decides, and so ice cream it is. 

  When they arrive at the ice cream parlour, she gets two scoops of bubblegum on a cone. But Louis knows better than to not ask for a bowl on the side, because in about 5 minutes its melting much faster than she can keep up with eating it, and he places her cone in the bowl and hands her a spoon so not to get any of it on her dress.

  “I’m so proud of my baby girl,” he grins, stealing a bite of her ice cream, which earns him nothing less than furrowed brows. “You’re all grown up, starting primary school, princess. So proud of you.”

  “We love you so much,” Harry adds.

  She soon decides she’s finished, so they take their pink ice cream stained child home and wash her up for bed. Once she’s snuggly in her bed, her dads join her, squished on either side of her. They pull out Emily Dickinson, and Genevieve reaches out for it with anticipatory hands. “Can I?”

  “You want to read the poem tonight?” Louis clarifies, his face lighting up. She gives him a hesitant nod, and he’s more than happy to hand the book over to her, letting her flip open to whichever poem she pleases.

  “I might need help,” Genevieve says shyly, and both Louis and Harry give her nods of assurance. “How about this one? The Soul…unto? The Soul unto itself?”

  “That sounds perfect,” Harry encourages. “Go on, kiddo.”

“The Soul unto itself

Is an…Is an…ugh. Can you help me?”

  “Imperial. Good try, baby,” Louis pats her back, signalling to go on.

“Is an imperial friend —  

Or the most ag…on…izing? Agonizing Spy —

An Enemy — could send —

Sec…ure against its own —

No treason it can fear —

Itself — its Sov…Sov? Sov-what?”

  “Sovereign. Try and sound it out really slow,” Harry grins.

“So…er…reign. Sovereign — of itself

The Soul should stand in Awe.”

  “Oh, princess, that was perfect,” Louis nestles her further into his side and presses kisses all over her face. Harry feels like he’s drowning in happiness, watching his husband fond all over his daughter’s reading success.

  “We’ve got ourselves a new poem reader, that’s for sure,” Harry concurs, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “But for now she’s got to get some sleep.”

  “Goodnight my little one,” Louis coos, getting up and covering her with her blankets.

  “Goodnight my big one?” She says, though it comes out like more of a question. Louis sends her a wink and moves out of the way so Harry can get by to help tuck her in, and soon they’re shutting off the light and closing the door behind themselves.

  From then on, Genevieve does begin to frequent the bedtime poem readings.

❖

  There are two things Harry has been considering as of late, pondering into the wee hours of the night which of two paths he should take at this point in his life; and now, after 6 months of being married to Louis Tomlinson and about a month’s worth of consideration, he feels that maybe, just maybe, if he had spent less time mulling it over and more time actually doing something about what he should do with his life he could have prevented this.

  He’s twenty-one, married, an honorary father slash caretaker of a jubilant five year old, but he has nothing to show for himself except nearly half his psych degree from uni and the money he’d inherited and has been living off of for the past two years. No job, no proper education, no property. He’s solely dependent on what he’s been given and managed to save of it, and he’s invested every ounce of his pride to this day into his guardianship over Genevieve and his relationship, being content with providing household essentials to the Tomlinsons, like cooking, cleaning, and for lack of a better word, just being a taller and more muscular version of a 1950’s housewife.

  He’s been thinking about it for a while now, mulling over the two applications he’s managed to get a hold of when he began to think about what the fuck he’s going to do with himself. Eventually his bank account will run dry, and he doesn’t exactly have any credentials or experience that would be necessary to land an actual career that would allow him to provide for his family in more ways than just his convenient knack for trivial housework. So, he ends up tossing and turning, keeping himself up at night and spending every spare moment he has throughout the day for a couple of weeks considering whether he should apply to go back to university, or apply to an internship that while does not pay a fantastic amount, will at least give him some experience for future job prospects.

  It isn’t until three days after he finally throws all qualms to the wind and just fills out and sends in both applications that he regrets even taking a moment to think about it, because while wanting to help his family, his decision making that was more procrastination and less actual processing had in the end just done the complete opposite of what he was originally intending to do.

  It’s a Thursday night, and Harry had Genevieve help him with dinner so she doesn’t spend all her time after school zoning in on cartoons, and just as he’s setting the table Louis walks through the door and kicks off his shoes in the hallway and throws his keys on the counter. Nothing seems out of the ordinary apart from the strength in which the keys hit the wall before ricocheting back and splaying out beside the sink. And the six pack of beer tucked under his arm. And the way his lips tug downward against his will, instead of the way they usually can’t help but expand into a splitting grin when he sees his family after a long day of work. Okay, there’s a lot out of the ordinary.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Harry smiles at him, not pushing to ask what’s wrong yet. Louis will talk to him about it later on, or when he’s ready.

  For now he just nods, pats the top of Genevieve’s head, and kisses Harry softly before leaving the kitchen almost as silently as he’d come in, saying only, “I’m going to shower, I’ll eat later. Don’t bother waiting for me.”

  Harry mumbles an “okay” so softly he’s sure it goes unheard, but Genevieve’s there, tugging on the hem of his shirt to get his attention. “Is Daddy okay?”

  “I’m sure he’s fine, sweetheart. Just had a long day,” Harry says, plating her dinner before placing a piece of chicken on his own and leading her to the table. “What do you say we eat now, huh? You’ve got to be just as hungry as I am, yeah?”

  While they’re sat at the table eating quietly, enjoying the company they have in each other and simultaneously worrying about Louis, the man in question comes out of the bathroom in sweatpants with wet hair, pops the cap off a bottle and trudges to the living room to collapse on the sofa. Harry tells Genevieve to go to her room and pick out a board game or something for them to play after he’s finished piling up the dishes.

  They play half a round of monopoly, Genevieve giving up after about three hours and owning three quarters of the property on the board, stating she’s too tired to keep counting spaces and she promises Harry she’ll clean up the mess tomorrow if she can just go to bed now. In hindsight, Harry realizes he should have had her pick a shorter poem, but he can’t help but laugh quietly to himself when she manages to fall asleep just two stanzas into Whitman’s All is Truth.

“O ME, man of slack faith so long!

Standing aloof—denying portions so long;

Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;

Discovering to-day there is not lie, or form of lie, and can be none, but it grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon itself,

Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth does.

(This is curious, and may not be realized immediately—

But it must be realized; I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,

And that the universe does.)”

  And the rest of the poem is left unsaid, Harry closing the book and kissing her goodnight before turning off the light and finding another sleeping Tomlinson; this one stretched out on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table next to four empty bottles of beer, the television blaring, and a half cleared plate of baked chicken and steamed carrots.

  Harry doesn’t like this. Doesn’t condone this. Does not let himself treat this as nothing, while Louis’ daughter sits in her room, pretending not to be concerned about her father for the sake of Harry’s own conscience over a board game. If Louis is upset, he should be talking to him about it; letting him help fix the issue. He can’t sit here and try to keep Genevieve distracted while Louis ignores them and tries to drown his problems, or poison them, or whatever the fuck else he’s trying at here.

  He grabs the bottles off the table and plate off his lap, not sparing any noise he could possibly make in the process, and he lets the porcelain clatter on the countertop, satisfied when Louis startles awake. “Is there anything you want to talk about, Lou?” He asks, taking a seat next to him on the couch and letting his hand rest on Louis’ thigh.

