Work Text:
By the time they stumbled through the front door, Louis felt like his entire body might actually disintegrate. His arms were killing him from juggling their baby girl all day back and forth from family member to family member. The low thrum of a headache was creeping behind his temples, thanks to a relentless mix of holiday chatter, sugar, and exhaustion. He glanced down at her—her little rosy cheek squished against his chest, her tiny fist curled into the fabric of his shirt—and immediately, his heart softened. Even if his body was screaming at him to collapse on the nearest flat surface, their little Maggie could change that in an instant.
Behind him, Harry was wrestling with the absurd amount of gifts and things they had somehow acquired over the course of the evening. A plastic bag crinkled, something thudded against the doorframe, and Louis heard a muffled, “For fuck’s sake,” followed by a sharp exhale as Harry finally managed to get himself and all the bags inside with the quiet click of the door.
“Did we bring back an entire shop with us?” Louis muttered, adjusting their daughter slightly, her tiny weight throwing off his balance as he took his shoes off.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He was busy kicking off his own boots and shoving the heap of bags into the corner like some sort of chaotic sculpture. Then he straightened up, brushing the curls out of his face with the back of his hand, and turned to Louis with a tired but genuine smile.
“She’s still asleep?” he asked softly, stepping closer, his voice dipping into that gentle tone he always used when talking about or to the baby. Like his entire being slowed down—even more so—just for her. Just for them.
Louis nodded, his fingers brushing over the back of her tiny head full of curls that matched Harry’s. “Out cold,” he murmured. “But if I even breathe too loud, she’ll wake up and demand a full royal treatment.”
Harry grinned at that, leaning in close, close enough that Louis could smell the faint trace of peppermint from the candy cane Harry had stolen off the tree at his mum’s house. He reached out, carefully brushing a thumb over their daughter’s plump little cheek. “That’s my girl,” he said, voice soft and proud.
Louis rolled his eyes, even though a smile was already tugging at his lips. “Your girl, huh? Pretty sure I was the one carrying her around all day while you spent half the party eating snacks and talking shit with the girls.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry said, shrugging and reaching for the diaper bag slung over Louis’ shoulder. “You’re better at it.”
“Better at what?”
Harry gave him a look, like the answer was so obvious it wasn’t even worth saying. “Everything.”
Louis opened his mouth to retort, but Harry was already nudging him toward the stairs, gently pressing a hand to the small of his back. “Go on,” Harry murmured. “Put her down. I’ll sort the rest of this out.”
For a second, Louis hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the disaster Harry had left by the door, and then back to Harry’s face, which was all soft edges and quiet determination. There was something in his expression, something Louis couldn’t quite pin down, but it felt warm and steady and entirely his Harry.
“Fine,” Louis muttered, turning toward the stairs. “But if I come back and you’ve eaten the last slice of cake, we’re getting a crazy divorce.”
Harry laughed softly behind him, and Louis tried not to let the sound linger too long in his chest. He didn’t have time for that—not when he still had to navigate putting down the world’s most temperamental baby.
It took longer than expected to get her settled. She stirred as he laid her in the crib, her little face scrunching up like she was about to launch into one of her world-stopping cries. Louis froze, his breath caught somewhere in his throat, and then he started whispering to her, nonsensical things—“You’re fine, love, it’s okay, Daddy’s right here, just go back to sleep, yeah?”—until she relaxed again, her tiny fingers twitching once before going limp.
He stood there for a moment, staring down at her, his hands resting on the crib’s edge. She looked so peaceful when she slept, so impossibly small. Like something fragile that could slip away if he wasn’t careful enough or looked away. The thought tightened in his chest, the same way it always did when he let himself stare at her too long.
“Goodnight, Mags,” he whispered finally, leaning down to press the softest kiss to her forehead.
By the time he made it back downstairs, he was already planning his dramatic collapse onto the couch and how he was going to beg Harry for a cuddle. But when he stepped into the living room, he froze.
It looked completely different.
The overhead light was off, replaced by the soft glow of the fairy lights wrapped around their Christmas tree. Candles flickered on the mantel, casting a golden hue across the room. The coffee table had been cleared and replaced with what looked like…a spread? There was a bottle of wine, two glasses, a plate of cheese and crackers, and the last slice of the cake Louis had been half-jokingly protecting all night.
But what really caught Louis’ attention was the mistletoe. It was hanging from the archway leading into the room, perfectly positioned. Too perfectly.
“What’s all this then?” Louis asked, his voice caught somewhere between surprise and suspicion.
Harry was sitting on the rug in front of the coffee table, legs crossed, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He didn’t look smug, not exactly—more like he’d been waiting for Louis to see this, to feel it.
“This,” Harry said, gesturing lazily to the room, “is your real birthday.”
Louis raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Harry, we’ve been celebrating all day. You do remember that, yeah? Or has all the cheese gone to your head?”
Harry tilted his head, his smile shifting into something smaller, more intimate. He stood slowly, brushing off his hands, and closed the space between them until they were standing face to face. Louis could see the faint smattering of freckles across Harry’s nose in the candlelight, the way his green eyes softened as he looked at him.
“That wasn’t your birthday,” Harry said quietly. “That was chaos. That was family and noise and…and everything that isn’t this. Us.” He reached up then, gently taking hold of Louis’ hand. “This is just for you.”
Louis’s throat tightened, the weight of the day catching up to him in a different way now. He wanted to argue, to say something snarky and brush it all off like he usually would to make Harry laugh, but Harry gave him a little tug, pulling him gently forward until they were both standing directly under the mistletoe.
And Louis couldn’t look away.
“Mistletoe,” Harry said simply, like that explained everything.
“You’re everything,” Louis murmured, his voice cracking at the edges. But before he could say anything else, Harry leaned in, closing the last bit of distance between them.
The kiss was soft and unhurried, like Harry had all the time in the world to remind Louis just how much he loved him. It wasn’t rushed, or desperate, or messy. It was warm and steady and everything Louis didn’t know he needed until that moment.
When they finally pulled apart, Harry pressed their foreheads together, his hands sliding down to rest on Louis’ hips. “Happy birthday, Lou,” he whispered, his breath warm against Louis’ cheek.
Louis swallowed hard, blinking at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
Harry grinned. “Yeah.”
They ended up on the floor, tangled together on the rug, laughing and sipping wine and talking about everything, talking about Maggie, the way her curls looked just like Harry’s but how she had Louis’ eyes. They kissed and whispered until the candles burned low. And when Harry eventually fell asleep against his chest on the couch, the warmth of the day melted into something softer, quieter, and entirely theirs.