Chapter Text
Age 14
Harry
The Robinsons’ Christmas party is always the Saturday before December 25, unless, of course, Christmas or Christmas Eve falls on a Saturday. In that case, it would be a week earlier. Even this slight discrepancy gives Harry pause.
Winter break began the day before yesterday; yesterday Harry slept and watched TV and did absolutely nothing, and today he helped his mother make this weirdly complicated Christmas bread they bring to the Robinsons’ party every single year. All the neighbors, Robinsons included, talk about this bread with increasing frequency every month beginning in September. Small, boring, ugly small towns in the Midwest tend to take Christmas seriously.
Harry loves Christmas. He loves the lights and the presents and the cookies and the snow (when it comes). It’s been coming less and less. “Global warming,” he always tells his Dad, Robin, who frowns, grunts, and looks back at his newspaper. It’s not that his Dad doesn’t believe in global warming, just that he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“We’re really running behind,” his mother, Anne, says wearily, crouched in front of the oven light to check on the bread. Harry crouches down next to her.
“It doesn’t look golden-brown yet,” he notes.
“No it does not,” she agrees.
“Mom, when are we leaving?” Gemma asks from the kitchen doorway. She’s two years older, a high school junior to Harry’s freshman, and wearing a very short faux-velvet dress.
“Gemma, isn’t that a little …” Anne says tentatively. Harry knows to leave the kitchen and begin getting dressed himself.
They walk over, Harry holding a loaf of bread in gloved hands, careful not to slip on the black ice. His mom never stops warning him about black ice.
The Robinsons’ house is two stories tall with a wraparound porch covered in multicolored lights. In the front yard are two inflatable snowmen, three light-up reindeer, and a rather terrifying nativity set. It’s crowded inside, Perry Como crooning holiday standards, music wafting through the sea of neighbors. Anne leads him deftly to the dining room table to deposit –
“The Christmas Braids! Oh goodness, I’m so excited. Been waiting all year for these!” Sally Robinson says, taking them from his cautious hands and setting them between the Steinways’ apple pies and the Lees’ apple tarts. Mrs. Steinway and Mrs. Lee do that every year, and though no one says it, to Harry, it feels competitive.
“Harry!”
Niall’s hugging him in a rush, practically knocking over a tray of fudge that’s dangerously close to the edge of the table. When Niall realizes, he lets go of Harry and grabs two handfuls of fudge instead.
“Hi.”
“We’re playing games in the back room. Grab a plate and come on.”
Harry turns around and starts with just a few items, some pigs-in-a-blanket and stuffed mushrooms. “Why you always going for those? They’re weird,” Niall turns up his nose. Harry shrugs and pops another mushroom in his mouth.
They start toward the back room, but Niall’s mom stops them before they get too far. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” she says.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Horan,” Harry responds graciously. Niall’s mom is nice. She’s far less nervous than his own mom, which probably explains why Niall is far less nervous than Harry. As such, Niall darts away from his mother rather than maintaining polite conversation.
“Harry,” She then starts, turning to look over her left shoulder. “This is Louis. Take him with you.” And then she’s gone.
This person called Louis looks to be around his age. He’s a little taller, with brown hair and striking, almost alarming blue eyes, like some sort of space creature. Harry doesn’t know when the last time he noticed someone’s eyes was and finds that odd. He's also wearing a bright red sweater that looks so, so soft. Harry wants to touch it.
“Who are you?” He asks suspiciously. He knows all the neighbors, and his high school consists of exactly 300 people, none of whom seem to have been Louis.
“Louis, obviously,” he says, scrunching his nose a little.
“Are you a homeschooler?”
Louis looks confused. He has a funny face when he’s confused. He looks almost angry, but Harry knows he’s not because Harry’s done nothing to anger him.
“No. I go to school like a normal person,” Louis replies.
“Homeschoolers can be normal. I knew one once.”
“Were they normal?”
“She was kind of weird, actually.”
