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It‟s actually kind of nice once they‟re all out there, crammed into the

small space of Louis‟ balcony. Niall flops into one of Louis‟ rickety

chairs with his beer while Louis settles into the other, knees gathered

up to his chin against the cold. Zayn‟s leaning up against the railing,

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too drunk to think about posing for Liam, which looks better on him

anyway, all loose limbs and hazy eyes.

Harry crowds up behind Louis‟ chair. “You cold?”

“A bit, yeah,” Louis says through the chattering of his teeth. Next thing

he knows, Harry‟s leaning down and wrapping his arms around Louis‟

shoulders and chest, pressing his body heat into him.

“This okay?” Harry says in his ear, and Louis just blames the alcohol

for the fact that all he can do is nod and lean back into him. Zayn raises

his eyebrows at them, and Louis mentally wills him to go fuck himself.

Louis looks around him, at Niall all sprawled out in his chair, at Zayn

lighting one up, at Liam looking content on the ground with his back

against the balcony door, at the lights in the distance and the snow

falling down and the steam of his breath mixing with Harry‟s, and it

just. It feels good, the five of them.

Louis is possibly too drunk.

“Nice song choice, Harry,” Zayn slurs, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Be really impressed if you can get this one up there, though.” He

points to Louis with his cigarette, and Louis sticks his tongue out at

him.

“D‟you think he would?” Harry says, perking up, and no, no, nope.

“No, he would not,” Louis says.

“It‟d be brilliant, though!” Harry says, leaning back and turning his

head a little to look at Louis. It‟s really not fair how his eyes are

sparkling in the flashing lights of Louis‟ stupid hat. Once again, Louis

only has himself to blame. “I never get to see you perform, only shout

at other people while they do.”

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Louis ignores Harry, shifting his attention back to Zayn, who is much

easier to resist. “Why don‟t you get up there, Malik? You were born for

the stage. Stripper with a heart of gold, that‟s what you are.”

“And a liver of iron,” Zayn says.

“Bullshit,” Niall says, laughing out a cloud of smoke. “I‟ve got pictures

of you naked in a pond throwing up on a duck.”

“Poor duck,” Liam chimes in, looking concerned. “He‟s just going

about doing duck things, and then all of the sudden—”

“Vomit tsunami,” Louis supplies.

Liam nods sagely. “Tsu-vom-i.”

It‟s so ridiculous and so deadpan that it startles a laugh out of all of

them, filling up the balcony and echoing off the roof of the next

building.

“We‟re keeping him,” Louis says, pointing an unsteady finger at Liam,

and it‟s impossible to tell who looks more pleased by this turn of

events, Liam or Zayn.

“If we‟re keeping him, he should get a vote in whether or not you sing

for us,” Harry says.

“There‟s not a vote,” Louis says. “This isn‟t a democracy. This is a

party dictatorship, and I am the dictator.”

“You‟ve got one of those syllables right,” Niall says. “Liam, vote.”

“Well, I mean,” Liam says, “only if he wants to.”

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“Oh, he wants to,” Zayn says, cutting off Louis‟ protests.

“He really, really does,” Niall adds, and Louis takes back every nice

thing he has ever said about either of them.

Liam smiles. “Then I vote yes.”

“I think that makes it unanimous,” Niall says. He stubs out his cigarette

on the arm of his chair and flicks the butt off the balcony. “Right,

Harry?”

“Unanimous,” Harry confirms.

“Unfortunately this vote means nothing because I do not recognize the

authority of the proletariat,” Louis says. He wonders faintly if taking

too many vodka shots has made him slightly Communist. Or is it the

other way around? Who was the proletariat again? Alcohol is bad.

“Too bad,” Zayn says. “Bolshevik karaoke time.”

It‟s four against one now and Louis doesn‟t stand a chance, no matter

how much he tries to tell them that he is definitely too drunk for this.

Harry manages to manhandle him out of his chair, and then Niall and

Zayn have him under the armpits. A couple of very disorienting

minutes later, Harry has dragged out his coffee table for a stage and

Zayn is introducing him as “the Illustrious, Luscious Louis

Tomlinson,” and then Louis is holding a microphone in front of the

entire party while the first notes of “Jingle Bell Rock” flood the room.

Fine. If he‟s going to be publicly humiliated, he is damn well going to

do it with style. He puts one hand on his hip, flips his hair, and calls up

every bit of that old stage presence he hasn‟t used in years.

And maybe it‟s just because he‟s drunk, or he‟s the host, or it‟s his

birthday, but the crowd goes wild. He belts it out with as much as he‟s

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got left in him, sashaying up and down the length of the table, free hand

flailing through the air. Niall pretends to faint into Zayn‟s arms when

Louis blows him a kiss. Louis forgot how much he loves this, how

natural it feels to stand up in front of an audience and sing. He never

realised how much he‟s been missing this feeling.

It‟s been years since Louis got up in front of anybody and sang other

than demonstrating parts to his students, years since he lit up a crowd,

years since he felt that high of performing. He watches Stan laughing

with some of the Doncaster girls and the German teacher dancing with

two of his uni friends and he lets himself soak in the energy of the

crowd and the sound of the music, and it‟s just a stupid Christmas song

but he lets himself get carried away.

The flat erupts into applause when the song is over, and Louis takes an

elaborate bow, almost falling off the coffee table as he does. Harry‟s

there to catch him around the waist and set him on the floor, laughing

so hard he‟s almost in tears, and Louis wants to kiss him right then and

there but he doesn‟t.

