Work Text:
Operation Kissmas: Phase One
“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Zayn asks, his head lolling back against his office chair, face twisted characteristically in boredom.
Liam hurries to enter his password on his tablet. “I have the excel sheet ready, the most convenient spots in the office all marked for the operation.”
Niall breaks out a plastic bag full of mistletoes out of nowhere and drops them on the office desk. “We’re doing this, Malik,” he says with a smug smile on his face. “Because they’ll either kiss or quit their jobs, and we win in both scenarios.”
Right on cue, a loud voice interrupts their hushed conversation, making their heads turn to the closed office door. It’s coming from the next room, which belongs to the owner of Tomlinson Events Inc., Louis Tomlinson.
Niall hurries to press his ear against the door, trying to make sense of inaudible noises. He hears the door open so harshly that the handle hits the wall with a loud thud.
“How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot hang a disco ball in the middle of a meeting room!” Louis shouts.
“Disco ball is festive, and it goes so well with the tinsel!” Harry shouts back.
Niall excitedly beckons Liam and Zayn to come over with his hand. Liam quickly joins with his ear pressed on the opposite side of the door. Zayn doesn’t even bother to move an inch, probably still annoyed that he’s wasting his smoke break for this.
“Disco ball is nightclub! Did you hire a DJ as well while you’re at it?“
“Actually, I did, hisname is DJ JiggleBalls,” Harry yells. “Very on theme!”
“Oh my God, I’m going to lose my fucking mind!” Louis barks. “Do you even know what elegance means? I’ve told you the theme was classy like three hundred times!”
Niall barely holds himself from cackling, while Liam covers his mouth with his hand.
The fight continues as their voices get louder.
“Disco is classy! It elevates the entire atmosphere!”
“The only thing it elevates is my fucking blood pressure!”
Zayn huffs from his chair, reaching out to grab one of the mistletoes. “Alright, do we start before one of them ends up with a life sentence for murder or what?”
Niall beams, wiggling his eyebrows. “This is going to be so fun.”
Of course, Niall Horan is the mastermind behind this thoroughly thought-out plan. The idea came to him two days ago, when Louis threw a tantrum in the middle of the executive boardroom because Harry went behind his back during a client pitch and added bubble machines and chocolate fountains to what was supposed to be a strictly formal corporate event. When the CEO absolutely loved the idea, Louis was left with only two options: drown Harry in the fountain or scream at him until the client ran away. Unfortunately, he chose the latter, resulting in a tension-filled, deadly silence in the office for the rest of the day.
When the event manager, aka Niall, decided to take matters in his hands, he realised Louis and Harry didn’t just need a good life lesson, they needed a magical Christmas intervention. The next morning, filled with determination and a borderline suspicious grin, he went to the closest mall to buy every single mistletoe in sight. By the time he reached the office, he was practically buzzing with excitement because things were about to get a lot more entertaining.
“We start with the coffee machine in the break room,” Liam quietly reminds them, showing the excel on his tablet. “Operation Kissmas begins on lunch break. Be there sharp, both of you.”
Mistletoe Count: 1
Louis can’t believe he has to make his own coffee when he has a perfectly capable assistant whom he pays a pretty dime to do it for him. But knowing Harry, after their morning battle over a bloody disco ball, he would probably put something akin to poison—like pumpkin spice or worse, matcha—in his espresso just to annoy him. Of course, he’s speaking from experience. Having been down that road way too many times, Louis learned the hard way that Harry Styles, his annoyingly stubborn office assistant, can hold a fucking grudge.
Louis takes a big breath and hopes that two shots of espresso will be enough to get rid of the monster of a headache that started this morning; and he walks over to the break room to go get it from the better coffee maker. To Louis’ dismay, Harry is already standing by the coffee machine, just leaning on the counter, waiting for his plain white mug to be filled.
Louis literally has to drag his feet to the cabinets to grab his own cup, embossed with his company’s name, Tomlinson Events Inc. Maybe if he lingers there enough, Harry will be done with the machine, and Louis can avoid facing the passive-aggressive pain in his arse, and make a beeline for the safety of his office once he gets some caffeine in his system.
But of course, because Harry is determined to make his life hell, he turns to Louis with his now-filled coffee mug and clears his throat. Louis turns on his heel as he tries to keep a neutral expression—until he sees the mug in Harry’s hands. His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens as black text appears on the side of the mug like magic.
Because on the white mug, it says: LOUIS TOMLINSON IS THE WORST BOSS EVER in bold, capital letters.
“Really, Harold?”
Harry, with a nonchalant expression, looks at his mug like he’s just discovered what a sensitive mug is. “Oh, would you look at that? It’s a heat-sensitive mug with text on it. I had absolutely no idea.”
Louis clenches his teeth, silently repeating a bunch of over-aggressive swear words. “You’re being childish.”
“Well, if I didn’t desperately need my latte right now, I’d totally throw the mug on your head. How’s that for childish?”
Lovely. Even caffeine won’t cut it now. Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can you at least try to be a little bit professional?”
Harry takes a sip from his stupid mug. “I thought honest feedback was part of professionalism, no?” he raises it in Louis’s direction. “Cheers.”
If Louis starts screaming now, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop for at least a couple of hours. He takes a deep sanity-saver breath as he walks towards the coffee machine. “Are you quite finished?”
Harry beams at him, dimples full on display. “Never.”
Louis rolls his eyes as he puts his own mug under the machine and presses the button. He waits for the machine to start filling his cup as he mentally fights a nervous breakdown. It’s like Harry Styles wakes up everyday and thinks of ways to ruin Louis’ life with everything he can. The worst part is, Louis can’t fire him because Harry’s the best at this job. He has a way with people when it comes to talking them out of a bad decision, or sweet-talking them into better deals worth six figures. Louis doesn’t know how he does it, but every time Harry Styles manages to nail a perfect counteroffer at a negotiation table, Louis can’t decide if he wants to commit murder, or just kiss Harry on his ridiculously perfect mouth. Sometimes even both.
Lost in his inner turmoil, Louis doesn’t even notice the coffee machine finishing its job until Niall interrupts with a loud, “Cheers, lads!” around a mouthful of egg sandwich, spraying crumbs across the counter. “Nice mug, Harold.”
Harry smiles, and raises a mock toast to Niall. “I have one that says ’I survived another day with Louis Tomlinson’ if you want it.”
Louis gives him a deadly glare, when Niall almost chokes on his laughter. But then, Zayn and Liam also join them in the break room.
“I call the dibs on that one,” Zayn says, casually sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs.
Before Louis can deliver a snarky response to Harry’s smug face, or Zayn’s comment, Liam’s eyes move upward, and he freezes mid-step. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, would you look at that?” Liam says, pointing to the ceiling. “Mistletoe!”
The entire room turns their gaze upward, where a small sprig of mistletoe dangles suspiciously above the coffee machine. Meaning: Right above Louis and Harry.
Louis immediately stiffens. ”Who the hell put that there?”
“You know what that means, boss man,” Niall chirps, wiggling his eyebrows meaningfully. “Give us a kiss, or bad luck forever.”
Louis turns to glare at Harry, but finds Harry already glaring at him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Harry snaps, holding his coffee mug like it’s a shield.
“If anyone’s thinking about it, it’s you,” Louis fires back, jabbing a finger in his direction.
“Oh, please,” Harry scoffs. “I’d rather gouge my own eyes out.”
“And I’d rather kiss Niall’s arse. At least it wouldn’t make bitchy comments.”
Niall chokes on his sandwich. “Oi! Leave me arse out of this!”