“I’m not weird,” Louis retorts.
“I bet you are, sometimes,” Harry argues. “Everyone is.”
“You sure are.”
Harry doesn’t take that as an insult. “So you go to school?”
“Yeah. I’ve just moved here.”
“But it’s winter break.”
“People can still move places during your school’s winter break.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “You’ll start school when we get back from break?”
“Yeah. I’m a freshman.”
“Me too! We’ll be in all the same classes. Your homeroom teacher, Mrs. Mayhew, is going to be awesome. Math is Mr. Ayres, and he’s not so awesome. He’s kind of awful, actually. He once -”
“Your name’s Harry, right?”
“Yeah, Harry Edward Styles.” Harry randomly decides to stick out his hand. Louis takes it gingerly, like it might have chocolate or something worse on it.
“Louis William Tomlinson.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Did you get food yet?” Harry asks, gesturing at his plate.
Louis frowns and points at a mushroom. “What’s that brown thing?”
“Stuffed mushroom. It’s really good,” he reassures, taking a bite to demonstrate. He doesn’t eat the whole thing in one go, because Louis is new. He might not be ready for that.
“What’s it stuffed with?” Louis sounds skeptical.
“Um, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what you’re eating?”
“Nah. Could be anything. Scared?”
Harry watches Louis tilt his chin up and march toward the table, take the biggest one, and march back over. “You forgot a plate,” he notes.
Louis waves the mushroom around in his face. “I’m not scared. Look,” he says, then pops the whole mushroom in his mouth. Harry watches as he chews, struggling to get it all down.
“Gross,” Louis comments once he’s swallowed.
“You didn’t give it a chance. The big ones are always worse.”
Louis gives him a mischievous grin, the first one yet, and Harry finds he likes it. They both start laughing.
“That’s what she said,” Louis whispers, making Harry laugh one more time.
He creeps around to the table again. Harry follows and points to one of the offerings. “That’s my bread.”
Louis hums. “You baked it?”
“Mom and I.”
“It looks funny.”
“It does not.”
“It does. It looks like it has raisins. I hate raisins.”
Harry crosses his arms. “It has raisins, but it still tastes good.”
Louis grins. “Do you want me to try it?”
“Yeah!”
“Even if I give a completely honest review, even if I hate it?”
“You won’t hate it,” Harry says confidently. Louis gets that look in his eyes again and instantly reaches for the bread. “You need a plate so you don’t get it all over the floor,” Harry complains. “If everyone did that, the whole party would just be a big mess.”
“I don’t mind,” Louis shrugs while a few large crumbs of bread break off and fall onto the shaggy carpet.
“I do, though.”
Louis shoves the slice of bread in his mouth and takes his time. He chews, and chews, and looks at the ceiling. Harry waits impatiently.
“Well?” He demands when Louis swallows.
“I hate it,” Louis announces. “I told you I hated raisins.”
“But they’re so good in this,” Harry almost wails. “They’re soft and sweet and add great textural contrast.”
“Textural contrast?” Louis echoes incredulously.
“Yeah. Like this fudge,” he says, pointing to the Dalloways’ offering, catching strays. “There’s no textural contrast. It’s just a lump of chocolate.”
“That sounds better than your raisin bread. You should have traded in the raisins for chocolate.”
“No. We make it the same way every year, with raisins.”
“Alright, whatever. I told you not to be offended.”
“I’m not offended. Which house are you in?”
“Number 28. The grey one with the deck that looks like it’s about to cave in.”
Harry nods. “A crazy cat lady used to live there, I think. Does it smell like cats?”
Louis scrunches up his nose again. “Yup. But I love cats.”
“Me too. Apparently, the Robinsons have a cat, but I’ve never seen her. She’s really shy.”
“Really?” Louis says, and he stands on his tiptoes to look around the room. “I’m going to find her.”
And so he launches himself away from the dining table and into the living room. Harry doesn’t think twice before following him. “Wait,” he says as Louis starts to climb the staircase.
