Archive of Our Own

Knuckles rapping against wood is what finally pulls Louis’ attention away from his freshly vacuumed living room. Even though it bothers him that the pillows on his couch are not fluffy enough and he’s now noticing the framed art on his walls is crooked, and the cup of tea he made himself for lunch is sitting on his kitchen table half drunk, the gentle color beige of his carpet no longer hidden under a veil of dust soothes his nerves slightly as he reluctantly makes his way to his front door.

The knocking sound carries across the entry hallway of his apartment too softly to be his neighbor - a heavily tattooed middle aged woman named Anna who always bangs incessantly on his door with the flat of her hand when she finds Louis’ packages in her mailbox downstairs - or even Lenny - the annoying landlord that pays Louis a visit every first of the month. It’s not the first and he hasn’t ordered anything, he doesn’t think, and anyway the call he got last week has been ringing in his head like a deep echo warming his bones every night not to know who is standing behind that door.

Louis casts a last glance across his apartment, taking a deep calming breath and groaning when he catches the forgotten basket of laundry he was supposed to put away this morning haphazardly tucked in a corner. There’s no time however, not for that or even to tidy his trainers clumped messily in the entrance, before the gentle knocking starts again and he’s reaching to open the door.

Louis can’t stop his lips from stretching into a slow, wide smile, crinkles forming on the corner of his eyes and every worry leaving his mind at the sight of the man he used to know better than the back of his hand standing on his threshold.

Harry lifts up a hand, letting go of the handle of his big, shell-pink suitcase and wiggling his fingers in a shy greeting, following with a timid “Hello.”

Through the phone, his voice had been deeper than Louis remembered, but it had been etched in white static, making him almost believe they were children again, scraped knees and crooked teeth talking through a string cup telephone and not on a payphone as Louis breathed a name he hadn’t spoken in a long time. Now, as he’s met with the sight of a curly headed man standing on the corridor, with legs that seem to go on forever but knock together at the knees, feet planted bashfully on Louis’ welcome mat, the comforting nostalgia that followed him all week grows inside his chest.

It’s a whole journey, the shocked breath it takes Louis to greet Harry back, the stunned chuckle, the nervous shuffle of their bodies going for a handshake yet realizing at the grazing of their hands that a hug fits better - always has - and the few seconds in Harry’s arms that Louis uses to make peace with the way it feels like hugging a stranger and not his childhood best mate.

“It’s been ages,” Harry whispers. The curls tickling the top of Louis’ ear, though a bit higher than he remembers, are familiar enough that any potential awkwardness between them dissolves.

“I know,” Louis chuckles. Although if he closes his eyes - and he does - he can almost pretend it hasn’t been that long.

Until there’s a small, high pitched voice pulling Harry apart.

“Mommy?”

It’s not exactly clear who the voice is calling for until Harry suddenly loosens his hold around Louis’ neck, giving him a final pat on the back before pulling away completely. Louis mourns the loss of warmth for only a second, reminding himself that they agreed through the phone Harry could stay with him for a while, and so there’s plenty of hugs to come. He hopes.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed pink, and Louis’ sure his are too by the way he feels warm down to his neck. But Harry’s not looking at him anymore. Instead, he is twisted to look back and down below his hips, his nut brown curls framing his face.

A pair of round, deer-like eyes stare cautiously up at Louis in the prettiest shade of green from behind Harry’s legs when Louis follows Harry’s gaze. Harry carefully grabs their owner by the hand and gently nudges him forward, revealing a kid Louis hadn’t noticed - a miniature Harry with a delicate, pointed nose and unruly blond hair and jean dungarees and white, small sneakers with blue laces.

“And this is Kit,” Harry introduces, smiling tenderly at the kid.

Louis’ glad the attention is no longer on him, because he’s not sure he’d be able to school his expression into anything else but astonishment right now. He can’t help himself from sweeping his gaze along the small boy clutching Harry’s hand tightly into his smaller one - and he half expects to see a baby version of himself as well, since at that age, where there was a Harry there was sure to be a Louis, too, always glued at the hip and covered in dirt.

Louis barely meets mini Harry’s green gray eyes before he quickly hides behind adult Harry again.

“He’s a bit shy,” Harry giggles an apology, warmth stitching through his tone. “This is Lou, bug. Say hi,” he says, still looking at- at his son. It dawns on Louis like a bucket of ice.

“Hi,” is murmured against the back of Harry’s thigh, who laughs and ruffles the mop of hair that barely reaches his waist.

“Hello,” Louis greets back, but his eyes drift back up to Harry before the word fully leaves his mouth. Harry sucks his bottom lip into his mouth nervously. For all the scenarios Louis’ mind conjured up on all those late nights he spent tossing on his bed with anticipation for Harry’s arrival, this particular one hadn’t occurred to him.

Harry has a son.

“You have a son,” Louis blurts out, not unkindly.

Harry, surrounded by a rainbow of suitcases and bags, standing unsurely and looking apprehensive, hugs his kid tighter to him with a hand on his shoulder. “Is that okay?” he asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. His eyes sparkle in challenge, like there’s only one right answer.

“Of course,” Louis immediately replies, and he means it. “Come on in. Please.”

Sighing in what can only be relief, Harry slumps his shoulders and grabs his bags. He’s smiling so bright his dimples look like the craters on the moon they used to look at with the telescope Louis got as a gift for his eight birthday, and they tell Louis he made the right choice. It feels easy when a smile of his own blossoms on his face once more.

Harry instructs his son, “C’mon, babe. Grab a bag and help Mommy inside.”

Quick to help too, Louis reaches for the largest and slides another one on his shoulder. Before following Harry, he catches sight of Kit struggling with the leftover bag, chubby fingers curling around the handle and toes pointed to be able to lift it to start dragging it. Chuckling quietly, Louis reaches out to help him - except the kid quickly drags the bag away from him and closer to his body upon noticing, almost toppling over.

Louis’ stunned.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and takes a step back. He raises his arms in a mocking, non-threatening gesture, Kit staring curiously at him.

“Which room’s ours, Lou?” Harry calls out, already inside.

Louis leaves the kid with a lopsided grimace behind to help him.

Although it is small, Harry insists on getting a tour of the apartment. Between starry eyes and tentative smiles, helping him and his son settle in is easier and less awkward than Louis expected after the little incident at the door.

Mellow footsteps follow Louis closely all afternoon, both Harry’s and Kit's green, dreamy eyes dancing across the compact space and little “oh’s” leaving their lips every time he shows them something new. The air around them feels pleasant, light, filled with comfortable conversation as they roam the same hallways and spaces Louis’ walked so many times.

At some point, Louis realizes Kit hasn’t let go of Harry for the entirety of the day. He swings their clasped hands to and fro when they stop for too long in one place and he doesn’t talk much, except to whisper into Harry’s ear a question about something Louis’ said or to point out something he finds nice. It’s a little too loud to really be a whisper, like he doesn’t quite understand how whispers work yet, but Harry still crouches down every time he gently tugs on their tangled hands, answering him in a more appropriate volume.

Once Louis explains Harry and Kit will be staying in the room across from him, they eventually reach the end of the tour. Harry makes Kit, who’s curled on his shoulder and dozing off perched on his hip, say “Thank you”.

The last thing Louis sees before shutting the door on his way out, is Harry softly throwing himself and Kit, still held tightly to his chest, on the mattress. The resulting “oof” and their giggles can be heard through the door, reaching Louis whose eyes crinkle from how big it makes him smile.

A few hours later, Louis hasn’t been able to shake the happy feeling or get rid of the excitement making his limbs tingle when he finds Harry in his kitchen, scouring through his cabinets and drawers. Briefly, he wonders what he must be searching for, but that question is quickly answered once he spots the kettle on the stove.

This is more like what Louis had imagined it would be like having Harry with him again, his best mate making himself a home in Louis’ life without asking for permission. It doesn’t even bother him that Harry didn’t ask him if he could make himself some tea first, there’s not a trace of annoyance as he watches him struggle with the pantry.

“Can I help?”

“Lou!” Harry jumps, turning around with a hand clasping his chest. “Where the fuck do you keep your tea?” he asks, looking the very image of distressed. It earns a hearty laugh from Louis.