“Good, then!” Harry shouts. “We’re on the same page. Never happening!”
Louis crosses his arms. “That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all day!”
“Thank you!” Harry shoots back, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
The room falls into stunned silence for a beat, broken only by Zayn muttering from the corner. “Wow. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
“Oh, come on!” Niall cries out, slamming his coffee mug on the counter. “It’s a peck, not a death sentence!”
Louis spins his glare toward Niall. “Not going to be my peck, but it’s definitely going to be your death sentence, Niall.”
Zayn sighs dramatically, already reaching for his pack of cigarettes. “Well, I’ll be outside to lead the police officers to the crime scene.”
Before Zayn can even get out of his chair, Liam grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him back down. “Not so fast, Zaynie,” he says, his tone firm. “You still have a job to do.”
Zayn groans, slumping back on his chair. “Right. Guys, kiss please?” He doesn’t even bother to sound convincing.
Louis glares at Zayn before turning his death stare to the mistletoe above him. “HR will be hearing about this.”
“Oh, they’ll be hearing from me first,” Harry says, his glare locked on Louis.
“If they can hear you over Mariah Carey on repeat,” Louis snaps.
Harry gasps, clearly offended. “It’s Christmas, Louis! What was I supposed to do? Play elevator music?”
Zayn groans and rubs his face. “For the love of God. Not the playlist again.”
Liam, desperate to calm the storm, chirps with an awkward smile. “None of us mind the Christmas playlist. I think we all need the festive vibes around here.”
“Well,” Louis retorts. “We could certainly do without the fake snow machine in the corridor.”
“What’s your problem with Christmas?” Harry snaps, fully turning to Louis now.
“My problem is you and your uncontrollable shopping addiction using the company budget.”
“It makes people smile,” Harry replies through clenched teeth. “You should try that sometime, you know.”
Louis takes a step toward Harry, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, I’m so fucking sorry, mate. Does my face ruin your festivity?”
Harry smirks, tilting his head. “Your face ruins everything.”
“Wow,” Niall cuts in with a clap. “Calm down, lovebirds. No need to make a scene here, just a little smooch, come on.”
Louis glares at him. “Niall, I swear to God, one more word and I’ll snog you instead.”
Niall winces, taking a step back. “Hell no.”
Zayn quickly stands up this time. “I’m outta here before it’s my turn.”
Mistletoe Count: 2
It’s a suspiciously calm Tuesday morning in the conference room. Sunshine spills across the big wooden table, there’s a still-steaming cup of coffee sitting neatly on the desk, and—most importantly—there’s no Michael Bublé blaring through the speakers. Louis takes a deep breath, basking in the moment as it’s a rare opportunity these days. He has to start working on the guest list for the company’s biggest event of the year: the corporate Christmas party.
This party isn’t just any party. It’s the Met Gala for every big company in the heart of London. Executives, clients, and influencers will be there, scrutinizing every detail, which means Louis takes the planning very seriously. He runs through everything with military precision. Last year, because Harry decided supporting local artists was an important part of the Christmas spirit, he hired a ceramic artist for the decorations. Unfortunately, the artist specialised in phallic forms. By the time Louis realised that his coworkers were staring at porcelain dicks in tiny Santa hats displayed as centrepieces, billions of photos were already taken and shared on various platforms with the caption #endofyearbonus. Louis spent the entire night guarding the mulled wine and Googling how long arson sentences last. So, yes, there will be no Styles intervention this year.
He carefully places the invitations on the table categorically, adding each guest’s name to an Excel sheet on his laptop before quickly dropping the letter into the pile of RSVPs. Occasionally, he takes a sip of his coffee. Life is good. Everything’s under control. It’s snowing gently outside, and for a moment, Louis allows himself to feel content—until he nearly chokes on his coffee when in comes a human avalanche (no, really, he staggers in under the weight of what looks like every single Christmas item ever sold within a ten mile radius) arms full of bags, fairy lights, a box that says fragile in aggressive red, and what appears to be a small tree. He immediately trips on absolutely nothing, and then one of the bags splits, ornaments rolling down, something glass shatters. Louis doesn’t even move from his seat to help him, just watches the scene unfold and counts the seconds until Harry drops a giant roll of red velvet fabric onto the table, scattering Louis’ neatly placed letters.
“We have a problem,” Harry announces, pulling a Santa hat out of nowhere and tossing it onto Louis’ laptop.
Louis freezes, staring at the instant chaos on his desk, his mouth opening slightly in disbelief.
“Our Santa for the Christmas party bailed,” Harry says. “And we can’t find a new one on such short notice.”
One day. Just one day of peace, Louis thinks. Apparently, that’s too much to ask.
“I’m sure there’s at least one fat bloke free on Christmas Eve in the whole city of London,” Louis mutters, barely glancing up from his laptop.
Harry shakes his head. “No luck.”
“Then I hope you have a brilliant plan to save the day,” Louis says, turning back to his Excel sheet.
“Well,” Harry starts, “if you’re willing to dress up as Santa for a change, I’ll gladly sit on your lap, boss.”
Louis freezes, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His ears heat up, and, to his absolute horror, there’s an unwelcome twitch in his pants. His heart stutters in his chest as well, skipping several beats.
Harry clears his throat awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Louis. “I meant that in a completely non-sexual way.”
Louis rolls his eyes, partly to dismiss Harry’s words and partly to hide his own reaction. “For the record, that’s never happening.”
Harry tilts his head. “You dressing up as Santa or me sitting on your lap?”
Louis fixes him a look. “Both.”
“Oh,” Niall cuts in, and for the first time, Louis’ glad to see his event manager joining in the conversation. “There you are, lads. The catering is asking for the final numbers.”
Louis pushes the fabric and the Santa hat out of his way with an annoyed look. “The list will be ready by lunch break,” he says, “…if Harry gets out of my hair and goes back to work like he’s being paid to.”
His comment goes unnoticed by Harry as usual, who just grabs the fabric roll and smiles at Niall. “Hey, Ni. Have you heard back from the rental service? I ordered a photo booth two days ago.”
One of Louis’ eyes give an involuntary twitch. “I thought we cancelled the photo booth.”
Harry puts one hand on his hip. “Nope, you cancelled it without putting it to a vote.”
“Because we already have a photographer,” Louis says, gritting his teeth.
Niall interrupts with a cheerful cackle. “Photo booth is already at the supply office, so no crying over spilled milk, am I right?”
Louis glares at Harry, while Harry lets out a delighted laugh and claps his hands. “Brilliant! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to work to earn that paycheck my wonderful boss provides.”
He walks to the door with glee, but no. Not so quick. Louis hurries to stand and step behind him, so full of fury that he doesn’t hear Niall’s quiet, “Showtime,” under his breath.
Louis catches Harry by the arm, and accidentally pulls him a little bit too close to himself. It’s a brief but awkward moment before Harry slaps his hand with a frown.
“You can’t make decisions without consulting the team,” Louis snaps, intentionally ignoring the blush spreading on Harry’s cheeks. And also, his pink tongue casually sliding over his bottom lip. He tries hard to ignore that, too.
“Funny this is coming from the guy who always makes decisions without consulting the team,” Harry snaps back.
“I already told you. The photo booth is unnecessary, extravagant, and—”
“Fun,” Harry cuts in. “You know that thing people enjoy at parties?”
Louis opens his mouth to disagree, but a sudden snort coming from Niall draws their attention. “What now?” Louis asks, directing the furious expression at Niall now.
Niall points upwards, barely hiding his delirious grin. “Look above you, lovers.”
