Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Harry winced as he slid into the booth at the Farringdon Arms, pain shooting through his lower back.  He felt Louis sit down next to him, his small hand automatically rubbing at the sore spot, petting Harry a little under the hem of his black t-shirt.

“That’s it,” he huffed, “we’re getting a firmer mattress.”

Harry turned to pout at him as he heard the pub doors open and Niall’s loud voice calling out a greeting to the bartender.  They’d only been back in London for a week, still completely, helplessly wrapped up in each other, and hadn’t gotten to properly catch up with their LSO friends yet.  That’s what they were going to do tonight, over a couple rounds of darts and drafts.  Harry had been looking forward to it.

“But Lou --”

“I know you like to pretend you’re sleeping on a fluffy cloud, but it isn’t good for your back, love.  Don’t argue with me.”

Niall plopped himself down in the booth with a thud, adjusting his ratty snapback as Harry snorted at Louis.  His eyes were soft and fond as he smiled over at him, nodding as though he knew, he knew what Louis’s real agenda was.  “He pretends it’s for the sake of my back,” he said, turning to Niall, “but you know he’d sleep on a rock if that was allowed.”

Niall blinked once, pointing between them.  “Did you two get married in Germany?”

Both of them stared back at him with round eyes, startled out of the exclusive two-person bubble they’d managed to maintain for the month and a half that they’d stayed in Berlin.

“What?” Louis asked, as Harry made a noise that sounded like a cross between a squeak and a startled erp.  “Why would you think that?”

“You look like lovesick idiots.  Your conversations have gotten less intelligible,” Niall explained.  He narrowed his eyes.  “And neither of y’pricks has hugged me yet.”

At that, they both stood up and leaned across the smooth wood table to wrap Niall up in an awkward group hug.  He patted them on the backs of their heads and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, ye love me now.  Could barely be arsed to email while you were away.”

Harry smiled as he gave Niall one more squeeze and let go, sinking back into the booth.  He’d said while you were away like Harry had just gone on an extended holiday.  Like no matter the specifics, no matter how exactly it happened, he’d have always ended up back in London.  Back with Louis.

Harry cleared his throat, willing himself not to get too emotional before he’d even had any alcohol.  “I did send you that one thing,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Niall’s face twisted up into a disgusted grimace, causing Louis and Harry to both burst out laughing.  “Some things you can’t unsee, lads,” he muttered, raising his hand to flag down a passing waiter.  “Point Amber, please.”

Harry glanced over and caught the mischievous sparkle in Louis’s eye.  They’d gotten a joint text from Niall the evening after Louis’s arrival, demanding to know what had happened between them.  It had been laced with a few choice Irish invectives at the end, directed at Louis for keeping him (and Gladys, and Zayn) in suspense.  Harry had just shrugged and snapped a picture of Louis spread out beneath him -- his sweaty, bare back, the cleft of his arse just visible at the bottom of the frame and Louis’s face in profile, trying to peek over his shoulder to grin at the camera.

It’s not polite to interrupt, Harry had typed out underneath, before pressing Send.

Harry and Louis giggled conspiratorily to each other, clinking their pints together when they were served.  “Wankers,” Niall mumbled fondly.

“Not lately,” Louis said, resting a light arm around Harry’s broad shoulders and making him feel warm inside.  Harry sighed happily, couldn’t help it.  Louis’s love was wrapping him up, zipping through his body out to the tips of his toes.  “Suckers, maybe.”

“Blowhards,” Harry supplied.  Louis giggled, the back of his hand coming up to his mouth as Harry beamed at him.

“Fucking blowhards.”

Before Niall could fake-groan at them again, they were joined by Gladys and Zayn, who were towing an uncertain-looking Liam Payne behind them.  They barrelled into the booth, Zayn squeezing his thin body in next to Louis and Gladys arranging herself in her normal dignified manner on the other side of the table, chucking Niall under the chin for good measure.

“Oh, er,” Liam said, clearly flustered.  “I don’t know if there’s room…”

“Budge, Niall,” Gladys said sternly, fluttering her painted fingernails.  “Your bony elbows are hogging half the bench.”

“Anything fer you, Gladdo.”  Niall smacked a friendly kiss on her cheek and scooted closer to the wall, allowing Liam just enough room to sit.

“Hello, all,” he said, with a stiff wave.  He sat up straight, as though he were trying his best to be acceptable company.  There was a chorus of answering heys and hellos, but Harry just grinned and nuzzled down into Louis’s shoulder, surreptitiously smelling the subtle spice of his cologne, feeling secure and happy.

After they'd all ordered their first round of drinks and toasted to Harry’s return, Zayn cleared his throat.  “So,” he said.  “I hear you’re replacing Maria Santiago-O’Brien, Harry, when she retires in a few weeks?”

Harry nodded, smiling around Louis at Zayn so hard he felt the backs of his dimples digging into his teeth.  “Yup,” he answered.  “I can’t wait to play again.  And Grimshaw says that whenever the LSO needs a guest conductor or an interim conductor in the future, the job’s mine.  Apparently someone convinced the board I’d be dead useful as a double threat.”

Liam flushed and looked down at his hands, fiddling with the edges of the cocktail napkin underneath his sweating pint.

“Yeah, that was all Payno,” Niall said with an amused chuckle.

“Really?”  Louis temporarily lifted his right arm from Harry’s shoulder and shoved it across the table at Liam, who shook it awkwardly.  “Thanks mate.  Did you convince them to reinstate me, too?”

Liam muttered something unintelligible, and probably self-effacing.  “It really wasn’t…” he managed, after clearing his throat.  His shoulders were tense, his lips moving silently as he worked out exactly what he wanted to say next.  “I’m just doing my job.  And -- ” his brown eyes flickered over to meet Harry’s “ -- I wanted to apologize, Maest-, er, Harry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, and he felt his smile disappear.  He didn’t remove his chin from Louis’s shoulder, arms still wrapped around him like a clingy, ridiculous koala, but he frowned thoughtfully at Liam.  “Why would you need to apologize, Li?”

Poor Liam looked uncomfortable.  He glanced around at the rest of the group, gaze lingering slightly, perhaps regretfully, on Louis.  “I’ve just felt a bit guilty,” he said.  “That conversation we had right before you left, Harry.  When I was telling you about the board meeting, and said that thing about ‘oh, it’s all down to Tomlinson if you don’t get the job?’  If I’d known, er --”  Louis bit his lip and ducked his head at that, causing Liam to look even more mortified.

“God,” Louis muttered.  Harry gave him a comforting squeeze, and whispered “Shhh, darling,” softly into his ear.

Liam coughed.  “The truth is,” he continued, “I was trying to impress you a bit, you know, with insider gossip.  There were a lot of reasons they might have voted the way they did, most of them financial.  It was more complicated than that, and I thought,” he gulped, “afterwards, when this all came out about you and Louis…”  He cleared his throat again and looked down into his drink, saying the next bit in a rush of quiet words.  “IthoughtI’dbrokenyouup.”

Louis let out a great, big laugh at that, almost shaking Harry off him.  Gladys and Niall started to giggle as well, Zayn smirking around the edges.  Liam looked embarrassed enough to die.  Harry reached out a hand to him through the laughter and closed it over his tense fist, running a thumb over his knuckles.  “You really didn’t,” he said.  “It’s not your fault; I promise.”

“Yeah, great pillocks, both of ‘em,” Niall confirmed, taking a long pull from his bottle and reaching around Gladys to clap Liam on the back.  “They’d have cocked it up no matter what.”

Liam let out a rush of breath, and his shoulders sagged in relief.  “Really?” he squeaked.  “Because after I found out, I just felt so awful, and Louis was, well…”

“A mess,” Louis nodded, eyes twinkling.

“And basically I thought I’d ruined the entire orchestra.”

“I’ll bloody drink to that,” Zayn said, raising his glass.  Harry smiled warmly as they all toasted Liam, and gave Louis’s waist one more squeeze, just for good measure, hoping he could convey how happy he was now and how lucky he felt to be sitting there with them in London.  How grateful he was that Louis had come to Berlin.  He felt an answering tickle from his boyfriend  (boyfriend he’s your boyfriend Louis Tomlinson is your boyfriend) that caused his chest to flood with warmth, and sent shivers out across the sliver of bare skin just above his waist.

“I love you,” Harry whispered as Gladys changed the subject, asking Zayn a question about his next art show.

Past versions of Louis Tomlinson might have shrugged it off or turned it into a joke, let his own insecurities take over and hurt both of them.  But this Louis just turned to Harry, smiled softly at him, and swept a stray curl off his forehead with gentle fingers.  “You too,” he said.

Harry was sure they’d work themselves back up to teasing soon; he’d probably say ridiculous things that would cause Louis to roll his eyes while still flushing with pleasure; Louis’d call him a terrible, soppy human and Harry would insist that he loved it.  But for now they were still healing.  Still knitting themselves back together like a bone that had been broken, and Harry was content to just rest in the sunny glow of their new bond.

“... and then she said that I came across as intimidating.”  Harry snapped back the to the conversation, which was about Zayn and his new girlfriend.  He’d met her at the art gallery, apparently.  Louis was whispering backstory into his ear.

“You are, though,” Niall said, thoughtfully.  “All dark and silent and handsome and tattooed.  And an artist.  I’d be proper intimidated, if I wanted to get in your pants.”

“Me too,” Harry nodded.

“I wouldn’t,” Louis scoffed.  “Oh look at me, I play with xylophones for a living!  I have a comic book drawn on me arm!  Real intimidating.”

“Shut up, you.”  Zayn rolled his eyes and punched Louis in the shoulder.  “I have a snake, too.  Snakes are quite badass, I think.”

They sat and drank, and Harry smiled when he felt Louis draw a heart on his thigh underneath the table.

You, darling, it said.  You are my favorite person.  I love you the most.

“The trick is keeping your wrist absolutely still,” Louis whispered.  He gazed at Harry’s large hand holding the small dart, tracing the lines of ink on his forearm as his fingertips grazed over them.  “It’s like the opposite of vibrato.  Then one quick motion...”  He demonstrated.  “One flick is all it takes.”

Harry took a deep breath.  Louis stepped back, giving him some room to stare down the dart board.  He took a long moment to admire Harry’s jaw, the way his face was totally transformed when he was concentrating hard on something.  His eyebrows were stormy, his full mouth set in a determined line.  Then -- flick.  A two.

“I hit the board!” Harry crowed.  He turned to Louis, and his face was radiating happiness now.  Plump and pink and dimpled, almost young.

