.“I don't understand why this is necessary,” Harry whines, not for the first time. Louis, who's been sitting on his lap the entire car ride and suspiciously quiet, gives him another kiss on the forehead.
“Told you, it's a surprise,” Liam trills from the front. Mum, who's sitting next to him, giggles. Harry's suspicions grow at an alarming rate.
“Why does it require me to be blindfolded?” he asks, fidgeting. Louis squeezes his hand.
“It's a surprise, darling. That means we don't want you to know where you're going.”
Harry whines into Louis's shoulder. He's still wearing his pyjamas, with a hoodie thrown over the top. Mum had barged into their house and kidnapped him before he even had a chance to eat breakfast, which means he's hungry, and cold, and miserable. And blindfolded.
Louis, at least, seems to feel a little bad. He's been showering Harry in attention the entire drive, running calming hands through his hair, but Harry is strong. He will not stop being mad once they let him out of this car, no matter where they've taken him.
“Here we go!” Liam announces, entirely too loudly for the tiny space. “Hold on to your hats.” Then he takes the car off the road, presumably, because Harry almost flies out of his seat. He has to blindly reach out to find a door handle, and hold on for dear life.
When they finally let him come out, Harry has half a mind to stomp off in whatever direction, just for a minute, to collect himself a little. The only thing that stops him is the fact that he might well be standing over a pit full of alligators. Maybe everyone's finally had enough of him pacing and worrying about going on tour, and they decided to get rid of him.
“Don't be mad,” Louis says, wrapping an arm around his waist, his chin on Harry's shoulder. “The blindfold was Liam's idea, I swear.”
Harry sighs. He's resolved to stay angry, but Louis is warm all along his back, and he still smells like sleep.
“Can I take it off?” he asks, relaxing into Louis's embrace. He's not sure where the others have gone - there are voices, somewhere, but they don't sound familiar, and he has no concept of how far they might be.
“Hold on one more second,” Louis replies, takes both his hands and leads him-somewhere. Harry thinks it's grass under his feet, soft and silent as they stumble through it; it gives way to gravel, then pavement. Their footsteps echo, and the breeze around Harry's ears dies down.
“Okay,” Louis says, holding on to Harry's shoulders and pulling him to a stop. “Okay, turn this way-there you go.”
“Now?” Harry asks, but his hands are already flying to the back of his head, trying to undo the ridiculous knot Louis has made in one of Harry's own scarves. A few strands of his hair have gotten caught in it, and it hurts coming off, but Louis helps him untangle the last bit.
When the blindfold falls away, Harry has to take a second to just squint at his impossibly bright surroundings. Patches of colour come into focus very, very slowly: a dozen shades of green, black to brown to grey, and then shapes. They're still outside, just standing under an awning. As far as Harry can see, there's nothing other than trees and hills and a blurry skyline shimmering all the way in the distance. They could be anywhere, but-but.
“Louis,” he says, and turns to him, but Louis is no longer standing where he was. Instead, the view that opens up in front of Harry is an eerily familiar one - a slim patch of gravel laid in the midst of all the grass, and a beautiful little fountain. “Louis, this is The Royal.”
Louis laughs. “I know.”
Harry goes to turn around so they're face to face, so he can drown his husband in his confused questions all at once, but Louis puts a small palm into the middle of his back.
“Now, uh,” he says, and he sounds-nervous? “Before you turn around, I want you to promise me that you're not going to scream.”
“Oh my God,” Harry gasps. “You did bring me here to be murdered.”
Louis laughs. It's not quite as bright as Harry would like, just a little wobbly around the edges. “Shut up,” he huffs, and the hand he's put on Harry's back trembles.
Harry's shoulders tense up against his will.
“It's just-I remember how this went last time, and I don't want to scare away any guests.”
“Last time?” Harry asks, his heart thudding against the constraints of his chest. “What-“
“Give me a moment,” Louis interrupts, and the warmth of him disappears. Harry reaches back, and only touches air. “Okay, turn around.”
Harry does. It takes him a second, or fifty, to even being processing what he's seeing.
Louis is on the ground. He's in his pajama bottoms, a vest, one of those ridiculous cardigans he insists on wearing, with hair sticking up in every direction and curling around his ears, a shaky smile on his face, on one knee.
He's-he's. What is he doing?
“What are you doing?”
Louis laughs, but it's a little strangled. He's shaking, and seeing him so unsteady turns Harry's knees right into jelly.
“What does it look like I'm doing? Actually, hold on-“ and he digs in his pocket. Harry feels a little like fainting, and a lot like screaming.
This can't actually-except yes, it can, because Louis has got a box in his hand, and he opens it to reveal the most gorgeous ring Harry has ever seen.
“Right,” Louis says, watching Harry's face. Harry has no idea what his own face looks like, actually, because he can't fucking feel it. His fingertips are tingling, rapidly going numb; for a few seconds, he's nothing more than a heartbeat. “I did prepare a speech, but I think it might have been too soppy, so I figured I could just wing this.”
“Louis,” Harry says, in this absolute garbled mess of a voice. He puts his hands over his mouth, tries to remember how speaking works, how to make words that don't sound like a different language.
“Shush,” Louis smiles, and some of the nervousness visibly goes out of him, melting onto the paving stones between them. “Listen. You already know that I can't imagine my life without you,” he starts, holding Harry's gaze. Harry feels lightheaded. “I think-I think we've pretty much established that we're both in this forever, yeah?”
Harry nods, wordless, clasping both his hands over his mouth in an attempt to not cry.
“Good,” Louis grins. “Then I don't think I need to ask you to be mine, or to make me the happiest man in the world, because you already do that every single day. But-it's been so long since we did this for the first time, and we're not the same people anymore.”