Both Harry and Louis look up, finally noticing another sprig of mistletoe dangling innocently above their heads.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis groans, with another excited twitch in his pants. Him and his stupid prick are going to have an aggressive talk when he gets home because his insufferable assistant is absolutely not twitch-worthy material.
Harry stays rooted to his place, squinting suspiciously at Louis. “Is this your doing?”
“What?”
“Do you desperately keep hanging mistletoes around the office to kiss me?”
“Excuse me?” Louis nearly barks. “I’m not desperate!”
Harry shrugs. “You are a little, mate. Could list a few reasons why you’re still single, to be honest.”
Louis’ jaw drops. He shoves Harry out of his way with a red face. “You’re so fucking fired!” he calls over his shoulder.
Harry, smiling like the Cheshire cat, calls after. “I might let it happen if you give me a Christmas bonus!”
“Fuck off!” Louis shouts from the meeting room.
Niall turns to Harry with a shit-eating grin. “He wants to.”
Harry scoffs. “He can dream on.”
Mistletoe Count: 7
Louis sails through the next week fueled by five gallons of coffee, four mysteriously reappearing mistletoes (seriously, whoever keeps hanging these needs to start looking for a new job), three increasingly shameful wank sessions in the shower because the thought of kissing his useless assistant is apparently hot now, two hours spent Googling “non-creepy Santa cosplayers near me”, and one humiliating attempt to sneakily sabotage the photo booth that ended with him trapped inside, accidentally taking a bunch of panicked selfies before Harry found him, stealing the photos before running away.
By the end of the week, Louis is buried in paperwork, signing what feels like the thousandth document. His usually pristine desk is now a chaotic mess of end-of-year reports, sponsorship deals, event proposals, and a million other things waiting for his attention. Still, despite the mess, he takes pride in his office. It’s the one place in the entire building far away from Harry’s Christmas chaos.
There’s no tinsel, no decorations, no twinkling lights. The only festive touch is a small poinsettia on the windowsill, which HR forced him to keep there “for festivity”. Louis glares at it occasionally, because he is a grown adult who blames every inconvenience on a stupid Christmas plant.
He exhales as he signs another purchase order for this week’s big Christmas party. He rubs his temples, considering a five minute smoke break to get through the chaos.
But of course, break is a luxury as long as Harry Styles exists.
His office door swings open without so much as a knock, and Harry walks in, a Starbucks cup in one hand and a hat with reindeer horns perched on his head.
“Busy, boss?” he asks, setting the cup on Louis’ desk with a cheerful grin. His cheeks and lips are an annoying shade of pink, probably from the cold outside, or maybe he’s been kissing some poor bloke under the mistletoe. Not that Louis cares. Not one bit.
“Yes, actually,” Louis snaps, forcing his gaze anywhere but Harry’s mouth. “Because you’re an hour late, and I’m doing your work.”
Harry purses his plump, pink, and—not kissable—lips. Louis mentally groans. They’re just regular lips. Nothing to dwell on.
“Well,” Harry says, oblivious, “I was getting your coffee and I also got you something.”
Louis blinks, his attention snapping to the small brown bag in Harry’s hand. “What?”
Harry places the bag on the desk carefully, avoiding Louis’ organized chaos for once. “It’s a gift.”
Louis eyes the bag suspiciously, like it might explode in his face or something. “Why?”
Harry shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. “Because it’s your birthday in a couple of days and also Christmas.”
Louis narrows his eyes but finally reaches for the bag, curiosity getting the best of him. He unties the ribbon and pulls out a small bonsai tree and a scented candle labeled Stress Relief. There’s a handwritten note tucked inside: To survive working with me, h x
Harry gestures to the gifts. “The bonsai is to replace the poinsettia you sulk at every morning. And the candle… well, I think that one’s self-explanatory.”
Louis sets the gifts on his desk, staring at them a little longer than necessary. He opens his mouth to say something, but for once, he has no idea what he intends to say; probably something cutting, defensive or mortifyingly honest, but nothing makes it out. His brain is stuck on the image of Harry standing there with pink cheeks and a soft smile (with even softer eyes), giving him a fuckass tree like he’s giving his actual heart.
Harry purses his lips again—maybe he catches the moment too, because his eyes soften just a fraction. “Relax, it’s not a trap. Just a present,” he says quietly. “And maybe a teeny tiny attempt to make you smile once this month.”
It lands somewhere dangerous. Straight to a place in Louis’ chest, and settles there warmly. A feeling so gross, gooey and uncomfortable spreads all over.
Louis hates it.
He clears his throat, keeping his lips in a thin line. “Well, you failed.”
“Sure, I did,” Harry murmurs, dimple deepening. He turns to leave, backing towards the door with his reddish cheeks, infuriating smile, and definitely not-kissable lips. Louis’ eyes try so hard not to follow him, but he fails horribly.
Harry pauses at the doorknob and looks back wearing a different smile now. A smug one; his usual brand. Good. Louis prefers this one. The unsettlingly considerate version of Harry had him one nice word away from cardiac arrest. That Harry can stand down. The gremlin has now returned.
“Oh, and I just realized you’re a Capricorn. That actually explains a lot.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“The perfectionism, and the control issues. Your complete inability to be spontaneous—"
“It’s called being organised,” Louis says, narrowing his eyes. “Something adults do.”
“No,” Harry shakes his head slowly. “Something Capricorns do. You’d email the whole company a five pages long revised schedule if the apocalypse came early and you’d even cc the God and angels in there.”
Louis crosses his arms., head tilting to the said. “What’s your sign then?”
“Aquarius.”
“Is that the annoying one?”
“Yes.”
Louis raises his eyebrows. “Figured.”
Harry beams, then breaks into a melody. “Acting like you wouldn’t crumble without the annoying one doesn’t make it any betteeeer…”
“Stop singing at me.”
”Deny it aaaallllll you want, but you neeeeed meee—”
“I survived twenty-odd years before the annoying one.”
Harry sing-songs even louder. ”Aaaand look how tense your shoulders areeee.”
Louis rubs his temples. “Get out of my office.”
”Haven't finished my choooorus yeeet—”
“Get out!”
Humming triumphantly, Harry turns to leave, opens the door, and immediately jerks back as a mistletoe dangles right above his head, startling him like a surprise clown box.
He then turns back at Louis, with a smug little grin, and blows him a dramatic, over-the-top kiss flicked right off his fingertips.
And then…
He gets to the chorus.
“Meeeerry Kissmas, booooosssss!”
Louis throws a pen after him.
Operation Kissmas: Phase Two
In Niall Horan’s professional opinion, calm mornings are the perfect time to manufacture chaos. Even though the air is crisp enough to freeze his arse off and he has to wear three different scarves to avoid his nose falling off his face, he is clutching a clipboard to his chest which he definitely stole from Liam, grinning mischievously at his two accomplices.
For reasons only God and his ex-therapist knows, Niall decided to double down on their secret mission on the coldest day of the century, determined to step up his genius plan to something more like Love Actually: But If Niall Horan Wrote and Directed It.
Zayn is standing on the corner, smoking indoors because that was the only way Niall could get him to agree to do this, and Liam has both an ugly vest and glasses on, ready to project-manage another phase of —some may also call it emotional sabotage— Operation Kissmas.
“Alright, lads,” he announces, clapping his gloved hands. “Welcome to Phase Four.”
“I thought we were moving on to Phase Three,” Zayn says from the corner, puffing a cloud of smoke as he speaks. Niall’s adorable, little dragon, this one. “Wasn’t installing mistletoes in the elevator yesterday Phase Two?”