“Yeah, baby, you did,” Louis laughed.  “Oof.”  He was swamped by a huge man-hug before he could do anything about it, Harry’s arms and lips and knees and everything around him, curls tickling his neck as Louis tried not to fall over into a table full of empty bottles and pint glasses.  “Good job,” he wheezed.

“Victory pints!” Harry cried, stumbling off of Louis and wandering over to the bar with his arms raised.  He was maybe, slightly tipsy.  Louis watched him as he went, suddenly filled up with a weird, buoyant feeling that had been hitting him lately in the oddest situations -- in the shower, queueing up at Tesco’s, whenever he lifted his violin to his shoulder -- and almost forgot to take his turn.  He rattled off a fifteen and a double twenty.  Then he shook out his limbs as he stepped back, head immediately snapping around to watch Harry return with two brimming pint glasses.  The odd, light feeling only intensified.  He felt like he might float away with it.

“Love you,” he said, lightly, before taking a sip of the dark ale.  He grimaced and sputtered.  “Ugh, what is this?”

“No idea,” Harry grinned, shrugging with his hands clasped together in front of him.  “The bartender said I was cute, so I said, ‘surprise me!’”

“Okay, Miss Drunky Flirter,” Louis laughed, wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist in a proprietary way and glancing over to the bar, where a woman in her late twenties with a long, auburn ponytail was watching them with interest, “you stay right here for a while, yeah?”

“M’kay,” Harry said softly, so pleased, before leaning in for a quick kiss.  Which turned into a quick snog.  Niall had to pinch Louis’s bum to remind him that it was their turn at the dartboard again.

Later, after Harry’s initial flush had settled into more of a pleasant, even brightness, Louis caught him fake-complaining to Gladys.  “Seven straight hours of practicing, two pauses of five minutes, what an unproductive day.  Oh no, had to stop for water and a bathroom break, standards slipping!  Got a new mattress, it's a plywood board!”  His voice was teasing, but so full of love; he stared pointedly at Louis as he mimicked him, even doing a little gesture with his wrist that was so perfectly, ridiculously Louis that Louis couldn’t help smiling, even though he was trying to appear indignant.

“Shut up,” he said, rolling his eyes and nudging Harry gently in the ribcage.  “Yes, I’ve been practicing more.  I’m just trying to get back up to speed for Monday.”  It would be his first day back at work in almost two months, and Louis felt a nervous shiver run through him.  He wondered how his colleagues would look at him -- the last time most of them had seen him play, it had been that awful, awful night…

“You’re perfect,” Harry said, landing a wet peck on Louis’s fringe.  “No need to worry.”

“You just want me to be sexually available to you at all times, you animal,” Louis scoffed, only dimly aware of Gladys grinning at them with a keen interest that was maybe only half the motherly sort.  “It makes you pout when I choose Thunder over you.”

Harry pouted dramatically to demonstrate.

“But he chose you over fear when he rushed off to Berlin,” Gladys said.  She nudged Harry’s shoulder and then moved to take her turn at darts.  “So I imagine he can't be too worried about coming back to work.”

Harry nodded, smiling and blinking with placid drunkenness.  The truth is, Louis’s life had felt much more balanced lately.  He was still practicing a lot, of course; he still loved the feeling of being in his own little world with his music and his violin, still relished the feel of his bow in his right hand, the bite of strings beneath his fingers.  But now there was Harry to walk by and touch the small of his back, to encourage him, to make constructive suggestions.  (Louis still felt the dying embers of defensiveness whenever Harry critiqued his play, but so far every time he’d felt like snapping he’d remembered: Harry is on my side.  He is on my side.  His strength is my strength.  And he’d cooled down, and accepted the criticism.  His playing was the better for it, he could tell.)  Harry helped him in all the little ways, making him sandwiches and playing duets with him just for fun.  Since Louis’s confession in Berlin, it was like Harry’s floodgates had been opened, and everything he’d been holding in for months had come pouring out -- he’d started to vocalize his support and love more and more often, always making sure Louis knew he was enough.  More than enough.  His happiness at home only made Louis more nervous about going back to the LSO, but he could do it.  With Harry beside him, he knew he could.

After the game was over (Louis, Harry and Liam having lost spectacularly to The Biscuits, of course), they all piled into the booth again for one last drink before heading out into the dark, soft mid-summer rain.

“So, gimme the truth,” Zayn said.  “We know those two are having massive amounts of sex.”  He pointed at Louis and Harry just as Harry tried to tug Louis up onto his lap, almost spilling their shared pint of beer.  “And they were doing it before, in secret.”

Niall snorted and muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “Well, some of us have eyes…”

Zayn rounded on him.  “But that’s old news.  What I reallywant to know is… how many times have you two gotten down?”  He gestured between Niall and Gladys, totally serious.

Niall immediately turned beet red as Gladys chuckled, a wicked gleam in her eye.  “You have!” Louis shouted, leaning forward on Harry’s lap and pointing at Niall’s reddening cheeks.  “I knew it!  Harry, I told you!”

“Christ,” Niall finally looked up, sighing.  “Gladdo and me’re just friends, okay?  Y’nosy British bastards.”

Gladys shrugged, tipping back the last of her pint.  “He tried… but I turned him down.”

The rest of the table erupted into delighted hoots and howls as Gladys raked the dirty blond hair out of Niall’s eyes with her red-lacquered fingernails and added, “Told him he was cute, but not my type.”

Niall chuckled then, his brief bout of embarrassment characteristically forgotten.  “You’re a classy lady, Gladys.  No regrets.”

“Cheers,” Harry smiled, and they all drank their final mouthfuls to that.

They slid sloppily out of the booth in a happy jumble of loose limbs, settling their tabs at the bar before stepping out to hail taxis home.  Harry was out in the rain, scuffed suede boots getting stained as Louis waited under the narrow awning.  He shivered once, hugging himself as a few stray drops splattered on his glasses.

Gladys came up to him while Niall went round to get the Astra and gave him a thorough hug.  “I’m very proud of you,” she whispered.  Louis smiled at her.  She winked, and then Harry was motioning him into a cab, holding his light jacket over his head to shield Louis’s way from the sidewalk as much as he could.

“Thanks, Gladys,” he replied, quietly.  “I’ll see you Monday.”

He ducked into the taxi and felt Harry settle comfortably, if a bit damply, in beside him.  They both fixed their hair, Harry with a rough shake and Louis with a delicate flick of his wrist.  Harry pulled Louis into his body and ran his fingers lazily up and down his arm until they were home.

Home.

Louis still technically had his little house near Paddington Station, but he’d agreed to sell it as soon as he could and move into Harry’s flat in Hampstead.  It was perfect for them, open and modern, with plenty of space for them to practice together -- convenient, now that they were going to be playing in the same orchestra.  Every day, it felt more like Louis’s.

Harry took his hand as they climbed the familiar staircase up to the third floor, and keyed them in.  “Get these wet clothes off,” he muttered.  He went for Louis’s shirt first, then his own trousers as Louis eagerly shuffled out of the rest of his clothing.

“So how drunk are you?” Louis asked, stepping into Harry’s space as soon as he was naked, pushing him toward the bathroom and the promise of a shared shower before bed.

“What did Gladys mean?” Harry blurted out all of a sudden.  Louis stopped.  Harry blushed, and twisted his fingers together, shoulders bunched.  “When she said you chose me over fear…  What did she mean, exactly?  Louis, what exactly made you decide to come to Berlin?  Did, like, Gladys have something to do with that?”

“Oh, God,” Louis laughed, immediately easing Harry’s tenseness.  “It’s a little embarrassing, love, I’m warning you.”

Harry looked up again, with bright eyes and a smirk on his face.  “What is?” he asked.

Louis eased into Harry’s arms, burying his head in his neck and nuzzling at his tattooed collarbones.  “Remember when I told you about how I overheard Amelia Frasier-Lind and Taggie Diversey gossiping?  They said you were going to Germany?”

“Mhmm,” Harry murmured, his fingers running through the soft, slightly curled hair at the nape of Louis’s neck.

“Well,” sighed Louis, “I left this part out before because I feel so dumb about it now, but Taggie said that she wasn’t surprised you were going to end up in Berlin.  She said you and Florian were, like… involved… and he was in love with you…”

Harry snorted out a laugh, his whole body rocking with it.  “Shut up!” cried Louis, wiggling out of his arms and giving one of his nipples a light twist.  “I was devastated!  And then you showed up with him to my concert!”

“I’m sorry,” Harry giggled, stepping forward to wrap Louis in his arms again, shivering -- they were naked, and the flat was cool -- and tugging him back toward the bathroom, to the warmth of their shower.  “I didn’t realize how that would look, I guess.  I just needed a friend.  I had to come… when I was invited to the concert; I had to see you.  Obviously I had to see you.  But I couldn’t do it by myself.”

Louis nodded, flipping on the bathroom light and arranging two fresh towels on the rack for them as Harry turned on the spray, testing the temperature.  They both liked for it to be as hot as possible without actually burning.  “I know what you mean,” Louis said, shifting his weight and rubbing at one of his biceps.  “About needing…  The night before at the party, I couldn’t stop looking at you, even though it felt so awful.  Had to run off to the toilets, almost puked.  I just didn’t know what to do.  But I made up my mind that no matter what, I couldn’t hurt you again.  Bottom line.  And I thought you were happy with Florian, so.  I didn’t try to approach you.”

Harry frowned with concern, stepping into the shower and holding out a hand to help Louis in with him.  “You almost puked?”

Louis shrugged, and hugged him, pushing them both under the cleansing water.  They could still hear the storm outside, but here they were together and Louis felt utterly safe.  Thank God we made it, he thought to himself as he breathed in the steam.  Harry started to massage something nice-smelling through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured, quietly, holding Louis gently to him as his big hands kept the shampoo away from his eyes, thumbs smoothing his temples.  “About Florian.  I’m so sorry you felt that way.  I should’ve…  It was you the whole time, you know.  It was always only you.”  Louis nodded and shuddered a little against him, and they both just stood there for a while under the warm spray, Harry pressing soft kisses to his forehead.  He knew Harry was waiting for the rest of it, waiting to hear how it all connected to Gladys, but he wasn’t in a rush.

“So I had been, um, writing the thing…” Louis started, finally, pulling back and digging his thumbs into Harry’s v-lines, running them up and down, gazing at his boyfriend’s unbelievable torso.  “And when I finished, Niall was having this barbecue, and I hadn’t been out of my house in days.”

Harry hummed quietly to show that he was listening and interested while he grabbed a loofah and started running it over the outsides of Louis’s arms and down his pecs.  As he worked, pulling Louis closer to him so that he could wash his back and the dip in his spine, he started to get hard.  Louis could feel it against his thigh and when he pulled away, he automatically looked down in wonder.  He couldn’t help it.  Harry’s cock was gorgeous, red and full and starting to stand up from his body just from their closeness.  It was going to get Louis hard, too, in a second.

