Archive of Our Own

London is set in a fuzzy haze of gentle snowfall and slick streets. It’s late, and the only light comes from the old lamps that glow in the night like bubbles of warmth, murky yellow and soft against the slippery footpath, and the odd strings of Christmas lights hung to and fro. They’re tiny cradles of red and blue sparkle, barely there and twinkling as a replacement for the cloud-covered stars.

In Trafalgar Square the Christmas tree stands tall, needles dusted with speckles of snow and dotted with the little glint of golden lights. The streets hum quietly around it, the late hour and the frosty chill bringing the city into an early slumber. It’s a gorgeous night, London at its best, seemingly untouched by the usual tourist-filled bustle and the impatience of the streets.

A gorgeous night, in a gorgeous city.

One that Harry hasn’t laid eyes on since his lunch break.

Blinking harshly against his computer screen, eyes slightly watery and definitely beginning to go crusty in the corners, he adjusts the pixel size of another image and tries to convince himself that this is a solid contribution to the planet. This is it, his big solution. Finding the exact resolution and image size he needs to finish this fucking article.

He reaches for his latte and takes a giant gulp, grimacing harshly when he finds it cold. Dejectedly, he tosses it into the bin beside the other two cups. His gum has gone tacky and stale in his mouth, and it follows his coffee.

Almost all the lights in the office are off, only his own lamp providing any glow. There’s a few on at the very end of the hall, right above the lifts, but from here they almost look murky green. Sighing, Harry rubs his fingers against his eyes roughly and blinks again, rapidly this time to try and stop everything going blurry.

One week, he thinks to himself, just seven days and then you’re back home for Christmas break.

His desk is a mess, a collection of vending machine crisps that he passed off as dinner and a sad, half eaten Twix bar wedged between his computer monitor and his faded satchel. Pages and pages spread out, images circled and sticky notes in vibrant colours that look muted under the light. He’s been trying to figure out this layout all day. Every time he shows it to Renee, there’s something off with it.

Pixels. Colour aesthetic. Font. Text size.

Harry had never met anyone with the same complex for perfectionism as himself, until he met Renee. Which is a very, very, rare statement.

It also doesn’t help that the article he’s working on makes him full of envy every time he reads over it. It’s the field team’s most recent report on their trip to the Amazon, a bunch of the tech and film team and botanists, all the new plant and bug species that have been discovered. The pictures are stunning, and Harry presses his lips into a thin line as he tries to reorganize them again.

That’s where he wants to be, where he dreams to go, out in the world actively doing something. He knows his job here is important, spreading information about the planet and climate through social media, but Harry can’t help but feel useless sitting in a tiny office block all day when there’s a whole world out there for him to explore.

There’s so much out there that he wants to know, that he wants to see firsthand, experience with his own eyes. When he first started working with WWF, he’d imagined treks into the jungle with sweaty hair in his eyes and a dirty notebook clutched desperately in his hands, the chill of mountain air and the breeze of the sea, data and UN meetings and the key to bettering their world.

So far, the last year of Harry’s life has been spent in a dull muddle of being handed pieces that have already been written and editing them, making them shiny and fresh and good enough to share online. He doesn’t feel like a journalist, not really. And don’t get him wrong, he loves to see it all, see the progress their field teams are making, getting to share it all with the world and see the response. He just wishes that he was the one making the discoveries, that he was the one out there fighting, writing and feeling it all.

If only he’d been smart enough for a science degree.

His fingers are twitchy when he pushes another tiny pellet of gum into his mouth, chewing it slowly and breathing in through his nose. It’s fine. He’ll finish the article, get it ticked off by Renee, then head home and finish packing. He’ll reheat the curry in the fridge, catch up on Bake Off and probably fall asleep on the couch, then wake up for work in the morning. Repeat that for another seven days.

He’s praying for a Christmas miracle at this point.

It’s fine.

“Oh, Harry! You’re still here,” Renee’s voice chimes down the hall, sounding all too cheery and bright in the darkness and mixed with the clack-clack of her shoes on the shiny floor. Harry purses his lips into a thin line as he looks down at the picture he’s been working on, before he morphs it into a tight smile and swivels around in his creaky chair.

She somehow looks completely relaxed, hair taken out of its tight bun and her dark skin glowing like she’s just had a full night’s sleep.