“I skipped Phase Two after this absolute tosser refused to climb up the stairs and push the elevator button on all twelve floors,” Niall answers, raising an eyebrow at Liam. “All those hours spent in the gym, and for what? Fucking nothing.”
Liam’s jaw dropped. “Elevator is a service that helps like a gazillion of corporate employees, especially right before lunch time!”
“Sacrifices must be made,” Niall says. “Anyways, back to my masterplan.”
He spins his clipboard around dramatically, letting the audience see the colour-coded flowchart only a genius could’ve come up with.
Zayn blinks in mild fear because on the top it says: Advanced Intervention Plan.
“What the fuck is that?” Zayn asks.
“This, my friend, is how you engineer an inconvenience severe enough to force collaboration.”
Liam squints. “I didn’t even know you could read.”
“Shut up, Liam.”
“You can make this stuff but you need me to open an Excel file for you?”
Niall ignores him. “So, I’ve planned a non-life threatening…” he pauses, “…uhm, logistic crisis.”
Zayn yanks the clipboard from Niall to get a closer look. “Which apparently involves lying to several CEOs, bribing the venue caretaker and…” he pauses flatly, “sending a fake e-mail from the fire department?”
Niall shrugs, casually confident because he's surprisingly never been sued. “The fire department thing was Liam’s idea.”
Liam’s jaw drops again. “I literally told you not to do that like four different times.”
“Yes, and I heard you,” Niall nods. “I chose not to listen though.”
Zayn leans in on another flowchart with enough sticky notes attached to make everything hardly readable. “Care to explain what Weather Manipulation means?”
“Well,” Niall says, clearing his throat. “I studied the psychology of bonding under stressful conditions last night, and—“”
“You did what?”
“—and apparently people get closer A: when it’s cold outside, and B: when they’re suffering through a shared traumatic event.”
Zayn raises an eyebrow. “So you created a traumatic event?”
“A mild one!” Niall squeaks. “Just, you know, some decorations collapse and the threat of hypothermia looms. A little bit of a snow storm if my timing is right—”
“You can’t possibly simultaneously control everything to get them to cuddle under a blanket in the middle of nowhere.”
“You can if you have already broken the heat panel over the roof, been constantly checking the weather forecast for the last eight days, corner the venue caretaker, buy a WiFi drone, and hope for the best.”
Zayn lights another cigarette purely to cope with all this nonsense. “You need to be put down.”
Liam stares. “Genuinely terrified.”
Niall beams with pride. “Thank you.”
Mistletoe Count: 12
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: Venue Update (do not yell at me)
Hi boss!!
Quick one. The client wants to move the Christmas party outside. Gotta pop over to the new venue today.
-Harry x
From: Louis Tomlinson
To: Harry Styles
Subject: Re: Venue Update (do not yell at me)
No.
-L.
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: Re: Re: Venue Update (do not yell at me)
Wishful thinking xx
The venue caretaker just emailed saying the heating is dead and the generator is not in a good condition to join us this Christmas. And there is, apparently, occasional indoor snowfall, which is either a poetic metaphor or a later-Harry problem.
Also, a teeny tiny detail: you know the thing where people nod along when they don’t understand a word someone says because they haven’t had their first coffee yet? Yeah, that exact thing happened to me. So I may have enthusiastically agreed for youandme to take pictures of the venue.
Anyway, I booked us a car. You free in an hour? <3
-Harry xx
From: Louis Tomlinson
To: Harry Styles
Subject: DO NOT PUT HEARTS IN A WORK EMAIL
ARE YOU CLINICALLY INSANE?
I’m not going. I refuse to step foot in a freezing death trap with you.
-L.
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: <33333333333
Don’t be dramatic. It’s not a death trap. It’s an adventure for us. Trust me!!!!!
-Harry xx
From: Louis Tomlinson
To: Harry Styles
Subject: Re: <33333333333
The last time I trusted you, you got us banned from the Hilton for life.
-L.
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: 3<<<
First of all, the Hilton accident happened because you refused to cooperate with the team and kicked the karaoke machine.
Second, if you’re wondering what “3<<<“ means, it’s you shitting on everyone’s festive vibes.
-Harry xx
From: Louis Tomlinson
To: Harry Styles
Subject: Re: 3<<<
Oh, is that what it means? Fantastic. Let me add a couple more for accuracy: 3<<<<<<<<<<
PS: If I see you in yet another hideous Christmas jumper, may God have mercy on your soul because I absolutely will not.
Car park in ten minutes.
-L.
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: 🍆💦
I’m not saying your threat turned me on a little, but if you see me walking funny, mind your own business.
PS: Today’s sweater is attached. Festive vibes are on and morale is up (among other things 🍆)
-Harry 💋
From: Louis Tomlinson
To: Harry Styles
Subject: NO
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HARRY. THIS IS A COMPANY SERVER. DELETE THIS WHOLE EMAIL THREAD BEFORE I CC HR AND GET YOU FIRED.
From: Harry Styles
To: Louis Tomlinson
Subject: Re: NO
(me=santa)🎅👉👌💦🧝(my elf=you)
Mistletoe Count: 13
Louis hopes that God is currently taking prayer requests because there is absolutely no way he can spin this in his favor without some shiny divine intervention.
The new venue looks like a haunted orphanage. Perfect place to get frostbite and possibly tetanus if you touched literally anything. The exterior has crumbling brickwork that has probably seen much better days. The windows are thin and tall, as if the ghosts of children who died of an incurable desease tried to stretch them to get more vitamins from the sunlight, possibly during the Black Plague. Everything is in a depressing colour, smelling heavily of asbestos. In Louis’ humble opinion: it’s a fucking nightmare.
When they reach the wooden door, Louis stops dead in the snow because he can see the lights flickering inside like they are trying to communicate Morse Code for get out. Harry, of course, does not stop, because he has less survival instincts than a fucking pigeon standing in the middle of traffic.
Louis grabs him by the arm when he steps over a pile of snow and very nearly eats the pavement face-first. “Try not to die before we even go inside.”
Harry steadies himself on Louis; hands lingering and body heat seeping through his thin clothes entirely unnecessary. Louis shoves him off with a glare.
Harry grins. “You really think I’d die before seeing the look on your face when you realise how bad it is inside?”
Louis stomps toward the door. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he says flatly. “This place screams hypothermia.”
“How long are you gonna keep this up, boss? Would you rather be stuck in your office, bored out of your arse? Look at us! We are outside!”
“We’ll be on the news tomorrow,” Louis mutters, ignoring him, “two idiots found frozen to death in a haunted house.”
“It’s an adventuuuuure.”
“Shut up.”
“We’re gonna have soooo much fuuuuun.”
Louis turns back to give him a deadly glare. “Seriously, Harry. I’m having a horrible day, and your singing is making everything catastrophically worse.”
“Why do you always hate joy?”
“I don’t hate joy. I hate you.”
Harry gives him a wounded look that’s probably been practiced in front of the mirror a couple of times. “Meaaaaaniieeeee.”
As soon as Louis turns toward the door again, a snowball hits him on the back of his head out of nowhere, with the sound of Harry giggling followed right after.
He closes his eyes to get a little bit of his sanity back, inhaling slowly, and then turns around to see Harry already crouched in the snow, rolling another snowball between his ridiculously big hands. His flushed cheeks are a pretty contrast with his green eyes full of mischief.
Louis fixes him a careful look. “Don’t.”
Harry beams, eyes shining as he deliberately throws the second snowball anyway. Not even light with it, fully committed.