  “Not tonight,” Louis says, ignoring Harry’s touch and standing up. He stretches out, cracking his back, and then walks to the bedroom and crawls into bed. He’s left the door cracked open and the light on for Harry, who he knows will follow him in shortly, but he can’t do anything more than offer a small “mhmm,” to him when he kisses the back of his neck and whispers goodnight.

  “Louis, please,” Harry says, reaching for the bottle in Louis’ hand. Louis has come home from work for what will be the fourth day in a row now with this same attitude, and this evening has just been repeating its predecessors: more beer, skipped dinner, drinking on the couch. This time Harry had sent Genevieve to her room alone, though, deciding that he was going to cut Louis off at the third bottle, but he’s having no such luck. Louis had retracted his hand from Harry’s reach, the beer sloshing out the neck of the bottle onto his sweatshirt. “Louis, fucking talk to me!”

  “You really want to know?” Louis asks, but it’s rhetorical. Harry just swallows down the thickness in his throat and waits for him to go on. “They cut my hours at work, Harry. A lot. I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to pay rent in a week and a half. I don’t know how I’m going to afford my car insurance. Groceries. Bills. My fucking debt is racking up and I’m never going to get it paid off.”

  “We, Louis. You know I can help, you know I want to,” Harry says, like he’s said multiple times over the past year. “Louis, we’re married. We’re a partnership, for fuck’s sake. Your problems are my problems, your debts are my debts, just like my money is your money.”

It’s not the first time Harry has tried to help him pay bills, or assist in assuring ends have been met without any worry. It’s not that simple, Louis can’t just accept that money and use it to keep them comfortable or provide for his daughter with it. It’s not something Harry should have to take care of, and besides, until now, Louis has been managing well enough since he was seventeen.

  “Why not?” Harry asks. Louis shrugs, and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. “So, you’re not going to let me help you, but you’re going to sit here, ignoring your family and pissing away what money you do have on beer?”

  “I’m fucked if I do and I’m fucked if I don’t,” he says, a bitter edge to his voice. “It’s all the same in the end. I’ve got a fucking minor business relations degree that I haven’t finished paying off yet, either, and the best I can do with it is get reduced to part time at a fucking call centre. Please, humour me in how I can fix this problem without the side effects of cheap beer.”

  “You don’t want my help, but you do want my pity?” Harry breathes, and he shakes his head at Louis, because this is unfuckingbelievable. He’s not going to sit here and let Louis wallow in the idea that he’s going down with the ship he can no longer keep afloat, refuse help he’s being offered, and then expect him to feel sorry for him. Not happening.  “Grow up, Louis.”

  “Grow up? Grow up. That’s a good one,” Louis laughs, “I’ve grown up. I had no choice but to fucking grow up. So that’s pretty rich, coming from you.”

  He doesn’t let himself feel guilty for that one. Harry’s sitting here, not fucking understanding, and practically pushing the blame on him for his own problems. He sees the look on Harry’s face turn from angry to hurt, but he doesn’t let the guilt sink in. He takes another swig from his bottle and sets it down, the bubbles in the ale bursting down his throat, cutting through the silence left between them.

  “You haven’t worked a god damn day in your life, have you? I’m not talking about a job, I’m talking about work. When you have to pour all the energy you don’t fucking have into earning and providing for someone—for people—who deserve better than what you can give them, even at your best. They can get by on your best, but that itself is barely enough, and then suddenly, trying your best, which is the only option you’ve got, is taken away from you. It’s fucking gone, just like that,” Louis heaves everything he’s got out in one go, but finds more starts spilling out of him after he lets himself breathe. “Please, come talk to me when you’ve fucking worked yourself exhausted and then had every ounce of your dignity stripped from you. Even if you were dropped out of nowhere in a position even remotely similar to that, you’ve got your family’s money to fall back on, just like you said. And guess what I’ve got? Fucking shit, that’s what.”

  “What you’re saying sounds a whole hell of a lot like you think we’re a burden,” Harry mumbles, because if Louis can let the truth off his chest, so can he. Except, apparently not.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Louis spits at him, knocking over his empty beer bottle as he storms past, holing himself up in the bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

  Well, talking didn’t go exactly how Harry had planned, that’s for sure. In the time they’ve been together they’ve had disagreements, they’ve have little squabbles, but they’ve never had a fight like this. They’ve never flung vicious words at each other, and they’ve never exactly been the type to tell each other to go fuck themselves, either. What does he do now? What can he do now? He isn’t left much time to process what the fuck just happened, because Genevieve creaks her door open and wanders over to find Harry alone in the living room with his head in his hands.

  “Dad?” Her voice so soft it’s barely audible, and she decides there’s nothing words can do for her at this point, choosing gestures to work with from there. She wraps her arms as tightly around Harry as she can, squishing the curls down on the side of his head as she presses her cheek against them.

  He hugs her back, but this is what he feels the most guilt over. He’ll work things out with Louis in time, he has faith in the fact that their words had no meaning behind them; but for Genevieve to hear their arguing muffled through her paper-thin bedroom walls, for them to set an example for her with this kind of behaviour and attitude toward each other. He just hates himself for it. He remembers when he was a kid, being able to hear his mum and dad fight downstairs, while Gemma tried to distract him up in their room with a movie or a game. He remembers being in Genevieve’s place, and it makes his stomach knot.

  “Everything’s okay,” Harry promises her, tangling his fingers in her hair that hangs down her back. She nods, her cheek still pressed to his hair. “Did you want me to bring you back to bed, kiddo?”

  “Are you and Daddy still going to be mad at each other in the morning?” She asks, and Harry’s sure he’s going to throw up. This isn’t fair to her at all.

  “No, sweetheart,” he says, smiling at her through teary eyes. He walks her back to her room, tucking her in once more, but this time she’s the one who kisses him on the cheek. And then he’s off to the linen closet for a spare blanket, and he strategizes the best way to position the couch pillows so they’re comfortable enough, and he doesn’t let himself cry.

  “Made you a tea,” Louis says, setting the mug down on the table and batting Harry’s feet away from the end of the sofa. Harry makes room for him, sitting up and pulling the blankets away too. Genevieve sits on the floor, legs crossed under the coffee table where she eats a bowl of cheerios.

  “Thanks,” Harry says, reaching for it and letting his fingers collect it’s warmth as he wraps them around the ceramic mug. Sleeping alone had felt cold in more ways than one.

  “Mhmm,” Louis hums, reaching for the television remote to turn on the news. “Sleep well?”

  Harry snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. He pulls himself up off the couch and carts himself over to the bathroom, emerging only after a scalding, lonely shower. He’s left with a bit of a chill, and he’s sure it’s got less to do with the brisk October air and more to do with the icy attitude Louis is resonating. So, he’s going to keep this up. Over Harry’s dead fucking body, he is.

  “I’ve got some errands to run,” Harry announces as he walks out of the bedroom in a clean set of clothes. Louis and Genevieve look up when he walks into the room, a practiced grin on his face. “Looking for some company, any takers?”

  Genevieve smiles at him and races off to her bedroom to get changed. Harry takes her bowl to the kitchen to wash it, dry it, and put it away, like routine; while Louis braids Genevieve’s hair, gives her a kiss on the forehead, and tells her to be good, also like routine. When Harry and Genevieve leave, Louis doesn’t say goodbye, not at all like routine.

  Harry pulls his credit card out of his wallet and jiggles the lock on the door open. Nostalgia. He breathes in. The door creaks open as he lets himself inside, closing it softly behind himself. He breathes out. He goes to the kitchen and sets his grocery bags on the counter, and pulls a folded envelope out of his back pocket. He breathes again.

