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

Christmas Day

His chest feels warm looking at the two of them – at the way Harry had moulded himself along the line of Louis's body, the way Louis is resting his own head against Harry's with his features relaxed. They look young. Carefree.

He hands the phone to Harry and fidgets in his chair. They've talked about how to do it at length, with each other and with their team, with the actual social media expert they have now. They've discussed a selfie versus a picture taken by someone else, from up close or from a distance, a pose or a candid. But really, Louis thinks, in the end, there's only one way it can go.

He gets out of his chair and into Harry's lap. His heart is racing three hundred miles an hour, it seems, and when he rests a palm on Harry's chest, he doesn't seem to be doing much better.

Harry is biting down on his lip, hard, as he flips through his phone in search of the camera app. His breath breaks against Louis's cheek, coming in short, staccato bursts.

Louis leans forward to press a peck against Harry's nose, his eyelids, his forehead, his ear and jaw and neck, drawing a map of kisses.

"Lou," Harry grumbles, but the tense line between his eyebrows disappears, and that's all Louis had wanted.

"Okay?" he asks, watching as the phone screen goes black, then projects a picture of their legs, Louis's thighs over Harry's.

"Ask me in five minutes," Harry replies, but his heartbeat seems to have slowed.

As they're staring it in the face – or in the lens – Louis feels the tension leave with every second that passes. They've done this a thousand times, thanks to Harry's strange obsession with them taking couples' pictures on every possible occasion. It's okay. It's okay.

"Ready?" Harry asks, flips the phone around and raises it to their level. His hand is still shaking.

"As I'll ever be," Louis says, cupping his hands around Harry's face. He cards through Harry's hair, strokes his cheeks, his lips, reverent. Harry is everything, actually; Harry is the reason Louis is where he is, and there's no place he'd rather be.

"Let's do it, then," Harry says, and doesn't give Louis a chance to respond before he turns his head and kisses him.

It's hard, at first, a crash more than a slide, an underlying desperation that's painfully obvious in Harry's trembling lips. Louis tries to keep his own anxiety in check as he coaxes Harry out of it, away, with gentle touches and soft sounds.

"Shh, darling," he pulls away to say, just for a second, and discovers that a lump has settled in his throat, tight and immovable.

Harry nods, jerky, and when they kiss again, it's the kind of kiss that deserves a picture. Harry's lips slot between Louis's perfectly, so soft they barely feel like they're touching, and this time around, there's nobody, nothing else in the room but them. Louis can feel the sun on his face, can hear the tap dripping into the kitchen sink, but the only thing that really registers is Harry, all of him, everywhere. Louis is encased in his scent and his touch. His love.

He moves his lips, resting one hand low on Harry's neck and the other on his cheek, and grins. Something new and wonderful and giddy rises in his chest, even as he feels his eyes fill with tears behind his lids.

Harry smiles in response, his lips stretching against Louis's, and that's when the shutter goes off. Once, twice, three times, just to make sure they get a picture they can use.