“Why? If I were a shy cat, I wouldn’t be down here around all these people,” Louis points out. He’s been taking the steps two at a time, so his right leg is poised above his left. His legs look athletic, and Harry wonders if he plays sports. If he does, he’s probably better than Harry. Everyone is.
“I don’t think we’re allowed up there.”
“I don’t care,” Louis says cheerfully, bounding up the stairs to the top and disappearing. Harry glances around, back into the living room. No one’s looking.
It’s not a big deal. It’s not! He’s fourteen. He should be doing whatever the heck he wants, and he wants to … he’s not really sure. He hadn’t particularly cared about the cat until Louis did, but now that he did, the cat seems like a mystery that must be solved.
“You coming?” Louis asks, peering down the staircase. His eyes are so bright.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, though he only takes the steps one at a time.
“What the hell,” he hears Louis groan, in the hallway. He flinches a little. He’s not allowed to say things like that, and Louis will get in trouble if he says it at school.
“What’s wrong?”
“This door’s locked,” Louis says, rattling the knob.
“Then the cat’s probably not in there."
“Right, yeah.” Louis moves on to the next room. This time, the knob turns and the door opens. “Yay!” He exclaims, beaming. Harry doesn’t know why, but he beams back.
“What's in there?” Harry asks when Louis switches on the light. “Oh.” It’s clearly the master bedroom.
Louis literally runs in and jumps onto the bed, which is sort of impressive because the bed is very high off the ground. “Don’t,” Harry says before he can help himself.
Louis stops stomping around on the bed. “Why not?”
Harry tries to figure out a valid excuse. “The cat might be under the covers.”
Louis seems to consider this, then does the absolute worst possible thing; he throws the covers off the bed. “No cat.”
“No! Now they’ll know we were in here!”
Louis laughs. “They won’t know it was us. Or maybe they’ll think the cat did it.”
“I wish I hadn’t told you about the cat,” Harry huffs, crossing his arms. Louis, meanwhile, has bounced off the bed and is currently looking underneath. “We can’t just go snooping through their house into all their stuff. It’s not nice.”
“Look, Christmas presents!” Louis yells, completely ignoring him and now pulling out two pristinely wrapped boxes, one large and one small. “What if we opened them,” he says wickedly.
“NO!” Harry screeches. He doesn’t know this kid and should definitely stop associating with him.
Louis has the nerve to laugh, “Don’t worry, I’m not, I’m not," his hair extra messy from having his whole head wedged under the frame.
Harry starts re-making the bed, pulling the ivory covers back up and smoothing the plaid quilt. “I don’t know how I feel about you,” he admits.
“That’s a strange thing to say,” Louis replies, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Harry slides off the bed and keeps looking for the cat. “I wish we knew what color she is. It would make her easier to find.”
“Wait, I’m an idiot,” Louis says, jumping up. “I know how to find her.” He grabs a small box from the top of an antique dresser and shakes it quickly. It sounds like a bag of pet treats.
“But we don’t actually have any treats for her!”
Too late. Through the open doorway, there’s the cat. She’s fluffy and pure white with a scrunched face, a Persian. Louis shakes the box again, and she takes a few steps forward. Then, Louis reaches out to pet her but quickly retracts his hand before he can.
“She’s so beautiful,” Harry says at the same time as Louis whispers, “She’s so scared.” They look at each other.
“You should try,” he tells Harry. “She’ll like you better.”
“What?”
“You’re more calm.”
No one has ever called Harry calm. Harry is a worrier, a careful child, an old soul, but certainly not calm.
He bends down, extends his hand, and makes a clucking sound. The cat’s eyes are greenish-yellow, and they’re focused on him. “Come on, cutie. Come on … wish we knew what her name is.”
“What would you name her?”
“I don’t know, maybe something Christmasy, like Noel.”
“Like Noel Gallagher?”
“No, like The First Noel. You know, from the song.”
“I feel bad.”