“Lou, come here for a minute,” he says, taking a seat at the table. When Louis walks in, he pulls the contents of the envelope out and sets it out in front of himself and the seat Louis is presumably going to take.

  “Where’s Genevieve?” Louis asks, not seeing the girl in question. “What’s all this?”

  “She’s with Zayn, he and Liam are taking her to the cinema. This is, um. This is our banking information,” Harry states, separating the papers so they’re all on display, and Louis sits down, scrubbing his hands over his face, sighing not so much like he’s annoyed, but more like he’s exhausted.

  “Harry—”

  “No, Louis. I’m going to explain something to you, and you’re going to listen. I’m your partner here, okay, we’re equals. My name is on the flat lease too,” Harry cuts him off. “Because it’s ours. And it’s time we make some other things ours too.”

  Louis looks warily at him, and okay, maybe he had told himself he didn’t feel guilty about what he said to Harry last night, but he was wrong. He was so so wrong. He’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up, he feels so guilty.

  “This is my bank statement,” he says, pulling one of the sheets. It’s in a small package, all stapled together. It’s a full page of very small print, but closer to the bottom reads the account balance. £23, 978. He flips the page, the next one also filled with tiny fonts of notices and disclaimers, but also red X’s that stand out immensely, placed strategically next to signature prompts and requirements. “Our bank statement. I added you so it’s a joint account. And this is your debit card to access the money in it, and there’s a spot for you to sign the back of that too.”

  “Harry, for fu—”

  “Sign it. I’m not fighting with you anymore, Louis. Sign the fucking sheets,” Harry presses, handing Louis a pen. Louis doesn’t deserve this.

  After what he said to him last night, Harry should have packed a suitcase and told Louis he’ll mail him divorce papers. Instead he comes home with papers, alright. Papers to fucking give Louis access to his money. Louis doesn’t deserve anyone anywhere near as good as Harry, he knows it. Louis sighs again, and hesitates before grabbing the pen, but in the end he does. He doesn’t have it in him to fight with Harry anymore, and if this is what he wants, he’ll do it. He’ll give Harry the world, if that’s what he wants. Even though he knows it won’t undo what he did. He ends up signing all the lines asking for his signature, and then the back of the card.

  “Thank you,” Harry says, and continues with an infinitely smaller voice. “I know this only fixes the money issue, but I’m not sure how to fix the us issue. I’m just. I’m sorry. And that’s really all I’ve got.”

  “Hey, no—hey, it’s not your fault, honestly. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, I’m a fucking twat. And I’m so sorry, Harry, I’m so sorry I’m not sure there are even the right words in the entire English language that I can string together to adequately get across just how fucking sorry I am,” Louis’ bottom lip trembles as he talks, and he slides off his chair so he’s on his knees on the floor in front of Harry, his hands pressed to Harry’s thighs, his mouth curved downward, and his eyes brimming with tears. “I know sorry isn’t enough, but please. Please forgive me, Harry.”

  “I already have,” Harry says, his own eyes growing wet. God, Harry hates crying. His skin gets blotchy and red and he snots all over the place and he gets salt stains all over his sleeves; but he doesn’t really give a shit. His hands reach out to cup Louis’ cheeks, scruff under his palms and a trickling tear collecting on his fingertip. “Come here. Please,” Harry begs, and Louis pulls himself up onto Harry’s lap, “I don’t like when you’re mad at me, I—I can’t handle it. You felt so far away, you—”

  Louis cuts him off with a kiss. Harry’s heart beats beneath where his hand rests against his chest, thrumming softly at first, until their lips meet and his heart is jumping up to meet his palm. “Our bed was so cold without you,” Louis tells him, “I couldn’t sleep all night. I just laid there, hating myself.”

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Harry whispers, his lips twitching into a cocky grin as he bats a final tear out of his lashes. “You’re a fucking idiot, Louis Tomlinson. And I’m taking care of rent.”

  “I’m a fucking idiot, and you’re taking care of rent,” Louis concurs.

  “Oh! Fuck, I almost forgot,” Harry jumps, momentarily forgetting there is a person literally sitting on him weighing him down to the chair. He claps his hands instead and then reaches out for Louis’, slotting his fingers between his. “I got a job offer today!”

  “What?”

  “I applied for an internship! It’s doesn’t pay a whole lot, but, it wouldn’t hurt to have the experience and to have a little bit of money come in while I’m at it, so. It’s for an assistant administrator at the primary school down the block.”

  “Where Gen goes?” Louis asks, his face lit up with elation.

  “That’s the one! I mean, it’s not a huge deal. I just take care of running attendance and answering the phones while the executive administrator is out, but. It’s a job!” Harry says, and Louis attacks him with a shower of kisses all over his face.

  “Wait, wait,” Louis says, kissing him once more. “Does this mean we can do dirty secretary roleplay?”

  “Louis, jesus christ,” Harry blushes.

  “I mean, ironically,” Louis scoffs. Obviously. “We already have a spicy love life without adding pencil skirts and fishnets.”

  “I hate you.”

  “As do I. But you know who’s really going to hate me? Zayn, when we show up and crash his movie date with Liam that he’s brought our daughter on,” Louis says with a conniving grin, and he’s pulling Harry up off the chair and nearly right out the front door.

  “Ah, yes, Tuesday the 28^th at 1:45. Yes, that’s perfect. Okay, Mr. Turner will be happy to see you then. Oh, for sure. Thank you very much—oh, no, my pleasure. Yes, have a good day, bye now,” Harry’s just finishing up a phone call with a prospective client—future investor in the school, one of those who cares about the welfare and intelligence of the children. and the arts! for god’s sake don’t let the arts go, just think of the children!—booking a meeting between herself and the principal. And for crying out loud someone has been knocking at his office door for nearly five full minutes, if it weren’t for the arts! and the children! he would’ve been so close to slamming the phone down and telling the brat at the door to go to class that he would’ve been ashamed of himself. But, the arts truly need attention and support, so.

  He yanks the door open now and looks down, but doesn’t spot someone roughly 3’4, which honestly, is what he was expecting. Instead he looks down to a bundle of flowers, and follows the bunch up until he’s looking over them and into Louis’ eyes.

  “Flower delivery for…wait a second, what does it say here? Oh, no, this can’t be right. Says here best husband ever, but that can’t be, because he just left me knocking for quite some time there trying to get his attention,” Louis chastises, setting the vase of multi-coloured daisies on Harry’s desk.

  “I can’t help how strongly Marybeth feels about arts funding, sorry,” Harry shrugs, leaning down to smell them. “Thank you, though. This is very sweet, other best husband ever.”

  “Wait, so you get best and I just get to be the other best? How do you rate?” Louis asks in mock insult, throwing his hands up on his hips.

  “Well, there can only be one best, can’t there? We’re just lucky we found each other; nobody else in the world deserves the best or the other best, in my opinion,” Harry rambles.

  “Yeah, yeah, just keep talking,” Louis nods sarcastically. Harry’s phone rings again and he sighs. He doesn’t want to go back home. It’s lonely at home without his family there to take up space in the flat. It’s been almost a month and Louis still isn’t used to having days off throughout the week. “I’ll be back to pick you lot up at 3:30.”

  Harry smiles at him while he answers, “Manchester Primary Academy, Harry speaking. How can I help you?”