After Louis shows him where he keeps it and agrees to let Harry rearrange his kitchen, since apparently stashing it with his weed is mucking it all up (and then throw away the weed too, of course, “There’s a little kid in the house now, Louis.”), they settle themselves in the living room across from each other, each holding a warm cup of tea.

It seems that having put his son to sleep allows Harry to let the conversation drift to topics he had seamlessly tried to avoid earlier. After high school, they had somewhat kept in touch through small town gossip, but then everyone that knew them as LouisandHarry moved away, and so did Harry, and Louis hadn’t heard of him until a couple of weeks ago. They have lots to catch up on, and the words fall effortlessly from their quirked up lips over the night.

They talk high school gossip in hushed whispers as if they were teenagers again, gasping when they hear someone got pregnant or divorced or fired. Louis clumsily gets through his college days before he changes the topic quickly (he doesn’t like that he has to convince himself the only reason their eyes fog is the steam wafting through their cups and not because they are picturing a life where they got to experience everything together), and encourages Harry to tell him about his family instead.

At some point, the tips of their toes end up overlapped in the carpet. Barely a touch, Louis doesn’t notice until a bashful sort of blush starts spreading across Harry’s cheeks unprompted, gaze trained on their feet. Louis tries not to draw attention to it lest Harry removes the contact and its warmth with it.

The familiarity of the touch is the reason Louis figures there’s no harm in questioning what exactly happened with Kit’s father.

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs, curling his toes on top of Louis’. “I guess it got too real for him when my tits started leaking,” he says with a cheeky smile perched on the corner of his lips. It quickly falls when Louis chokes on his drink at the crude use of his words. “Oh. Sorry,” Harry laughs, though he seems genuine. “I forget not everyone’s as used to breastfeeding as I am.”

“It’s fine,” Louis reassures, coughing up the tea that burned his throat. The image of Harry naked from the waist up, tits curvy and full, nipples perky and ready to be sucked on pops into his mind without permission. Guiltily, he feels the tips of his ears go warm. It takes him a few seconds to recover and diffuse his dirty thoughts.

Once he does, he dares to wonder out loud, “Do you still…?” letting the rest of the words fade into nothing, Louis gestures at his own chest.

“Yeah,” Harry answers easily. Between sips of tea, he explains quietly, “It makes me feel closer to Kit. Safe.”

Louis nods, understanding, and keeps quiet because he can tell Harry hasn’t finished.

“We haven’t really had the easiest life.” His green eyes stare blankly into his cup, now cradled close to his chest. He looks far away, like he’s somewhere else and not here in Louis’ living room. Louis resists the urge of rubbing his foot reassuringly against Harry’s. “I’ve been bouncing from place to place since his father kicked us out, so we don’t really have much - but we have each other.” He glances up at Louis from beneath his curled lashes. “And he looks adorable when I hold him against my chest,” he finishes off with, his cherry bitten lips curved into a wide, loving smile.

Louis carefully asks, “Is he usually as quiet as he was today?”

Harry hesitates. “He’s only ever had me,” he explains. “Didn’t have many friends back home. Never really met his dad.” Louis didn’t meet his, either. And he used to be shy, too, before he met Harry anyways. “He’s very nice, I promise. Just really shy, you’ll see. Give him time.”

Once again, it catches Louis off guard when Kit chirps “Mommy!”, piercing through their peaceful space. For all the caution not to stop touching Harry, it is actually him the one that ends up taking the contact away, flinching, knees drawn close to his own chest, shoulders coming up to his ears out of instinct. Harry, probably already used to those calls, gives him a tired chuckle.

“Duty calls,” he gently says, balking for only a moment before pushing himself off the couch, as if he doesn’t want to leave Louis’ side just yet. Or maybe that’s just Louis’ wishful thinking. “Goodnight, Louis,” he mumbles.

Expecting him to hand off his cup so he can go back to his son, Louis’ utterly surprised when he feels Harry press his warm mouth against him, tea stained lips tracing a mumbled “Thank you” on his temple.

There’s a hint of shyness in the smile Harry’s wearing after he pulls back. And if Louis was for some reason unsure about Harry coming back into his life, the way his breath catches on his throat vanishes it away.

Somehow, Harry and Kit fit themselves in Louis’ life like flowers taking root.

Sometimes, they’ll be in Harry’s room, gentle hums seeping from the door left ajar, letting Louis see Harry rocking the boy nursing on his chest to sleep on his way to his own room. Other times, Harry’s light voice will fill the space pretending not to see Kit’s curls peeking from behind the basket full of blankets Louis keeps beside the telly, or answering Kit’s curious questions about a movie they’re watching cuddled up on the couch, Kit’s short arms holding Harry tight.

Louis’ favorite, however, is when he gets to come home to squaling laughter, so loud and happy he can’t distinguish from who or where inside the house it is coming from.

Saturday morning, the sun filtering through the windows paints his kitchen golden as Louis walks in barefooted and half asleep, rubbing the tiredness off his eyes with a closed fist. It makes his vision blurry with dark spots, half lidded eyes not recognizing the small figure sitting calmly at the kitchen table.

Dressed in his orange pajamas, it is Kit who’s staring at him curiously when his cloudy vision clears, halting Louis’ steps. Unlike him, Kit looks to be wide awake, a half eaten piece of toast held in his right hand, the neck of his shirt and the plate on the table in front of him dusted in crumbs.

“Who made you toast?” Louis asks suspiciously on behalf of a greeting.

“Mommy,” Kit answers, simple.

One of the first things Louis learned about Harry’s relationship with his son was that, despite most carriers simply calling themselves daddy, that was not their case. Memories of playing house and Harry always claiming the Mommy role permeated his mind the first few times he heard the kid call him that name, and so it made it easy for Louis to get used to it. Now, he finds it adorable, the words settling like a comforting warmth behind his ribs just as he’s sure Kit feels them too.

“Right.” Stomach grumbling for some tea, Louis continues his initial quest. “And where is he?” he throws the question offhandedly behind his shoulder as he starts the stove.

“Asleep.”

“How’d he make you toast, then?” Louis fires back instantly, twisting his body back only to catch Kit shrugging his slim shoulders. Apparently done with the conversation, he has turned his attention to his feet, free hand toying with the geometric shapes of his socks.

Since Kit is always up first thing in the morning, too filled with that characteristic wired energy all kids were born with to agree to lay down a couple more hours after waking up, Harry only gets up with him to make him breakfast before crawling back into bed. When Louis questioned him, he simply answered “Moms need lots of sleep, Lou” as if it were obvious.

Amused, Louis observes the boy for a few seconds. Under the silent veil of early morning, he lets his eyes rove over the small figure - something he hasn’t allowed himself to do yet, always too afraid of what he might feel were he to find a feature he doesn’t recognize.

Unexpectedly, a fluttery feeling spreads through his chest like spring when he finds traces of Harry. His square but pointy nose, the cupid’s bow that outlines his upper lip, the cow-like nature of his big, green, shiny eyes. The way his tongue pokes out before taking a bite of his food, the restless energy that is making him sway to silent music right now, his cheeks faintly showing a pair of dimples.

A smile adorns Louis’ face for the rest of the morning while he makes toast and tea for both of them. Toast with butter, as Kit’s greasy fingers let him know.

A few hours later, he finds Harry in the living room. A knitted, pink hat dotted with white flowers sits atop of his head, flopping down enough to cover his endearingly tiny ears. He’s squatting down, instructing Kit to curl his fingers around the hem of his jumper sleeves before helping him tug his winter coat on, the kid standing between his open legs wearing a matching yellow hat.

“Where are you going?” Louis frowns.

When he had laid Kit on the couch this morning, setting a colorful, chirping program on the telly to hold his attention while he showered, Louis hadn’t expected to come back to this scene. It’s a bit past 1 according to the clock mounted on his wall, and he had foolishly made plans to stay lazing around the house as he toweled his drenched hair, hoping maybe because he made breakfast for him, Kit would let him cuddle close to Harry this time around and not hog up the space between them.