Louis dodges it. “Harry.”
“Loooouuuiiiiis.”
“Stop fucking singing.”
“Too laaaaaate.”
“I’m not having a snowball fight with you.”
Harry tosses the snowball between his hands. “You already are.”
“No, I’m not—”
Harry throws it and smacks Louis on the shoulder with a humiliating thunk.
Louis stops dead. He blinks once, buffering through several murder options as the wheels on his mind are turning overtime. But no. He can’t come up with an option merciful enough.
Harry’s smile falters. “That didn’t hurt. It was lighthearted.”
“Right,” Louis says, bending down to scoop up a handful of snow. Fully committed now that the fight has begun. “Let’s be lighthearted together, then.”
It’s a big fucking snowball. He raises an eyebrow at Harry, challenging him to say one more word.
“Louis—”
Not waiting to hear the end of it, Louis launches the snowball. It hits the curly head square on the face.
Harry sputters snow out of his mouth, wiping at his eyelashes. “That was violent!”
“That was restrained actually,” Louis says, already scooping more ammunition. “Don’t test my fucking range, mate.”
Harry lifts both of his hands. “You don’t really want to do this.”
“Oh, I really do.”
“Boss—”
Louis fires it again with no hesitation or remorse and manages to land it just above Harry’s sternum.
“Jesus Christ!” Harry breathes. “Do you practice when no one’s looking?”
“That was a polite one.”
Harry’s jaw drops. “What’s the impolite version?”
Louis shrugs and crouches down to scoop more snow.
“That was a rhetorical question—”
Another perfect hit at Harry’s face.
Harry wheezes. “How the fuck do you aim so well?”
“You’re tall,” Louis says. “Hard to miss.”
Harry scrambles to gather a handful of snow himself. “Fine, if you can be violent, then so can I.”
“You can try.”
Harry throws it but sails several inches too high, hits the tree branch behind Louis. A pathetic shower of snow drifts down onto Louis’ head.
“Miserable.”
Harry frowns. “Well, you’re short, so,” he mutters under his breath. “You know. Small target.”
Louis throws another one, hitting Harry in the chest with enough force to hurt but not enough to injure anything.
Harry cries. “You can’t keep hitting me like that!”
“I can,” Louis says, smirking, “because you can’t hit me back.”
It winds Harry up properly, so he lobs another one, missing by a full foot.
“My niece could aim better and she is two years old.”
“It’s the wind.”
“There’s no wind.”
“Then the snow is wrong!”
Louis scoffs. “Is that your excuse? Wrong snow?”
Harry mutters something under his breath, gathers more snow and finally manages to hit Louis on the shoulder this time.
“Ha! Bullseye!”
Louis does nothing. Instead he crouches, scoops a new handful of snow, and tosses it straight into Harry's throat.
Harry lets out a strangled (and somewhat unmanly) sound. He then retaliates almost instantly by slapping Louis in the leg.
Then they both take off running and it’s not exactly a sprint. Not exactly strategic either. Just two adult men racing across the snowy landscape, throwing poorly formed snowballs at one another like savage toddlers with grievances. They probably look ridiculous; two morons loose in the wild, more falling down is involved than running, not exactly the kind of thing you should be doing during corporate time.
Harry continues to laugh as if today is the best day of his life; Louis continues to curse as if this is a life-or-death situation. When Harry attempts to duck behind a tree but misjudges it and hits the tree trunk head-on, he almost sends himself sliding onto the ground. Louis stops long enough to shout "Man down," before sending another snowball Harry's way. Harry lets out a yell, scurries sideways; trips and grabs Louis' jacket to stop himself from falling.
Which is… not good. Because Louis loses his own balance and now both of them are sliding across the snowy ground as if they were two shopping carts on ice, and they keep moving until they crash into a pile behind an old stone planter. Snow explodes everywhere; all down Louis' back, up Harry's neck, and into both of their mouths.
They're in a heap, breathing heavily, and in extreme close proximity. Harry’s pinned by Louis with half his body lying on top of him, and Louis’ holding himself up with one hand buried in the snow; a look of pure hatred in his eyes.
Harry smirks, his ridiculously red nose only inches away from Louis’, their heartbeats loud enough to synchronise between the little space they share. The air is so fucking crisp, yet Louis feels suspiciously warm with the heat seeping through Harry’s clothes.
“You’re pretty up-close.”
Louis tries extremely hard to ignore that. “I’m pretty everywhere.”
“Wanna kiss?”
With reddening cheeks, Louis pushes himself up —or he tries to— but the snow beneath them isn’t really helping. “Only if hell freezes over,” he murmurs as he slides right back down, ending up even closer than before.
Harry purses his lips, glancing around at the ice-bitten venue. “Seems we’re nearly there.”
“Either you shut your mouth or I’m going to make this very unpleasant for you, Harry.”
Harry huffs a laugh through his nose. “You already are, sitting on my bollocks.”
“Didn’t even feel anything, you know. They must be really tiny.”
“Maybe you’re just numb from the waist down,” Harry mutters, his knee moving down dangerously close to Louis’ crotch. “I heard it happens when you don’t get laid often.”
“Or maybe it’s from the secondhand embarrassment of laying on top of you right now.”
A dimpled grin breaks across Harry’s face. “Describe to me what part’s embarrassing. My hips, or my legs? Orrrr the shockingly firm—”
Louis’ palms dig deeper into the snow as his knees slip again. “Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, trying to get up, but the snow betrays him, and his hips accidentally grind forward a few inches lower.
“Oi,” Harry wheezes. “If you keep moving like that I’m gonna need a safe word.”
Louis swears under his breath, bracing himself again. “I’m trying to get off you—”
“You’re failing spectacularly, mate—”
“Fucking hell—”
“—almost like you want this.”
“I don’t—” Louis pushes himself up one more time but Harry moves at the same time and they are on the ground again. “For fuck’s sake, stay—still—”
Harry, naturally, does the opposite. Which sends his thigh slipping between Louis’ legs —exactly where it shouldn’t be— pressing against the rough outline in Louis’ jeans.
Both of them freeze in an instant with the sudden rush of that unexpected contact.
“Jesus Christ,” Harry says, breaking the silence. “Is that where you store your huge ego, or—”
Los grabs a fistful of snow and shoves it straight into Harry’s face. Finally managing to shut him the fuck up.
Mistletoe Count: 14
The moment Louis steps inside the venue, he knows they’re royally fucked. There’s absolutely no way he could host the most important event of the year here, considering the amount of spiderwebs clinging to his clothes by his fourth step. The venue is covered in dust, mould, and an ungodly smell that’s most likely piss. The furniture inside is all broken, with a couple of chandeliers casting a low, eerie light.
If it was Halloween, this place would do wonders. For Christmas, though, you’d have to run a monster truck over Louis Tomlinson’s dead body.
“No, no no no,” he repeats, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. We are going back to the original venue.”
“The original venue is already booked by someone else, Boss,” Harry replies, inspecting a dusty little Madonna cherub figurine in his hand. The angel’s fucking head is gone. “We will be hosting most of it in the garden anyways. The inside is just for keeping the guests alive by the fireplace so that they don’t get hypothermia.”
“I’m not ruining my company by accidently murdering the richest people of London here.”
Harry rolls his eyes, skittering toward the huge fireplace to inspect it. “Can you relax?” He mutters, practically shoving his stupid head inside the chimney to look up. “Nothing we can’t fix with a good cleaning and some decorations.”
Some decorations, he says, Louis thinks to himself. Hopefully the decorations don’t involve any cocks this time.