❖

“I want to be a witch,” Genevieve says, quite decidedly, with an already-wicked grin on her face. Late October’s brisk wind and earlier sunset means Halloween is just a couple days away, and it has become apparent that she is in need of a costume. 

“A good witch?” Harry asks hopefully, planning a pink ballgown not unlike Glinda from the Wizard of Oz. 

“A bad witch!” She tells him excitedly, clasping her little hands together and planning a webby black dress very unlike Glinda from the Wizard of Oz. 

“The evilest, of course,” Louis gives her a nod of agreement. “Let’s get to it then, costume shopping for this evil little witch.”

They stop at the nearest party store and find a whole wall dedicated to costumes for little girls, and it only takes about thirty seconds to find a witch costume perfect for her. The only problem that they encounter is it only takes another thirty seconds or so to find 5 more costumes that would be absolutely perfect as well. So it’s a half an hour spent in the dressing rooms trying them on one after another and coming out to parade it off to Harry to get his opinion. They settle on a short black dress with black tights that have purple spider webs on them. The hat is tall as can be, and is bent near the top. Nothing creepier than a crooked witch. She gets little black shoes to top off the outfit, and finds face paint and makeup at the counter that will add all the little touches.

That’s not all though, because of course there is lots of flat decorating to be done. Louis made sure to get some of those spiderwebs that you stretch out and cover the walls and doors with, until everything is cobwebby and there are little spiders tucked into the strands. They have a big treat bowl filled to the brim with candy in the kitchen, and Louis even takes to splashing fake blood on the windows. They hang a white sheet over the lamp and Genevieve goes to town drawing a face on it, and Louis lets her name the ghost once he’s complete. It’s name is (coincidentally) also Louis. Spooky. 

On the day of Halloween, Genevieve gets up extra early and while Louis gets ready for work, Harry helps paint Genevieve’s face and hands (and whatever skin you can see poking out at her neckline) an evil green. He helps her into her dress and tights and fastens her velcro black shoes and Louis is ready to go just as she’s gathering her backpack by the front  door. 

Louis stops by the closet before they head out and grabs a bag of candies, “Halloween treats for your school friends,” he says, putting it in her bag and zipping it back up. 

“I’m sure all their parents will love that,” Harry chuckles, kissing Louis goodbye first before staining his lips green on Genevieve’s cheek. 

He spends his day off from working at the school all alone in their little apartment, and after everything is neat and tidy he begins working on his and Louis’ costumes for this evening. He manages to dig up some old costume supplies from the back of their bedroom closet, old things and trinkets Louis keeps back there, and pulls together a pirate costume for Louis (spare any earrings or parrots) and he decides he’ll be a cat. 

He’s just finished painting on his whiskers when Zayn brings Genevieve through the door, dawning a red ensemble and little devil horns. Harry is in no place to judge, considering he is just wearing black pants and a black sweater, little cat ears and hand painted whiskers on his cheeks. Liam walks in behind them with bellbottoms and a tie-dye t-shirt, a bandana tied around his head. The four of them (mainly Genevieve and a little help from Zayn) end up putting a dent into the candy bowl by themselves, and shortly after they’re experiencing the first signs of a sugar coma, Louis gets home coincidentally at the same time that Niall arrives in white tights and a tutu with a white tee tucked in nicely. He’s got little fairy wings, and a chain necklace that hangs down to his chest with an molar mounted on it. A tooth fairy, yes, that’s creative. 

Louis isn’t through the door for a full 10 seconds before Genevieve is jumping on him and telling him to get changed so they can go trick or treating, and after about seven minutes of everyone’s dire anticipation, he emerges from his bedroom dressed to a tee with a long white shirt, rags, and a patch over his eye. 

“Arr…matey,” Louis attempts, and everyone including himself laughs.

Genevieve begs Harry to let them go out now, but Harry insists on dinner first. So they order pizza, the lot of them grabbing a slice and commenting on each other’s costumes, before dusk has officially hit and the neighbourhood children can be seen roaming the streets with their parents not too far behind, ringing doorbells with treat bags in hand. 

Genevieve is probably the only child out there tonight with five grown men in costume walking with her, but they try not to dwell on that and just keep up with the pretence with her. After her feet become sore and her bag becomes to heavy for her to carry, she decides she’s good and well to go back home, Louis lugging her sack beside her as she reaches in to grab a candy bar every block or so. 

“Genevieve, honey, wait until we get back home so I can check the candies for you,” Harry says, and then he tells Louis to close the bag so she can’t eat any more before it’s been sorted through. 

And if they thought she was going to bed at a reasonable time tonight, they were fooling themselves. She’s up until almost midnight wired on sugar, digging in for candy after candy. 

“Alright, before you get a mouth full of cavities and give Harry a stroke or something go brush your teeth and get your bottom into bed,” Louis instructs, and she frowns, but she knows it’s really late. Liam and Zayn finish off the last of their drinks and snag a chocolate for the road, giving Genevieve a kiss goodnight on their way out. Niall makes cosy on their couch, insisting he’s has one too many beers to be driving home.

“More than just one,” Harry chuckles, moving off the couch so he can turn it into a makeshift bed. “Plenty too many. Get your own blankets though, pal.”

The two of them tuck Genevieve into bed, Niall following them into the room as well, and all of them bid her not only goodnight, but one last “Happy Halloween.”

❖

Early November brings around school fundraisers, and for that, Genevieve’s class is in charge of the bake sale. Harry can bake, this is a common fact. He doesn’t go around saying, “I used to be a baker,” for nothing. But Louis decides this is his job as a parent to participate, despite his inability to cook anything except, well, cereal. Toast on a good day. 

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Louis says softly one night as he gets into bed. Harry’s eyes are closed, and all he can muster up is a soft ‘mmm’ sound to acknowledge him. “I need you to teach me how to cook.”

One of Harry’s eyes opens, just a little, but enough to stare at him in the dim light, as though he is absolutely insane. 

“I’m serious,” Louis pouts, his lip curling out as he pleas for his husband’s help. “I need you to teach me how to cook.”

“What’s the special occasion?” Harry mumbles sleepily, opening his arms for Louis to crawl in closer. His half-sleep dreams quickly escalate to burning kitchens and Louis becoming endangered. 

“Genevieve’s school bake sale,” he whispers. “I was thinking soufflé.”

“Nice try. I’m thinking chocolate chip cookies, or brownies. No soufflé for you just yet, Lou. Gotta work up to that delicacy.”

“You’re the pro.”

“I’m the pro,” Harry nods, his eyes squeezing shut tighter as he lets a yawn slip out. “I used to be a baker, you know.”

Louis chuckles sleepily now too, his breath hitting Harry’s neck and he presses a goodnight kiss in its wake.

When the morning sun rises it filters in through the space the curtains don’t cover. Louis’ eyes crack open and he slowly wakes Harry by letting his finger pads trace over his abundance of tattoos. He’s not entirely sure it’s working up until Harry’s arm twitches; nothing better than a little bothersome tickle to disrupt your sleep.

“Cookies, babe,” Louis reminds him, and Harry takes in a deep breath, coming to terms with the morning on the exhale. “Cookies,” he repeats as soon as Harry’s eyes are open.

“Find some patience,” Harry chuckles, rolling out of Louis’ embrace and heading for the bathroom clad in his boxers. He reaches for his toothbrush, gets the awful taste in his mouth taken care of, and then he goes back to the bedroom to slide on some clothes. It’s a comfy day, the way a Saturday should be, and so it’s nothing more than sweats and a henley for the both of them. 