“To the farmer’s market,” Harry replies with no further explanation. He finishes fixing his son’s clothes with a kiss to his nose. When he stands up, he must catch Louis’s furrowed brows because he explains kindly, “You don’t really have anything healthy here, Lou. And we’ve eaten through your stash of fast food already, I’m afraid.”

Louis nods, “Yeah. Alright,” and tries not to let his disappointment show.

For all the happiness that’s been spreading like wildflowers throughout his apartment these past few days, from time to time there’ll be moments like this where Louis thinks himself an onlooker more than anything. It’s not anybody’s fault, he knows, yet he can’t quite figure out how to breach that gentle HarryandKit bubble that so easily casts around them. He much prefers the days Harry makes tea for everyone, when they sit on the carpet and get lost talking, and he can try to draw as much laughter out of them as he can.

Out of the corner of his eye, Louis watches Harry put a sweater on, curls bobbing once he gets his head past the neckline, beanie lost somewhere in the layers of clothing. Giggling, Kit helps Harry get the beanie out, daft fingers reaching under the hemline of the fabric.

“Silly me,” Harry giggles.

Their charming affair draws to a close to Harry’s low voice singing a rhyme about a bunny as he ties Kit’s shoelaces. Once finished, standing a few steps from the door, Harry seems to linger. Then he wonders, “Are you not coming with us?”

From across the room, Louis perks up immediately. Genuine puzzlement is written in the lines of Harry’s furrowed brows, in the tilt of his head.

“Of course.” Louis’s agreeing before he can really think about it, slipping the locked screen of his phone he was pretending to look at in the pocket of his joggers. It’s not like he had anything planned for today, anyway. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

He makes quick work of choosing one from the coat rack beside his door, the stand almost toppling over when he yanks the jacket too hard trying to untangle it from the other pieces of clothing intricately hung there. Harry smiles at his enthusiasm.

Their breath swirls in white clouds as they make their way downtown. Undeterred by Harry taking the lead and guiding them, turning corners and crossing streets like he never left town at the ripe age of eighteen, Louis keeps a gloved hand hovering on the small of his back at all times. It occasionally brushes his waist, though Louis’ not sure if he feels it under all the layers of clothing.

At the market, the first thing Harry does is crouch down to Kit’s height and tell him, “Don’t let go of my hand so you don’t get lost, okay?”, squeezing his son’s tangled hand in his until he gets a nod.

From the pocket of the merlot red corduroys that clad his lean thighs, Harry produces a battered notebook. Louis can see its pages are sun damaged and food stained as Harry flips through it until he finds what he’s apparently looking for - an extensive list of various foods neatly handwritten in pink ink.

Not that Louis would know for certain, seeing as his diet mostly consists of produced food, but he would imagine Sundays would be a crowded day for a place like this. He soon realizes that is not the case, though it doesn’t mean it’s any less lively than if it were filled to the brim with people. Patrons call out for them as they calmly stroll through the made up hallways of the square, standing behind the colorful stands that flank their sides at all times, inviting them to taste their jam, or cheese or to let them know their low prices. There’s a bouncy, happy kind of tune coming from somewhere, too, making the whole thing feel almost cozy.

Harry’s deep voice carries over the bustling atmosphere reading things off his list, Louis and Kit only half pretending to listen.

By what must be their tenth stop in front of a fruit stand, Louis asks, “How do you even know how to pick these things?”

It all looks the same to him.

“Well,” Harry says, reaching for an orange and weighing it in his hand. “It depends on each fruit.”

Doubtful, Louis raises an eyebrow.

“It does!” Harry’s tone turns bubbly. “Like clementines for example,” he starts, delicately squeezing his fingers around the orange citrus. “You want the ones that look shiny, and have a soft, thin skin so they’ll taste sweet and be easy to peel. I don’t know if you’ve ever had them - they taste like a regular orange but better because they have a hint of mandarin. It’s like, mhm” - he ponders for a second, and then suddenly jumps - “Like a summer sunday on your tongue!”

Louis didn’t even know there existed different types of orange but his mouth waters anyway.

Letting go of Kit for a moment, Harry sets the clementine back on its place and picks up a hefty watermelon, having to hold the round fruit in both hands. “Watermelons, on the other hand, should have a yellow spot here on the side, and if you thump it…”

Louis stops listening to him drawl about half a sentence in. He doesn’t mean to, is endlessly interested in every little thing Harry has to say. It’s just that he suddenly feels a warm, small palm fit against his. There’s no doubt in his mind who it belongs to, looking down only to catch Kit slipping his other thumb between his lips as he listens to Harry prattle on.

Even though they are all standing close and the crowd is really scarce, he must’ve been wary of getting lost to have reached for Louis’ hand without any ounce of hesitancy like this. Still. It floods Louis’ belly with a fuzzy feeling he doesn’t recognize, squeezing Kit’s chubby fingers in between his own in a reassuring gesture.

“...Now, peaches taste better if they have a deep color like, well. Peach.”

Voice pitched in the same level of enthusiasm as in the beginning of his rant, Harry is still explaining when Louis returns his gaze back up to him.

“Okay, Julia Child,” it’s the only thing Louis can come up with, heart fluttering.

“Hey!” Harry protests, a pout creeping on his lips. Thumbs gently petting the fuzz of the peaches he must’ve taken while Louis wasn’t looking, he questions with a worried tilt of his head, “I kinda do look like her, don’t I?”

Maybe it’s too joyful of a reaction, and Louis will later blame it on the sweet smell of fruit making him delirious, but he guffaws, throwing his head back, and the same shade of pink that dusts the fruit in Harry’s hold seems to creep up to the high of his cheeks.

A coy smile is curling Harry’s lips when his laughter dies down.

After placing back the fruit in the booth, Harry holds out a hand to his son, but the kid is lost eyeing the trinkets of the next stand over. Louis can see the moment Harry notices his hand clasped in Kit’s, smile growing until it crinkles around the corner of his eyes, dents his cheeks deeply with a pair of dimples.

When their gazes meet, only for a moment before Kit is tugging Louis next to him demanding he looks at the kaleidoscope pattern of the toys, Louis recognizes the “I told you so” glimmering in Harry’s eyes.

They’re just halfway through Harry’s grocery list, but Kit doesn’t let go of Louis for the rest of the day.

(At some point, though, he does get tired and therefore grumpy. Determined to cross out all the stuff off his list, Harry only perches him on his hip and keeps going, Louis having to reluctantly let go of his hand. Three stops later, Kit looks like he’s about to throw a fit, cheeks blotchy from holding in a temper tantrum, kicking feet getting wilder by the minute.

There’s a boxy, unassuming corner store off to the side from the grocers, and while Harry is discussing with a blue-haired girl behind a meat booth what are the best ways to make a yummy stew, apparently unbothered by the child playing with his hair and breathing this little frustrated huffs on his neck, Louis slips quietly inside.

Nodding at the guy working the till, he easily spots and snatches a few candy bars. It’s not long before he’s back at Harry’s side, though Harry's unbothered facade is replaced by distress.

“Where did you go?” he asks, hiking Kit up his torso.

“I bought this,” Louis answers, waving the chocolate bar, Kit Katdisplayed in white across its red wrapping. He doesn’t think his trip to get it was too long, but maybe the guy did spend more time giving Louis his change than what it had felt like, or maybe Harry’s furrowed brow is Kit’s temper rubbing off on him. Hoping to fix it, he tells the little boy, “It’s called Kit Kat, see. Like you.”

Kit’s almost blond brows furrow, a deep line creasing his forehead. “That’s not my name.”

“Yeah, it is,” Louis immediately replies, “We just call you Kit for short,” he shrugs. From the corner of his eye, he can see Harry shake his head. Not in a reprimand, not quite, you don’t grow up with Louis Tomlinson and not get used to a little teasing. It’s more like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

Kit seems to consider him for a moment, green eyes narrowed to slits and sweeping from Louis’ face to the candy, once, twice. It isn’t clear whether he believes Louis or not, but he doesn’t seem to linger too long on it, asking, “Can I, mommy?”

“Alright,” Harry gives in. “But only a square,” he compromises, stern gaze flicking from Kit to Louis. “We came here to buy healthy things!” He complains childishly, his foot stomping the only thing missing from turning into a tantrum.