“Yep. Still here,” he says. His voice comes out a little croaky from disuse, and he coughs into his fist.

“How’s my Amazon piece coming along?” she asks brightly. She crosses her arms over the edge of his cubicle and leans her head forward to look. “Oh! I love that heading font. Funky.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, trying not to sound too deadpan as he stares down at it with barely masked contempt. “So, um. Can I go home now?”

“Sure, just forward this through to me and I’ll look over it,” Renee says. Harry sighs inwardly and starts to collect the crisp wrappers on his desk into a tiny ball.

His back is aching from sitting in his chair all day, more than usual. He’ll have to stretch it out tonight. God, all he wants is to fall into the dent on his couch and be dead to the world. As he packs up his things, he can still feel the phantom weight of Renee’s presence, the shadow her body casts over the side of his desk. The silence stretches on, and Harry glances up at her hesitantly as he slides his satchel into his lap.

Her lips are bitten into her mouth, and she watches him carefully, like she’s assessing his every move.

“Everything okay?” he asks slowly. Renee lets out a tiny sigh, before she shakes her shoulders out and fills her face with a bright smile.

“Actually, Harry, I have a favour to ask,” she claps her hands together abruptly, almost like she’s praying, and brings her fingers to her lips.

Harry watches her wearily, dread already seeping into his shoulders. It’s so late. “What is it?”

“Alright. I’ve had Allan on my ass for the last few months and it’s driving me up the wall,” she begins with a frustrated huff and an eye roll to the ceiling. “The fact of the matter is, everyone else is already either gone for Christmas or out on another assignment.”

“Okay, and…” Harry drawls.

“And you’re the only person in this office that I can think of who’s competent enough to take this,” Renee says, muttering what sounds distinctly like a new editor’s name under her breath. Then, with a deep breath and another bright smile, “I’m sending you to Greenland for three weeks.”

“You’re what?” Harry splutters. “But I-. I can’t just-. I thought James was on that? What about Caz or Sarah or-”

“Competence,” Renee emphasises this with a shake of her still pressed palms. Harry blinks wildly at her.

“I’ve already booked my train home for Christmas,” Harry says bluntly. “You’re the one that approved my time off.”

“But you see, as your boss, I have the power to,” she wiggles her fingers airily, “unapprove it.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Look, it’s a requirement that we send at least a team of two,” Renee says. “So just treat this as a holiday.”

“Wait, so you don’t even need me to do anything?” Harry looks at her in disbelief.

“Well, you can add to the report of course, seeing as you’ll be editing the article when you come back-"

Harry sits back in his chair, her voice fading away a bit as his gaze trails away from her face. He tries to sort the muddle of voices ricocheting in his skull into order. It’s not quite working. On the one hand, it would be an amazing experience, a chance to get out and explore. On the other, it seems that he may not actually have much contribution to that. He misses his mum and his childhood bed. Greenland is beautiful, sure, but. He needs this break.

“-an entire year’s worth of data! Allan’s been really honing in on me so I decided it was finally time to send you off. It should be fun.”

“Right,” Harry blinks. “Right, okay.”

“So you’ll do it?” Renee says excitedly.

“I mean, I guess I don’t really have a ch-“

“Great!” She squeals, her pressed fingers curling into a little ball that she hugs close to her chest. “I can finally check this off my to-do list. You fly out to Kangerlussuaq in three days. I’ll email you the report pack. Thanks a bunch!”

With that, she turns on her heel and scurries back up the hall to her office. Harry watches her go, and then stares at the wall for a good ten minutes after that. He chews his gum vigorously.

Once he’s stuffed his things into his satchel – practically falling apart in his hands – and turned off his lamp, Harry walks in the dark towards the lifts silently. In his loose grasp, his phone is bright and blaring into his eyes. He starts to compose a text to his mum. It’ll be the first of many.

-

The first thing that Harry sees when he boards the tiny, red Air Greenland plane on Thursday is Liam Payne already sleeping against the window across the aisle, wrapped up in a thick coat with his headphones in.

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach, and he shuffles over to the seat opposite silently, lips bitten into his mouth.

He’s one of the chief editors and writers for WWF, as well as being one of, if not the best known climatologists currently working with the UN. Harry has admired him for so long, has read almost all of his work and reports, and he wants to send an extremely unintelligible text to Renee right now. His phone is already on aeroplane mode and switched off. He fidgets instead and tries not to be so nervous.