Louis makes his way to freshen up in the bathroom as well, and by the time he meets Harry in the kitchen, all the necessary ingredients have already been pulled out. “Should I get a pen and paper? Take some notes?”

“On the first batch at least, probably,” Harry giggles, “you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Especially if I’m recreating this on my own tomorrow,” Louis agrees.

“That’s…ambitious. But you can do it, Lou. You can do anything.”

Louis rises to his tiptoes to press a kiss to Harry’s lips, but he pulls back and makes a betrayed face, “Stop being such a sap, I need to keep my focus.”

“No more sap,” Harry says, bringing his right hand up to his heart. “I swear.”

Louis wants to kiss him again. And again, and again, and again, and then one more time for good measure. But he practices his self control. 

“Right, so first off, measure out your ingredients. What we’ve got here is flour, brown sugar, butter, baking soda, and eggs, to name a few things. You should be jotting this down.” And so he’s taking down the entire recipe, and then writing out the steps, one by one, right up to how long he should let them cool in the baking tray before putting them on a wire rack. He can do this, he can so do this. It’s easy. Almost as easy as the pancakes he can make successfully at least 74% of the time.

And once this batch is done cooling, Harry tells Louis to go ahead and try one. They are fucking melt-in-your-mouth good. The PTA mum’s are going to flip their shit. He can’t wait. 

“Are you ready to try it? I’ll be watching the whole time to steer you in the right direction,” Harry encourages, handing Louis a measuring cup. 

Louis gives him a nod, takes the measuring cup probably a bit more aggressively than is necessary (he can’t help his what his confidence does to him, okay?), and begins to fill it with white flour. Soon enough he’s grabbing a hold of a whisk, “how do you whisk?” he asks, and Harry’s shaking his head at his husband incredulously, showing him by moving his hand in a simple circular motion, and once that’s done he’s plopping teaspoon sized dough balls onto a parchment covered baking tray and they’re in the oven for precisely 9 minutes. 

After they’ve finished cooling, Louis grabs one and takes a test bite. “They don’t taste like yours,” he comments, holding the cookie away from his mouth. Not in disgust, but in confusion, rather. He followed the steps to a tee. There’s no way they could turn out differently?

“Not exactly, but they’re still so good baby,” Harry smiles, “you did a great job. And every cook has his own touch to it, so don’t worry if they don’t taste exactly the same.”

Success. That’s what Louis feels.

Though, just 24 hours later when he’s doing this by himself, it’s failure. 

And extreme annoyance to the point of frustration. Harry’s already at the school helping to set up for the Sunday bake sale and Louis just can’t get this recipe right for the life of him. Was it baking powder or baking soda he was supposed to use? And what’s the difference between the two, anyway?

Even if he did manage to get through the recipe to the best of his (sparse) abilities, they ended up burning. He only left them in for 9 minutes, which he doesn’t understand either. He’s almost positive the temperature was set correctly, at 350F. Or should it have been 325F? Maybe he didn’t do so well with the recipe after all? It doesn’t really matter what he didn’t do right, because his cookies look caramelized and smell like burnt chocolate. He takes one off the baking tray and it’s rock hard. No, no, no, this cannot be happening. With a flick of his wrist he’s throwing it in the trash can and staring at the charcoal cookies like they’re his nemesis. 

“Daddy?” Genevieve says as she comes into the kitchen, plugging her nose between her fingers in disgust at the smell of the burnt cookies. “Are you almost ready to go?”

“Almost, sweetheart.”

“You’re not bringing those to the bake sale, are you?” She asks warily. She giggles to herself momentarily at the sound of her voice like this. She knew just as well that her father wouldn’t be able to bake cookies, especially from scratch, well enough for a fundraiser bake sale. They should have gotten Harry to do it, and he would have perfectly and with a smile on his face the whole time. 

“No, don’t you worry, we’ve got some good cookies to bring,” he sighs, taking out a tupperware container and throwing in Harry’s batch from yesterday, and what’s left of the ones he made yesterday as well, until the container is stuffed. “Okay, let’s just clean this up here and we’ll go.”

And after a few minutes of turning off the oven, double and then triple checking, they’re lacing up their shoes and sliding on their jackets and taking Harry’s successful cookies to the bake sale. 

“How did it go?” Harry asks as soon as they walk up to their table at the bake sale. Harry pops open the container and starts setting the cookies out on lined trays to fancy them up for customers. “These look great, Lou!”

“They’d better,” Louis huffs. “You made them.”

“What?”

“I’m never fucking baking again,” he scowls. “Cookies are evil. And I don’t trust that whisk of yours, either.”

“Oh, Lou,” Harry laughs, “I’m sure they’re salvageable.”

But when Harry gets home he finds that in fact they are not.

❖

The week following Louis’ 23rd birthday and Christmas, of course, brings New Year’s Eve fun. Zayn and Liam are throwing a party, and all of their friends are invited for the gathering.

When Louis and Harry arrive with Genevieve, they walk in to a tall dirty blond man dropping mentos into a bottle of beer to see if it explodes the same way it would in a bottle of soda. He looks defeated when it does nothing more than foam up and drip down onto his grey pants. “This is Liam’s mate, Andy,” Zayn introduces them, and when a tall girl with wild beach-waved hair walks in, he introduces her as “Eleanor, Andy’s girlfriend,” and handshakes are traded before Liam comes and interrupts with highly inappropriate kisses being placed on Zayn’s neck, and everyone quickly leaves the room. 

Niall rings the doorbell a short while later, and immediately begins helping Andy drop mentos right into the beer. The two of them decide it may take more than one for the ale to pressurize? But it’s an ongoing experiment that has devastatingly sad results, Eleanor not sparing any scoffs at their stupidity. And not five full minutes later Gemma arrives. Louis and Harry both are surprised at her appearance, but she just shrugs her shoulders, saying she was delighted to receive a call from Liam. 

Zayn takes care of having a good playlist running in the background of the party, an eclectic mix to sound the evening. They have new year’s specials muted on the television, just looking at all the lights and people gathered in London to celebrate the coming of the next calendar. 

“Can I refill anyone’s drink?” Liam asks, walking around with a bottle rye in one hand and wine in the other. Zayn holds his glass out for a top up, and Liam does just so, making sure not to leave his side without pressing a kiss to his lips. Louis understands Zayn’s aversion to his display of affection with Harry in front of him. It dries out the back of his throat in disgust. 

Liam makes his way around the room, and Gemma asks for a glass of water, but smiles and accepts it nonetheless when Liam fills her glass with white wine. Her eyes are fixed to the floor and she brings the glass to her lips only enough to leave a lipstick print on it, before she brings the glass back down and sets it on the table beside her. Niall, nonchalant as ever, walks over to take a seat between Gemma and Andy, and swipes the untouched glass of wine from the table on his way there. 

Once Harry’s got a full glass of wine, Louis snags it right from his hand. “Liam literally just asked if you wanted another drink.” 

“I don’t,” Louis smiles against the glass he presses to his lips, sipping chardonnay and eventually scrunching his nose when he comes to realize he hates white wine. He just wants to bug Harry, and he considers that to be a success when he hands him back the glass with a significant volume of his drink missing.

“Thanks dear,” Harry mutters, taking a drink of the wine he’d both asked for and enjoys. 