“Okay,” Louis laughs, unwrapping the candy. “Here, Kit Kat.” He passes the bar over to Kit, who gently grabs it before bringing it up to his lips. If he bites more than a square - which guessing by the guilty flick of his eyes to Harry’s face, he did - nobody mentions it.

Guiding the candy up to his mommy’s mouth, Kit waits for Harry to eat his corresponding square before offering it to Louis.

When Louis bites into the chocolate bar, his teeth fitting around the shapes Harry’s mouth left, it feels like carving himself a space inside that loving, effervescent bubble.

Both the caramel and the welcome settle in the pit of his stomach like a promise.)

Winters in England are unforgivably cold and often rainy. Sometimes, though, the sun will rise just high enough to scare the clouds away for a while, warming up the weather to be able to leave the house with only two coats on instead of three.

They plan a whole day the moment they realize today is one of those days.

There’s a large area of open land a train ride away from Louis’ building. Usually, the field is painted in lush greens, and pinks, and blues, and reds, small little flowers scattered all around swaying softly to the spring’s rhythm. There’s not a trace of that lively picture when they get there, however, wiped away and gone with the cold wind.

Dry, stubby patches of grass crunch under their weight as they look for a nice place to sit. Harry doesn’t seem to care much about the pitifully empty, ochre canvas, treading without care towards a tall, sturdy trunk, Kit stomping his little feet down to hear the frayed grass crunch trailing behind.

There, Harry rummages through his purse, producing a a battered bottle of sunscreen as well as a hairbrush, a couple of “fresh” napkins, a flask of water, a beaten up tin case, a half eaten Kit Kat chocolate bar, a few hair ties, and lastly, a pink and blue checkered blanket, which must be what he was searching for in the first place, kneeling down and instructing Louis to help him settle the fabric on the floor.

Louis can’t resist teasing him, even as he looks for stones to keep the corners stretched while Harry holds the fabric in place. “Who are you? Harry Poppins?” He cackles, head tilted down at Harry.

“No,” Harry replies unnecessarily. He’s sitting on the fabric with all of his limbs stretched to keep the slight breeze from taking it. Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m just a mom.”

Predictably, Kit doesn’t join them when they settle down. Right after Harry finishes applying sunscreen on his face, he announces with a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek this place is probably full of bugs before he excitedly starts a hunt for them.

“Don’t go too far!” Harry raises his voice, a stern lilt to it. Kit, already a few feet away, looks back and salutes.

Harry’s amusedly shaking his head at his son’s antics as he starts to bag every little thing inside his purse again. Louis catches sight of a book a little off the side of his knee where he’s laying down on the blanket, and he snatches it up before Harry can.

“What are you reading?”

The book’s cover is faded by time and use, Louis barely recognizing a boat stationed against a shadowed house, lonely on a slim street by the sea.

“Oh!” Harry exhales, excited to have an excuse to talk about it. Louis figures there’s not much conversation about books one can have with a three year old. “She’s a poet. American. She writes a lot about nature, I thought it fitting for today.”

Toeing off his shoes, Louis crawls to him as he speaks, pressing his back on the tree behind them, mirroring Harry.

“Have you heard of her?”

“Nope.”

“She’s really talented. I like her work a lot,” Harry says while Louis flips through it. He can tell. The paper has been worn thin by love, folded messily on some corners.

“We should visit a library,” Louis suggests, voice having quieted down to a whisper for a reason he can’t name. Maybe because it feels peaceful like this, with Harry pressed close to his side, the murmur of the pages turning in his grasp carrying with the breeze. “There’s one a few blocks down from our street.”

“Mhm,” is the only thing Harry answers. Tranquil, he lets his head full of curls fall on Louis’ shoulder. “Read to me?”

Stopping on a random page, Louis pretends his fingers aren’t trembling, Harry’s curls like silk brushing his cheek.

“You don’t want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don’t want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it’s the same old story -
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.”

“I’ve missed you,” Harry’s kind voice breaks through the air.

When Kit comes back, cozying up on the blanket, the first thing Harry does is hand him a water bottle, the boy immediately gulping half of it down. Dirt clings to his clothes, his hands and under his fingernails, dusting his face and turning his blond eyelashes a coffee colored shade. Louis’ surprised to see just how thorough his hunt for bugs seemingly was.

Amused, Harry brings out a wipe from the endless pit of his purse, leaning forward to gently rub Kit clean, one hand holding his golden curls off his forehead. His fingertips stay light, wiping carefully as if to not irritate the skin, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

It’s times like this it is hard to believe this is the same person that grew up with Louis. That fearless, bold as brass kid that used to climb trees higher than him, the Harry that knocked his loose tooth by tying one end of a string around it while binding the other to a door and slamming it closed, and then successfully talking Louis into splitting the five he got after they slipped the tooth under his pillow for the tooth fairy.

No - this Harry is tender, soft. His gentle hums thread with the breeze as he tilts Kit’s head this way and that slowly to get the very last spot of dirt. He’s still the same boy Louis fell in love with all those years ago, though - chest seizing when he recognizes there’s still a trace of that little brash kid in Harry sticking his finger up Kit’s nose while his eyes are closed. Giggles erupt from his son along with a surprised “Mommy!”

“Mmh,” Harry leans back, narrowing his emerald eyes as if assessing his work. “You still have some here…”

Without warning, he charges forward, landing lips first on Kit’s forehead. It startles the boy, who squeals and starts to squirm but is rendered helpless when Harry uses both his arms to tug him onto his lap, pecking kisses anywhere he can reach, like a mother hen lavishing her chicks with affection.

Kit’s mouth is effortlessly stuck in a smile when Harry finishes with one last obnoxious “mwah!” And when he isn’t panting anymore, sitting cross legged beside his mom, he excitedly points and says, “Do Louis now!”

A deep flush warms Louis from the inside out at the suggestion.

“Oh no, darling,” Harry starts. The blotchy pink that coats his cheeks spreads down to his neck, the color bringing out the pearl white of his sweater. “I don’t think-”

“It’s okay,” Louis interrupts, and doesn't care if it sounds too eager.

Tilting his head down in a bashful gesture, Harry looks at Louis through his lashes for enough time the twinkling excitement in Louis’ belly starts to dim.

So, it’s nothing short of unexpected when Harry leans forward and it is not the cleaning wipe that meets his cheek. Supple, plump, rosy lips pillow against Louis’ skin repeatedly, not letting on until giggles are spilling out of his belly, warming their path up to his own quirked up lips. His cheeks, his chin, the corner of his eyes, the tip of his nose get showered with these little, almost innocent kisses. Distantly, Louis can hear Kit laughing, too, and he wonders if Harry’s strawberry slick mouth will leave traces behind like on his son’s skin.

Both their eyes are nothing but slits when Harry finally pulls away, but it is more than enough for Louis to witness his joy mirrored all over Harry.

“You’re silly, mommy,” they hear Kit giggle.

Breathless, they share a single laugh between them.

The rest of the day goes by in bliss. They eat the sandwiches Louis helped Harry prepare and cut into triangles this morning - no mustard for Kit, extra cheese for Louis -, and Louis suggests they play a few games of footie with the beaten football he brought, which, unlike Harry, was the only thing he thought appropriate enough for this outing to bother carrying around.

It’s nice for a while, wind brushing their skin and whistling through their ears, limbs warming up as they run after the ball. Up until none of them seem to be able to catch their breaths while standing, and Kit claims he’s bored of Louis being a “mean player” for not letting his mommy score. Louis tried to let him, he did, but Harry looked so adorable trying to race ahead of him, his little pink shorts riding up his thighs, pert bum jiggling, Louis couldn’t help himself but pick him up, twirling until his annoyed squeal turned into delighted snickers.

He doesn’t think Kit minded too much either, purposely slowing down his jog so Louis could catch up to him, and twirl him in his arms, too.

