Love is a Word (You Gave it a Name) l.s

Nine Days to Christmas

Louis wakes up to his teeth chattering. He's alone in bed, covered with at least three more blankets than he went to sleep under, and there's a steaming cup of tea on his bedside table.

"What the fuck," he mumbles, daring to poke a hand out of his cocoon. The air is cold, biting into his fingertips immediately, and it's then that he realises he can't quite feel his nose. He stumbles out of bed, unsettled, puts on his slippers, and wraps all the blankets around himself.

He can hear the fire going downstairs, the bizarrely satisfying crackling of wood, and he's immediately drawn to the warmth seeping out of the living room.

It's where he finds Harry, too – bundled up in several sweaters and joggers, with woollen socks pulled up over his ankles, and sitting right in front of the fireplace. Louis momentarily forgets about the cold to think about how adorable he is.

"Morning," he says, and leans down to give Harry a kiss. Harry turns to him with a brilliant smile. He looks five years younger than he did yesterday. "What's this?"

Harry helps him to sit down and not lose any of his blankets before he answers. He's staring into the fire as he does, a small pout on his lips. "The heating's broken."

Louis blinks. "What now?"

"I know," Harry pouts some more. "I already called someone, but it's hours before they can fit us in."

Louis fishmouths. He moves closer to Harry, leeching some of his warmth all to himself. It's quite nice in front of the fire, actually. Louis is going to smell like smoke, but at least his toes are warm.

"We should call and tell Niall," he says, finally. "He'd piss himself."

"It's not funny," Harry says, even as his mouth twists into a grin. " Our house is trying to get rid of us, Lou."

Louis snorts. Harry's sweaters are slipping down his left shoulder, revealing skin that's lit up gold from the fire, and Louis can't resist pressing a peck against it. "I'm sure it'll warm up to us."

Harry giggles. "That's a terrible joke," he says unconvincingly.

"Keep telling yourself that, love. I'm hilarious."

In lieu of a response, Harry leans down for a kiss. Louis smiles into it and slips his hands under Harry's numerous tops, warming himself against his skin.

"You know what this means, though," Harry says when he pulls away, lips glistening in the light of the flames."

"Do I want to?"

"Christmas sweaters," Harry crows victoriously.

They've got a history with Christmas sweaters, Harry and Louis. It had started all the way back in the X Factor house, when Harry went out to Tesco's and came back with a shapeless pile of knit with a penguin on the front. Louis had refused to put it on, and Harry proceeded to chase him around the house with it, waving it above his head like a flag.

Nothing much has changed, really. Harry might be a little less prone to calling Louis a Christmas-ruiner, but he still likes to chase him all over the place. It's a tradition.

Which is how Louis knows he has approximately ten seconds to get the hell out.

He kicks off his slippers and abandons his blankets to make his escape easier, hightailing it out of the living room and up the stairs, into their bedroom and then the en suite. He lies face down in the bathtub, hisses as the cold porcelain makes contact with his skin, and waits. He'd hidden in the closet last year, and it took Harry half an hour to find him, simply because he refused to believe Louis would go for such a tacky joke.