Harry looks back at Louis, whose eyes are mournful. “What? Why?”
“I tricked her. I don’t have treats. She must be so disappointed. The whole party has tons of treats downstairs, and she doesn’t get any.”
“So go get her some. Bring her some cheese or something.”
Louis brightens up. “Yeah, I’ll be right back!”
He disappears out the door, and his flurry of movements makes the cat cringe. Harry talks quietly to her in a soothing voice, but she looks unimpressed.
Louis tumbles back into the bedroom, a plate of stripped hot dogs and random cubes of cheese. “I got some cheese and some pigs in a blanket, but I threw the blanket part in the trash, so now it’s just the pigs. Can she eat that, do you think?”
“I don’t think she should eat the pepper jack."
Louis nods and pops the bad cheese cube in his mouth to get rid of it. Then he inches along the circumference of the room, as if the cat is a much larger cat that might kill him, then shoves the plate toward Harry. “Here, feed her.”
Harry frowns. “Why don’t you?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
Harry doesn’t know Louis, so he doesn’t know how to argue this fact, and he takes the plate. He breaks off smaller portions of the cheddar cheese and tosses them on the floor in front of the cat.
“If she doesn’t eat them, we’ll have to clean them up,” Harry comments, knowing full well that he might as well be talking to himself. Louis doesn’t seem to be a cleaning-up type of person.
Louis is staring at the cat. “Eat your cheese, Noel. C’mon, Noel.”
“We don’t know her name is Noel.”
“I like it, though. Look, she’s eating your cheese! Give her more,” Louis whispers, enraptured. Harry obeys. They watch her a little longer. “Bet you could pet her now,” Louis whispers excitedly, like he doesn’t want Noel to hear.
Harry reaches out his hand slowly to touch her soft, fine fur. She doesn’t move, but he hears Louis gasp.
“I pet her,” Harry reports proudly.
“No, you’re just touching her.”
So Harry starts to move his hand up and down her head and neck while she continues to nibble on her cheese. “She’s soooo fluffy,” Harry sighs.
“I bet,” Louis replies. He’s still whispering for some reason.
“Your turn,” Harry decides, removing his hand. Noel almost looks offended.
“No, she doesn’t want me,” Louis insists.
“I think she does,” Harry says without any evidence.
“She only wants you and cheese.”
“C’mon, Louis.” And without thinking, Harry grabs Louis’ hand and guides it toward Noel. He pauses to coax Louis’ warm fingers to uncurl until his palm is flat, ready to pet. Then he sandwiches Louis’ hand between his own and Noel’s fur. He thinks that the feeling of touching Louis’ hand is almost as nice as the feeling of touching a fluffy cat.
Louis is silent, but his eyes are huge. He has very long eyelashes. Harry doesn’t know when the last time he noticed someone’s eyelashes was and finds that odd, too.
He moves their hands together, up and down, and eventually, Noel seems to really enjoy it. She walks closer, rubbing up against Harry’s legs. She even tumbles down and rolls over, exposing her belly.
Louis smiles and looks at Harry like, ‘Are you seeing this?' Harry realizes that he’s been looking at him and not at the cat.
After a few minutes, Louis asks, “Don’t you have any friends here?”
“Yeah. My best friend Niall’s downstairs.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?”
That’s a solid question. “I don’t know,” Harry admits.
Louis gets up, rustles around obnoxiously in a dresser drawer, finds a scarf, and starts dragging it along the floor for Noel to pounce on. “Why’d you move here?” Harry asks, trying not to be stressed about how uncivilized Louis' being. “It’s nowhere.”
“My mom needed a new job.”
“Your mom has a job?”
Louis stops playing with Noel. “Yeah, what?”
“Nothing. It’s just, I don’t know any moms with jobs. Usually it’s the dads.”
“I don’t have a dad,” Louis says, a challenge in his voice.
“Oh.” Harry watches Noel for a while, and the way Louis is playing with her. “You should get a cat.”