Holmes Chapel doesn’t have too many places worth visiting. There’s a pub, the farmer’s market, and a museum. Louis remembers his class once taking a trip to an ancient Manor that he skipped in favor of smoking under the bridge, a young, awkward Harry trailing behind him and coughing every time the breeze carried the smoke his way. There’s St. Luke Church, where Louis recalls being chastised more than anywhere else. And like every other place in England, it has too many lakes and rivers to count, and a castle, too.

Of all of them, dull and boring as Louis thought they were, Harry had wanted to visit this little place close to the town’s square that used to cook what he swore to be the best bangers and mash he ever tried. Louis never quite learned how to say no to him.

“She was pretty,” he hears Harry say.

With a toothbrush inside his mouth, Louis only flicks his gaze towards him in the mirror. He’s changed out of his clothes now after their long day, looking soft and sleepy in a pair of polka dot pajama bottoms, hair held back with a purple clip.

“Who?” Louis asks before he resumes the tedious flick of his wrist, trying to get the last taste of peas off his tongue.

“The girl on the train.” Harry doesn’t waste time explaining. Resting a hip on the counter just off Louis’ side, he won’t look up at him, a stark contrast from when, although demurely, he couldn’t stop himself from swiping the green of his eyes all over Louis’ face at the restaurant. Shrugging, he repeats, “She was pretty.”

The train ride back home had feelt longer than the one they took there, probably because the light of the station at the late hour washed everything out in cold colors. Louis hadn’t minded - it just meant he’d have to stay cuddled up next to Kit and Harry on the seat for longer.

He hadn’t noticed Harry looking at anyone. Least of all a pretty girl. It settles something heavy in Louis’ gut, turns him cold. “You liked her?”

When did Harry even have time to notice her if they talked the whole way back about how disappointing their meal turned out to be, the space between them nonexistent but for Kit’s slim, short figure? Was it while he was playing rock, paper, scissors with Kit? His muscles flex, fist balling around the toothbrush.

“What?” Harry snaps his neck up, brows furrowed. “No,” he quickly replies, “She spent the whole ride looking at you.”

Him?

Confused, a sharp line creases Louis’ forehead where his right brow starts. He turns his attention back to his task. Neither of them say anything for a while. Louis finally gets the yucky taste of green clinging to his back teeth, taking a sip of mouthwash as his last step.

“Do you…” Harry starts, cuts himself off, fidgets. From the corner of his eye, Louis can see his movements slow, like the thing he wants to say is taking up all of his concern.

When he finally speaks, the whisper of the open faucet threatens to carry his words away due to how quiet they are. “Do you think she thought we were a family?”

Louis doesn’t have to think too much on his answer. It’s easy - Kit sleeping down the hall, worn out from spending the evening running underneath the sun, Harry’s beauty products lined neatly next to his shaving cream taking up most of the space on his counter, Louis’ skin still stained pink where Harry kissed him thank you after he ate his plate full of peas so Kit would too.

“That’s what we are.”

Tired of staring at the slightly warped image of Harry in the mirror, Louis turns around, longing to completely swallow the way the moonlight makes Harry’s eyes glimmer when Louis finally meets them. “Aren’t we?”

Strawberry red lips curl into a smile, and Harry nods. He’s quiet and shy when he bumps Louis’ hip with his own, grabbing his own toothbrush to start with his own nighttime routine.

“Yeah.”

By now, Louis has witnessed a vast array of gestures that translate Harry’s affection for his son.

It isn’t difficult to recognize utter love in Harry’s words, in the tight squeeze of his hugs, in giving up the last bite of his dessert so Kit can have it. In the warmth of his smile or the stern litl of his tone when he is teaching him something.

But it’s in the eyes, especially, where it shines the most.

Louis even nearly forgets having a kid is a universally known hard task until, one night, he wakes up to one screeching into the darkness of the night - too loud for him to entertain the noise is not coming from inside his house.

Somehow, the cries only grow louder upon hearing the bedroom door groan open, Louis peaking his disheveled head of hair inside the room only to see a red faced Kit furiously wiping at his tear streaked cheeks, Harry holding him close by the waist, mouthing words so gentle they get swift away in thin air. They don’t really notice Louis until he’s fully stepped into the room, both sets of curls bobbing when they turn to look at him.

“What’s going on?” he questions quietly.

Harry doesn’t have time to answer because Louis’ voice sends Kit into another fit. Bringing his son closer to his chest and swiping his sweaty curls off his forehead with a gentle hand, Harry ignores Louis’ concern. “Baby, please.”

A shean layer of tears glimmers in his pleading, green eyes, seeking to roll down his cheek and collect on his quivering jaw, but Harry does his best to keep them at bay, sniffling his red nose once, twice.

Louis can’t bear to look at this gloomy scene any longer.

“Alright, c’mon.” In a spur of the moment decision, he speaks whatever comes first to his mind. “We are going on a midnight stroll,” he announces, clapping his hands to draw two pairs of teary green eyes his way.

If anyone’s confused - and they are, Kit tilting his head even as he keeps wiping his tears, Harry’s soft pink mouth curling in a question - Louis doesn’t give them any time to ponder his words, hauling a wide awake Kit on his hip and ushering a half asleep Harry out of the apartment and into his car.

His confident facade, however, falls flat once he starts driving.

After settling Kit in Harry’s lap and getting in himself, his cold fingers fiddle with the heater for a few minutes before it tiredly starts pumping out warmth, filling up the air inside the car. He spends another couple messing with the console until he finds a mellow tune to drown out the dull turning of the tires against the asphalt.

Kit doesn’t look upset anymore, at least, and neither does Harry, cuddled under the heavy blanket Louis grabbed in their haste, the kind moonlight dancing shadows on his face as it recovers its healthy flush. So, Louis just keeps driving.

Eventually, a sprinkling of lights can be seen in the distance, brightening the path up to a nice, unassuming neighborhood, so unmistakable Louis’ limbs thrum in excitement. Making a smooth turn, he heads towards them, Harry and Kit calmly staring out the window unaware of his enthusiasm.

Apparently, not only is this neighborhood nice and a bit posh, with their high ceilings and lush gardens, it is also lazy enough to not have taken down their Christmas lights this early into March.

Kit is the first one to notice. Cuddled in Harry’s lap, his little head perks up at the sight of them, rushing to kneel on the seat to press close to the window when Louis drives up into the street. It’s only that what alerts Harry, who was nearly asleep in his cocoon of warmth, curled around his son before he started to thrash around, digging his knees on his thighs, eliciting a pained oof from him.

“Don’t jump, bug, you are going to hurt mommy,” it’s the only thing he says.

Unbothered, Kit finishes settling on his new position, hands perched on the windowsill, excited breaths fogging up the glass. It’s not much to fawn over, just a few houses decked in thin strings of light, the occasional Santa waving at them from the rooftop, yet Kit seems amazed as Louis starts to drive throughout the neighborhood.

“This is your brilliant plan?” Harry laughs faintly. He sounds amused.

“Oi!” Louis claps back, doesn’t tell him it was sheer luck. “Thought you were falling asleep there.”

“Almost. But you are supposed to put him to sleep,” Harry protests, jutting his chin in Kit’s direction, who’s weakly bouncing on his lap in anticipation of the next arrangement of lights, looking more awake now than before, “Not me.”

“It’s gonna work,” Louis mumbles, not sure if he believes it.

Smiling, Harry turns to gaze at the decorations. Louis’ left staring at the light casting shadows on the sharp cut of his jaw, his cheekbones.

There’s a soft kind of tune crooning from the radio. Louis turns the volume up a few notches. Harry’s pinky sticks out towards Louis' hand after it returns around the shift stick, the blunt of his fingernail rubbing his skin, raising goosebumps all over his arm.

Harry carries a conversation about the Christmas he spent pregnant without looking at Louis. Though his finger never stops touching him. Louis wonders if he even knows he’s doing it, except he laces both their little fingers together, just as he’s recounting the weirdest cravings he experienced. Louis’ heart swells, though if it is from picturing Harry pregnant or the subtle touch, he couldn’t tell.

Kit interrupts their quiet conversation at some point, drowsily asking Louis to please drive around once more.