“So I went, and you sent Niall that coupley picture of Florian and Anja -- God, Harry…”  Harry had started to wash his bum, kneading it apart and gently wiping at his hole.  The steam from the shower had fogged the glass door, and they began to lazily rut against each other.

“And when you saw the picture…?” Harry prompted.  Louis had gotten a little distracted.

“Right.  So even after I saw it, I was just sitting there.  Paralyzed.  I didn’t know what to do, and I was still like, I can’t hurt him again.  I can’t risk hurting him again.  But then Gladys pointed out that it was really my own fear holding me back.  That it was the only thing left standing in the way of me going to Berlin.”  Louis huffed a whine into Harry’s ear as he felt a soft, gentle finger breach him, Harry’s other hand palming and squeezing his arse with a bit more urgency.

“And that’s when you showed up at my door in the middle of the night, looking half-crazed.”

“Passionate, I’d say.”

“Well, you are correct about everything,” Harry observed, eyelids fluttering shut as Louis began to stroke him.  “Right?”

“Mhmm,” Louis hummed.  “Except the Florian thing.”

“Okay, definitely time to stop talking about Florian now.”  Harry pulled Louis even closer and gasped as Louis rubbed his thumb lightly over the head of his cock, catching some slick precome before it got washed away by the shower.  “Shit…”

“So good,” Louis murmured.

Harry only whined in response, pushing his finger in deeper, fucking Louis open as he brought their lips together.

“S’always so good…”

*

After, when they were in Harry’s fluffy cloud bed together, skin still warm and rain still tapping at the large windows, Harry said, “She’s pretty wise.  Gladys, I mean.”

Louis shrugged.  “Yeah, well.  She has, like, thirty years on us or summat.”

Harry rolled over and began toying with Louis’s damp hair, staring off into space as he snuggled down under his crisp white sheets.  “It’s just good advice, though.  About not letting fear get in the way of doing things.”  There was something cautious and a bit searching in his voice.

Louis breathed out heavily and turned to face him, snagging his chin and tugging his head so that their eyes met.  “What are you getting at, Styles?” he asked.

Harry grinned and nuzzled his face into Louis’s clean, hot neck.  “You’re scarily perceptive when you’re not being a thick-headed idiot.”  Louis snorted and reached down to smack him lightly on the ass, and Harry giggled.  “Seriously, though,” he said, unearthing his face and breathing in deeply, tracing Louis’s jawline with his fingers.  “Have you thought about showing it to anyone?”

“What?”  Louis frowned.  He had no idea what Harry was talking about.  Show what to whom?

“Your… your writing,” Harry said, apparently surprised that Louis wasn’t following him.

Louis laughed.  “What?” he repeated, softly.  “Why would I show anyone...?  I mean, I know I showed you, but…”

“I think people would like it; that’s all,” Harry shrugged.  He pulled Louis closer to him and started to card his fingers through his hair soothingly.  “Well, no.  It’s not all.  I think you’re fucking brilliant and honestly a little bit selfish because your music needs to be played.  It’s begging to be played.  And I just want people to know what a genius you are.  And I’m rambling.”

Louis groaned a little.  “Babe…”

“I’m serious.  Look, I tried to compose once.  When I was twelve years old I wrote a song called ‘A November’s Day.’  It was unbelievably horrible.  Just the worst.”  Harry started humming a slow, turgid melody into Louis’s ear, making him giggle with a sudden burst of love as he imagined a prepubescent version of Harry leaning over his desk, writing whole note after boring, awful whole note with a look of intense concentration on his face.

“Really is fucking terrible, Styles, oh my God.”

Harry stopped humming, smiling softly at Louis as he ran his hands over his arms and down his waist.  “See, the world deserves better music than that.  Please tell me you’ll at least show Grimmy.”

Louis felt a small knot of fear twist inside his gut at the thought.  It had been nerve-wracking enough giving Harry the piece that he’d written for him, but Grimshaw?  God.  It’s not that great, he thought, old instincts taking over as Harry’s breathing started to even out against his chest and he stared at the shifting shadows on the ceiling.  Harry’s exaggerating.  It’s not that good…

But…

“You’re such a wonderful composer, Lou.  Maybe just trust me?” he heard Harry whisper into the dark.

Louis leaned down to kiss his forehead.  “Okay,” he said.  “I do, you know.  I always will.  Doesn’t mean I’m not a bit scared.”

“I understand.”

But with Harry’s warm body wrapped around him, fast drifting off to sleep, Louis wondered.  Was he scared anymore, really?  Or was it just habit, keeping all his cards so close to his chest?  He had Harry.  Harry was on his side.  Always, always...  Something was telling him there was nothing left to be afraid of.

Harry looked the vendor square in the eye.  “Yes,” he said.  “I do need all of them.”  He pressed an open palm down on the enormous stack of newspapers, setting his shoulders defensively.  These were his, goddammit.  No backing down, no being nice.  This was Harry’s line in the sand.  He’d buy the whole newsstand if he had to.

“But why?” asked the old man grumpily, grimy fingers sneaking up to scratch at his close-cropped salt and pepper hair.  “What could you possibly need with…”

“Why do you care why?”  Harry cringed inwardly as he heard the sternness in his own voice -- he’d rather catch flies with honey, like his mum always said -- but he kept a protective hand on the papers.  “I, um,” he dug his thick wallet out of his jacket with his left hand, hips twisting about awkwardly.  “I can pay you in cash, I think.”

The man huffed.  “My regular customers en’t gonna like it one bit.  Mr. Healy, ‘e always comes at four o’clock; always needs his Times, always tips me...”

“Look,” Harry said, peeling the top newspaper off the stack and flipping quickly to the Arts section.  He pointed to the full-page spread, at Louis’s smiling profile gazing up toward the headline: Tomlinson Triumphant.  “That is my boyfriend.  So.  I need like, five hundred copies of this at least.  Please?”  Harry smiled tentatively, letting his cheeks dimple.

The vendor rolled his eyes and sighed.  “That’s your boyfriend, there?” he asked.  He turned the page around and took a closer look at the story.  “‘e got into the Times?”

Harry nodded frantically, pleading with practically his whole being.

“Fine,” the man said, pushing the big stack across the counter toward Harry.  “Take ‘em.  And congratulations, I suppose.”

“Hoorayyy,” Harry said quietly, face stretching into a full smile as he slammed down about fifty quid and scooped up the papers.  He left one on the counter, and shook his head when the vendor held it out to him.  “For Mr. Healy,” he said.  “With my compliments.”

“Ta, lad.”

Harry whipped around the corner and up the two blocks that led to the small street his building was on.  It was a beautiful, bright fall afternoon, the Sunday after their first two performances of Louis’s double concerto.  All the reviews had been positive, of course, but this particular article in the Times was special.  Harry couldn’t help smiling like a lunatic over the big stack of newsprint that was currently tucked under his chin, grinning at everyone he passed.  Louis’s probably gonna think I’ve gone mental, too, when he sees me.  The thought just made him grin harder.  I love him so much.  He’s just going to have to deal with it.

He paused when he got to the door of the building; arms too full to grab his keys out of his pocket.  Luckily, Mrs. Fielding from the first floor happened to be on her way out.

“Hello, Ha -- oh, my,” she said.  She was tiny and prim, a proper Englishwoman who always seemed to be wearing a different floral hat.  “That’s quite a lot of copies.”

“Louis’s in the Times!” Harry said, breathlessly.  He set the stack down in the entryway, noticing how much better his back was feeling recently, after having swapped his “fluffy cloud mattress" for something a bit firmer.

“Really?” Mrs. Fielding said, pulling a dainty pair of reading spectacles out of her purse as Harry held out the Arts section.  “Tomlinson Triumphant,” she began to read.  “Oh, lovely picture.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied, smiling madly, as if he’d had something to do with it.

Mrs. Fielding read the article to herself, murmuring over certain parts of it and pointing sentences out to Harry, who nodded.  He’d been poring over it since he’d noticed Louis’s face staring back at him on the tube that morning, practically had it memorized already.

Four months ago, concertgoers at the Barbican saw something unusual.  Rising star Louis Tomlinson, in the midst of a performance of Bruch’s Violin Concerto No. 1, froze up onstage.  His arm dropped in the middle of a phrase, the notes suddenly seeming to fly away from him.  He fled the concert hall that night, and those of us old romantics who are mired in London’s classical music scene wondered if we’d ever hear from him again -- he took a break from his duties as concertmaster and didn’t show himself in public for a couple of months.  We’d seen it all before: the promising young virtuoso, suddenly thrust into the spotlight, buckling under the pressure.  They usually don’t come back.

But then a funny thing happened.  Instead of spending his leave of absence from the London Symphony Orchestra wallowing in self-pity or “finding himself” on a soul-searching trek through some mountain range or other, Tomlinson apparently got right down to composing.  Upon his re-emergence this weekend as not only one of the most technically and artistically gifted concertmasters the LSO has ever been blessed with, but also as an exciting new voice on the composing scene, I can only stare at him in awe.  What lionhearted constitution does it take to bounce back from such a moment of professional failure?  I honestly think it’s more toughness than I could muster.

The article went on to praise both Louis’s performance and his writing.  The reviewer called it “constantly surprising,” and “modern yet pleasing to those of us who still love a traditional phrase.”  The standing ovation was mentioned, and their kiss at the end of the first performance -- Harry got warm thinking about it.

So perhaps Harry Styles has had something to do with Tomlinson’s comeback.  If he has, I can only thank him.  They certainly looked more than happy to share a spotlight with each other.  The two have apparently been dating...

This was one of the sections that Mrs. Fielding pointed out to Harry, and he bit back another shy grin, rolling his eyes.  He was just so proud of Louis.  Proud of both of them, really, for finally figuring things out.  Proper power couple now.  He told Mrs. Fielding to keep the copy (“‘s why I bought them”) and hurried up the stairs to the flat, a bounce in his step.

The front door was unlocked, and Harry managed to wedge himself through with the stack of papers, humming the main theme of Louis’s concerto under his breath.

“Babe!” he called.  “I’m back!”

There was no answer.  Harry glanced around the open layout of the loft and didn’t see Louis anywhere.  There was a trail of Special K leading to the coffee table in front of the telly, where Harry found a nearly empty bowl -- just a ring of milk and a few soggy flakes at the bottom.  He peeked into the bathroom, but it was deserted, light off.  Steam from a recent shower and a towel left on the floor.

