Love is a Word (You Gave it a Name) l.s

Four Days to Christmas

Louis is in love.

He's probably a little too in love for it to be considered healthy, but there's really no helping it when he's got the best spouse in the world. Harry is one of a kind.

"What is this?" he asks when he walks into the kitchen, just off the phone with his mum. He'd spent half an hour assuring her they're both alright, he'll drive safe, and yes, he's packed enough underwear – he's feeling a little worn out, fighting an ache that seems to have settled in his lower back.

Harry's still got his pink apron on, hands clasped behind his back and rocking on his heels. The kitchen is spotless around him.

"It's dinner," he says, and the duh is implied. "You said you were hungry."

"Uh," Louis stammers, taking in the table – the steaming food, the wine. The candles. "I am."

"Good," Harry grins. "Sit down, then."

Louis does, mostly on autopilot. He sees from up close that the tablecloth is dark green, made of heavy fabric that hangs over the edge in thick folds, the kind that Harry usually uses when they've got company he wants to impress. The candlelight breaks through the wine glasses in little segments, painting the table, and Louis is confused.

Harry leaves, presumably to put his apron in the wash, and when he comes back, Louis takes in his clothes – a soft, black jumper and blue jeans. They're different to what he'd been wearing earlier in the day, and honestly, how had Louis not noticed.
"What's all this for, then?" he asks, a little less dazed. He takes in some more detail – the meticulously sharp fold in the napkins, the gleaming cutlery, the plates Harry had gotten from his nan when they moved in here.

"You," Harry answers, with a hint of a smile playing around the corner of his mouth.

"Why?"

Harry grins now, pulls out his own chair across from Louis. His feet immediately lock around Louis's ankle. "Just 'cause," he shrugs. "We're not going to get much alone time until after...you know."

Oh.

Oh.

"And I wanted to, uh," he continues, running a hand through his hair and messing up the curls, "I wanted to do this while it's still ours, you know?"

"Harry," Louis says, and he can feel his voice is about break before it does. "Love. Sweetheart. It will always be ours. Nobody else's."

"I know," Harry mumbles, looking down at his empty plate. He's fiddling with his rings, and his grin is gone. "But we don't know what it'll be like. It could change us, and I—" he looks up, then, and Louis's heart skips a beat at the emotion in his eyes, "I'm scared," he admits.

Louis abandons his seat and rounds the table, crouches down next to Harry's chair. Harry's hand automatically finds one of his.

"So am I," Louis says. "I'm terrified, but look at us. Look at what we've been through, darling, and look how strong we made it out the other end. I'm yours, and you're mine, and this is ours, no matter how many people will want to stick their noses in it."

Harry laughs a little. The candlelight catches his eyes just so, glistening off the tears he hasn't let fall. "I know," he says. "I love you."

Louis nods, and discovers that his own throat is suspiciously tight. "I love you too. I'll look out for you, and you'll look out for me, and we'll be absolutely golden."