A sudden whoosh rattles the windows, followed by the strong gust of wind from the chimney that smacks Harry in the face and coats him in ash.
Louis raises an eyebrow. “Want me to add you to the cleaning list, or do you wanna continue clinging to the illusion of management?”
Harry coughs. “Oh, shut up. We’ve worked in worse places. Ones with actual crime histories.”
Before Louis can open his mouth and fire back a sarcastic response, the lights start to flicker. Outside, the howling wind gets louder, shaking the windows so hard Louis is surprised the glass didn’t give up entirely.
He peers outside. “What was that—”
Snow slams against the windows in thick, aggressive sheets, and in the span of three seconds, visibility drops to absolutely nothing.
“Okay,” Harry says carefully. “That’s…”
“A full-blown snowstorm.”
“I was gonna say a minor hiccup—”
With another violent gust, the roof of the building groans and they both meet eyes—wide with the realisation that…they’re stuck here.
“Great,” Louis says. “Snowstorm in a bloody murder house. Hope you’re proud.”
Harry rubs his visibly cold hand together. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“You dragged me here and started a fucking snowball fight, so thank a lot for that. Now, we’re soaked, freezing, and literally five minutes away from death.”
Another strong gust rattles the whole building this time. Harry shivers, probably already starting to freeze to death because his coat is wetter due to lying on his back on the snow. Louis looks away.
“A bit dramatic, innit?” Harry mumbles under his breath.
“I’m underreacting, to be fair,” Louis snaps. “I should be fucking screaming right now.”
When Harry shivers again, and Louis exhales through his nose. He steps in front of the fireplace, crouching to see if it works. He pokes the logs, then reaches for his back pocket to get his lighter out. Surprisingly, the flame catches on the first try and soon enough logs start to cackle, heat blooming into the damp room quickly.
“Oh,” Harry breathes from somewhere in the back.
Louis straightens quickly. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you absolutely were.”
Barely managing to suppress his smug expression, Harry moves closer to the fireplace, hands outstretched. His shoulders finally loosen up a bit, and he sighs softly. Content with the heat embracing his cold body.
Louis looks away again, trying to act like he didn’t notice the huge, wet spot on the back of Harry’s coat. Probably the reason he kept shivering wildly in the first place.
Louis turns his back to him, trying to ignore the creepy feeling in his chest, but—
Fucking hell.
He shrugs out of his coat —rolling his eyes as he does so— and tosses it at Harry without thinking twice.
“Dry off,” he says. “Your coat is fucked.”
Harry looks surprised. “Are you trying to be nice?”
“It’s self-preservation,” Louis says flatly, shuffling closer to the fire himself now that he doesn’t have his coat on. “If you die, I”ll have to explain it to the cops.”
He kind of waits for Harry to say something stupid, just anything to kill the unusually soft mood that Louis involuntarily created. But Harry doesn’t say anything back; he just pulls Louis’ coat on, looking unbearably soft as the warmth sinks in. Louis forgets to look away this time.
“Thank you,” Harry says, quietly.
The fire crackles in front of them as the storm howls outside, bringing their frozen joints slowly back to life. And Harry edges a little closer to him by the fireplace.
Louis lets him.
They watch the steady flames for a while, staring at in deep silence as if there's something important happening in the fire. There isn’t, but it keeps them busy.
But then Harry clears his throat. “Don’t freak out,” he says.
“When you start a sentence with that, it’s impossible not to.”
Harry reaches inside his coat and breaks out a full bottle of liquor. Louis stares at it a moment, and then at Harry.
“Why…” he starts slowly but doesn’t quite know how to continue, “do you have that?”
“Found it in a cupboard back there.”
“In this building?”
“Yes.”
“Which smells like piss?”
Harry shrugs. “It’s sealed, and I didn’t wanna leave it behind.”
Louis lets out a disbelieving laugh. “That sentence says so much about you, mate.”
Harry twists the cap. “It’ll help with the cold.”
“That’s a myth, I believe.”
“If you wanna freeze on principle, that’s fine by me,” Harry says, taking a careful sip, wincing as he does so. “Christ, that’s strong.”
Despite himself, Louis watches him take another sip; the way Harry relaxed just a bit, his shoulders drooping and eyes softening. Then he holds the bottle out for Louis.
Hesitant, Louis blinks, eyes going back and forth between the bottle and Harry.
“Come on. I took two sips and I’m only mildly blind.”
Louis rolls his eyes, taking the bottle and tries a small sip. “Jesus, is this battery fuel or what?”
Harry chuckles. “Stop being a pussy. You probably had worse things in your mouth.”
“None of them burned on the way down, though.”
They pass the bottle back and forth a few times. Even though Louis hates to agree with Harry, the mysterious liquor does help his frozen knuckles.
“So like, are you, um—” Harry starts, then aborts halfway through. “This is a stupid question.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “All your questions are.”
Harry ignores him, gesturing vaguely somewhere between the fire and the bottle. “Are you, you know, a men guy?”
“A men guy?” Louis says, chuckling. “Is that your politically correct term?”
Harry looks at him over the rim of the bottle. “Just answer the question, Louis.”
“Yes, I’m a men guy” Louis answers the unspoken question easily. “Are you?”
Harry snorts. “Have you met me?”
“Fair,” Louis says, taking the bottle back from Harry. “Had to be sure you weren’t just aggressively friendly.”
“That’s also fair,” Harry says. “Not mutually exclusive, though.”
Louis huffs a laugh. “Good, this conversation would’ve been deeply humiliating otherwise.”
“I think it still is,” Harry says, taking a sip. “Just now that we’re both involved, I feel a bit better.”
“Nothing I love more than shared humiliation.”
Harry giggles. “Isn’t it very bonding?”
Louis eyes the bottle in his hand. Did he just fucking giggle? He yanks the bottle with a little more force than necessary.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re not my type.”
“Give it a few more sips.”
“Fuck off.”
Harry giggles again. Louis squints at him, cautiously taking in his flushed cheeks, stupidly deep dimples, and bunny teeth poking between his wide, liquor-kissed lips. Which causes that weird little warm feeling to bloom between his ribs. Fuck that. He looks away, diverting his eyes back to the fire again.
Now that the conversation seems to die, Louis expects one of those silences to come back again, but no, Harry lets his mouth loose after a few sips of alcohol apparently.
“Why do you hate me, Louis Tomlinson?” he asks, sounding eerily cheerful despite his heavy question.
Louis sighs. “I don’t hate you.”
Harry snorts. “You absolutely do.”
“I don’t,” Louis says firmly. “I just…I don’t like the way you act.”
“How’s that any better?”
Oh, God. That was definitely a whine.
Louis turns to look at him again. “You act like nothing ever matters, like it’s all a joke to you.”
Another whine immediately follows. “That’s not fair!”
“You show up to work late, push every single one of my buttons, and you never take anything seriously—”
“I take things seriously!”
Louis takes a longer sip this time. “You started a snowball fight during a work visit.”
“Okay, that was a good example.” Harry mumbles, wincing a little. “I just don’t like being tense all the time.”
Louis raises an eyebrow. “Well, I’m tense all the time because someone has to,” he says. “And it’s never you.”
Harry shifts closer to the fire, closer to him. “I don’t push you because I hate you. I push you because it’s so easy to get a reaction out of you.”
Louis can’t help but study his face for a moment. He spends an extra on the way firelight softens his features, casting shadows underneath the locks curling around his cherubic face, making him look way younger than he actually is.
“Maybe,” he starts after a long pause, “you wouldn’t get on my nerves so much if you stopped pretending you don’t care.”