Drinks are clinked together after toasts, Louis accompanies Zayn out for a smoke break or two, filthy midnight kiss propositions are whispered back and forth between couples (resulting in nausea shared between everyone else). More video footage of downtown London is broadcasted for them to see, and Genevieve thoughtfully colours Andy a picture of fireworks, or in other words, a welcome-to-the-family work of art. 

Andy smiles and accepts it gratefully, and as soon as he’s reciprocated the hug she tunnelled in for, Gemma calls her over. “Come here, little angel,” she coos, and Genevieve comes running, leaping up onto her lap and immediately playing with her ironed hair. She holds her tight and mumbles softly about one day being so lucky as to have a little girl like her, and suddenly Louis gets it. “Just like you, baby girl,” she murmurs once more as she pets her hair, stroking over the twists and tangles that hang down her back. 

He watches how Gemma plays oh so gently with his daughter, hope gleaming in her eyes, and how she turned away from alcohol, and how she’s absolutely glowing, a radiance of warmth around her. She’s—“Oh my god,” Louis says out loud, and Gemma looks up and meets his understanding eyes, but the words are coming out of his mouth before he sees her shake her head with frightened eyes. “Oh my god, you’re pregnant!”

“Wait what?” Harry’s head snaps up sharp into the conversation, because biologically speaking, the only people in the room capable of being pregnant are his sister and Eleanor. But Harry assumes Louis wouldn’t jump up in excitement over the pregnancy of someone he’s just met. Gemma is biting her bottom lip, nervous, and very clearly wishing this hadn’t come out. Louis instantly feels bad, he didn’t mean for everything that’s happening now, and he certainly didn’t mean for anything that’s about to happen. “Gem?” Harry asks softly, looking at her, and everyone knows she just doesn’t have the words for this right now. Genevieve is confused by just about everything at this point. “Oh my god, for real? Gem, are you pregnant?” Harry says with such excitement his voice is low and breathy.

She nods, but she’s hesitant about making eye contact. Louis feels bad, yes, but he’s also confused. With the way Gemma is acting, all sharp movements and panicky eyes darting around the room, he realizes there’s something else he hadn’t pieced together before he opened his mouth; something she’s—ashamed? Yes. Something it seems as though she’s ashamed of. 

“This is incredible!” Harry is jumping to his feet, grabbing his sister’s hands around Genevieve, crouching down so he’s at their level. He thinks about bouncy babies and getting to help his sister through her pregnancy, and how his mother is going to be a grandma—how he is going to be an uncle. He presses a kiss to the top of his sister’s head, and then one to the top of Genevieve’s as well out of pure elation. “Hear that kiddo? You’re going to have a little cousin soon! This is so great, Gems. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Harry,” she smiles at him, holding on to his hands with visible tightness. Harry’s grin is stupidly big, he’s just imagining what it’ll be like for their children to grow up together. Hopefully they’ll move closer to each other, so he’ll get to be a constant in Baby Styles’ life, all joyous and full of laughter, the way babies typically are. It’s why Harry loves them so much. 

“So,” Harry says, “who’s the lucky guy, anyway? Please don’t tell me the father is that Mark guy you’ve been seeing for a couple weeks now.”

“No, no,” she assures him, the words falling out of her mouth much quicker than what it’d looked like she intended. Louis is replaying everything that’s happened through his head and he pieces it together just in time for Gemma to look over at Niall, a slight blush colouring becoming present. Niall’s eyes widen, red creeping up his neck until it colours his own cheeks, and when Harry sees their interaction, he looks down to see her lipstick printed glass of wine in his hand.

“Oh—um,” his brows furrow together for a moment, looking back and forth between the two of them, almost as if he’s twitching, and Louis is concerned he’s not breathing until he stands up and turns away, muttering, “excuse me,” as he exits the room. 

While Genevieve goes to follow him toward the corridor, Louis, Niall, and Gemma all stand up at the same time, murmuring something about going after him. Liam calls her over and she comes to a stop, one hand reaching out in the direction Harry’s left in, and her shoulders drop as she turns around to do what she’s told and takes a spot on his lap so she does’t get caught up in what would either take the direction of a panic attack or a fight. The three of them are bickering back and forth, all about halfway through justifying why they in turn should be the one to follow him when Zayn cuts in, “How about you save this for later and someone go fucking get him?” And before the other two know what’s happening Louis is out of the room, searching for him. 

His shoes aren’t on the welcome mat, so he slides his own and a coat on and finds Harry marching down the icy road, hands balled at his side. “Harry,” Louis calls, but it’s to no avail. Louis’ bounding steps twice as large as Harry’s (despite his drastically smaller legs) in attempt to catch up. “Harry, will you please stop for a second.”

“I need a minute,” Harry spits back. And yes, he knows he isn’t upset with Louis, and that he’s not being fair. But there is a lot happening for him to process right now. He can’t control any of his emotions at this point. And he’s fucking freezing. 

Louis is breathless, and he’s sure he’s lost at least a decade off his life to experiencing the fright that is almost-slipping-on-ice at least six times in the last two minutes, but he’s got one hand on Harry’s shoulder, and when Harry feels that warmth bleed through his shirt he stops in his tracks.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Harry mutters, his hands coming up to grip at his hair. His hands are shaking at his roots, there are snowflakes sticking in his eye lashes, he can’t feel his toes, and he’s seeing red. He looks slightly insane, but given the situation…

“Hey, hey. I know you’re probably feeling really betrayed right now,” Louis attempts to string words together in a way that will comfort Harry, but apparently it’s not working out very well. Harry just looks at him like that’s obvious, and Louis tries harder to be comforting, to be what Harry needs right now. “Which is totally understandable, I mean. I get it. But you’re always telling me to look at the whole situation, especially when flustered, and I need you to do that for me right now, okay? Just take a deep breath, and let’s approach this together, yeah?”

“He slept with my sister.” Harry’s voice isn’t just angry, it’s pained. If he were to cry, however, his tears would ice his lashes together and god only knows how long he wouldn’t be able to blink them open.  “My best friend slept with my sister. And got her pregnant. That is the entire situation at hand, Louis.”

“Okay, yes. And he’s a bastard. But think about the baby for a second,” Louis encourages. “The baby is a good thing, right? You’re going to be an uncle to a beautiful baby—we are going to be uncles, and we get to spoil that kid rotten, am I right?”

“I guess, I mean. I was excited about that, and now all I can fucking think about is him—he slept with my sister, Louis, I can’t—I’m gonna kill him. I’m just gonna kill him,” it scares Louis for a second, how decided Harry sounds. He’s pivoting back toward the house, determined steps and tight knuckles.

“You’re not going to kill him,” Louis deadpans, getting ahead and placing a cold hand on Harry’s chest. “And I’ll tell you why. Your little niece or nephew is going to have not one, but two great parents. You can’t deny that.”

“Well, no, but.”

“No buts. Could you say the same for sure if it had been any other guy’s child?” Louis counters.

“Of course not, but.”

“Stop with the buts! You know how important this stuff is, don’t you? And what could you ask for more than for your niece or nephew to be properly cared for? Even if it is by your best friend?” And, yeah, that makes a whole lot of sense to Harry, now that he’s able to see that side of it. But his fists are still shaking at his side and while yes, it is because he is freezing, it is also because he’s still extremely angry.

It takes a moment of consideration, but he finally gives in. “Fine. I won’t kill him.” Harry’s voice has an edge to it, but Louis takes the phrase as success. He lets his hand slip down his chest until he locates Harry’s hand, and it takes a little bit of force, but he’s able to pull him back toward the house.

