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and gathering on the railings. Harry insists on going down the stairs in

front of him because “alcohol plus frozen steps equals death” and he

seems to think himself an adequate safety net. When they get to the

bottom he pulls Louis up against him with one arm, and Louis lets him,

pliant against the warmth of Harry‟s side. It‟s quiet outside except for

the light jingling of Harry‟s antlers and their own crunching footsteps

in the snow.

“You were really good, with the whole karaoke thing tonight,” Harry

says. He bumps one hip against Louis‟, and Louis stares down at their

feet disappearing in and out of the snow. “I like seeing you like that.”

Something in Louis‟ stomach squirms. He writes it off as the after

effects of the half dozen cupcakes and questionable beverages, but it

makes him restless all the same. On some mad impulse he ducks out

from under Harry‟s arm and half-stumbles into a snowbank, plunging

his hands into the snow.

“Lou, what‟re you—”

Harry‟s words are cut off by the snowball that pegs him right in the

side of the head.

“Yes!” Louis shouts, not caring about his neighbors and the fact that

it‟s almost 4 a.m. Harry is gaping at him, a laugh playing on his lips.

“The Tommo strikes again!”

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“The only thing saving you from being shoved in a snowbank right

now,” Harry tells him, shaking his hair out, “is the fact that you are

drunk and I don‟t think you could get back up.”

“I am extremely spry in my old age,” Louis tells him, slipping ahead.

“You underestimate me.”

“I guess so,” Harry says.

They‟re at Harry‟s car now. Louis is standing between Harry and the

door, his body betraying the fact that he really doesn‟t want Harry to

go.

“I‟m glad you liked your cake,” Harry says. He‟s smiling as he leans

against Louis, gently pressing him into the side of the car.

“I‟m glad you came tonight,” Louis tells him, and oh, he hates how

alcohol does this even when it‟s fading out of his system, makes him

honest and unguarded, but he can‟t stop his mouth. “Thank you for

staying.”

Harry just smiles wider, and then he wraps the end of Louis‟ scarf

around one hand and pulls him in for their first kiss in two weeks.

It‟s as gentle as Harry‟s weight against him, light enough that Louis

knows Harry meant what he said about not pushing him when he‟s

been drinking. Harry‟s lips are a little bitten by the chill, but when he

parts them he tastes like peppermint and cake and his mouth is like the

lights inside of Louis‟ flat, soft and warm and intimate. Louis sinks his

fingers into Harry‟s curls, and Harry makes a noise at the cold hands

against his scalp but doesn‟t let go.

They‟ve done a fair amount of kissing by now, but Louis wouldn‟t

describe any of it as slow or sweet. Every time it was some pressing

force, the means to an end, the warm-up act before the main event. This

time is different, though. One of Harry‟s hands slides up under Louis‟

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jumper, but there‟s nothing insistent about it, just Harry trying to be

closer to him. For the first time, they kiss just for the hell of it. And,

God, for once, Louis just lets himself have it.

Then Louis‟ brain and his mouth line up long enough for him to realise

that what Harry is humming into his mouth is “God Rest Ye Merry

Gentlemen,” and he has to break off to laugh at that, because, seriously.

For a moment they‟re just standing there, and Harry is so close and he‟s

laughing and there‟s snow in his eyelashes and it‟s actually

overwhelming how much Louis likes this person. Not just his mouth

and his body but all of him, every single part, the dumb jokes and the

eager hands and the sprawling smile and the easy way about him that

makes Louis want to loosen his grip a little bit, the grass stains on his

jeans and the way he still smells like Louis‟ dish soap.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says, thumbing the pattern of Louis‟ scarf.

“Happy Christmas,” Louis says back.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry agrees.

Harry gives him one last smiling kiss, and Louis finally convinces his

legs to move the rest of him out of the way so Harry can slide into his

car. He stands on the curb, knee-deep in snow, watching Harry drive

away until his tail lights blink out around the corner.

Louis isn‟t going to think about it. He‟s not. He‟s not going to think

about hands on his waist or sweet cream frosting on his tongue or the

place where all the small bones in Harry‟s wrist come together. He‟s

not going to let this spread.

“No,” he says to the feeling pulling at his ribs. “Nope.” He takes the

stairs one step at a time and doesn‟t, doesn‟t, doesn‟t think about it.