Harry purses his lips like a spoiled little boy. “Then try not to assume I don’t care.”
Louis pointedly avoids his gaze, not wanting to give anything away, but it doesn’t stop either of them from knowing Harry is right.
Jesus. Did his inner voice just say Harry was right?
Louis is still stuck on that absolutely horrifying realisation when he hears the faint buzzing that doesn’t belong to the wind or any of the other alarming noises that the building currently makes. It takes him a moment to clock it, mostly because the venue is full of haunted sounds, but this one is different. It has a mechanical and steady rhythm.
He looks around. “Do you hear that?”
Harry, who has been leaning too close to both the fire and Louis, doesn’t even look up. “Mmh?”
The buzzing grows louder, quickly irritating Louis as it also grows nearer as well. He scans the dark room, trying to locate where the sound is coming from, and then he instinctively looks up, mouth hanging open the moment he realises where the sound is coming from.
“What the…”
He nudges Harry, trying to urge him to look up.
For a whole minute, they both stare upwards, genuinely wondering if the alcohol has finally tipped them into shared hallucinations.
Because hovering above them is a wobbling, blinking, buzzing drone. And dangling from one of its legs—
“Why is there mistletoe?” Harry asks.
Louis splutters. “Why is there a drone?”
The drone dips lower clumsily, then correcting itself quickly like it's being controlled by a pilot with terrible reflexes. The mistletoe slips loose and drops directly between them, brushing Louis’ shoe.
Harry stares at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why does this keep happening?”
“This is, what, the fourteenth time? There’s someone behind this.”
Louis gives him a look. “Don’t start again.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I’m not putting mistletoe everywhere to kiss you.”
The drone hums quietly, circling close to their heads, and then drifts to the fireplace. They both watch as it hovers directly over the flames.
“Oh, no,” Louis says, “No no no—”
The fire swallows the drone, sparks flying everywhere after a violent crack, embers bursting upward.
“Fuck!”
The explosion catches Harry off-guard; he yelps and jumps back on instinct—straight into Louis’ lap— hands gripping his shoulders. It’s pure instinct when Louis’ arms come up automatically, fingers gripping Harry’s waist before he can stop himself. It’s just a survival instinct. Absolutely nothing else. Why does he keep them there, you might ask. And he shall never answer that with honesty.
For reasons he will not be unpacking tonight, he doesn’t let go of him.
“What the fuck was that?” Harry asks, breathing hard as he keeps clinging to Louis’ shoulder.
Louis opens his mouth to answer and immediately loses the thread of the question because Harry’s on his lap, warm, soft, shaking a little, and Louis’ hands are still on him as if that’s a perfectly normal place for them to be.
Which it isn’t.
At all.
“It’s—” Louis starts but then quickly stops when he realises how hoarse his voice sounds. “It’s gone. You can let go now.”
Harry, however, doesn’t even move a muscle. Louis tells himself it’s fine. He’s probably startled or whatever. But then he lifts his head and…shit. His eyes are green and deep and shining with something—
“Oh,” Harry says, lips curling into a slow, knowing smile. “I saw that.”
Louis gapes. “What?”
Harry’s eyes flick briefly to Louis’ mouth, then back up again. “That look.”
Louis is panicking. “What look?”
“You looked like you wanted to kiss me.”
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you,” Harry replies easily.
Louis stutters. “That—that doesn’t mean—”
“Oh my god,” Harry drawls, smug as ever. “You want to kiss me so bad—-”
Louis’ jaw tightens. “Get off.”
“No.”
“Harry—”
“Stop acting like I imagined it.”
“Nothing even happened.”
“You froze,” Harry says, inching his face even closer. “You never freeze.”
Pulse loud in his ears, Louis opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. His traitor hands are still on Harry, refusing to let go.
“Get off my lap.”
“And now you’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re annoyed so you don’t have to explain why your big emotions failed you.”
“My emotions did not—”
“And you’re breathing weird!” Harry exclaims, crowding him even more. “Which is also new, like very very new…”
Harry goes on talking over him, relentless, and Louis’ head is spinning from both the alcohol and the close proximity. His stupid voice is everywhere, filling up the space Louis is so desperate trying to reclaim.
“Will you just—”
“—because if you didn’t want to kiss me, you would’ve pushed me off already, and you didn’t, and your hands are shaking, which, by the way, feels worth addressing before you pretend this is just the alcohol, or the cold, or whatever other extremely convincing lie you’re about to tell yourself, but I’ve seen that look, so I think what’s happening here is that you do want to kiss me, and you’re just waiting for—”
And that’s as far as it gets.
Louis stops thinking. Because if he did, he’d probably realise why this is a terrible idea, or at least form one reasonable objection, or maybe just tell Harry to shut the fuck up already like a normal person would do. Instead, he does exactly that in the most insensible way possible.
He surges forward and kisses him mid-sentence, doesn’t even wait for that stupid monologue to finish. That little ramble Harry has been going on breathlessly for the last five minutes cuts off when Louis’ mouth covers his with a brutal force. It’s clumsy and sudden, knocking the breath out of Harry who makes a startled sound that suggests he had several more stupid points and is now rudely prevented from continuing his useless narration. Not that Louis would ever apologise for that, but he at least curls his hands into Harry’s jacket, pressing closer because he needs the leverage to make this mistake worthwhile.
To Louis’ surprise the kiss is full of frustration mixed with intensity and badly timed feelings, entirely unplanned but somehow feels like the most perfect, undecorated answer that they’ve both just been complete idiots for not getting sooner.
Harry loosens after a full minute of uncertainty, melting into it because of course he does, because apparently this is what finally shuts him up, and the thought alone is so stupidly infuriating that Louis kisses him harder purely out of spite.
When Louis pulls back just enough to take a breather, he can feel his heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.
“Next time,” Louis says, completely out of breath, “maybe just shut the fuck up.”
Mistletoe Count: Irrelevant
Louis would like it to be officially on the record that none of this would be happening if a random man named Derek had not texted sozz m8 emrjency at three fourty-five in the afternoon and then turned his phone off like a fucking coward. Fucking Derek who was supposed to be the fucking Santa. Fucking Derek, who had decided that whatever this emergency was, it held more importance than the moral responsibility of abandoning a room full of corporate people to a fucking Christmas event with absolutely no Santa around, but too many top-shelf liquor bottles.
This is why Louis is dressed up as Santa Claus at a corporate event, which is not a sentence he ever expected to think, let alone live through. As their hired Santa bailed just before the kickoff, the collective agreement involved Louis wearing a borrowed red suit that smells like alcohol, sweat and a million other things Louis wouldn’t even dare to name right now. At least his chair is positioned far too near the bar, so whenever he feels like committing suicide he can just reach for another vodka Red Bull.
He is also sleep-deprived, which is how he knows —for a fact— that hypothermia technically counts as an insurance liability if it can be proven that the venue failed to provide reasonable heating, and also there are seventeen different ways the word reasonable can ruin your life depending on which court you ask. He knows this because he was up all night reading about lawsuits. Like, all of them. His nightmares now consist of important people losing a toe to frostbite at a party Louis was technically responsible for.
And he’d had to deal with all of it alone, because Liam had gone down with something flu-adjacent, Zayn had vanished entirely the second paperwork entered the conversation, Harry had been pointedly ignoring him ever since they kissed in that godforsaken murder house, and Niall had kept asking questions that all sounded suspiciously like he knew exactly what had happened between Harry and Louis and was enjoying watching Louis go scarlet every time his name came up.