Almost as soon as they’re up in the air, Harry is asleep. He’d gotten home so late last night that he’d woken groggy and disorientated and an hour later than intended. He’d had to hastily pack the rest of his bag – by which he swept his arm across his bathroom vanity and sent a silent prayer up to the heavens – and leg it to the tube.

Finally warm and out of the freezing chill of the day, with the hum of the plane’s engine in his ears and the soft light that leaks in through the half-shut windows, it’s all too easy for him to tuck his nose into his jacket and drift off.

They touch down heavily in Copenhagen two hours later. Harry is jostled awake by the wheels dragging on the landing strip and the steady beeping of the seatbelt sign above him, sounding all too loud and close to his ears. After that, once he stands shakily and looks out the window to ensure that they’re on solid ground, he’s decidedly very much awake.

Liam too, is awake, brown hair a little sweaty and stuck to his temples as he shucks his huge coat. It lies thick and heavy over his arm, and he lugs his carry-on bag down with a huff. Harry stands across the aisle with his own bag clutched in front of him nervously.

“Um, hello,” he starts, voice small. He winces at himself immediately.

Liam raises a thick eyebrow and looks at him over his shoulder. Slowly, realization dawns on his soft features, and his lips pull up into a gentle smile. “Hey. Harry, right? Renee said you’d be joining me.”

“Yeah, that’s-. That’s me,” Harry says. He leans awkwardly across the aisle to shake Liam’s hand.

“Sorry, was a bit rude of me to fall asleep before I even said hello, huh?” Liam huffs a soft laugh.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” Harry smiles.

“Well, I’ll apologize anyway,” Liam heaves his bag onto his shoulder and gestures to the front of the plane with a nod of his head. “We better be on our way.”

They walk through the airport silently, pearly white floor clinical and shiny under their heavy boots. It’s quiet, just the hum of coffee machines and a muffled mix of languages echoing around them. Liam seems occupied with his phone, rapidly logging into the airport Wi-Fi while he talks to Harry distractedly, trailing off here and there as he frowns down at his screen and presses on it harshly. 

The next plane they board is even smaller than the first, and it seems they’re the only passengers aside from a tiny wrinkled woman with thickly beaded jewellery who eyes them wearily and mutters under her breath in a language Harry doesn’t understand. He tries his best to manoeuvre his gangly legs into the tiny space between the seats.

Mostly, he just ends up with his knees digging into the back of it, and his shoulders hunched in as Liam slips in beside him with an amused smile.

He’s too uncomfortable to fall asleep.

“You ever been to Greenland before?” Liam asks, once they’re up in the clouds. He’s got a tiny juice box in his hands, and he slurps on it noisily and looks at Harry with inquisitive eyes. Harry blinks at him. He’s very quickly becoming less and less intimidated by him.

“Uh, no, I haven’t,” he says softly. “I’ve never actually been out on a field job before. It’s my first time.”

“Oh, no way!” Liam nudges his shoulder. “Greenland was my first job too. It’s so gorgeous, the most breathtaking scenery. It’s a dream to write about, really.”

“I know, I read your articles,” Harry says before he can stop himself, and he feels his neck go hot.

“Cool,” Liam grins. “In your professional opinion, how terrible were they?”

“Could do with a bit more spacing, paragraphs were a tad long,” Harry finds himself teasing.

“Ah,” Liam sucks on his juice box. “They always did pull me up for that in ninth grade.”

They share a quiet patter of laughter that fades slowly. Harry stares down at the tiny safety pamphlet wedged in the pouch in front of him and feels his smile start to cave, an odd weight sitting low in his stomach.

“Honestly, I don’t really know what I’m doing here,” Harry admits slowly, watching Liam out of the corner of his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Liam asks. He lowers his juice-box with a frown.

“I don’t know, I guess I just…” he looks up at the ceiling of the plane. “It was a last minute thing. You’re here, one of the best climate journalists in the whole world. What use am I?”

“Hey,” Liam’s frown deepens, bushy eyebrows almost meeting in the middle as he stares at Harry firmly. “That’s not true. You’ll be brilliant. You’re obviously here for a reason. Make it count, yeah? Write a paper so good Renee fires me and sends you off instead.”