During the second lap, he settles back on Harry’s lap, all his excitement apparently drained, turning him lethargic as he reaches gentle hands up to tug at Harry’s shirt. A silent cue Harry instantly answers, one arm holding him securely to his chest just like they started this ride, while his other drags down the thin strap of silk on his shoulder holding his shirt in place, uncovering one of his shapely breasts. Louis turns his gaze swiftly back to the road just as Kit latches on the nipple.

It takes him twice as long to come out of the neighborhood.

“Thank you”, Harry mouths later, green eyes heavy with sleep and fatigue before finally allowing them to slip closed.

To be honest, Louis should’ve realized he was in too deep the moment he woke up and his immediate thought was “How can I help Harry” and not “How can I pretend I didn’t wake up and go back to sleep”. Maybe before that, when his heart first fluttered because Harry sent him to work with a kiss, or when he felt like curling his toes at getting greeted by a pair of voices, one clearly higher pitched than the other, a warm meal waiting for him on the table. It could’ve happened sooner, perhaps, maybe as early as he opened his door that fateful morning a few months back and it felt like he could finally breathe, even though it hadn't’ felt like he was short of breath until then.

Alas, it is just now in this moment, staring at Harry’s peaceful face, lips jutted out in a pink pout and his arms protective around Kit, who’s resting his little head on the chest he was just feeding from while Louis fixes Harry’s shirt over his shoulder, that the feeling washes over Louis completely. Though it doesn’t mean it’s been withered down by time, not at all. Louis can feel his heart replacing the blood with each pound for something like warm honey, pink and fluttery, and like love - strange and unexpected and powerful as it is -.

He drives one more round underneath the fairy lights, this time for himself. He tries to regulate his stuttering heart before he finally takes them back home.

The Latin name for seahorse is Hippocampus which means “Horse Caterpillar”. They live in water, breath through gills and have a swim bladder. Their long, thin snouts allow them to probe into nooks and crannies for food, and they have excellent eyesight, their eyes are able to work independently on either side of their head. They mate for life, and are the only other creature where the men can get pregnant.

And they are, apparently, Kit’s favorite animal. Though this last piece of information is not displayed on the label hung beside the tank they are currently staring at, colorful, dotted seahorses swimming inside.

The guard of the Seagrass section of the aquarium has been keeping a close eye on them since Kit banged on a pool to get the attention of a stingray before Harry explained to him why he shouldn’t do that, but that hasn’t stopped Kit and Harry from pressing as close as possible to the glass, their shiny eyes following reverently the seahorses dancing up and down.

”Kit Kat, look!” Harry jumps up when a pink, dotted seahorse tangles its tail with a big orange one. It’s funny how the nickname has stuck since that day Louis first came up with it to tease the kid, no longer eliciting a frown but a smile instead. “It’s you and me,” Harry whispers in a dreamy exhale.

While the fish curl around each other, another seahorse approaches, this one slimmer but still a bit bigger than the others, tinted a pretty shade of gray. Almost blending in with its surroundings, the gray seahorse comes to a stop next to the pair caught in an embrace. The fish seem unbothered, though welcoming, bellies bumping together, meeting their snouts in what looks like a kiss.

“And that’s Lou!” Kit excitedly exclaims, careful not to touch the glass this time when he darts a finger towards them, bouncing a little.

Off to their side, a flaming brand of pure joy zings through Louis’ spine.

From under his curled lashes, Harry looks at him, gauging his reaction. Louis’ belly tingles, and just like the seahorse, he closes the distance between them. Hand coming down to rest on Harry’s waist, he hooks his chin on Harry’s shoulder, and questions them about the random facts he just read to them.

“Are you sure they are Kit’s favorite?” Louis questions, trailing beside Harry after Kit - who ran off with a delighted squeal towards the shark exhibit.

“Yeah…” Harry answers slowly, tucking his chin against his chest before looking up at Louis.

Louis lifts up his hands in a shrug. “You seem to like them an awful lot, too, is all.”

“Oh!” Harry scuffs, indignant. “What are you trying to say?”

Up ahead, Kit’s sneakers squeak against the polished, pearly white floor as he comes to a halt in front of a pool, a burly shark swimming circles inside. He pretends to read the tag explaining the animal like Louis’ done at every stop. The corner of Louis’ mouth lifts in a smile.

“I don’t know,” Louis carries on, tangling his hands behind his back. “Is it possible that you tricked me into bringing you here because you wanted to come?”

The blue shadows falling from the ceiling of the aquarium dance across Harry’s skin when Louis turns towards him with raised brows, doing a poor job at hiding the sudden crimson that tints his cheeks.

There’s this shimmering, mischievous glint in Harry’s eye. Slowly, words coated in a teasing tone, he answers, “I would never trick you into going on a date with me, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis’ breath catches on his throat. It feels like warm honey sizzling in his ears, but that’s probably his heart thumping against his ribs, begging to be handed over to Harry.

Fortunately, Kit steals him from the opportunity to reply. As soon as they reach him, he dives in on a rant about a story Harry told to him once, where a shark this big and pretty swallowed a boy with curls just like his, forcing him to make a home out of the shark’s belly.

Louis sends a horrified glance at Harry. If it weren’t for Harry’s shaking shoulder, his efforts to stifle a fit of snickers into his hand would be successful.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore, lad.” Louis crouches down to his height, holding both his hands out, palm up, for Kit to hold. “You have me now.”

The only answer he gets is Kit booping his nose.

“Thank you, Louis,” Harry says, leaning against the hallway’s entrance.

He’s laid Kit to sleep now, their voices barely breaking through the silence, mindful of the boy resting after the bestest day he’s ever had - his words - just down the hall, tummy full with cotton candy and fish shaped crackers, wearing the brand new shirt Louis bought for him today - this cute little thing with a blonde mermaid pictured on the front.

“It’s nothing,” Louis answers. “I like the little lad.”

“He likes you too.”

“Yeah?” Louis questions. Harry nods, curls becoming fuzzy where his head rests against the wall. Pitching his voice deeper, Louis collects every bit of courage stored in the pit of his stomach and dares to ask, “What about his mom? You reckon he likes me too?”

A ruddy pink and a pair of dimples bloom across Harry’s cheeks. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, slumping further on the wall. “Yeah,” he whispers, and it feels like he’s confessing a secret. “Him too.”

They let the words hang between them for a few seconds, and Louis wonders if Harry feels them thread around the bones of his ribcage like blooming wildflowers too.

The moon casts Harry silver when he walks up to Louis. “Goodnight,” he mumbles against Louis’ skin like that first night, now so far away it is only a sigh in Louis’ memory.

Louis doesn't know whether it is the reminiscing or the sudden boldness that bubbles in his veins at that moment when at the very last second he turns his head, landing his lips on Harry’s soft pair. It doesn’t matter anyway, Harry’s surprised gasp getting lost in Louis’ throat.

The slot of their lips together is tentative and reserved for a few moments, unsure hands roaming over each other’s bodies slowly until they find where they belong - Louis’ curled around Harry’s waist, Harry’s in Louis’ wispy hair. It’s coy until Harry’s satisfied hums turn intoxicating, driving Louis delirious with want and then he can’t resist but pry Harry’s mouth open, feeling woozy at the way Harry instantly obeys. He recognizes the sugary sweet taste of the cotton candy they shared earlier, so he licks inside his mouth until all there is left is just Harry. His sighs and whimpers and his yearning.

“Lou, it’s been a while…”

Louis’ so close to him he can see a long, dark eyelash cling to the top of Harry’s cheek, a brash contrast to their delicate, pink blush. He doesn’t want this to be anything but soft and gentle, wants Harry to feel appreciated and loved and full, wants his skin to be littered in goosebumps and turn flushed, to see him panting under the weight of pleasure. With a fingertip, he brushes the lonely eyelash away.

“How long?” He can’t stop himself from asking.

“Three… three years.”

Since he’s had Kit, then. “I’ll be gentle.”

They fall into bed like a well rehearsed melody. One moment Louis’ picking Harry up, Harry’s legs hugging his waist before giving these little rolls of his hips against him, and the next they’re in bed, clothes shed on the way to the bedroom, bodies tangled together in a mess of limbs and whimpers and arousal.

