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

One Day to Christmas

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Louis grumbles, trying not to stumble as he slowly slides forward. "I hate this."

"You love it," Harry grins from Louis's side, where he's keeping a steady hand on Louis's waist and making sure he doesn't fall on his nose. He sounds awfully sure of himself, and Louis hates that he's right.

It's beautiful out here, even if it is six in the morning and Louis was ready to commit homicide when Harry pulled him out of bed, whispering a happy birthday. The surface of the lake is solid underneath them, frozen into a slab of ice. Their voices echo far into the distance, carried away by the wind, but nobody's there to care. They're alone.

Still, Louis is incredibly shit at skating. He doesn't appreciate Harry being this smug about having one skating scene in a music video.

"Let's go a little bit further, come on," he says and propels himself forward. The tails of his open coat billow behind him.

Louis, feeling remarkably like a baby deer, stops and crosses his arms. "Come and hold my hand, arsehole."

Harry turns around in one fluid movement. He's laughing as he makes his way back to Louis; he looks pale, almost ethereal in the weak winter morning light. Louis feels a little like he's in a fairytale.

Once he's got Harry's gloved hand safely in his, he moves forward with a little more certainty. He tries very hard to not think about all of his weight resting on two very thin blades.

"How do you not know how to skate, anyway?" Harry giggles.

"I know how to skate," Louis retorts, carefully watching his feet. "It's just been a while, is all."

"How long is a while?"

"Dunno," Louis shrugs, "six years?"

In truth, it's probably been even longer. Louis is used to playing footy every day, running around and lifting his knees. This strange fluidity of movement that skating requires feels foreign to him.

It's made a little better by Harry's hands constantly on him, warm and sure and holding him up without making Louis feel incompetent.

"Where are we going, then?" he asks as they slide further and further away from the shore.

"Somewhere," Harry says, mysterious, then bursts into laughter. He steers to the right, turning until they're heading back where they came from, and Louis follows.

They probably spend hours like that, with Harry running away too fast and Louis racing after him until he realises he's on his own. His knees stop feeling like jello eventually, supporting him as he copies Harry's sharp twists and turns. The sparse winter sun comes out from behind the clouds, warming the air of a beautiful Christmas Eve.

It's around eight that other people start showing up, families with red cold-bitten cheeks and children bundled up in coats and scarves. Harry gets that look on his face again, the one he's got every time somebody is being domestic around him. He keeps a light hand on Louis's waist as they skate in circles and diagonals and somewhat straight lines, but his eyes are trained far into the distance, watching a pair of kids no older that six amble onto the ice and fall immediately. He jerks when he sees them hit the surface, like he wants to skate over and help them up.

Louis spots his geography teacher just as they're getting ready to leave. He hasn't seen her in six years, but she doesn't seem to have changed at all – her silver hair is still held up in a meticulous bun on the top of her head, and she carries herself regally, back ramrod straight even though her shoulders are wrapped in a heavy pashmina.