Liam is right, Harry knows it. He still feels a little lost and out of place, the same sort of feeling he used to get being picked last for team games as a child or sitting alone at the front of the classroom trying his best to make it all work for him. But the least he can do is enjoy his time on this trip and fall deep into what he cares about, what he’s passionate for.

Harry huffs out a quiet puff of laughter. “Yeah, I…” he smiles apologetically. “I guess you’re right.”

“Nuanneq naapillutit,” Liam sticks out his hand, smiles at Harry warmly. Harry glances down at his hand in confusion. “It means ‘pleased to meet you,’ in Greenlandic. Let’s start this over. We’re equals, alright? None of this business about you being a tag-along.”

Harry takes his hand, gratefully. “Pleased to meet you, too.”

For a majority of the flight, Liam shows Harry the new projects he’s working on, apparently ‘top secret’ according to him, and Harry listens intently, watches the pictures flick past and reads the pages and pages of research eagerly. They try to throw chocolate bullets into each other’s mouths and Harry chews on his gum absently while they work through a book of crosswords together, bickering over Liam’s use of pencil and Harry’s use of pen.

Soon, it all becomes a jumbled, scribbled out mess, and they claim defeat before they start swiping at each other.

-

When he comes out of a hazy nap he was unaware of falling into in the first place, Rogue Valley is still playing softly in his ears, mixed with the rumble of the plane’s engine.

A fuzzy, muffled voice is sounding over the cabin, accompanied by the shrill buzz of three beeping tones. “God eftermiddag, passagerer. Vi vil ankomme til Kangerlissuaq om ti minutter.”

“Look,” Liam says beside him, gesturing out the window with a tip of his head.

Harry turns.

They’ve started to lower out of the clouds, travelling North up along the Qaasuitsup municipality, and it now hangs in wispy mist around them. Below, it’s all stark, shining sapphire and pearly ice, sparkling under the bright sun. It leaves Harry a little breathless, the sure pureness of it all, untouched.

“Wow,” he murmurs.

“Told you it’s beautiful,” Liam says. “Wait till you’re on the ground. It’s even better when you’ve got scale.”

Soon, the ice meets the land and folds in on itself, eclipsing the hills in a slow, fading trickle, a gradient of blues and dark green. In some parts it clings to the inclines and dusts the very tops of the rocky terrain. There are tiny, sporadic huddles of houses like little ants, dark in colour with peaked roofs and steel chimneys, littered around the land like a handful of breadcrumbs thrown without much thought, placed in a seemingly random array.

Harry’s stomach swoops in motion with their plane, the ground coming closer and closer as they turn and drop towards the tiny airstrip. It rests on the edge of the water, the laneway running back into the snow-dusted land and towards another thin fjord beyond the mossy olive hills.

From what Harry can see, the airport looks like one tiny building across from the tarmac.

The air outside is crisp and fresh. It almost smells the way ice cubes do, when they’re cracked into the sink and sucked on. That first sharp blitz of prickling coldness, and then the cool rush of air that slips between the cracks of your teeth. Harry breathes in deep, and it feels like mint on his tongue, the intense burning that passes in his chest and subsides into a purifying woosh through his lungs.

The land rises and falls with the curve of the wind, carved out and tall. Harry hunches into his jacket and tugs his backpack tightly over his shoulders. At the end of the runway by the open fjord, the greyleaf willows whisper in the wind and crawl up onto the hills to mix with the scattered violet pods of bluebells, frost-tipped with their wilting petals hugging the ground in search of any kind of warmth.

Kangerlussuaq rests almost in a tiny valley, flat ground that is suddenly spiked by the hills that surround it. It’s all gravel, worn road and the almost silent hum of the wind. The only other sound is the slow whir of the plane’s engine powering down and Liam whistling folk under his breath.

Their luggage is brought down slowly. Harry digs his hands into his pockets and observes the snow tipped hills, the chunks of ice floating like specks of white dust in the distance along the mouth of the fjord. The day’s sun is intense and beaming, but already it’s starting its descent and painting shadows.

“Tikilluarit!”

Harry turns to look over his shoulder, pulling his eyes away from the expanse of the mountains and back to the airstrip. A man approaches them, dark skin and honey eyes, hair black and teeth pearly white. He’s got a friendly, warm smile on his face, and walks with his arms open.