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He‟s dropping his coat on the floor and ready to collapse into bed when

he sees the package sitting on the kitchen table. The box is thin and bit

bigger than a piece of paper, and when he turns it over in his hands he

can see that it‟s wrapped up in pages torn out of magazines, all

different bright colors and clashing patterns. He doesn‟t need a card to

know it‟s from Harry.

Oh, God.

Louis‟ hands fumble with the wrapping until he manages to get it all

off, mind racing ahead of him to what Harry would have gotten him

and wondering how he snuck it in without Louis noticing, if he stuck it

under the cake box or if he‟s actually Father Christmas. Underneath the

wrapping is a thin, unremarkable cardboard box, and he opens one end

and tilts.

Out slides a nicely matted print of a photograph, and Louis‟ breath goes

out when he realises what it is.

He remembers a rehearsal about a month ago, some cold, dry evening

in November. His male lead was out sick, and he had promoted one of

the boys in the chorus to understudy so that somebody could mark his

place in the blocking. He was sitting a few rows back in the audience,

calling out lines and taking notes in his copy of the script. Niall was

working out the kinks for the lighting cues that day, and the set was

still only halfway constructed. He remembers that Harry was wearing a

blue shirt, but he doesn‟t know how he forgot about the camera.

The photograph is from that rehearsal, taken from a seat just behind

Louis. The stage in the background is washed in blues, reds, pinks,

yellows, beams of light pouring from all different angles, crossing over

each other at random. The spotlight is off, so the bodies on the stage are

almost just silhouettes in motion. There‟s the whip of a skirt caught in

mid-turn, a tall figure with its arms extended, two shapes bent toward

each other at stage left. Behind them, the skeleton of the set makes

sharp lines and broken shapes against the white backdrop.

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In the foreground is Louis, just a sliver of his face as seen from behind,

the light catching on the top of his cheekbone and the ends of his hair.

His hands are in the air in front of him, gesturing as he explains

something to one of the actors, and he can see ink stains on his

knuckles. He can see for the first time the way he looks when he‟s

directing, the set of his shoulders, the hint of a smile at the corner of his

mouth.

It‟s his kids, his work, distilled into an image and made beautiful. And

Harry did it.

He looks down at the table because he really, really needs to look at

anything that is not this picture right now, and his eyes fall on a tiny

piece of paper. It must have slid out with the print without him noticing

it. He can see Harry‟s handwriting on it.

Lou,

So you don‟t forget what you look like to the rest of us

Happy birthday!!! xxx

Haz

Louis drops into a chair.

“Happy Christmas, Louis Tomlinson,” he says. “You are fucked.”

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Zayn idly swirls the beer in his glass, distressed to see so much of it

left. Beer isn‟t really his drink, not for a real night out, but Niall had

bought a round of pints and it would be rude not to finish. Anyway, it‟s

just not on to leave a drink unfinished on New Year‟s.

He tips the glass back and drains the pint with a grimace, wiping his

mouth with the back of his hand and looking around the bar. It‟s a

pretty good turnout, though if he‟s honest most of these people are

Niall‟s friends, not his. He‟s not complaining, though. He could have

gone to another friend‟s party, but from what he remembers from years

past those parties always turn into pretty people scrambling for hook-

ups, and he‟s not really looking for that this year. Getting quietly drunk

in the corner of a bar full of people who don‟t actively bother him

actually sounds pretty great.

Of course, in a perfect world he‟d be wherever Liam was, but after his

ridiculous performance on Christmas Zayn isn‟t sure he can face Liam

for a few more weeks. God, how obvious had he been with the

mistletoe? Had Liam noticed? There was no way he hadn‟t noticed.

Why isn‟t he drunk yet?

Zayn walks over to the bar and orders a vodka tonic, ignoring the

bartender‟s once-over. God bless Niall‟s friends and their open bar.

Liam is probably busy, anyway. He‟s probably out doing something

fun and not thinking about Zayn at all. The bartender slides his drink to

him, and Zayn lifts it to his lips immediately as he walks back to his

table, ignoring the napkin with the phone number on it. Liam is

probably at some party with his hot firefighter friends, being hot.

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They‟re probably dancing in a big group of sweaty, shirtless,

firefighting hotness that is inaccessible to people who ineffectively hit

on people at Christmas parties. Maybe they‟re wearing the fireman

hats. Wow, this drink is strong.

Back at his table of perpetual malaise, Zayn pulls out his phone and

picks Louis‟ name out of his contact list. Louis is at his mum‟s house,

as he always is for New Year‟s. God bless Louis. No one else makes