“Babe?” Harry called again, questioningly.  He couldn’t imagine Louis would leave without locking the door to the flat, unless there had been some emergency.

That’s when he heard the sharp sound of a sniff.  It came from upstairs, over the railing in the bedroom.  Harry squinted, but he couldn’t see anyone there.  He shifted the heavy stack of newsprint in his arms and began to pad up the spiral staircase, hearing more wet sounds -- some sniffles, a watery sigh.

“Lou?” he asked.  He got to the top of the staircase and found his boyfriend sitting on the floor, wedged in between the brick wall and the edge of the bed, half-empty cardboard box nearby, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands.  He was crying.

Before Harry could ask what was wrong, Louis glanced up at him and laughed weakly through red-rimmed eyes.  “That’s an unreasonable amount of newspapers, love.”

“Um…”  Harry’s pulse was skyrocketing.  Something was clearly the matter, but Louis was smiling at him through his tears.  “There’s an article,” Harry said.  He walked forward a few steps and set the stack on the bed before sinking to his knees.  “Was gonna show you… ‘s all about how, how fucking brave you are and how great your writing is.  I was planning on handing one out to everyone we come in contact with for the next five years or so.”

“Oh,” Louis hiccuped, and laughed again.  “That’s so nice.”

Harry put a hand on his knee and rubbed it soothingly, nodding toward the stack of loose leaf that Louis had clutched tight to his chest.  “What have you got there, then?”

“I, um, found -- found this...”  Louis stammered.  He took in a shaky breath and wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes.  “I’d just totally forgotten…”  Harry reached out for the tattered sheaf of paper, looking at Louis for permission before he tipped it forward, away from Louis’s chest.  He saw lines of staff, and a piece of pale pink stationery.

“Your quartet,” he breathed.

“With your comments,” Louis croaked out.  “Before, I didn’t read them.  I didn’t read them because I thought you were leaving, and also because I was so embarrassed and scared of what you were going to say, and I just shoved the whole thing into a box somewhere and forgot about it and today I decided I should probably finally unpack the last of my stuff, and…”  He gasped, losing the thread of his long sentence.  “God, I’m a terrible mess.”

“Why are you, um…”  Harry reached out to cradle Louis’s face in his hand, wiping away some stray tears with his thumb.

“Because I’m such an idiot, and your comments were so lovely and I’m so stupid.  I feel so stupid.  Such a fucking moron, really.  I should have read this before, maybe I’d have realized -- Harry.”

Harry had bent down and looped his arms behind Louis’s back and under his knees, was scooping him up and laying him out on the bed before Louis could do anything about it.

“Oof.”  They both collapsed onto the duvet, papers fluttering about wildly.  “Harry, what --”

“Stop saying mean things about my boyfriend.”

Louis’s face split into a weak grin.  Harry could see a couple of different instincts warring on his face, and for a moment they were in limbo.  He caught a glimpse of a future where Louis couldn’t forgive himself for their break-up, or for what had happened all those years ago at Interlochen, a little rotten spot at the center of their relationship where the guilt kept gnawing at Louis until he shut down by degrees and…  Then Harry saw something else.  He saw the bravery, the same lionhearted quality that the article had mentioned.  He saw a future where Louis accepted their past, accepted his part in it, and accepted that he had grown since.  A future in which Louis could be his best self for Harry.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry said, “and I’ve already forgiven you.  And I want you.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathed.  “Me too.  God, so much.”

His face evened out into stunning brilliance, and that was when Harry knew they were really going to make it.

“All right, Styles, enough of this soppy shit.  Read me that article.  Make me blush.”

Louis gazed down at his boyfriend, who had just replaced him in the cushioned black chair.  He looked a little tense and fidgety already, his pupils blown and his plump bottom lip caught in his teeth.  The tattoo artist’s back was turned; she was setting up her station again, making sure all of her equipment was in place and sterilized.  Louis took the opportunity to duck down and murmur in Harry’s ear.  “All right, love?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed back.  He gazed down at the plastic wrap taped over Louis’s freshly-done ink, squirming in his tight jeans as he settled himself down in the chair.  “‘S gonna be gorgeous.  Yours turned out fab.”

Louis ran his fingers lightly over the outside of Harry’s wrist, right where his design was going to go.  Harry shuddered involuntarily.  Louis smirked.  He knew what getting new tattoos did to Harry.  Makes me feel sort of floaty, Harry had explained the night before, huddled around him in bed.  And I just focus on the pain, and…  I don’t know why.  But.  I usually get hard?

Fuck if Louis Tomlinson wasn’t going to put that information to use.

“Be a good boy for the artist,” he warned, bringing his hand up to thread his fingers through Harry’s curls.  He gave them a sharp tug and heard Harry stifle a gasp.  “Don’t get too excited.”

They both liked this sort of thing, every once in a while.  Louis in particular loved riling Harry up and getting a spanking out of him, always coming fast and hard as the sharp slaps brought him back to their first night together.  That’s not what this was about, though, and Harry wasn’t the same way.  For him it was a little more of an embarrassment kink, Louis had come to realize.  When the idea of Louis embarrassing Harry a little was brought solely into the realm of the bedroom, there was no more guilt and neither of them could get enough of it.  Louis was careful not to deliberately give him erections in public too often, though.  He saved that particular treat for special occasions.

Like getting couples tattoos.

“I’ll be watching you the whole time,” Louis whispered, before settling himself back in a chair across the room from Harry.  Don’t get too excited and I’ll be watching was basically a recipe for an immediate Harry Styles boner, especially in this situation.  Louis smiled.

“Ready, love?” the artist chirped.  She got into position and flipped the gun on; a loud buzzing filled the parlor.

Harry just nodded, staring at Louis with dark eyes.  Louis wasn’t sure how Harry could look wrecked before they’d even begun, but it was so fucking enjoyable he didn’t care.  Harry was absolutely entrancing to watch.  As soon as the needle touched his skin his eyes closed and his pink lips parted perfectly, the tendons in his neck standing out as he tried to breathe.  His lower half was almost writhing, thigh muscles flinching and Louis could tell that his toes were trying to curl inwards against the soles of his boots.

“Stay still for me,” the artist warned, and Harry’s eyes fluttered open again to send Louis a pleading look.  Louis just shook his head in mock disappointment, glancing down pointedly at the growing bulge in Harry’s tight jeans.  Couldn’t control yourself, huh? he’d whisper later, feeling Harry shiver with pleasure against him.  That’s so fucking embarrassing, Harry.  In public, where everyone could see...

Actually, they’d booked the last appointments of the day -- night, really; it was already dark outside -- and the only other people in the parlor were the owner, who was currently doing something back in the stockroom, and the artist, who was focused solely on her work.  But it was the idea of the thing that was hot.  Louis made a bet with himself how many seconds it would take to bring Harry off after he finally stopped teasing him and got a hand on his cock.  Under ten, he thought.  Just then, he saw Harry’s mouth open in a silent gasp.  Louis could tell that he was fully hard now, straining against his jeans, and his own cock gave a twitch of interest.

“Almost done,” the artist said.  “Looks beautiful.”

Sweat was beading on Harry’s brow by the time she turned the gun off.  Louis gazed down at his obscene-looking crotch as Harry sat up in the chair, bringing his right arm around to casually cover himself a little, and Louis sighed as though he were bored.  As though he weren’t involved in a losing fight of his own against the excitement that was curling in his gut and tingling out through his dick.  The artist went through the aftercare instructions as she wrapped up Harry’s wrist, and while they were occupied Louis quickly paid the owner so that he could get Harry out of there as soon as possible.  God.  This whole plan was starting to backfire a bit, honestly.  Louis was the twitchy one now, and Harry just looked serene and “floaty,” like he’d described, in a place beyond embarrassment.

“Come along, dear,” Louis said imperiously, when they were ready to go.  “Got some errands to run, remember?”  He was self-conscious, not quite meeting the eyes of the artist as she waved good-bye.

“Right,” Harry drawled, his voice about an octave lower and twenty beats per minute slower than normal.  Louis briefly wondered if he could use a metronome to actually time the difference, and then shook his head and rolled his eyes at his own ridiculousness.  Honestly, Harry fucking Styles.

“What errands, Lou?” Harry asked with a glint in his eye as Louis dragged him out the door of the tattoo parlor and around the corner into a secluded alleyway.  Louis felt a burning in his chest, because now he was the one being teased.  Obviously.  Obviously, that’s how this was always going to turn out.

“You told me that on purpose, last night,” he said accusingly, as he looked in both directions down the deserted alley before he pushed Harry back -- with a little force, but not too roughly -- into the brick wall under a fire escape.  Harry just grinned, dim orange light from the streetlamps barely illuminating his face.

This sort of give and take was electric.  Like a healthier expression of their early relationship, always the challenge to see who’d get the upper hand.  But for the sake of play, and sex, with deep love running through the interactions to ground them, make them both feel totally secure.  Louis fucking loved it.

“You knew you’d get… and that I’d…”

Harry nodded, so clearly pleased with himself.  It made Louis’s blood boil and his body ache.  But all he had to do was put a hand on the hot bulge in Harry’s jeans and squeeze through the denim to reassert his control.  Harry’s smug grin was gone in a second, groan rising in his throat.  “Home?” he asked, brokenly.

“Hmm,” Louis pondered, taking his hand away and rubbing at the scruff under his chin.  “Home’s a long way off, Harry.  You’ve worked me up so bad I don’t think I can wait.”

Harry made a soft little noise in his throat, his eyes widening.  “Lou…  But.  We’re.  Lou…”

They’d agreed on a safeword for situations like this, and Lou was not it.  Louis smiled confidently as he dug his thumbs into the faint softness at Harry’s hips and thrust him back against the wall again.  “You wouldn’t even make it all the way home, I bet,” he murmured, excited for his master plan to be back on track.  “‘S what, fifteen blocks?  You’re still so hard, baby.  And you’re so big, everyone would see, and I know how much that gets to you…  Bet you’d come in your pants before we even made it to our street.  And that wouldn’t be very fun for me, would it?”

Harry shook his head breathlessly, gazing down into Louis’s eyes in wonder.

“I want to be the only one to make you come, baby.”

Harry gave a choked-off little cry, trying to thrust his hips forward against Louis’s tight grip on his waist.  “This is so…” he breathed.  Then, “Fuck, Louis, do something.”

Louis grinned cheekily and pressed a kiss to Harry’s flushed cheek before dropping to his knees in the alley and easing Harry’s leaking cock out of his jeans.  “Love you,” he said, as he gazed up at his boy, causing Harry to repress a soft string of barely intelligible “Fuck--loveyoutoofuck, fuck...” as Louis went down on him.  He felt Harry’s hand through his hair, tugging frantically, his movements jerky and uncoordinated because he was so fucking close already.  Louis lapped up the underside of his cock, relishing the heavy weight on his tongue, sucking hard and fast, hollowing his cheeks as he took Harry, sputtering, all the way to the back of his throat.