“To make up for not getting a dad?” Harry flinches, but Louis laughs, “I can’t, my sister’s allergic.”
“I have a sister, too,” Harry says, grateful they both have this particular family member.
“I have five,” Louis one-ups him.
“Wow. That must be crazy.” He doesn’t say that it must be extra crazy with no dad.
“Yeah, it's really crazy. I'm sure we'll run into some of them later, I'll introduce you.”
“Are they downstairs?”
“No, they’re inside those Christmas presents.”
Harry laughs. “Christmas Eve is tomorrow. I’m so excited.”
Louis looks like he’s about to say something, then stops. “I am, too.”
“It’s the third-best day of the year. Best is Christmas itself, then my birthday, then Christmas Eve.”
“Hmm,” Louis replies, intent on playing tug-of-war with Noel. Now, Harry’s worried the scarf is going to rip.
“My birthday is February 1. I’ll invite you to my party if you seem nice when we’re in school together.” Louis laughs. “When’s yours?”
Louis ponders. “Soon.”
“How soon? This year?”
“Yeah.”
“What, is it tomorrow or something?”
Louis makes a face, but doesn’t say no.
“It’s tomorrow? It’s CHRISTMAS EVE? You’re birthday is the third-best and second-best day of the year COMBINED, which makes it even better. It’s the BEST.”
“No it’s not,” Louis mumbles peevishly. “No one cares because the other holiday is more important.”
“It might be more popular, but nothing is more important than your birthday,” Harry argues. “What are you doing for it?”
“Nothing. Just hanging around with my family, I guess.”
“What’s? That’s crazy.”
“I don’t know anyone, I just moved here!” Louis retorts defensively.
“You know me, now. I’ll come over. I know where you live.”
Louis laughs. But Harry's being serious.
<><><>
Louis’ house is smaller than his own. Harry can tell from the outside.
He knocks a few times and hears movement from inside. A small girl opens the door. “Hi Phoebe!” he says. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
Harry blinks. “What?”
“You must have met my twin. I'm Daisy. Happens all the time.” She looks at the bag in Harry’s hands. “Is that for us?”
“No, it’s for Louis, because it’s his birthday.”
“Oh. LOUIS!” She yells. And disappears.
A few seconds later, there's Louis, in another sweater. “Harry?”
“Happy Birthday!” Harry says.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
“I don’t lie. Not very often, anyway.”
“How did you get me a present? There was no time!”
“Open it, you’ll see.”
Louis tears the tissue paper away and reaches inside the Santa bag to pull out a … sweater. “I know you like them," Harry explains, feeling proud, "And I don’t like this one, so I’m giving it to you.”
“Sick,” Louis says, and starts pulling off his own sweater. Harry feels strange. Then he realizes that Louis is wearing a whole other shirt underneath, so you know, nothing to feel strange about. He puts on the new sweater, which is cable-knit and dark green. Harry lied; he loves this sweater. He just thought Louis would look better in it, and he was right.
“It looks so much better on you.”
Louis smiles. “It’s probably equal.”
They stand there a minute. Harry’s getting cold.
“You want to hang out for a bit?” Louis finally asks.
<><><>
It’s late at night on Christmas when Harry finally has a minute to slip away. And as if he was waiting, Louis opens the door almost as soon as Harry steps onto the porch.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!” They yell at the same time
Louis shoves a badly wrapped box in his direction.
“Aww, no, I didn’t get you a Christmas present," Harry complains.
“But you got me a birthday present.”
“It’s not the same, you should get one birthday and one Christmas present, just like everyone else, just like I do every year.”
“Don’t worry, it’s shit.”
Harry’s eyes go wide. Louis laughs. “Bet you’re not allowed to say that.”
“Nope.” He opens the gift and unearths around ten boxes of Raisinets. “Yay!” he cheers sincerely, waving them around in the air.
Louis, in Harry’s old sweater, rolls his space-creature eyes.