Leaning in to slot their lips again, this time more confident when he sucks Harry’s tongue into his mouth, Louis thinks he can taste a hint of trepidation.

Like Harry thought him to do with a clementine, Louis carefully peels Harry’s thick layers of anxiety until he’s stripped bare for his eyes to drink. Reverently, he glides his hands along Harry’s body, thinks himself a sculptor as he lets his palms trace from the broad line of Harry’s shoulders to the soft curves of his waist, the edges of his hips and the supple swell of his thighs, where he pries him open so he can settle in the nook between his legs.

Only after he’s sure Harry’s thrumming with nothing but want and lust does Louis break the kiss. Harry whines a little, puckering his lips and following Louis’ mouth when he pulls back, but Louis latches onto his neck, biting and licking until the skin flushes a bright color pink around the shape of his teeth. Harry’s fingers clench and unclench in Louis’ hair.

“How do you want me?” Louis breathes close to his ear.

Harry’s dizzy with desire. “I want you always.”

“No, baby,” Louis finds it in himself to chuckle, despite his growing arousal pressing on his hip. “Tonight. What do you want to do tonight?”

In lieu of an answer, Harry guides Louis down until Harry’s perky nipples stand tall and inviting right in front of his face, resembling a pair of cherries on top of a dessert. Harry curves his spine so one of them drags along his bottom lip.

It’s more self indulgent than obedient when Louis latches on a nipple, his tongue delivering sure, eager swipes to the nub. He hollows his cheeks as if he wants to pump the tit, eyes going wide at the taste of honey flavored milk dripping on his mouth after a few seconds of stimulation.

Harry’s breath becomes ragged. Louis buries his head in the valley between his breasts, lavishes him in devotion. He freckles Harry’s skin in the form of kisses and maps his way down. There, he folds one of Harry’s legs to his chest before settling over his shoulder, repeating the gesture with the other. And dives in.

“Does it feel good, baby? Yeah? You like that?”

Harry keeps two fingers in his mouth, mouthing and sucking at them to stop his moans from getting too loud, but also to ground himself. Louis’ licking between his thighs, broad and languid, teasing around his rim before slightly prodding the muscle. Harry gets impatient, though, thrusting Louis’ face forward to where he wants him just like before until Louis has nowhere else to go, no other option but to turn sloppy and to follow the rolls of Harry’s hips as he fucks down on his tongue. It doesn’t last long like this, but Louis thinks it’s worth it when Harry comes with a shudder all over his tummy.

“It’s been too long hasn’t it, angel?” Louis teases him, lapping up the white mess on Harry’s belly, tongue velvety smooth on his skin. “You’re hungry for it,” he notes, letting his tongue dart along the length of his shaft, chubbed up and flushed red on the tip. Just once.

Cleaning the very last drop of come, Louis makes his way up to meet Harry’s face. Pupils swimming in a pool of darkness, Harry stares a bit unfocused at Louis’ red, raw mouth, which matches the mauled scarlet of his thighs. Trembling a little, Harry grabs Louis’ cock and starts to stroke him.

“I’m gonna give it to you, Mommy. Don’t worry...”

From then on, everything is a bit hurried and fuzzy around the edges. But Louis guesses that’s how time goes by when you are in love.

Louis’ radio, a dusty, old compact music box he found in the apartment when he first moved in, provides a light hearted soundtrack to the charming scene he walks into the next morning.

“We’re baking a cake!” Kit announces upon Louis setting foot in his kitchen. Standing on a stool, the boy is holding a cream covered spatula in his hand. Next to him, Harry’s wearing both a gentle smile and an apron, its string tied around his neck hiding the cluster of love bites Louis nibbled on his skin last night.

Thoughtlessly, Louis swipes his tongue over his teeth.

“Are you, now?” he pitches his voice high, feigning interest. “That sounds like fun!”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be,” Harry speaks. Tilting his chin towards his son, he teases, “It isn’t much if your sous-chef keeps eating the batter with his dirty fingers.”

Proving his point, Kit is currently swiping his thumb along the edge of the bowl, collecting a big blob of red velvet batter on his fingertip. Upon realizing he’s been caught, he instantly draws it to himself, green eyes widening in guilt. In what must be an attempt at not getting reprimanded, he smears the mix on his blue shirt.

“Baby no!” Harry groans, quickly darting out a hand to grab his wrist, though too late. A thick line of wine red is smeared across Kit’s chest.

Louis lets out a high pitched belly laugh, earning himself a “Shush, you” from Harry.

“You wanna help us make the frosting?” Kit asks while Harry’s using a paper towel to scrub his shirt clean.

“Mhm.” Louis narrows his eyes. He can sense Harry starting to get frustrated due to these little huffs of breath he puffs out every time he taps the deep wine colored stain and it hardly shrinks. He aims to change his mood, and asks, “Are we using Mommy’s milk?”

Harry sputters out a laugh, perfectly surprised. He stops fiddling with Kit’s shirt in favor of glaring at Louis, though it is playful. And a bit reminiscing, if Louis lets himself believe Harry’s fast blinking is him indulging in the picture of Louis’ mouth around his nipple.

“Louis! No, we are not!”

Louis doubts he fully grasps why it is funny, but Kit muffles a fit of giggles in his clean hand, making the tip of Harry’s ears turn red.

“I’ll help,” Louis answers Kit's question at last.

Reaching a hand out to him so he comes stand next to him, Kit beams at him. “Okay, Lou.”

Kit pretends to know what he is doing as he starts to explain to him how he can help, sliding the bowl to him and handing him a spatula. Louis makes sure to look up at Harry to gauge if he’s nodding or looking horrified every time Kit cheerily recites a new instruction before actually doing anything.

Barry Polisar comes on the radio just as Harry gets the cake in the oven, mix fluffy and perfectly smooth. Louis wipes his hands on a towel before reaching out to turn the volume up, the bouncy tune crooning throughout the kitchen.

If I was a flower growing wild and free
All I'd want is you to be my sweet honey bee

Flexing his knees up and down, Kit sets off in a lively choreo, making his curls bounce to the rhythm of the song. A broad smile takes up half his face as he climbs down the stool, grabbing Louis’ forearm to avoid toppling down. Only he doesn’t let go of Louis when he stands on the floor unscathed, pulling him in in a twirl.

And if I was a tree growing tall and green
All I'd want is you to shade me and be my leaves

Feather light, Louis lets the little boy guide them to whirl in circles, their hands tangled together. Laughter threads through the notes of the song, and Louis sees, in the sparse moments his head’s not spinning, Harry chewing on his lip.

Lightheaded, Louis’ hands drift to the dip of Harry’s waist. It feels natural when he starts guiding his hips to sway, pressing on the bruises he painted there last night, addicted to the heavenly hum Harry breathes when he tucks himself close.

All I want is you, will you be my bride?
Take me by the hand and stand by my side

Tapping his fingers on the laundry basket balanced on his hip, Louis finds Harry just hanging up the phone as he enters his room.

On the carpet, the boy has one hand balled tightly around the handset, flattening it on the switch hook as if afraid it will ring again, an absent, vacant kind of shadow hovering over his hunched shoulders.

“Is everything okay?” Louis ventures, brows pulling together. He lightly shoves the door closed behind himself with his heel before sitting across from Harry, settling the basket by their feet. Tilting his chin, he chases Harry’s gaze.

“Mhm?” Harry’s eyes are fuzzy around the edges when he looks at Louis, and he does so for barely a moment, blinking slowly in the direction of his hand. He releases the phone, knuckles recovering a pink tint where before they were white. “Oh, yeah.”

Louis’ not convinced. “Who was that?”

As though taken aback, it takes a few moments for Harry to answer. Louis ponders if the reason he won’t look at him is precisely because he didn’t want to be questioned.

“Um. Jacob,” he drawls, twisting his lips as if the words taste bad on his tongue. “Kit’s - Kit’s father.”

Time stops. It wounds tight around Louis’ ribs, making it hard to breathe.

“What did he want?”

“I - I don’t know.”

Louis doesn’t know which is worse: the bitter reminder Kit has a father that is not him or Harry lying to his face. His hurt bleeds red across his skin, flushing him from the edge of his hairline down to his neck. Jaw set, he grinds his teeth to stop himself from snapping in tears.

