chapter thirty
Fresh snow crunches beneath Harry's boots as he walks along the concrete path that leads to the front porch. With each heavy exhale, a cloud of visible breath blows out through his red, chapped lips. He can feel the cold metal of the doorknob through his thick knitted mittens as he steps into the house. He's immediately surrounded by warm air and the comforting scent of vanilla candles.
"I'm home!" Harry calls out, taking off his fleece scarf. He hangs it on the coat rack next to Louis's favorite Adidas hoodie.
"In the kitchen, love!" Louis replies, voice soft and calm.
Harry smiles and walks under the archway. Louis stands in front of the granite counter top with a Santa-themed apron tied around his waist. His hands are coated in white flour. He's using a cookie cutter to make perfectly-shaped gingerbread men.
"You're baking," Harry notes, raising an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten that we're vampires?"
Louis scoffs. "I know, I just— I love baking Christmas biscuits, even if I can't taste them. It's just a tradition, you know?"
Harry leans against the counter and furrows his brows. "Tradition?"
"Yes," Louis hums. "Rachel and I used to bake cookies with our son, Landon, back in the '60s."
"Rachel?"
"One of my ex-wives."
Harry's heart thuds against his chest. "You said you never had kids," he says, confusion filling his voice, sprinkled with a hint of fear. "I thought it was impossible for vampires and humans to... y'know. Make babies." Why would Louis lie to him about having a child?
Louis chuckles and places his hand on Harry's arm, soothing him. "Calm down, love. Landon was my stepson from Rachel's previous marriage."
Harry frowns. "Were you two close?"
"Yeah. I mean— he was practically my son for eleven years before I had to relocate," Louis says passively, as if merely discussing the weather. "We lived in Michigan."
He bites his tongue with concentration as he cuts another gingerbread man. With pride, he places it on the baking sheet next to the growing army of little cookies. He gives a satisfactory smile and looks at his boyfriend lovingly.
But Harry's just staring back at him, face flat, impossible to read.
"What?" Louis asks, curious.
"You can't— you can't just casually mention that you had a stepson and then not talk about it."
Louis laughs awkwardly. "I didn't think you'd be interested. You never wanted to talk about my former marriages before."
"I care about you, Louis. Your past is important to me," Harry assures.
Louis nods slowly. A fraction of silence passes between them. "Okay, well... Landon was only two years old when his biological father passed away. It was a motorcycle accident in November of 1960. Rachel was... heartbroken. I was a grief counselor at the time, so that's how we met. She was really sweet, kind, and incredibly beautiful. We married after only three months of dating," he begins, voice soft, as if trying not to damage Harry's delicate feelings. It felt awkward to discuss his previous relationships with him, even if they were all fake. Even if he never really loved any of his wives in more than a platonic way.
"Anyway, Landon was a really sweet kid. Smart, too. He loved dinosaurs and soccer and our dog, Rex," Louis continues. He keeps waiting to see a sign of sorrow on Harry's face, maybe a subtle lip quiver or a bit of shimmer in his eyes, but there's nothing. Which is good.
"Did they know you were a vampire?" Harry wonders out loud. "Rachel and Landon, I mean."
"They knew, of course. It's difficult to keep being a vampire a secret when you're in a house with mirrors and a wife who loves to take Polaroid pictures," he explains, laughing dryly at the bittersweet memories. "And that's what made leaving them so— difficult. I think they knew I couldn't stick around forever, deep down, but maybe they were in denial. I can't stay in one place for too long, no matter how much I want to. So I just took off one day and fled to Canada without an explanation. I— I left a fucking note. I abandoned my thirteen year old son with nothing more than an I'm sorry on a sticky note."
His voice cracks painfully. A single tear slips down his cheek, but he instantly wipes it away, muttering an apology under his breath.
Harry hushes him and pulls him close, wrapping him in his arms. Louis presses his face against his shoulder and sniffles whilst Harry combs through his hair. His fingertips feel like ice. A familiar sting of sadness scratches up his throat. He tries to fight back the tears, doesn't want to cry in front of Harry. He's supposed to be the strong one.
"It's okay," Harry whispers, rubbing his back. "You didn't have any other choice."
"He'd be fifty-eight years old today," Louis mumbles. "I don't— I don't even know if he's still alive."
Harry frowns and presses a light kiss to his temple. "I love you so much."
Louis pulls back slightly and forces out a smile. It's not genuine, and his eyes don't even crinkle, but at least it's something.
"I love you, too," he assures. He scrubs his eyes with his knuckles. "I'm sorry for getting all worked up. I'm in the kitchen crying when we're supposed to be jolly and gleeful. Christmas is in three days, for fuck's sake."
Harry just shakes his head. "It's okay to be sad, Louis. I'm actually kinda— relieved. I'm glad you told me, so thank you."
Louis nods understandingly, but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't want to drag the conversation any further. Instead, he silently swipes his finger across the counter to coat it with flour and taps the tip of Harry's nose. Harry just bites back a grin whilst Louis giggles to himself, cheeks pink. Tears gone.