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry breathed. His balls were starting to tighten up, cock unbelievably hard now, and Louis had to press the heel of his hand rather firmly against the front of his own trousers to keep the pulsing heat from spilling over down there.  Not allowed to come in his pants.  Nope.

It wasn’t long before Harry came with a cry, shooting into Louis’s mouth and a little over his lips, body rocking with the force of his orgasm.  He’d tugged on Louis’s hair rather violently, and was now soothing it, petting it with his huge hands as Louis tucked him back inside his jeans with a couple of fond pats and another furtive glance to make sure they were still alone.  Even though, technically.  They were in public.

“My beautiful, filthy boy,” Louis whispered, making Harry giggle.  He ground his still-clothed erection into Harry’s hip with a moan.

Then it was Harry’s big left hand encompassing him, stroking him hard and fast and warm, and Louis could look down and see flashes of the new treble clef on Harry’s wrist through the clear plastic dressing.  His whole body was on fire, spasming, and he bit down on Harry’s shoulder hard through his flannel shirt as he fell over the edge.

He might have blacked out for a second or two, because the next thing he knew, his dick was back in his trousers and Harry was sucking come off his fingers and Christ.  That was good.  Louis felt deliciously warm and sated.

“Oh Lord,” he giggled, as he wiped a few stray drops off the upper thigh of Harry’s jeans.  They left tiny stains, but Louis was pretty sure they weren’t too noticeable.  “Did we really just do that?”

“I feel very dangerous,” Harry mused with a grin, mostly back to normal now but for a slight flush high on his cheekbones and a light sheen of sweat on his brow.

Louis laughed.  He took Harry’s elbow like they were some old-fashioned couple involved in a promenade, and escorted him out into the main street.  Some shops were still open, a few people walking by on the sidewalk, not giving them a second glance.  “Do you think we’ll still be this ridiculous when we’re fifty?” he asked.

“I expect you’ll still be absurd and demanding, yes.”

Louis hip checked Harry gently and pulled him closer.  He felt a little twinge from the new ink on his right wrist and glanced down at it, tugging up the sleeve of his jumper to stare.  Bass clef.  He put his right hand in Harry’s left, and both of them grinned.  Bass clef, treble clef.

The walk home was short, and full of contentment.

Harry was standing in front of his pigeon hole in the post room early Friday evening, poring over a brand-new piece of music, when Niall clapped him on the shoulder.  He made an undignified yipping noise and jumped slightly in response.

“Sorry, mate,” Niall said, laughing apologetically.  “Glad I caught you, though.  Louis’s still over at St. Luke’s, in yer old office.  Told me t’tell ya just to go over ‘n get ‘im whenever yer ready to go.”

Harry snorted, shoving the new cello part into his bag.  “We’re just going to have to walk all the way back to the tube station,” he grumbled.

Niall shrugged, “You know how he gets when he’s…”  He pretended to concentrate incredibly hard, motioning with his hand like he was writing something down.  “You know, composing or whatever.”

“Could’ve just texted me,” Harry pointed out.

“Said he did but you didn’t respond...” Niall mumbled, grabbing a stack of post from his cubby and frowning down at the sticky note on top.  “Fuck.  Margery’s holding the rest of my post hostage in her office…  I gotta go.”

Harry smirked and nodded goodbye, amused by Niall’s ongoing standoff with the post room lady.  He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket to check for missed messages; it had been on silent since sectional that afternoon and he’d forgotten to switch it back to vibrate.

Harold where are you?  I’m working in your old office…

You should be here too. ;) ;)

Harry felt a little shiver of arousal just at the sight of the winky faces.  He laughed at himself before blushing with the realization the Louis had essentially used Niall as his emissary for what amounted to a booty call.

“Louis…” he chided aloud, rolling his eyes affectionately and hustling just a bit more on his way out of the Barbican.

Harry bit his lip over a grin as he made his way to the old church, filled up with love for his boyfriend.  Tomorrow would be their first anniversary.  Well, it would be a year since that first performance of Don Juan, anyway.  A year since the night the dam had finally broken, and Harry was certainly counting it as their anniversary.  They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but he’d told Louis that he’d made reservations for dinner and Louis had smiled up at him with crinkling eyes and kissed him nice and slow.  So Harry assumed they were on the same page.  Maybe this was just Louis’s way of getting the celebrations underway early.  Harry had no problem with that whatsoever.

His stomach fluttered with nervous excitement when he thought about the present he’d gotten Louis.  It had arrived in the post a week before, and he’d been carrying it around in his bag ever since, wrapped up nicely with a ribbon.  Partially to prevent Louis from finding it in the loft, but also because he felt a strange need to keep it close at all times.

I hope he likes it, Harry thought, as he entered St. Luke's and cut through Jerwood Hall, his cheeks heating up just at the thought of Louis opening it.  He rolled his eyes at himself.  He will, you moron; he loves you too.

Sometimes he still had to remind himself that it was all real, that Louis was his and he was Louis’s.  Every so often he’d get this irresistible itch to touch all the parts of Louis’s body -- to squeeze the muscles of his thighs, feel the bones in his ankles, run a finger down the tendons in his wrist, pinch the perfect fat on hips -- just to reassure himself of Louis’s existence, of his presence right next to Harry.  The best part was that he was allowed to.  Louis teased him mercilessly about being a sap while simultaneously indulging his every sentimental whim.  It was perfect.

Louis is the best boyfriend in the whole entire universe, Harry thought smugly, as he walked swiftly across the secluded back lobby.  He snorted out a laugh at his own dorky ridiculousness.  What a relief that no one else can ever hear you thinking, you big nerd.

His pulse picked up pleasantly when he reached the door to the office and took a deep breath, collecting himself a bit.  Louis’d had an upright piano moved in a few months back to help with composing, but Harry didn’t hear any sound of it, or the violin, through the door.  He didn’t see any light coming out beneath it, either.

Hope I didn’t miss him, he thought, as he raised his hand to knock.

“Come in.”  Louis’s voice drifted through the door, remote and tinny, and Harry smiled in relief, pushing down on the handle to open it.

“Thought maybe I’d m--” and then Harry’s words died in his throat, because Louis wasn’t working on a composition and he most definitely hadn’t summoned Harry to his old office just to have hot, nostalgic anniversary sex before they went home.

Louis was leaning back against the edge of the desk with his feet crossed at the ankles, holding a small black velvet box in one hand.  The only light in the room came from the candles flickering on either side of him, and there were flower petals strewn everywhere.  Louis must have changed out of his normal cords and jumper combo at some point during the day, because now he was wearing a crisp white button-down and perfectly-fitted grey chinos and he looked unfathomably handsome.  Most beautiful of all were his eyes, as usual.  They glittered like dark gemstones in the low light, soft and brimming with love.

“Hi baby,” Louis said quietly, his amusement at Harry’s surprise clear in his voice.  “Why don’t you come all the way in?”

Harry nodded, eyes wide, his heart galloping in his chest.  He swallowed hard as he pulled the door shut behind him, stepping fully into the room and setting his bag on the floor.

“How was your day?” Louis asked.  Harry wasn’t quite sure in the dim candlelight, but it looked like there were maybe already tears in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“O-okay,” Harry managed to croak.  “Was okay.”

“Me too,” Louis said.  He chuckled, and batted his eyelashes at Harry before he gestured to the display of romantic trappings surrounding him.  “Didn’t want to light too many candles and set off the sprinklers or summat, but I knew I had to get this place proper lovey-dovey for you, so…”

Harry huffed out a laugh and wiped at his eyes with a nervous hand.

“You know I love you, don’t you, sweetheart?” Louis asked.  His voice wavered a touch as he stood fully upright and took a single step toward Harry.

Harry nodded, his breath hitching.  His eyes were swimming with tears now and joy was spreading through his body with each heartbeat, all of his nerves sparking with it.

Louis closed the gap between them, placing his free hand on the back of Harry’s neck and giving it a squeeze when Harry trembled at the contact.  “I love you so much.  Y-you give me so much, Harry.  Make me so -- so strong,” Louis whispered, shaking his head once in disbelief.

He rose onto his tiptoes to press a single, lingering kiss to Harry’s forehead and then dropped to one knee.

“Louis,” Harry let out in a happy sob of a laugh, tears streaming down his face.  It felt like he was floating half a foot off the floor.

Louis laughed too, his own face damp.  He clutched Harry’s left hand and kissed the tattoo on his wrist before running a gentle thumb over the dark ink.

“We're strong together… and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Louis breathed out, squeezing Harry’s fingers, his eyes shining so bright as he looked up at him, “my beautiful, beautiful boy.  Will you marry me?”

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath.  Strange snaking patterns of sensation were moving over his skin.  He felt even lighter now, heady, like the love expanding inside of him was magically diminishing the pull of gravity on his body and he actually, literally weighed less as a result.  “Y-yes, please.  Please,” he finally managed to bleat out.  His face was completely tear-streaked, his left leg twitching slightly from the mix of endorphins and adrenaline in his bloodstream.  “Of course.  Of course I will.  Yes.  Please, yes.”

Louis fumbled with the box for a few seconds, the nervous tremor in his hands causing his fingers to disobey him and slip.  Harry let out a thick, wet laugh as he struggled.

“Oh, so hilarious, Hazza,” Louis said, making a frustrated noise when the hinge of the box snapped shut one more time.  “Maybe I won’t give you the ring after all, huh?  Did you ever think about that?”

Harry giggled in response.  “No, Lewis, I didn’t.  ‘Cause it doesn’t matter anyway; we’re still engaged now, ring or no ring,” he said, feeling even more disturbingly lightheaded at having said the word “engaged” out loud.  “No getting out of it, sir.”

Engaged to Louis Tomlinson.  Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson.  Louis Tomlinson.  Harry Styles-Tomlinson.  Harry Tomlinson.

Harry held out his hand, feeling so giddy that he couldn’t help giggling, “But, gimme… please.”

Louis had been staring down at the box as he tried and failed to open it and he lifted his head to look up at Harry again, grinning so wide it must have hurt, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.  He raised his eyebrows, took a deep breath, and then calmly succeeded in opening it at last.  He presented its contents to Harry with an exaggeratedly triumphant look on his face.

The ring was lovely, an elegant silver band, but Harry could barely see it through his renewed tears.  He was laughing and crying at the same time as Louis took the initiative to slide it onto his finger.