Between all this bullshit, Harry’s avoidance is the part that sticks the most. Harry hasn’t even done anything overt. Wasn’t cruel, dramatic, or even oblivious about it. He was just absent, busy, always on the other side of the room, looking anywhere except Louis’ way, as if their kiss was something that might be forgotten if one of them acknowledged it. As if it hadn’t happened at all.
It leaves Louis stranded somewhere between irritation and something far more softer and far more dangerous, sitting in a Santa costume he never agreed to wear in the first place, desperately trying not to think about the fact that the last time Harry had looked at him properly was the time he’d been close enough to steal the breath out of his lungs.
Drowning in his misery, he doesn’t even notice him at first.
Or rather, he doesn’t notice his physical presence. He hears his laughter cutting through the room, and then catches his wild curls in his peripheral vision. Soon after, Harry appears in front of him with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, possibly several drinks in. His green orbs take in the red suit, the beard, the throne-like chair, and then Louis’ face, and something lights up behind his eyes like he just got a Christmas gift he wants to wildly misuse like the naughty child he can be in crucial times like this.
“I thinkkkkk,” Harry slurs, swaying on his feet, gaze fixed on Louis with unfocused intensity, gesturing vaguely at his lap, “I’m meant to sit here.”
“You’re absolutely not—”
Of course, Harry doesn’t listen. He simply turns and drops onto Louis’ lap like a sack, the half-full Cosmo in his hand sloshing violently, sending pink coloured liquid everywhere including Louis’ neatly styled hair.
Louis jerks. “Jesus,” he mutters, grabbing him on instinct and immediately realising this is, yet another, mistake.
Because a) they’re touching again, b) he is Santa Claus, c) they’re in public, d) there’s a drunk man on his lap with alcohol slowly sinking through his red trousers.
“We had a deal,” Harry announces cheerfully. “You dress up as Santa, and I sit on your lap.”
“That was not a deal.”
“You agreed.”
“I specifically told you none of those things should happen,” Louis says through his teeth.
Harry hums, adjusting himself which causes a shiver to run down through Louis’ stupid body. “Feels right, though.”
“It feels horribly illegal, actually,” Louis says through the fake beard. “Get up.”
Harry leans back. “People sit on Santa’s lap.”
“Children do,” Louis mutters. “You’re thirty years old and drunk.”
“But I wanna tell Santa what I want for Christmas!”
“I am not Santa.”
Harry purses his lips, sideways on his lap, boneless and warm. “You’re literally wearing the outfit.”
“Then you’re on the naughty list,” Louis says, attempting to shove Harry off him. “Get up now.”
As a person who has never responded well to being told what to do, Harry does the opposite, casually hooking an arm around Louis’ shoulder like they are posing for a photo nobody should ever take.
Louis goes warm all over. It’s a full-body flush that starts somewhere inconvenient and spreads fast, considering his exhaustion, proximity, and the fact that Harry is warm and far too solid on his lap. Fuck.
People are definitely looking now. He can hear the giggles. Someone —probably Zayn— laughs out loud. Someone else —probably Niall— absolutely takes a picture. He’s going to dine out on this for the rest of his natural life. This is an unfortunate disaster no one asked for.
Harry tilts his head up just enough to look at him. “I just want one thing.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Too bad,” Harry replies happily, relaxing even more against him. “I’m already on your lap and this is usually how it works.”
Deciding that resistance is not only pointless but also making things worse, Louis sinks back into the chair with a defeated sigh because Santa, apparently, is being sat on.
“Fine,” Louis mutters, “What do you want for Christmas?”
“I want the awkward bit to be over.”
Shit. Louis really doesn’t want to be confronted by a drunk six feet tall man while wearing a Santa costume.
He swallows. “Can’t you just ask for world peace?”
“I’m serious.”
“The awkward bit,” Louis repeats. “You’ll have to be more specific, because I’ve got several ongoing at the moment.”
Harry rolls his eyes dramatically. “See, that’s the bit. Stop being an arse.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do, mate,” Louis says, exasperated. “We kissed, yeah? It happened. People kiss all the time at Christmas, and instead of dwelling on it, I’ve been minding my own business, that’s all.”
“Yeah,” Harry says easily. “That’s sort of the problem.”
“Oh, come off it,” Louis scoffs. “You’re the one who’s been avoiding me like I’ve got something contagious.”
“I needed a minute to come to terms with my feelings.”
“You took a bloody week!”
Harry purses his lips. “I’ve had a lot of feelings, though.”
“Well,” Louis says, “good news is you’ve absolutely annihilated the awkward bit by sitting on me in front of half the company.”
Harry smiles. “Admit it. You’ve missed me so much.”
Louis opens his mouth to deny it, but then pauses. This is not how he imagined resolving this. In his head, there were no confrontations, just good old avoidance long enough to irritate him and a vague hope that if he waited long enough things might sort themselves out. Instead, he’s got a fake beard and a lap full of drunk Harry Styles who bravely admits he has a lot of feelings for him and refuses to let him hide in a corner until the kiss is forgotten.
But maybe that’s kind of the point. Harry has never been one to do passive. He does brutal honesty and terrible timing and has needs that demand urgent attention. Louis on the other hand, has spent the last week pretending their kiss was a mistake —when it obviously wasn’t— because that was easier than admitting it shook him to the core. Because Louis had been secretly waiting, hoping, for Harry to stop pretending and do something about it, too.
He glances down at Harry, mentally calculating the situation that he’s very much lost control of.
Right, then, he thinks. If this is happening, it’s happening properly under Louis’ terms.
“It’s not because I missed you, I just don’t like unfinished business,” he says after his long pause.
Harry rests his chin on his shoulder, blinking hazily through his long eyelashes. “I don’t like unfinished business either, especially if it involves a life-changing kiss.”
Louis tries to suppress a smile. “You’re so gone, mate.”
“But I’m also right.”
He wraps an arm around him, edges of his mouth finally giving in to a gentle smile. “So, have we ended the awkward bit, or are you planning on sitting on me until New Year’s?”
Harry considers this veeery seriously.
“Uhm, I was sort of hoping you’d stop asking stupid questions and do something about it,” he says, shifting just enough to stay exactly where he is.
“Were you, now?”
“You’re the one in the Santa suit,” Harry says. “Feels like a power imbalance, don’t you think?”
“That’s not really how it works.”
“Is it not?” Harry asks with mock surprise, tilting his head to align their mouths, close enough to touch their lips now. “Because from where I’m sitting—”
“Yeah,” Louis cuts in, squeezing him a little in his arms. “I know where you’re sitting, you twat.”
When Harry grins, all too pleased with himself, Louis doesn’t even bother to warn him. He just leans in and kisses him, impatiently like the kind of kiss that screams finally. It isn’t gentle, nor careful, but just Louis being sick to death of thinking about it.
Harry makes a surprised sound, but it quickly turns into a content hum, body melting into it and kissing him back like he never doubted this part.
Louis pulls back first. He rests his forehead briefly into Harry’s temple to steady himself there.
“So,” Harry whispers into the shared space between them, “we’re doing this now, then?”
Louis exhles, all tired, fond, and way past the point of pretending. “Was kind of hoping you wouldn’t notice the shift.”
“Your face is doing a terrible job of hiding it.”
“You’ve got a lot of shit to talk for a man who is sat on me.”
“And I’m not fucking getting up,” Harry says, like that’s the end of discussion.
"Figured, but..." Louis whispers, leaning in, “why would you, anyway?”
And above them, a sprig of mistletoe hangs, perfectly placed by Niall Horan; useless and unnoticed, having missed its moment entirely.