“You’re the climate team, right?” He asks as he reaches them, holding out his hand for Liam to shake.

“That’s us,” Liam says as he takes his hand. “Liam Payne.”

“So nice to finally meet you, mate,” Zayn says excitedly. “Big fan of your work. Zayn Malik, I help run everything down here. That would make you Harry, yes?”

Zayn turns to him expectantly. Harry blinks, and then holds out his hand after a beat. “Yeah, that’s me. Hi.”

“Great, all accounted for then,” he claps his hands together and motions for them to follow him with a nod of his head. “Renee has already contacted us about accommodation and all the fun details. We’ll spend an hour or two at the centre today and then fly you back up to Ilulissat to settle in before it gets too dark. The real work starts tomorrow.”

They take Zayn’s car, a sturdy old 4WD that’s a faded cream colour and chipped around the fenders. Once they’ve stacked their bags into the boot, they’re off with a clunk and a cautious rattle. The drive takes all of two long minutes. Around him, the world is in a mismatch of deep maroon and blues, of almost grey earth and stark white in the distance. On the radio a guitar is plucked softly with no lyrics, and Zayn hums along in random spots with his hand resting on the gear stick. 

Kangerlussuaq International Science Support. It’s in thin white letters on a clay-blue board, bright against the red front of the building. It looks almost like a shed, with a long room in a similar state connected to its side. There’s two cars parked out the front, the rest of the area entirely deserted. They tumble out into the air again one by one.

“Alright, shuffle in,” Zayn holds the door open for them while he wipes his chunky boots on the gravel outside.

There’s a thin hallway that opens into a giant communal area, a kitchen along one wall and two long tables jutting out from the other. A pin-board covers part of the wall, maps and notes and pictures covering it. A whiteboard rests beside it, full of static jumbles of written notes and equations, diagrams with dotted lines around them. Across the room, there’s a thin metal staircase that spirals up.

“Tea?” Zayn asks softly from behind them. Harry starts to shuck his jacket off, Liam following suit. He nods in thanks, and Zayn moves across the room to flick the kettle on.

It’s far warmer inside, pleasant and almost homey despite the plain colours. While Zayn rattles through the cupboards, Harry turns his attention back to the pin-board, eyes flicking over the map of the Jakobshavn glacier, the crosses and lines drawn on it in different coloured pen. There are pictures pinned around it, supraglacial lakes and the eruption of water on the edges of the sheet where the ice has been caught calving.

He’s aware of Zayn and Liam’s muted conversation behind him, and he turns to tune himself back in.

Zayn is looking murderous as he sorts through the cupboards, huffing under his breath. Finally, he pulls a cereal box down from the top shelf, stuffed behind a giant biscuit tin, and looks inside. With another disgruntled huff he fishes out a ziplock bag of tea bags, rolling his eyes.

“Sorry about that,” he pops the bag open aggressively. “Some of us are still learning to share.”

“Precious cargo, is it?” Liam says. He takes a teabag from Zayn and loops it around the handle of his mug, tying it off delicately.

“Not as precious as the custard creams,” Zayn sighs. “I don’t think I’ll ever find where those are hidden. Sugar, Harry?”

“Two, please,” Harry says.

They cradle their cups carefully in their hands as they move upstairs to the lab. It’s a long space, taking up the entire floor with tables and computers and small pieces of equipment that Harry has never seen before in his life. A giant whiteboard stretches the length of the far wall, a projector hanging above it. Much like the one downstairs it’s almost full, but the data is all laid out carefully and not bundled together in random sections.

A man is standing in front of it now, tracing over a piece of paper in his hand as he looks at a square bubble of data in the top corner of the board.

“Allan, team’s here,” Zayn calls, sipping his tea as he falls into a desk chair and rolls over to one of the computers. He flutters his fingers over the spacebar rapidly to bring the screen to life.

“Oh!” The man turns, capping his pen messily and hurrying over to greet them. His hair is grey at the temples and on the steely pinpricks of his beard, eyes a deep, muddy brown.

He takes both their hands eagerly as they introduce themselves, though Harry doesn’t need much from him. Allan’s a glaciologist, and Harry’s read enough of his work that he could probably recite a few papers for him. Embarrassing.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Allan says with a clap to Liam’s shoulder as he leads him over to the whiteboard. “We had some really interesting calvings this year, right on the western edge and up north. There’s a lot to get through.”