“I love you so much, Louis,” Harry murmured, utterly overcome with emotion.  “So much -- I-I --” he tugged Louis to his feet and pulled him into a fierce embrace, burying his face in the roots of Louis’s hair and breathing him in, inhaling the rich, clean scent of him.  “So much.”

Louis made a small sound of contentment where he was pressed into Harry’s chest and hearing it made Harry let out a whimper of happiness in return.  He felt so incredibly buoyant; it was like his heart was a fucking balloon inside his chest, filled up with helium and threatening to lift him and Louis right off the ground.

“So much,” Harry whispered again into Louis’s hair, rocking him back and forth a little.  “I can’t believe…  So much.  Love you so much.”

Louis tilted his head back, looking up at Harry with sharply affectionate eyes and Harry sighed and dropped a kiss onto his mouth at last.  It was the purest, loveliest, sweetest kiss of Harry’s entire life.  The pleasure of it started deep in his heart and unspooled throughout his whole body, out to the tips of his fingers and down to his toes, making him feel like he was radiating light.

“I love you, too,” Louis whispered when they broke apart for air, tugging gently on Harry’s curls.  “I love you and I’m gonna to marry you.  We’re getting married.”

Harry laughed again, tears spilling out of his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d gotten to St. Luke’s.  He swept his hands up and down Louis’s back, relishing the sturdy feel of his body. Muscle and tendon and bone; Louis was real and Harry loved him.  So much.

“‘S not fair,” he said softly, his voice still muffled by Louis’s hair.

“What’s not?”

“Our anniversary’s tomorrow,” Harry complained, jostling Louis with his knee and then hugging him even closer.  “You -- you preempted me.”

“What, were you going to propose, too?” Louis asked, his tone doubtful.

“Well, no,” Harry admitted, and they both started to laugh, “but you said before --”

“I know.  I know,” Louis interrupted, still laughing.  “I called dibs.”

They’d discussed their future frequently over the past nine months, and marriage had definitely been a large part of those discussions.  Louis had dropped a lot of not-so-subtle hints that he wanted to do the asking, when it came time.  Harry had been fine with that.

“You weren’t expecting it at all?” Louis asked, tightening his grip around Harry’s waist.

Harry shrugged.  “I dunno…  I guess I thought maybe tomorrow… hoped in an abstract, fantasy kind of way.”  His cheeks went a little pink as he said it, realizing he’d been staring off into the distance during rehearsals that week when the cellos weren’t playing, imagining Louis proposing to him.  None of his daydreams had been nearly as wonderful as this, simple and perfect and so Louis.  “Got you a present, though.”

“Yeah?” Louis said, leaning back in Harry’s arms so he could smile up at him eagerly.

Harry laughed.  “‘Course.”

Louis snuggled back into Harry’s chest.

“It’s in my bag,” Harry said.

Louis literally pushed him away.  “Well, get it out!” he demanded in a huff.

Harry rolled his eyes, hopelessly endeared as he bent down to pull the little parcel from his satchel.

“‘S not much...” he said, shrugging as he stood back up, feeling suddenly bashful as he handed it over.

Louis gave him a skeptical look, arching his brow before he tore off the paper that Harry had so painstakingly wrapped it in.  (The gift had rounded edges, so it had been no easy task.)

Harry couldn’t help the way his heart started to thrum with nervous excitement as Louis stared at the small, circular tin in the palm of his hand.  He gently prised the top off, peering down at the cake of rosin inside, glowing amber in the soft candlelight.

“There’s --” Harry began, but Louis was already turning the lid over, holding it close to one of the flames to better see the inscription.

“To Louis,” he read in a choked whisper.  “Love always, H…”

Harry fidgeted in front of Louis, waiting for him to look up from the gift.  He had so many thoughts and emotions inside him, he didn’t know what to say, where to begin.

“Harry,” Louis said finally, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes at last.  There were fresh tears on his face.

Harry laughed wetly, suddenly a little sheepish about the profound depth of his feelings.  “I want --” he cleared his throat, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too, Louis.  Want to be there.  Want… want to support you --”

But Louis was cutting him off with another kiss, his fingers threading back into Harry’s curls.

“I know, I know,” he murmured against Harry’s lips.  “You’ve got me.  You’ve got me…  And I’ve got you.”

“Forever,” Harry whispered back, muffled by kisses.  The magnitude of what had just happened was still settling in.

Louis nodded.  “Forever.”

They snogged for several minutes and just as things were getting heated, Harry backing Louis up against the desk, Louis broke the kiss.  A startled laugh punched out of him and he shook his head.

“What?” Harry asked, smiling, his eyes searching Louis’s face for an answer.

Louis snorted in indignation, rolling his eyes fondly and gesturing loosely to the flower petals and the melting candles.  “‘S just, you out-romanced me in my own romance installation, you jerk!”  He shook his head.  “Showing up at your own surprise proposal with a rosin of eternal devotion…  Unbelievable behavior, Styles!”

Harry giggled breathlessly, happy tears obscuring his vision yet again as he shook his head in wordless protest.  He was so in love.  So fucking lucky.

“I even drew hearts all over the blackboards!  And I’m still not on your level,” Louis grumped.

Harry let out a surprised bark of laughter.  “What?” he yelped in delight.  He flicked on the lights, needing to see.  “You did what?”

Sure enough, Louis had disregarded the permanent staff lines on the chalkboards and both surfaces were covered with sloppily drawn hearts of various sizes.

“This is the greatest moment of my entire life, and it just keeps getting better,” Harry said gleefully.  He clapped his hands like an overgrown child as he took it all in.  “You complete sap, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis smiled broadly as he watched him.  “Got bored waiting for you to get here is all,” he said with a shrug.

“Oh sure, sure,” Harry said, pulling Louis’s body against his own again.  “What was your plan next, draw some stick figures of us holding hands?”

Louis put on a theatrical pout.  He dug two knuckles into the muscles of Harry’s stomach.  “Stop trying to one-up me with your romance ideas, you menace!”

“I’d never,” Harry whispered fondly, ducking his head to press his lips to Louis’s again.  He hummed happily into the kiss and laughed some more.  “Thought you were just luring me here for sex, when I saw your messages.”

“Well,” Louis laughed, his eyes crinkling up, full of love and a hot touch of lust.  He hopped up onto the desk and tugged Harry between his legs, squeezing at his arse.  “That was my endgame...”

Louis had come upstairs for a reason, he knew that for sure.  He’d had a specific plan when he’d set out from the living room and jogged up the back staircase, but now he was standing in the middle of the hallway with a hand on his forehead, trying desperately to remember what it was.  He made several frustrated grumping noises because mentally retracing his steps wasn’t working, and he was just about to admit defeat and go back downstairs in the hope that actually, physically retracing them would jog his memory when he heard Harry’s voice from down the hall.

“Lou?” he called out.  “Is that you?”

Louis shuffled down to Harry’s office, sticking his head in the door.  “Yeah.”

Harry laughed and leaned back in his ancient swivel chair.  “What are you doing out there?  Keep hearing these grunting sounds.  Is everything all right?”

Louis sighed, stepping fully into the doorway.  “Yeah, it’s just, I can’t remember why I came up here in the first place…”

Harry chuckled again.  “Oh senior moment, huh?”

Louis made a quiet clucking noise of denial.  “Happens to humans of all ages, Harold!”

Harry just smiled at him, clearly unconvinced.  He shrugged, trying for nonchalant.  “Well, now that you’re up here...”

“Now that I’m up here…?” Louis said, fighting a smile.  He knew what was coming.

“Wanna come stand behind me?” Harry asked, grinning in what he obviously thought was a persuasive manner.  He was moving his head around now too, his hair flopping forward over his face a bit, as a way to hint at what he wanted.

“You are incorrigible,” Louis said with an affectionate roll of his eyes.  “I’m not giving you a head massage, Styles.”

“Styles-Tomlinson,” Harry corrected, just like Louis knew he would.  “And come on, please.  I’ve been staring at these damn scores all day and I have a massive headache…”

He pouted ever so slightly, and even though Louis knew that after almost twenty years together Harry thought he had it calibrated just right to make Louis cave in, he felt himself doing exactly that anyway.

He glanced down at his watch.  “Okay, but only five minutes,” he said, giving Harry a stern look.  “And none of your demand-y demands…”

Harry was the picture of innocence, as though completely unaware that he typically let out a string of requests like “Finger combs!  Do finger combs!”  and “Can you get my neck?  Like, right there, nope -- right.  Oh.  Yep!  Yep!  There!  Temples, please, temples!  Perfect,” the second Louis’s hands were in his hair.

“Ten minutes?” he asked, looking at Louis from under his lashes, eyes full of tentative hope.

Louis couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him.  “Ugh, fine.  God, Hazza, you are worse than Francie and Mikey.”

Harry laughed along with him.  Frances and Mikey were always trying to negotiate another fifteen minutes on FIFA before they went to bed.  Louis was admittedly a pretty big pushover about that, too.

“Love you,” Harry murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head back so the top of it brushed lightly against Louis’s stomach.  His face relaxed into a blissful expression when Louis buried his fingers in his hair.  “Best hands.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said.  He smiled and tugged gently on his husband’s curls before rubbing circles into the base of his skull with his thumbs.  Harry sighed with pleasure, melting into his chair.

“What’ve you been working on?” Louis asked, peering over Harry’s shoulder at the score that was spread out in front of him.

“The Holst, right now,” Harry explained softly.  “Just trying to get my program all set for Open Air…”

Louis hummed in response, dropping a kiss onto the crown of Harry’s head in commiseration over his hard work and breathing in the faint, familiar scent of lilac and citrus.  Every year at the end of May the LSO put on a free concert in Trafalgar Square, and Harry had conducted the past few years running.  He always dedicated a lot of time to finding pieces that were interesting to play, crowd pleasing, and highly effective without the acoustics of a concert hall.

Louis felt a surge of pride thinking about how dashing Harry would look, leading the orchestra outside in the fading natural light, his lovely hair fluttering in the wind.  He’d kissed him maybe a little bit longer than necessary after their performance the previous year, much to the embarrassment of their children.

“Where are the kids right now, anyway?” Harry asked, after a few minutes, as if he was reading Louis’s mind.

“Well, aren’t you lucky I keep such good track of them!  I suppose someone has to do it,” Louis teased.  He slipped his fingers through Harry’s dark hair repeatedly as he spoke, relishing the silky feel of it against his skin and smiling at the more than occasional thread of silver that glinted in the light.  “Our eldest daughter is currently at work...”

“Knew that,” Harry mumbled, making a little groan of approval as Louis’s fingers pressed into his scalp again.

“And Frances and Mikey are in the backyard messing about with those weird kids from three houses down,” he went on.

