Got the sunshine on my shoulders - by: hattalove

chapter nineteen

He starts planning later that same night, after he's sure that mum and Robin had gone to bed. Louis lets him hog his printer, and sits cross-legged in the armchair watching Harry out of the corner of his eye.
The first and most important step, of course, is the venue. He's got pictures spread all over the coffee table, the floor, and tacked up on the window, all places big enough to hold everyone, but small enough to feel cosy, all less than a two-hour drive away. He's going to have to call about availabilities first thing tomorrow, but he has to narrow down the options first.

"You know," Louis says when Harry's trying to decide between two near-identical guesthouses. "It'd be a lot easier if you didn't give yourself this many choices in the first place."

Harry glares at him, half-hearted because of how tired he is.

"It has to be perfect," he says, picking one of the two and moving on to yet another near-identical set. "We can't throw them a party in somebody's back garden, it's got to be just right."

Louis tilts his head. He'd been writing something into that mysterious notebook of his, but he closes it and rests it on his lap. "It'll be perfect no matter what you do," he says. Harry throws a half-hearted paper ball at him, but it drifts to the ground halfway between them. "I'm serious. You could literally put up some fairy lights in the shed out back, and Anne would love it. You've got to stop overthinking."

"I'm not," Harry pouts, shining the torch of his phone onto a few pictures to distinguish between several hotels that are an identical shade of maroon. "It's good to have choices."

"Not five dozen of them," Louis replies. He's smiling.

It's a surprisingly chilly night, apparently because of Arctic winds blowing in from the ocean. Harry's taken the opportunity to start a fire in his beloved fireplace, at least once while he's still here. He'd almost forgotten the way in which live flames change a room, the soft flickering shadows that blunt every corner of it, this yellow-orange-red bubble that encases them, with the light only climbing halfway up the walls.

The shadows it paints under Louis's cheekbones; the way it lays, pale golden, on his skin.

"Help me, then," he says, looking away and down at the task at hand. "You've got to have a favourite."

"Oh, I do," Louis grins, but he doesn't look at any particular picture, doesn't give Harry any clues that might help. "But I'm not the one who's supposed to pick."

"What are you going to do, then?" Harry asks, getting on his knees to reach the furthest edge of his little paper pile. "I don't remember you setting yourself a task."

"I'm here to take all the credit, of course," Louis replies.

Harry ignores him for a minute, tossing out five more pictures.

Then he stands up, and realises that the past half hour's work has barely made a difference.

"Louis," he whines before he can stop himself. Louis raises his head. "Help me."

He sighs, and closes his notebook again. This time, he puts it on where the coffee table is hiding under piles of paper with a heavy thud.

"How?"

Harry looks over the mess he's made. "Can you-can you just toss out like half of these? I'll turn around, and you just bin whatever you think doesn't suit us."

Louis stands up, brushing himself off. "Are you sure you want me to do that?" he asks, with one hand on his hip. "I'll be ruthless."

Harry looks down, intending to pick a few favourites to save, but he realises that he has way too many by the time he reaches number 10.