Harry turns his toes in and stands rather awkwardly behind them, unsure of what to do. Feeling himself flush, he glances back to Zayn, who’s watching the three of them casually. He takes a huge sip of his tea and gives Harry a tiny smile. Harry returns it, and clacks his teeth together accidentally. No gum. Damn.

“-snow’s coming through in about two weeks,” Allan is saying to Liam. He’s pulled a map from somewhere, and traces it with his finger slowly. “We’ll start on the northern end and trail down south-west, closer to the inner mouth of Disko Bay. Hopefully we can get to everything before it’s too dangerous to fly out so far on the sheet.”

“Have you got any recent data on the melt?” Liam asks. He trails his fingers over the marked spots on the map. “I’d love to take a look at the effects of the lakes.”

“The last time we took a reading was the end of the summer,” Allan says, guiding Liam to sit down while he grabs his laptop from one of the far desks. “But there’s been a few calvings over the last couple of months. The lakes are sitting on top of the sheet for longer.”

From here, Harry takes a seat across the table and pulls out his notebook, pen, and gum from his backpack. Once the gum starts to fold and give under his teeth, he flicks open the thick cover of his notebook and starts to scribble down notes, listening intently and chiming in with tentative questions here and there. Liam stares at the computer screen with his face resting against his palm, noting down the readings and looking over his own notes.

Soon, the sun has truly begun to dip, and the tiny windows only offer a dusting of orange light. Shadow flickers over them, the screens of the computers turning bright and glary. Zayn has been bent over his desk for over an hour, pencil in hand. He’s drawing a graph or a map of some kind, Harry thinks, shoulders hunched over and elbows drawn in tight as he measures everything out piece by piece.

The silence is odd. Harry is used to working with the bustle of the city around him, the background noise of a full office and shoes on the tiled floor, the trickle of water from the taps in the kitchen and the dinging of the lifts. Here, the only sound is the faint scratch of pencil, the sporadic click of the keyboard, Liam and Allan murmuring to one another.

He’s tired from his flight, and his fingers feel twitchy when he tries to write. Sighing, he stretches in his chair and collects the tea-stained mugs. He washes them in warm water, finger resting under the flow until the chill is gone. Downstairs, the window across from him is tall, and it lets the light spill in kindly. Harry finds himself slowing his movements, cup in his hands with the water still cascading over it, gaze stuck.

From here, he can see the tiny airport in the distance, the flat ground of the tarmac and the water. The hills creep in on either side. The sun is setting between it all, gigantic and soft around the edges. It seems so close, so tangible that if Harry swum into the icy water, he’d be able to reach it soon enough.

He comes back into himself slowly, blinking in time with the steady whoomph – whoomph, that’s fluttering in the distance. He flicks the tap off and shakes out his hands, glancing out the window curiously. There’s nothing there, but the sound continues, a continuous whirring that’s out of place in the settled silence.

The clank of footsteps on the stairs startles him, and he turns to find Zayn hurrying down them, fingers trailing delicately over the railing. The odd noise has gotten even louder, a steady whiz of air and mechanics that sounds close.

“Helicopter?” Harry questions as Zayn unhooks his jacket and throws it over his shoulders.

“Yup,” Zayn says. He turns up his collar and reaches for his boots.

It’s only slightly muffled by the wall now, and Harry can feel the tremble of the air as it settles onto the ground outside. Abruptly, there’s a gentle thud, and then silence. The rustle of gravel, a sliding door slamming shut. Zayn moves to the hall, but Harry hears the door open before Zayn reaches it.

“Allan!” a voice calls, tight and distraught. “Få den førstehjælpskasse.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry hears Zayn swear, there’s a rustling of feet, what sounds almost like a scuffle.

“I’m fine,” another unknown voice enters the mix. “Honestly. Jonas is just overreacting.”

“Get in here,” Zayn sighs.

Harry stands by the sink as Zayn appears with two men by his side, one sour faced and clutching his arm, the other wide-eyed and huffing with a giant bag slung over his shoulder. The second drops the bag and bolts straight up the stairs, calling out as he does so. The other man sits on the edge of the table and scowls at his shoes while Zayn tugs a first aid kit out of one of the bottom cupboards, face set.