It seems that Louis‟ performance is the dramatic climax of the party,

because it‟s not long after that before people start popping by to slap

him on the back and tell him goodbye. The ones who‟ve had less to

drink or given themselves time to sober up head out to brave the snow,

while the rest start gathering up their coats and calling cabs. He bids

Stan farewell with a promise to return his missing trousers when he

gets back to Doncaster and watches Zayn hug Liam goodbye when he

gets called in to the firehouse to handle a surplus of Christmas tree

catastrophes. Soon it‟s down to twenty, then ten, then it‟s 3 a.m. and

Louis is bundling Zayn into a cab, paying the cabbie in advance and

tuning out Zayn‟s drunken mumbling.

“Destiny,” he says for the millionth time in the last five minutes.

“Christmas destiny. Destimas.”

“Sleep it off, mate,” Louis says, and Zayn just smiles dreamily at him

before the door shuts and the cab is off down the street.

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He‟s swaying on his feet as he makes his way back up the snowy path

to his flat. God, how long has it been since he‟s done this, taken care of

the drunks while half-wasted himself? University-era Louis would be

ashamed.

He staggers back up the stairs and into his flat, and he nearly groans out

loud when he sees there‟s someone else still there, wandering around

the living room. The sound catches in his throat, though, when he sees

that it‟s Harry making his way through the flat with a bin bag,

collecting trash.

“You‟re—hi. You‟re here,” Louis manages, his tongue thick in his

mouth. He leans heavily against the door. Fuck. He is never drinking

anything Niall mixes ever again.

“Well spotted, Lou,” Harry says with a smile. “Figured you could use

some help with all of this.” He gestures to the wreckage of Louis‟ flat.

It‟s worse than last year‟s party, worse than he and Harry‟s sex

marathon. There appears to be red velvet cake smeared all over one of

the cushions of his couch. Well, it‟s either that or blood. God, please let

it be cake.

Louis does groan now, sliding down the door onto his welcome mat.

“God, I‟m going to be up all night dealing with this. And I‟ve got to

drive to my mum‟s tomorrow.” He lets his head fall back against the

door with a thud. “Why do I socialize? Why don‟t I just stay in bed

with my cat?”

“The eternal question,” Harry says, walking over and extending a hand.

Louis takes it and lets Harry haul him upright. The sudden movement

has him dizzy, and he‟s thankful for Harry‟s steadying hands on his

waist once again. “I can stay and help, don‟t worry.”

Louis blinks at him, and Harry just smiles and goes back to tidying up.

Louis meanders blindly over to the sink and tries to start washing

dishes, but turns back to Harry distractedly. “You‟ve got to drive to

your parents‟ too, though.”

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Harry shrugs, pulling down some of the lights. “It‟s not that long a

drive, I can stay an hour or two longer.” He looks at Louis, amused.

“It‟s really fine, Lou.”

Louis looks down into the sink in confusion, because what does he

want?

He manages to wash a total of two glasses, his mind swimming, before

he turns back to Harry. He probably shouldn‟t press his luck here, but

he just...does not understand. “I‟m not,” he says, swallowing dryly. “I

can‟t fuck you tonight.”

Harry lets out a short laugh that sounds a little horrified, turning away

from where he‟s taking down the mistletoe. He pauses before he speaks

again, like he‟s waiting to see if Louis was joking.

“Christ, Louis, tell me how you really feel,” Harry says, apparently

realising that he‟s not. Louis just stares back, leaning hard on the

counter. “Lou. Jesus. I know that you, that we aren‟t going to have sex

tonight. That‟s not why I came tonight, and even if it was, you‟re

drunk, so.” He lets out a long breath, his face soft, and no one should be

allowed to look that serious while wearing reindeer antlers. “I‟m doing

this „cause I want to, yeah?”

Louis looks at him for a long time, but he doesn‟t make any more

sense.

“You‟re weird,” he says finally.

Laughing, Harry throws the mistletoe at him, hitting Louis square in

the chest. “You‟re one to talk,” he says, and resumes cleaning.

Shaking his head like a wet dog, Louis gives up on making sense of the

situation and commits what brainpower he has to taking his flat from

“portal to the underworld” to “general squalor.” Harry puts something

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soft and gentle on his iPod and they make their way from room to room

in silence, improving things as they go.

It feels like Harry is everywhere over the next hour, taking care of

things while Louis sobers up. When Louis slips on a puddle of eggnog,

Harry catches him with a laugh. When Duchess knocks over the empty

bowl of cider, Harry is there with a broom to sweep up the pieces.

When Louis goes back to doing dishes, Harry is behind him with a

hand on his waist, passing him a glass full of water.

“Don‟t want to drive with a hangover,” he says, dropping his chin onto

Louis‟ shoulder.

Louis drains the glass in a few long swallows, incredibly conscious of

the way Harry‟s head turns, his lips grazing slightly over his neck.

“Thanks,” Louis says, “I think I‟m going to be all right now, nothing

like manual labor to shake off a buzz.”

“Good,” Harry says, smiling against him and squeezing his hip before

he moves away. “Shouldn‟t take more than another half-hour before

this place is in decent enough shape for you to catch a few hours of

sleep.”

Louis turns around, leaning against the sink and watching Harry putter

around his flat happily, and does his best to strangle whatever feeling is

creeping through him.

“You know what?” he says suddenly. “It‟s fine, I think I‟m just going

to go to bed.”

Harry pauses, halfway through wiping down the kitchen table. “You

sure? I don‟t want you to miss your mum.”

“Yeah, it‟ll be fine,” Louis says. “I can do the small stuff when I get

back.”

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“All right,” Harry says, fiddling with his jacket for a moment before

pulling it from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. “If you‟re sure.”

“I‟m sure,” Louis says with a helpless smile. And then, because he

can‟t stop himself, “I‟ll walk you down to your car.”

He snags his scarf and coat off the hook but doesn‟t bother doing up

any of his buttons before following Harry outside.

The snow has slowed to a gentle fall by now, drifting onto Louis‟ porch