“The Omerniks,” Harry supplied, eyes still shut.

“Right.  And Mira is over at the Horans', playing with Patrick,” Louis said.  He removed one of his hands from Harry’s hair and pointed his index finger into the air several times in a dorky motion of triumph.  “Aha!  Aha!  That is why I came upstairs!  Niall told me he’d write some notes on my new piece and I was gonna drop it off for him when I picked her up!”

He made to move away, but Harry grabbed him quickly by the wrist, eyes wide.  “Noooo,” he whined, “you can’t leave.  You have to give a two-minute warning before you stop!  Those are the rules; you know that.”

Louis snorted in exasperated amusement.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, clearly not sorry at all.  “It’s required.  Those are the rules, I don’t make them.”

Louis was laughing openly now.  “You most certainly do!”

Harry laughed silently along with him, his eyes fluttering shut again.  His dimples were deep, the happiness clear on his face.  Louis rolled his eyes at the love that spread through his body at the sight of him.  As if he could ever really deny Harry anything.

“Fine, but consider this your official two-minute warning, okay?  You big baby,” Louis said, trying to sound put out as he settled back in behind his husband, tracing Harry’s eyebrows with his fingertips now.  “You owe me…”

“Oh?” Harry said, pleased.  He broke out into a cheeky smile and snaked a hand around the back of the chair to give Louis’s arse a gentle little squeeze through his trackies.  “Angling for sexual favors, are we?”

Louis giggled, smacking at Harry’s hand.  He shrugged.  “Wouldn’t mind…”

Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively under Louis’s fingertips and it was so ridiculous and endearing that Louis was forced to kiss him again, this time turning Harry’s head to the side before he bent down to press their lips together.

Harry laughed into the kiss in muffled surprise, swiveling his chair so he could pull Louis down onto his lap and snog him properly, two-minute warning now an afterthought.

“Oh, God.  My eyes.”

Harry and Louis broke apart as the sound of their thirteen-year-old daughter’s voice quickly faded back from the doorway and into the hall.  They knocked their foreheads together and giggled quietly in response.

“Ugh gross, I can hear you laughing, you know,” Frances complained from behind the door.  Louis could just picture her, a dismayed hand covering her bright red face.

He quirked an eyebrow at Harry, smirking down at him, still perched on his knee.  “What was it that you wanted, Francie?” he asked, trying and failing to conceal his glee at her discomfort.

She groaned.  “Oh my god, you are so embarrassing…”  She kicked at the door a few times to convey her annoyance but then continued meekly.  “I just wanted to ask Dad about dinner...”

“Fajitas,” Harry said, clearing his throat.

“Can Beth and Ben stay over for it?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine.  I’m sure there’ll be enough,” he replied.

“‘Kay, thank you.”  And then she was pelting back down the stairs and presumably out of the house.

Louis beamed at Harry as his husband broke out into laughter again after Francie’s departure, the apples of his cheeks a rosy red.

Their kids were always complaining about how disgustingly demonstrative the two of them were together, occasionally making barfing noises about them holding hands, always making a big deal out of covering their eyes and ears when Harry and Louis kissed.  Sometimes Harry would point out that when they got to be adults themselves, they’d be happy that old fogies like their parents still wanted to kiss, but they always vehemently denied it.  Louis knew that deep down, they were already pleased.

He and Harry had come home from a late rehearsal a few weeks before and stood in the hall, listening while Lydia, their oldest, tucked her little sister into bed.  She’d been telling Mira what it meant that their next door neighbors, the Smiths, were getting a divorce and that Mrs. Smith was getting remarried.  They’d talked about Grandma Anne and Grandpa Des and Lydia had explained how Grandpa Robin was actually Harry’s stepdad, and that it didn’t make a difference in how much any of them loved Harry and Aunt Gemma.

“I love Grandpa Robin loads,” Mira had whispered.  “But--but, that’ll never happen to Daddy and Papa, right?”  She was a little breathless, worry coloring her voice.

Lydia had laughed softly.  “No, Mir-Mir.  God, no…  Daddy and Papa might argue every once in a while, but they love each other.  They love each other so much, and no one is going anywhere.”  She paused for a second, and when she continued her voice was hushed and touched with a little awe.  “We’re a happy family, Mira…  We’re really lucky.  You don’t have to worry.  And even if something did happen, which it won’t, no one is ever going to stop loving you.  Not me, or Papa, or Dad, or Francie, or Mikey.  Never, okay?  You’ll always have a family, no matter what.”

Louis had been entirely unsurprised to see Harry’s eyes lit up with love as they crept down the hallway to their bedroom together; he felt like his were shining with it as well.  He let his husband pull him into a big hug as soon as they’d closed the door behind them, squeezing him tight.  Then Harry’d smiled down at him, voice full of wonder and pride.  “We’re doing a good job, Lou.”  He shook his head in awed disbelief, the depth of his happiness apparent.  “We’re raising good kids.  I love you all.  I love you so much.”

Louis had blinked back up at him, feeling radiant with joy, suddenly completely overwhelmed by the intensity of his emotion.  He made a big show, usually, about how much he loved their kids and their family.  He’d open his arms wide in the kitchen when everyone was sitting down to dinner and say, “Hello, dear, wonderful family!  Let us eat.”  Or he’d stand at the base of the stairs and yell up to the kids in their rooms with theatrical gusto, “Come down here, right now, my children!  Come down and let’s watch telly together like a proper family, no excuses!”  He left big, smacking kisses on their foreheads and hugged them and told them he loved them, individually, every single day.  And he meant it, and they knew he did.  But there was something about talking about it with Harry this way, so earnestly, that was particularly special and poignant for him.  It absolutely floored him whenever they did it.  It always made Louis realize that the family he and Harry had built together, the love that they shared, was his life’s greatest accomplishment and gift.  It was the one thing he was most proud of and most grateful for.  No matter how many times he said it, and no matter how emphatically, he’d never be able to fully express the scope of how much he loved them all.  There would always be more inside him; Louis would always love his children more than he could possibly say.

“I love our family, Harry,” he’d breathed out, sagging against Harry’s warm, sturdy body with a full heart.  “I love it so much.  The most.  The most.”

Harry had held him close, whispering his agreement into Louis’s ear.

“Fajitas, huh?” Louis asked now, kissing Harry once more on the lips before climbing off his lap.  

“Mhmm,” Harry said.  “Family favorite.”

“Gonna go collect Mir from Niall’s, then we’ll help you set the table when we get back?”

“Sure,” Harry said, his pretty eyes twinkling.

“Love you, Lou,” he called out as Louis left his office and made his way down the front stairs.  “Don’t forget your music!”

“Thank you!” Louis yelled back, reversing course and heading back up to their bedroom to grab his new violin concerto off the nightstand.  He’d already forgotten all about it.  “Love you too!”

Louis knew when he got back Harry would be humming along to his ever-expanding Forgotten Classics of American R&B playlist as he bustled around the kitchen in his apron, making dinner.  Lydia would be home from work by then and all the kids would be scurrying in and out of the room, snatching pieces of green pepper off the cutting board and making Harry swat at them good-naturedly.  And then they’d all sit down to dinner, Beth and Ben Omernik too, and Louis would look at Harry from the other end of the table and he would know for sure that there was nothing Harry loved more than having a warm and welcoming home with his entire family in it on a Saturday night.  And Louis would feel the exact same way.

Harry stood at the sink while he waited for the kettle to boil, looking out the kitchen window at the swarm of grandchildren playing in the backyard.  He and Louis had invited a bunch of them up for the weekend, the ones who weren’t old enough to be at uni or have part-time jobs or resent being away from their friends for over twenty-four hours.  So, fewer and fewer, as of late.

At the moment the grandchildren who had come to visit were merrily destroying the haphazard leaf piles that they’d spent all afternoon raking up.  Harry was happy to see they’d allowed Duncan to play the role of Godzilla, even though he was the youngest.  Maybe because of it.

Harry huffed out a laugh, thinking about earlier, when a rather vicious fight had broken out between Duncan and Emily.  She had announced that he was a “snot machine bogey boy” who should stay at least five feet away from her, and he’d retaliated by crying and telling her that she was so bossy he didn’t want to be near her anyway.  Then there had been a bit of shoving and a lot of futile kicking on Duncan’s part.

Louis had employed his most treasured disciplinary technique to diffuse the situation.

“Emily.  Dunky.  I want you to stand face to face, please,” he’d said, putting a small but firm hand on each child’s shoulder and coaxing them into position.  “Okay, good.  And put your arms around each other.  Good.  Now, stare into each other’s eyes.  No cheating!  No looking away…  Okay, and tell each other that you love each other…  Say it.  ‘I love you.’  I’m waiting,” he’d instructed, as Harry looked on from the deck.  “And you have to mean it…  Right in the eyes.  You can’t fool me, I’ll know.”

Harry hadn’t been able to see his face, but he knew Louis’s eyes must have been twinkling and that he was probably just barely suppressing a smile.

The kids had resisted as long as they could, whining “Grandpaaaaa” and twisting their little bodies around avoid it.  Of course, once they’d given in and looked at each other directly they’d immediately dissolved into giggles, united in their embarrassment and also in their annoyance at their grandfather for requesting such a monumentally difficult and outrageous thing.  Louis had used the exact same method with their own children years and years ago, and they’d hated it just as much.

Harry laughed again, shaking his head as he moved toward the whistling kettle.  He switched the burner off beneath it and got to work making Louis his cuppa, dunking the bag a few times, but leaving it in like Louis preferred.

Louis was in the den now, tucked up in his favorite chair by the fire with an afghan.  He hadn’t lasted all that long outside.  There was a damp chill in the air that snuck in through multiple layers of clothing, and Louis had grown more susceptible to that kind of thing, lately.  The truth was, he’d slowed down a bit since turning eighty-three the Christmas before.  He tired out a little more quickly, couldn’t get around quite as easily, had less of an appetite.

Harry was beginning to feel it too, recently.  There was a deep-seated fatigue in his bones that never fully left him, and just the other day he had been momentarily disoriented by a quick glimpse in the mirror from across a room -- he hadn’t recognized the increasingly pronounced stoop of his shoulders in his own reflection.

There always seemed to be another sign that the sun was really beginning to set.  Another sign that they were truly old.  They’d both come to accept it.

Louis had stumbled upon what he referred to as a “motto for the octogenarian,” happily espousing it to Harry, and really anyone who’d listen, whenever he could: Never trust a fart.  Never pass up a drink.  Never ignore an erection.