“It’s not a big deal,” the man gripes, sighing as Zayn tugs his hand away from his arm. His fingers are dotted red. “It was just a clumsy slip.”

“You’ve torn through your jacket, you fucking idiot,” Zayn hisses. “Again.”

“Hey, the last time was entirely unrelated. I was drunk off my ass and – ow! Stodder!”

“Um, is there anything I can do to help?” Harry asks tentatively, stepping closer.

The man looks up at him, finally noticing the extra presence.

And, with that one, sharp look, Harry feels everything around him go a little fuzzy. He isn’t sure why. It could be that the man’s eyes are piercing, the same icy colour of the floating sculptures on the fjord, the startling blue reflections they cast. It could be that his hair is a ragged mess, falling into his gaze in soft, messy tuffs of chestnut. It could be his tan skin, the freckles on his nose, the sharp, angled cuts of his face. Harry doesn’t know. He just knows that the second they look at each other, the whole room turns into an electric field.

“What’ve you done this time?”

Harry breaks his gaze away, swallowing thickly as Allan makes his way downstairs with Liam in tow.

“Nothing, Jesus,” the man sighs, tugging his arm away from Zayn roughly, who gives him a disapproving glare. “I slipped near one of the crevices, where the ice was sharper.”

“Why were you at the crevices?” Allan questions, tone low and brows set. “You were supposed to be at Russels!”

Allan shoots a scathing look to the other man, who bites his lip sheepishly.

“We were, we finished up and I wanted to look,” the injured man says plainly. “I put some markers there a few weeks ago.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” Allan chides. “This landscape won’t spare you if you make mistakes. How am I supposed to send someone out after you if I have no idea where you are?”

The man huffs and sits up, shucking his torn jacket off roughly, face set. “It was just a stupid accident.”

“An accident I now have to go and file a report for,” Allan simpers. With that, he stomps upstairs, gesturing for Liam to follow.

It’s entirely silent after that, and Harry stands awkwardly in the centre of the room and chews his gum, unsure of what to do.

“When are you going to stop acting like a hero?” Zayn sighs at the man, who’s swiped the wet towel out of his hand to apply pressure on himself.

“When the ice stops melting at an alarming rate,” the man deadpans as he dabs the towel over his wound, aiming a kick at Zayn’s shin. Zayn just sidesteps it and sighs.

“Harry, that’s Jonas,” Zayn points to the man standing in the corner, who still looks very afraid. He’s got dark brown hair and a thick beard, stark hazel eyes and a lithe, hunched in body. “And this is Louis. Our saviour.”

“Shut up,” Louis kicks his leg out again. “You’re embarrassing me in front of our guest.”

“You’re the one who went and slipped on your ass like a fool,” Zayn points out. Louis glowers, button nose scrunching into what appears to be a menacing scowl. Harry’s eyes graze the soft curve of his jaw and get stuck there.

“Whatever,” Louis mutters, hopping off the table. He approaches Harry slowly and holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Let me guess, you’re some whizzbang science prodigy that’s gonna solve this big mess? You look the type.”

“Um,” Harry can feel his neck going hot, embarrassment like a hot flame on his skin. “I’m a journalist, actually.”

Louis makes an amused sound in the back of his throat, a tiny huh, and runs his eyes over Harry slowly. When his gaze flicks back to Harry’s, there’s a tiny smirk on the corner of his thin pink lips. Their hands are still connected, now hanging loosely. Louis’ hand is dwarfed in his, warm and smooth.

“Interesting,” is all Louis says, finally sliding his hand away. It sends little sparks along Harry’s wrist, twirling through the bone there. Harry attempts a smile and tries not to choke on his gum. Louis’ eyes snap to his dimples, he can see the trace of his eyes, and Harry’s grin widens. He lets it, let’s himself revel in this for a moment. 

They’re both just regarding each other with a quiet fascination. Louis is a few inches shorter than him, curvy and compact and somehow sharp but soft all at once, the precise, jutted points of him leading to natural slopes. It leads Harry’s eyes wondering, moving as though he were navigating his way through the hills around them, the ragged points of them that give way to the snow covered flower beds.

Louis clears his throat and turns away. Harry isn’t sure if he imagines the dusting of pink on his cheeks or not.