Harry's heart twinges. It's not much more than a memory now, a tender kind of scar that they usually tiptoe around - but Louis is right. That happy, curly eighteen-year-old and the gorgeous boy who married him seem a little like ghosts from an entirely different lifetime. It hurts to see them smile in that photo above the fireplace, just because he knows that they didn't stay that happy.
“It's been ten years since the first time,” Louis says, and the fingers he's got wrapped around the box go white. “And more than I care to count since I first realised I wanted everything in this world with you. I think I've been in love with you every single day of my life, so I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm just a boy-“
“You're thirty,” Harry hiccups, letting the tears flow. He never had much hope of holding them back anyway, and watching Louis here, proposing in a place that's so special to them, bleary-eyed and in his pyjamas, he doesn't feel even a little bit ashamed to cry.
Louis grins. “Standing-kneeling, sorry-kneeling in front of a boy-“
“Louis,” he laughs, and his body finally lets him move - though move might be too strong a word. He more or less falls down in a heap right at Louis's feet, kneeling in front of him, reaching out until he's got his fingers wrapped around Louis's wrist.
“Asking him to marry him,” Louis finishes. His eyes are suspiciously shiny, too.
Harry touches his face, smiles at him through the hysterically happy sobs bubbling in his throat.
“We're already married,” he says.
Louis shakes his head. “I want to marry you again.”
“I don't think that's how it works,” Harry grins.
“I mean, if you're going to say no-“
“No!” Harry shrieks, then claps a panicked hand over his mouth. Louis giggles. “I mean, yes. Jesus Christ, Louis, yes I'll marry you, you know you don't even have to ask-“
He doesn't get to finish, because Louis steals the words right out of his mouth. He cups Harry's face in his hands, ring box and all, and kisses him until they've both forgotten how to breathe.
“Yes,” he presses against Harry's mouth, whispers as he peppers silly little kisses all over his face. “I love you, thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” Harry grins, feeling more free than he ever remembers being. He runs slow, thorough fingers through Louis's hair, messes it up even more, nuzzles his face against Louis's and bites his bottom lip ruby red, needing to be closer. “Just give me the ring.”
Louis laughs, and raises the box in-between them. A couple more tears escape Harry when he looks at the band again. It's a delicate, braided ring, a shade of rose gold that looks like liquid fire in the morning sun.
“You already have one,” Louis points out, smiling down at where he's stroking the fingers of Harry's left hand. He pauses where a scuffed gold ring sits snug against Harry's knuckle.
“It's a good thing I have ten fingers,” Harry replies, and lays his right hand on Louis's raised knee. “There you go.”
Slowly, softly, Louis slides the ring on. His touch is reverent, so light it feels more like the whisper of wind against Harry's skin.
The grin on his face far outshines the sun.
They struggle back up together, neither of them willing to let go for even a second. Louis holds both of Harry's hands, raises them to his lips and kisses his knuckles one by one.
Behind his back, Liam's fluffy head pokes out of an alcove.
“Did you say yes?” he whispers, and Harry bursts into happy, happy laughter.
Once they've informed Liam that Harry did, indeed, say yes, he takes off straight across the lawn to let everyone else know. Harry and Louis get to walk a little slower, hand in hand, both smiling to themselves. Harry's already thinking about his second wedding, their second wedding, and the way Louis is going to look when they promise each other this life and the next.
They stop at the fountain, full of brilliantly clear water and countless pennies. Louis digs in the pocket of his cardigan, and adds another one to the pile.
“What's that for?” Harry asks, with an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Over in the restaurant, just a few steps away, mum is already waving at them and pointing to the table they've got set up to celebrate.
Louis shrugs. “Luck,” he says, and smiles up at Harry. Those gorgeous crinkles by his eyes don't quite go away these days.
“What with?”
He shrugs again, and goes up on his tiptoes to give Harry a kiss before he answers. “Life,” is what he says. “We've got to plan another wedding. I have to find something to wear that you're going to deem acceptable.”
“Oh,” Harry grins, and dips his fingers in the fountain only to paint a stripe of water down Louis's nose. “I've got a few ideas.”
Louis blinks at him, shocked, but it only takes him a second to retaliate. Harry sees him cup his free hand to take more water in, shrieks, and runs away.
They don't talk about it as much as Harry would like, in the end, but Louis waits for him at the end of the aisle in a beautiful midnight blue suit and a smile that Harry writes a song about. Everyone - Niall, Liam, Harry's family, Louis's family, their family, even Dusty with a little bowtie around her neck - is there to see them cry all over their rings, and laugh until they're hoarse as they dance their wedding night away. They take photos for their living room, and for Harry's ridiculously soppy Instagram.
They hold each other, first and foremost. Harry doesn't let go of Louis's waist, his hands, the very edge of his sleeve, any part of him he can reach; Louis kisses him every time their eyes meet, every time his favourite song plays, every time he catches sight of Harry's rings.
And then, just after midnight, and after many a bottle of champagne, someone presses a bouquet into Harry's hands.
“Throw it!” Gemma shouts, her voice carrying above the music, and soon enough Harry's got a crowd heckling him.
He climbs up on a table, wobbly on happy, drunk, exhausted feet. The lights in the room spin around him, and he breaks a few flower stems when he draws his arms back. Tiredly, drunkenly, he wishes he could hold on to this, keep it as a promise. Wishes that someday, maybe in another ten years, they could do this again, to remind themselves how far they've come.
The lights flicker, and Niall shouts something. Harry closes his eyes, uncurls his fingers, and throws the bouquet.
Across the room, hidden at the very back of the crowd, Louis reaches into the air and catches it.
~fin
⚜
THE END