"You're cute," Louis complements, poking his white-tipped nose again. "My little Rudolph."
"Rudolph's nose is red."
"Oh, just shut up and kiss me."
Harry easily compiles and presses his lips against Louis's. It feels as natural as breathing. They kiss lazily for a minute or two, just brushing their mouths together softly, nuzzling noses. A bit of flour rubs off on Louis's face, but he doesn't mind.
Louis breaks the kiss and brushes his thumb across Harry's cheek. "So, enough about my depressing life. How was work, baby?"
Harry sighs. He grabs Louis's hand and begins toying with his fingers, distracting himself. "Long. Tiring."
Louis smirks. "Sounds like my dick."
Harry rolls his eyes teasingly. "Despite being over two hundred years old, you have the maturity of a pubescent boy."
Louis chuckles and pecks Harry's lips. "Alright, babe. Let's get in the holiday spirit. Enough of this sad skeletons in the closet shit. Do you wanna decorate the Christmas tree?"
Harry's eyes widen. "You got a tree?"
"Yeah, bought one from that farm down the street," Louis explains, grabbing Harry's hand. He leads him to the nearby living room where their tree stands, seven feet tall. It's slim and the needles are a bit sharp, but it's perfect nonetheless. Harry can smell the fresh scent of pine floating in the room.
"I even bought some new baubles," Louis says happily, showing him the box filled with colorful, shiny balls.
Harry grins. "They're lovely, Louis."
"Pretty, aren't they? This one reminds me of your eyes," says Louis, holding up a large, green ornament. He hangs the bauble on the tree near the top, stretching up his arm.
Harry watches fondly. "Do you need a stool?"
Louis sends him a death glare. "I was average height in the late 1700's. Fuck you, Harold."
Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Promise?"
Louis laughs and grabs Harry's shoulders, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. Harry stares down at him with wide, viridescent eyes filled with admiration.
"And you say I'm the immature one."
-
It's 12:01 a.m. on Christmas Eve when Harry pounces on Louis in their bed, awakening him from his light slumber. The entire mattress shakes as he plants light kisses all over his bare chest. He rests his hands on his ribs, feeling the coldness of his flesh and the bulges of his bones.
Louis's eyes slowly flutter open, nose crinkled in annoyance. It's kind of adorable.
"What?" he asks, voice hoarse. He sounds like he smokes a pack a day.
Harry's eyes glimmer in the moonlight from the nearby window. His pale skin looks even whiter in the dark. Louis subconsciously settles his hands on Harry's thighs, as if they just belong there. His skin is smooth and freshly shaved. He blinks slowly and looks up at Harry with confusion.
"It's Christmas Eve," Harry says blatantly. He leans down and kisses Louis's still, unmoving lips. "Happy 227th birthday, my love."
Louis's mouth gapes open a bit. He takes a few seconds to process. "You remembered," he says breathlessly.
"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I remember my boyfriend's birthday?"
Louis shrugs (or at least tries to shrug whilst lying down). "I dunno. I've had 227 of them. Kinda makes it seem less special, right?"
Harry frowns and shakes his head. "I don't care how old you are— it's still your birthday."
Louis smiles softly and grabs the loose fabric of Harry's t-shirt, pulling him closer to kiss him. It's slow and casual, comfortable, and Louis's the one leading it. He bites down on Harry's bottom lip as he pulls back, blushing.
"I got you a present," he mumbles.
Louis raises his eyebrows. "A sexy present?"
Harry laughs and lightly slaps Louis's chest. "No, it's— you'll see."
Quickly, he hops off Louis's tummy and reaches under their bed, pulling out a small rectangular box. It's wrapped in silver wrapping paper that has penguins printed all over it. There's even a tiny red bow stuck on top.
"Wrapped it myself," Harry says proudly, placing it in Louis's lap.
Louis grins. "You didn't have to buy me anything, H."
"Shut up and open it," Harry teases, rolling his eyes.
Louis chuckles and rips off the wrapping paper to reveal a long, velvet box. He opens it. Inside, there's a customized gold ink pen with an engraving on the side. The metallic surface is reflective in the dim lighting. He reads the writing with watery eyes. H + L.
"You mentioned that you prefer handwriting over typewriting and, well, you need to finish those damn research articles sooner or later," Harry explains, smiling fondly. "Might as well have something nice to write with."
Louis doesn't say anything at first. He just throws his arms around Harry and buries his face in the crook of his neck. He smells like lavender body wash. He presses light kisses down the column of his throat to his collarbones, ghosting over his scar.
"I—" Kiss. "Love—" Kiss. "You."
Harry giggles and hugs him tighter. "I'm glad you like it."
Louis pecks his cheek and carefully sets the pen on the bedside table. He grabs Harry's larger hands and tugs him up on his feet with the excitement and energy of a child.
"Let's go celebrate my birthday!" he exclaims. "I wanna go ice skating. You only turn 227 once!"