The mischievous twinkle in Louis's eyes whenever he said it flickered through Harry's mind as he warmed his fingertips on the cup of tea, gently easing his way through the door to the den.  He smiled at the sight of Louis, dwarfed by his favorite oversized chair, his feet kicked up on an ottoman.  Even after all these years, Harry still loved to look at his husband, especially when he was unaware he was being observed.

Louis was peering down through his bifocals at a score in his lap, in the vaguely aristocratic way he'd always had.  Every so often he turned the page with a quick flick of his wrist and then absentmindedly brushed his soft white hair off his forehead, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose and murmuring to himself while tapping a pencil against his lips.  Louis didn’t have the stamina (or the finger joints) for hours-long practice sessions on the violin any more, but he was still composing, his mind as sharp as ever.

Harry cleared his throat.  “Delivery, dear,” he said, his voice a little teasing.

Louis’s head snapped up to look at him, a slow grin spreading across his face.  He rolled his eyes and snorted affectionately, swinging his legs down off the footrest and sitting up more fully.  “Took you long enough.”

Harry chuckled and sat down across from him on the ottoman, holding out the tea.

“Thank you, love,” Louis whispered, adjusting the papers in his lap and taking the cup from him.  He sipped it hesitantly, testing for heat and taste.  “Kids still out back?”

Harry nodded.  The sleeve of Louis’s jumper had pulled back a bit when he’d reached for the tea, exposing the faded bass clef tattoo on his wrist.  Harry smiled to himself, resting his hand on his own complementary treble out of subconscious habit.

“Another half hour or so?” Louis asked, submerging the bag in the tea a few more times as he spoke.

Harry nodded again, his brow furrowing in mild concern.  “Did you want to nap?”

Louis scrunched up his face, rolling his eyes again and shaking his head.  He took another sip of tea and then set the saucer and cup down on the little table next to him.

“Nah, ‘m fine.  Are you gonna sit with me?” he asked, smiling up at Harry, the skin at the sides of his eyes bunching up into deep crinkles.  He scooted over to one side, shuffling his papers more as he created a space beside himself in the chair, one that was much too small for Harry to actually sit in. He gestured to the flaming log in the fireplace.  “I managed to light it all on my own, see?  ‘S very cozy in here...”

Harry laughed affectionately, shaking his head.  “Want to get a start on dinner before they come inside.”

“Ah, okay,” Louis said, reluctantly.  He tugged on Harry’s arm so he’d bend down for a kiss on the cheek.  “Well, thank you again for the tea, my beautiful, beautiful boy.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry said softly, rosy love for Louis warming his chest.  It caught him off guard sometimes, how that simple phrase could still fill him with pleasure, could still send a satisfied thrill down his spine.

It was just after he’d slipped back through the door to the kitchen that he heard Oscar’s voice pipe up in the den.

“Beautiful boy?!” he demanded, and Harry stopped in his tracks, pausing to listen.  He’d completely forgotten that Oscar had refused to go outside because he’d wanted to play with his blocks instead.  He’d probably been huddled in the little nook behind the couch for hours, entertaining himself.  “Why’d you call Grandad a beautiful boy?  He’s not a boy!  He’s too old!”

Harry had to cover his mouth to keep from barking out a laugh.  Oscar was nine and a stickler about everything.  Just that morning he’d made Harry list off all of the grandkids as quickly as possible from oldest to youngest as a “grandad memory test” and then called him out for stalling between names when Harry couldn’t remember which one of the twins was older, David or Daniel.

Louis didn’t hold back from laughing at all; he was cackling away and in Harry’s mind’s eye his head was thrown back, eyes completely scrunched up in amusement.

“Oh, c’mere Oskie, and I’ll tell you,” he said, after he’d finally stopped chuckling.  “Wait.  Wait.  Grab that photo album on the way -- nope.  Yep, that one.”

Harry listened with a small smile on his face, fingers still on his lips as he heard Oscar clamber up onto the easy chair with Louis, Louis grunting softly as the boy settled in beside him.

“Beautiful boy is a term of endearment,” Louis explained.  “Do you know what that means?”

Oscar made a noncommittal sound and Louis chuckled again.

“It’s just a special way to refer to the people you love, to let them know that you care about them.  Like when I call you or your sister ‘love’ or ‘darling…’  That kind of thing,” Louis laughed.  “Or your mum, she calls your dad ‘babe’ or ‘baby’ sometimes, doesn’t she?”

Harry assumed that Oscar was nodding.

“But he’s not a baby, is he?” Louis asked.

“No…” Oscar said.  “He’s an adult.”  He sounded embarrassed at having to discuss anything that had to do with his parents being in love, but also like his skepticism was dissolving.

“Right.  Exactly,” Louis went on.  “Now, your grandad hasn’t been a boy for quite some time, but I call him that every once in a while anyway.  It’s a term of endearment I use exclusively for him… because I love him so much, the most out of everyone, and I want him to know.  Do you see?”

Oscar made a little humming noise of understanding and Harry smiled, his heart swelling in his chest.

“‘S quite special to me,” Louis murmured.

To us, Harry thought, shaking his head at himself as he thumbed a tear out of his eye.  He heard Louis pat the leather-bound photo album he’d requested that Oscar bring him.  Harry knew the one it must be.  Their children had it specially made for Harry and Louis’s 25th anniversary, years and years before.  It was full of gorgeous pictures from their wedding and the first few years of their marriage.

“So, do you want to see some pictures of us when we were younger?” Louis asked.  “Grandad wasn’t a boy then either, but he was very beautiful…”

It was quiet it for a moment.

“Correct answer is yes, you little monster,” Louis rasped, and Harry heard Oscar started to giggle from being tickled.

“Okay, okay,” Oscar conceded, happily gasping for breath.  “I wanna see.  I wanna see.”

“Good,” Louis said, and Harry heard the spine of the album creak as Louis opened it.

“‘S that when you got married?” Oscar asked.

“Mhmm,” Louis hummed out, pleased.

Harry could see each photograph clearly in his head as Louis slowly turned the pages, whispering commentary to Oscar as he did.  A crisp black-and-white shot of Louis sliding a ring onto Harry’s finger, the fan of his eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheekbones as he looked down at their tangled hands.  The two of them kissing at the end of the ceremony, Harry’s hand on Louis’s hip, Louis cradling Harry’s face.  Harry grinning at the camera, eyes so bright, cake smeared across his mouth, Louis laughing in the background.  Their first dance, Louis in Harry’s arms, smiling up at him, both of them so happy.  And then.

“Who’s that, Grandpa?” Oscar asked, and Harry’s breath caught before he let out a small whimper of a laugh.  He knew right away what picture it was, remembered which one was next.  It was a photograph of a famous moment at their wedding, a memory they’d laughed about for years.  After the live band had gotten warmed up and the party was in full swing, Niall and Gladys had been dancing together to “Shout” by the Isley Brothers, really putting on a show.  Right at the climax of the song, in midst of a ridiculous, totally committed jump/strut across the dance floor, Niall had slipped on the sole of his fancy wedding shoe and fallen flat on his back.  Gladys had continued to prance around him, her arms raised over her head, looking like some sort of glamorous, black-tie water bird and laughing madly.  Niall had been curled into a helpless ball of hysterical joy on the floor.

“”S your Great Uncle Niall…” Louis explained, his voice a little tight, “and Gladys Howard, one of the greatest ladies I’ve ever known...”

Harry sighed, shakily, leaning back against the door.  Gladys had died almost three decades before, peacefully in her sleep, but sometimes it felt like just yesterday she’d been dancing with Niall at their wedding, so alive it seemed like she would last forever.  Harry gave a wet laugh, tears spilling onto his cheeks.  He could almost smell the Shalimar.

He dabbed at the tears with the back of his hand, thinking about something Niall had said recently over a pint, about how funerals were getting to be a little like weddings had been when they were in their late twenties and early thirties -- one almost every week.

It was true, of course.  The longer he and Louis lived, the more people they’d had to add to the list of those they’d lost.  Harry had moments sometimes where he thought that maybe he ought to be slightly more inured to it by now, that the wisdom and experience of old age should somehow leave him less vulnerable to being affected by such things.  Really, for him, it had been the exact opposite.  It wasn’t just the lows that hit him harder as life went on, it was the highs too.  Every first dance recital, every primary school graduation, and every grandchild with an unrequited crush.  Every new baby.  Every bad prognosis.  Moments of joy and moments of sadness, small and large alike; Harry felt them all so sharply.  Everything.  As he’d gotten older, life seemed to make his heart well up like a bottomless fount of emotion more and more, and as a result he teared up much more often too.

And always Louis was there, chuckling low and affectionate whenever it happened.  He’d offer Harry a tissue with warm, understanding eyes and suggest that he might look into getting a handkerchief one of these days, his small hand sure on the back of Harry’s neck.

That was a large part of why, Harry knew.  Having Louis by his side all these years, supporting him and loving him unconditionally, had afforded Harry the luxury of keeping his heart so wide-open to the world.  He was staggeringly, mind-boggling lucky, so rich in trust and love that his empathy had only deepened as he'd grown old.  Life hadn’t always been easy, but at times like this, when Harry had a chance to fully reflect, he found it took his breath away how incredible it was and had been, going through it all together.

He was trying to gather himself a little so he could finally get to work on dinner when he heard Louis say, “Oskie!  That’s your Aunt Lydia, the day we took her home from the hospital!  Look how small she is...” and then Harry knew it was a lost cause.

He turned around and opened the door, stepping carefully into the room and smiling at Louis and Oscar with watery eyes.  Louis lifted his head at the sound of the door closing behind Harry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said with a laugh, his own eyes a little blurred behind his glasses.  “C’mere.”

Harry went.  He stood behind the easy chair with a hand on Louis’s shoulder, looking at the photo album with both of them.  He volunteered his own details about the pictures as Louis continued to page through.  The flavor of the cake at Lydia’s first birthday, their corgi Alfred and how’d he’d been terrified of thunderstorms, the house on Vernon Avenue with the clanging pipes.

The other children tramped in from outside over the next half hour, stomping into the den with cold air and the smell of decaying leaves clinging to their clothes, and almost immediately demanded photo albums of their own.  They ended up sprawled throughout the room, draped over the couch and spread out on their stomachs on the floor with every last album that Harry had insisted on putting together over the past fifty years opened before them.  The kids passed them back and forth and asked question after question as Harry moved around the room to answer them.  Dinner was completely forgotten for the time being.

“You see, Oscar?” Louis said softly, about an hour and three albums later.  They were still sat together in the easy chair, and he ruffled the boy’s light brown hair, lifting his head to meet Harry’s eyes across the room as he spoke.  “We’ve lived a wonderful life together, your grandad and I…  He’ll always be my beautiful boy.”