“Next time you have a fit that requires a walk, bring a jacket, will you?” Louis berates, letting go of his hand only to slide his jacket off his back and rest it over Harry’s shoulders. Once he’s got it down his arms, it’s really only for the last couple steps left until they’re reaching Zayn’s driveway again. 

Gemma is standing out in the cold, not bothering to zip her coat up, but rather wrapping it around herself until the fabric overlaps. When they get closer she runs up, placing a hand on each of Harry’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” she says, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s freezing out here. This can’t be good for you, Gem, go back inside,” he says, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She turns back for the house to find Niall had stepped outside while she was making her apology, and just about everyone in the neighbourhood (probably) knows this can’t be good.

Niall’s large strides brought him over faster than he was able to get an apology out, and Louis swears if he had seen it coming he would’ve done something to stop it. He knows Harry well, and he’s the most kind, caring boy you’ll ever meet. Louis understands that he’s fervently angry right now, but he’ll regret this after he’s had time to simmer down and really consider the pros and cons of the situation. But before anyone can process what’s happening, Harry’s arm is pulling back, and when it lunges forward his cold knuckles are cracking at the pressure of their collision with Niall’s face. 

Louis grabs at his arms and starts walking Harry away before Niall can even fall back on his arse, which is probably bruised now, where it sits atop thick, black ice. “Okay,” Niall pants, picking up some snow with one hand and immediately coating his already-swelling eye with it. “I deserved that.”

“No,” Louis argues, shaking his head. He’s still wrapped around Harry, so his husband is left essentially limbless. Though with the way it’s stinging, he wishes his hand were actually not attached to his body right about now. Nervous system at the very least.  “What were you thinking?”

“Guess I was still thinking about how he slept with my sister,” Harry says, voice thick with resentment. He takes a deep breath and Louis is hesitant when he tries to shake him off, but frees him, keeping only a restrictive hand on his shoulder. “Lou, I’m not going to hit him again, I promise.”

“And I thought we decided on not killing Niall before, but then you went rogue,” Louis counters, and, yeah. Harry can’t deny that. But thankfully he can deny the will to continue to beat the ever living shit out of Niall, so he settles for walking through the snow until he’s at his side, holding out a hand to help him up.

“Harry, mate,” Niall begins, bending down to grab more snow to ice his eye with. Harry thinks that’s a good idea, picking up a handful for himself to numb his knuckles with. “Okay, I want to apologize here, but I’m going to freeze my nuts off and—”

“Bad time to make a joke about future children,” Louis pipes in.

“Christ. Thank you, Louis,” he’s actually relieved. Like, he was actually going to make that joke. Tonight. After getting hit once already. “Anyway, can we please do this inside.”

“I’m not apologizing for punching you in the face.”

And they finally move toward the inside of the house, snow coating their bruises and, and Liam meeting them all at the door with a pile of blankets in his arms. Zayn has Genevieve hoisted up on his hip, but as soon as he asks what happens and Niall replies, “What do you think happened? He hit me,” Zayn lets her down and tells her to go play in the living room with the others. Liam, feeling entirely out of place witnessing this little episode, leaves to join Genevieve, Andy, and Eleanor.

“He didn’t mean it,” Louis says softly, and Harry looks at him sharply before turning back to face Niall. Louis isn’t used to Harry being the one not thinking clearly—to have something bottled up inside him, especially this quickly, and he’s certainly not used to seeing Harry react so coldly, so violently. 

“No, I meant it. Stay the fuck away from my sister.” And Gemma takes this opportunity to insert herself between them, attempting to reason with him.

“Harry, stop being a prick for a second,” she scolds, reaching out to grab his cold hands, and she warms them between her own. “He’s your best friend.”

“Exactly. He should—Niall, you should fucking know better than—“

“It’s not his fault, Harry. Or not just his fault, anyway. I’m an adult, and I make my own decisions. I made this decision,” she says, bringing her hand from the roof of his own to point toward Niall, and then bringing that hand to spread over her belly; a belly that within a few months time will be much more bulbous. “Just like I made the decision to go through with this. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.”

And Harry watches as she cranes to look back at Niall, fondness warming both their features, even if it is only for a moment before she looks back to her brother. “So this wasn’t, um.”

“We’ve been seeing each other for a while,” Gemma nods, and she winces at first, scared of his reaction. But to everyone’s surprise he doesn’t lunge violently at him, in fact, he doesn’t do anything at all except let his shoulders fall slack. He’s given in, no longer on the defence. Harry looks at her questioningly, unsure if he’s lost his mind or if rather everyone else is losing it. “Like I said, I don’t regret it.”

“If this is serious,” Harry breathes, before shaking his head, trying to wrap it around that fact that obviously it’s serious, they’re having a baby together, “then I guess I respect that. I respect your decisions.” Both of them thank him, coming in for a hug, but Harry pushes Niall back, keeping one arm between them to suspend him from coming any closer just yet. “But I don’t entirely respect yours right now, so. If you fuck up, I swear to god, Niall.”

“I give you full permission to rip my limbs off and beat me to death with myself,” he nods, and Harry mutters something like “don’t think I won’t” before dropping his arm and letting Niall come in for a grateful embrace. 

Gemma pulls off her outerwear and helps Niall to the living room, and Zayn coughs, feeling out of place now too, and so he retreats to the kitchen to grab a couple ice packs for the both of them. Louis just looks at Harry like he couldn’t be prouder, not about hitting Niall, of course, but that he was able to put his own feelings aside for his sister and his best friend’s. He knows that his anger stemmed from a place of concern for his sister’s wellbeing, but the softness he was so easily able to adjust into, the respect he had given Gemma, yes, that was in concern for her best interest as well. Louis helps pull his jacket off him and they take off their shoes again and they join everyone else in the living room.

Everyone tries to pretend like nothing happened, and nobody’s sure if it’s because of the short answers, or the tension in the room, but Gemma just starts laughing. Maniacally cackling until Harry looks at her, deciding that yes, everyone else is losing it.

“I can’t believe you punched him in the face,” she says breathlessly between hiccups of laughter. “You, Harry, hit someone. Unbelievable. Mum’s never going to believe this.”

“Hurt myself a good bit too,” Harry says, rolling the ice over his knuckles. “If that makes you feel any better.”

It apparently does not make Niall feel any better. Shocking. “I’m going to have a black eye for a week.” 

“Still not apologizing,” Harry says, putting in enough effort to grin.

Liam shouts something or other about it almost being midnight, and he’s up to his feet gathering glasses and nagging Zayn to run to the refrigerator to grab the chilled bottle of champagne. Zayn switches on the best song for these last few moments of the year to conclude with, and they pop the bottle, filling everyone’s flute so they’re all ready for when the clock hits midnight and fireworks display all over the television. 

It’s a slow countdown, that’s for sure. But when it’s finally midnight, Harry leans right into Louis’ welcoming arms, kissing his lips with intention. It would be the textbook definition of the perfect kiss but he ends up sighing softly into Louis’ mouth when he cracks one eye open, seeing Gemma lean into Niall just the same, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, it could work out just fine. 