He must make for a pitiful sight, for eventually Harry hurriedly whispers, “He wants to meet.”

Louis snaps his neck up to see Harry hugging his knees to his chest. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I hung up.”

Louis hates how the air around them feels heavy now, thick, weighing him down. How he doesn’t want to look at Harry right now.

Rather than saying anything, he busies himself by dragging the laundry basket to him, fiddling with the clean clothes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry dares to break the still silence that’s been casted upon the apartment since he uttered Jacob’s name.

Louis keeps his stare down to his hands folding laundry. The light heartedness in Harry’s tone feels eerie - or it does probably just to Louis, still trying to find his footing after the world as he knew it tilted on its axis for the second time in less than four months. From the corner of his eye, he can see Harry’s stopped fumbling with the clean clothes and is playing with his rings instead, the warmth of his bambi-like eyes glued to the side of Louis’ face rising the more Louis denies his tentative effort at lightening up the mood an answer.

It’s hard to find what to say, is the thing. Still, Louis intends to match the nonchalance as he opens his lips to finally say something, plastering a fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes - until his eyes catch on a piece of fabric. It’s burgundy, small and short sleeved and hidden under a pile of socks inside the laundry basket. Louis’ fingers reach for it before he even notices, and he can tell even without fully looking at it yet that it is the shirt Kit was wearing when he fell asleep on his chest that afternoon they spent playing under the beaming sun, the material as soft against his skin as he remembers it brushing his arms every time Kit cuddled closer.

Any lie he was prepared to tell Harry dies on his throat.

“It has always been your dream, Harry,” he finally says, shoulders lifting up in what he hopes looks like an unbothered shrug. “I won’t hold you back.”

Louis can't bring himself to let go of Kit’s shirt as he stands up, turning around and pretending to put his clothes away just so he won’t have to look at Harry’s face.

“What has?” Harry asks.

Harry’s had plenty of dreams.

Louis remember the silly ones, from when they where toddlers with chubby fingers and ruddy cheeks, like one day biting into the moon to get to know if it tastes as much as cheese as it looks, or being the garbage man so they could drive a big truck or living in the jungle and befriend monkeys after they watched Tarzan. He remembers the talks they had as teenagers, when they thought they had to start taking themselves seriously and their wishes had to be grown up - like getting their driver’s licenses and travel the world or buying a house.

Above all, though, Harry’s eyes never shined as bright as they did - still do - when they talked about marriage. Families. About motherhood.

“Being a mommy,” Louis clarifies. His eyes water without his permission. “Having a family.”

“But I do have a family,” Harry says. It is the tears clogged in his throat what make the statement sound like a tantrum. “What about me and Kit and you?”

Sharp as knives, it digs in Louis' chest, Harry parroting his own words back at him. Louis lets out a wet laugh, and it hurts. He speaks only after he swallows his tears, sniffles his nose. “I will never be the father of your kid, Harry.” He shakes his head. How could he ever steal the opportunity of a happy family from Harry? From Kit?

“But what if you were?”

Harry’s tone makes Louis turn around, jaw set tight. “What?”

Harry echoes, “What if you were the father of my kid?”

“Harry,” Louis shakes his head no. He has to stop him. Has to stop whatever will come out of his mouth if they follow this path because thinking about how much he loves Kit has always made his heart feel too big for his chest, but being reminded he was late suddenly hurts like it wants to drop clumsily at his feet.

“No. I mean,” Harry interrupts him. He hesitates, Louis narrowing his eyes. Until he finally confesses, “I mean I’m pregnant.”

If there hadn’t been a wall behind Louis he would’ve fallen on his ass, the words effectively punching the air out of him.

“What?” His brain is stuck screaming in question marks.

“Yeah,” Harry sputters a wet laugh. “I guess two year old condoms really do not work.”

When they had gotten the condom out of Harry’s purse that night, the expiration date had merely made for comedic relief in what had felt like such a milestone. And what a milestone it unknowingly was.

“What about- What about..?” Louis tries all he can to remember, but his mind’s reeling. And he doesn’t really care much either.

“I want you. Always.” Harry makes his heart sing. “I love you.”

Louis can do nothing but kiss him, letting the insurmountable adoration he’s had for this boy since day one drive him forward, intertwine his lips with Harry’s. He’s like a man stranded in the middle of the sea as he kisses him, still standing by hope and devotion alone.

“And Kit?” He abruptly breaks apart, a zing of fear suddenly cursing through his spine.

Harry laughs wetly, licking Louis’ leftover spit on his top lip. “He loves you, too.”

It lands feather light on Louis’ heart, just as Harry’s lips when he leans once more into Louis’ mouth.

Turns out, having Harry back into his life is like nothing he could’ve ever imagined.

Louis’ life grows to be a garden full of love and wildflowers and waves of joy echoing off his walls until they reach him and knock him out of breath.

It’s surreal, but he guesses that’s just what being in love with Harry is like. Like your heart is ten sizes bigger than when you met him, yet still small enough to fit in the cradle of his hands, for him to protect it, to hold it inside his own chest. It makes you so full down to the very tip of your toes you feel like you are going to explode any moment, but you are fine with it because you know he’d put you back together just right, if not better.

Louis hears the hinges of his bedroom door cry before he sees Kit.

Laying down next to Harry, Louis’ been holding a one sided conversation with his baby inside Harry’s belly. He’s been trying every morning to get the baby up to speed with their little family, telling them stories about how weird Harry used to be as a little kid, and that their brother is not really any better but that he’ll love them just as much as he loves Kit.

He cleans a tear from the corner of his eyes with the tip of his finger and kisses Harry’s extended belly button.

“Mommy’s asleep, bug,” Louis lets Kit know.

Harry smiles against the skin of his neck where he buries himself immediately after Louis crawls back to his level on the bed. Which means he isn’t as dead to the world as Louis thought. Probably heard all the things he just said to their baby, too. Louis’ face grows hot.

Unconvinced, Kit clumsily climbs on the bed from Louis’ side to peer over at Harry, carefully leaning in and assessing his mommy’s peaceful features aided by pressing one small hand on Louis’ chest. Louis’ convinced he’s going to realize Harry’s not actually asleep, Harry’s straight nose scrunching in a weak attempt at holding in his mirth, but Kit only reaches out to brush the curls matted to Harry’s forehead aside. Following the path of his hand, Louis watches the little boy cup Harry’s ruddy cheek in his slim palm for a second before retreating it.

Louis’ heart skips a bit.

“Will you play with my hair?” Kit unexpectedly asks.

“Mhm?”

“My hair,” he half explains. Demonstrating to Louis’ attentive eyes what he wants him to do, he tangles his little fingers in his own curls and gently plays with the strands of hair.

Softly humming, Louis scoots over, the sheets ruffling slightly when Kit maneuvers himself under the covers, cuddling up next to Louis just like his mommy.

Just like Kit showed him, Louis immediately starts scratching his head. The boy launches in on a story about a bird he saw this morning on his window, listing the pretty colors of its wings and trying to describe the noise its peak made when he knocked on the glass, which is what woke him up and made him realize his mommy was not sleeping with him. They are trying to get him used to sleeping by himself, so Harry has taken to only nursing him to sleep before quietly slipping into Louis’ bed for the night, but the boy still acts surpirsed every morning Harry doesn’t wake up next to him, even if that has started being the case most mornings.

On Louis’ other side, Harry discreetly shuffles his head, nosing his shoulder, resembling a kitten seeking to be pet. Louis twists a hand in his hair, and he even purrs as one.

Eventually, Kit’s seemingly endless rant drifts into nothing when the kid falls asleep in the middle of a sentence.

As sleep starts to drift Louis’ eyes closed as well, he wonders if this is the type of Sunday morning Harry meant when he explained what clementines taste like. Like the world has stopped turning in its axis to let him drink in the moment. Like curling his toes, and his eyes watering, and breathing in a sigh that never quite leaves his lungs. Like grabbing his future with eager hands, which weirdly enough feels like tangling his fingers in a maze of fluffy, silky curls.

Like the cadence of four different heartbeats inside his chest.