❖

Throughout the next couple of months nothing extraordinary takes place. Harry attends his sister’s appointments with her when Niall can’t make it, Genevieve learns to spell an abundance of words at school, there is a small incident with colouring on the walls that Louis is left to take care of, and Zayn adopts a puppy. That in turn results in Genevieve becoming obsessed with it and begging not only to visit her Uncle Zayn’s every. single. day., but to get her own puppy, of course. Which doesn’t happen. Louis tells her to ask him again in ten years, and she pouts for about three days before Louis compromises that anytime Zayn and Liam go away they can dog-sit. She is content with this for now.

But eventually, April rolls around again. And being the cheesy couple Louis and Harry are, they both, without each other knowing, begin looking into good ideas for a gift that fit the traditional 1st anniversary symbolism and romanticism. You know, paper.

Louis knows he’ll love anything Harry does (or does not? Depending on if he’s even up for celebrating and gift-giving) get him, but Louis knows what he wants to do is a bit more symbolic than it is an expense, because that’s what these things are about, aren’t they. Coincidentally, Harry’s thinking on an intimately close wavelength, but is that much of a surprise, really? They’ve become so much alike they’re almost the same person these days. It’s verging on terrifying. Harry does his research and pulls a few phone numbers from the internet before making his calls and gathering information.

If the lady at the bureau had picked up on what the both of them were planning, and how that correlates to their marriage license certification, then she certainly didn’t drop any hints to either of them, leaving them both completely clueless to each other’s frantic work and filing. 

“Yes, Mr. Tomlinson, your documents should arrive within the week,” Harry is advised the very same day and by the very same voice that Louis is also advised, “Good luck Mr. Tomlinson, your documents should arrive within the week.”

Paper. Paper. Traditional wedding anniversaries have never so much played favour to any other couple ever, they think—separately. And it’s probably true. Paper.

They don’t arrive on the same day, thankfully. The two of them check the mail like it’s a dirty little secret, or like they’re doing something less like checking the mail and more like feeding an addiction to crack cocaine. They’re twitchy, they never go down at the same time, and neither of them are able to guess what the other’s waiting for. 

“Just bills,” Louis says, throwing a couple of envelopes on the counter. What Harry doesn’t see is the brown envelope tucked inside his jacket. Definitely not bills.

Harry’s brown envelope of his own comes the following day, and he says the same thing. “Rent notice, and a postcard from Mum,” and he walks off with an envelope not yet for Louis’ eyes.

“Rise and shine,” Harry grins, pulling the sheets off both of them and rolling over on top of Louis, to wake him up, of course. He swings a leg over each of his hips, straddling him on the bed in the glow of the early morning. When Louis opens his eyes to see him he’s almost blinded, he harrumphs into the crook of his arm, and attempts to roll over. “Not today, Tomlinson. Do you know what day it is?”

“Uh…Sunday?” Louis asks, his voice particularly scratchy. Might be at the fault of an ace blowjob the night before, but you know, it could be anything.

“Oh your sweet blue eyes, they shine like gold…”

“Oh, that’s good,” Louis laughs. He keeps his hands planted on Harry’s bare torso as he pushes him off his waist, crawling out of bed and pulling Harry with him, so they’re in the centre of their room. “Now do it right, sing it for me,” he says, holding Harry’s hand up to his chest, and their other arms crossed over each other so they’ve both got a hand on the other’s waist.

“I’m just glad that I found you, yeah,” Harry hums, the two of them dancing, sleepy, together in their underwear, to the rhythm of Harry’s lackadaisical sing-song rendition of their wedding song. They don’t drop their arms from each other, swaying in the silence that in a perfect world, music would be filling. In this world, however, dust motes float in the gleaming sunshine, and they breathe in the proximity of each other’s skin.

“We could go out for dinner tonight,” Louis suggests. “Our place? Please?”

“Can’t say no to that, now can we?” Harry grins, brushing his nose against Louis’ and pressing a kiss to the skin above his lips. “We’ll make reservations after a shower.” And then once more, this time dead centre on his mouth.

Louis scrubs Harry’s body with lemongrass soap and Harry runs his shampoo-bubbly hands through Louis’ hair, they rinse each other off, trade quick hand jobs, and fill the shower with just as much steam of their own as there is coming off the hot water. Harry’s towelling off his hair as Louis is wrapping his towel around his waist, and he stops him once’s he’s got his own secured, his damp brown locks dripping down his back.

“God, I am so glad I married you,” Louis says, grazing a hand down Harry’s chest, bringing his towel down. Harry blushes slightly, pressing a kiss to Louis’ shoulder.

“Husband still thinks I’m hot after a whole year,” he says to himself, drawing a chuckle from Louis. He wraps his towel around his waist in turn and leads Louis back to their bedroom to dress for the day. “But really, whoever said the first year of marriage is the hardest clearly didn’t have us in mind.”

“Just make the reservations already,” Louis shoves his phone in his general directions, blushing, crimson cheeks and toothy grin. He spend the remainder of the day thinking about Harry, thinking about their dinner date, and thinking about he brown envelope in his sock drawer.

Only a few hours later they’ve dropped Genevieve off at Zayn and Liam’s for the evening, and parked their car back at the building and walked over to their favourite little Italian restaurant. “It’s our anniversary,” Harry says to the maître d’ as he leads them to their table out on the terrace. They’re incredibly fond of their glass top table under the stars, and request only to sit out there on their recurring dates here.

“Happy anniversary,” the man says, setting two menus down in front of them, “ciao!”

Louis straightens in his seat, grabs the bottle of red wine set on their table, and fills both his and Harry’s glasses. “To one full year with the best husband in the world,” Louis says, holding his glass up to meet Harry’s.

Harry bring them together with a barely-heard clink after agreeing, “To one full year with the other best husband in the world.”

They order their meals, drink their beverages, wish they’d ordered what the other did, end up sharing, toast to each other at least three more times; semantics of a date, even through it brings them a few more butterflies than usual, considering. Their plates are cleared away, and they order a piece of tiramisu to share for dessert, and as soon as the small forks and plate are set on the table the waitress is leaving them be.

“So, we didn’t really discuss this, but. I got you something,” Harry starts.

“I got you something too. Something small—well, big, but small,” Louis concurs.

“I went a bit traditional—” 

“Something paper,” Louis quirks an eyebrow. Harry looks at him like he’s stolen the words right from his mouth. 

He taps at the breast of his jacket, still feeling his brown envelope tucked away in the inside pocket, looking at Louis a bit suspiciously. But then Louis is returning the confused look and checking his own pocket, and fuck it, they both give up and pull out a brown envelope each.

“This is…” Harry mumbles, looking from his own envelope to Louis’, and back. “This is really weird, actually.”

“Fucking creepy,” Louis agrees.”I—um. Here. This is yours,” he hands the envelope to Harry and grabs the one from Harry’s fingertips.

Harry flips away the tucked seal, and Louis peels his back, and they’re both met with stapled booklets of paper headed with, “Certificate of Adoption”, and about 150 different fields to fill in. They look very much the same, but they differ greatly. The papers in the envelope Harry is opening state specifically for the adoption of Genevieve Madison Tomlinson, while in contrast, the papers Harry has given to Louis are adoption papers to bring another child into their family. 

Neither of them know what to say, but their eyes well up and they just nod, holding the papers to their chest.

“This is the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” Harry smiles, batting his lashes in attempt to rid of the lingering tears. “I know mine’s a little—off the boat, but. I really want to expand our family, Louis. I want—”

“Shut up,” Louis whispers, reaching across the table to cup Harry’s face in his hand, to swipe his thumb over his bottom lip before bringing their mouths together. And he says, against Harry’s lips, “I want that too.”