“Jonas,” Louis says as he starts to sort through the bag that’s been dumped on the ground. He pulls out a folder, coloured separators sticking out the sides. “Go run this up to Allan, will you? He may just kill me if he sees me again.”

“Sure, Lou,” Jonas sighs, and flicks him on the head as he takes the folder.

“Skiderik!” Louis bares his teeth in a scrunched grin, snarling around the words playfully as he attempts to swipe back. Jonas has already legged it towards the stairs, and Louis is clutching his arm again.

“Fucks sake,” he sighs. “It would have been fine if I hadn’t gotten so close.”

“Push up your sleeve,” Zayn says quietly. All of a sudden, the whole atmosphere in the room feels soft. Louis has slumped against the edge of the table, mouth pulled down, but he doesn’t protest when Zayn rolls up his sleeve carefully and starts to clean the blood away. Harry watches with his fingers fiddling, surrounded by amber light.

“I’m onto something,” Louis says, almost a whine, petulant, like he’s trying to convince his mother it wasn’t him that broke the window. “I am.”

“Okay,” is all Zayn says. He takes a tiny bottle out of the first-aid kit, drops an odd brown liquid over the cut that has Louis hissing.

Dusk falls around them like a sheet that’s been shaken out, smooth and without a crease as it flutters onto the land. Louis is mostly quiet, brooding with his arm cradled against his chest as they sit upstairs while Allan flicks through the data they’ve collected, writing it into the log book and then transferring it to the computer. He’d made small talk with Liam out of what Harry thinks was politeness, and then retreated to Zayn’s side to hide from Allan.

Harry makes sure to look away every so often, to make sure he doesn’t blatantly stare at Louis’ face. There’s an odd tick in his stomach, one that won’t settle and leaves him jumpy. He can feel it flooding up his veins and into his brain, pressing there like an itch that won’t go away no matter what he does. He tries to concentrate on rolling his gum against the roof of his mouth with his tongue and listening to Allan speak.

They take off from Kangerlussuaq with a dark honey sky falling behind them. Louis sits in the passenger seat of the cockpit looking like a grumpy child that’s had his toy taken away, and Harry finds himself smiling softly. Jonas flies them over the mountains and the ice, all cast in gilded light and deep shadow, turning the dips in the hills into vast, unknown caverns, and the glacier into something that Harry oddly reminisces with summer, the muted colour of the mango sorbet he’d get on the boardwalk in Brighton as a child. 

Ilulissat is a town dotted with tiny lights, houses clustered on the rise and fall of the hills, the harbour curved and swallowed up by the deep mouth of Disko Bay, of the Icefjord that settles on the shores of the land like glass. The masts of the sailing boats pierce the sky, and there’s the odd glow of headlights crossing a tiny bridge, the town bus chugging along below them. A thin film of snow has settled on the roofs and turned the pavement shiny.

Jonas lowers them on the other side of the bridge, right by Hotel Arctic. The town watches over them in the distance, higher on the hills. When Harry steps out of the helicopter, he loses his breath a little. The fjord stretches out in front of him endlessly, icebergs floating still and silent. The sun is just a half-crescent on the water, shooting rays of gold across the plane like the light that floods through the murals of a church, shimmery and ethereal.

Louis, Jonas and Zayn catch the bus back into town, bidding them goodnight quietly. Everything feels so quiet. It feels as though if Harry spoke above a whisper, the water would ripple, would rise and cause the icebergs to tip, to crack open and send the reservoirs inside it erupting.

He and Liam are led down to the very edge of the water, where five shiny domes lay. Thin boardwalks allow them to walk down the uneven ground, to the two silver igloo huts at the very front of the cluster. All that lies between them and the water is a ledge of icy ground roughly ten metres long, and the chipped wooden barrier of the path.

Harry’s tiny dome is decorated in pale, muted yellow and blue, a mini house that’s somehow tucked all together in tiny curves and nooks. It’s dainty and quaint and he falls in love with it instantly, even though he can barely fit himself in the shower.

He spends his first night in Greenland watching the dark sky over the fjord, watching the moon’s shiny reflection slowly slide over the last shimmer of the sun’s light until everything is bathed in navy and steel.

He cracks the window open slightly, drops his knees in front of it so that he’s level with the thin gap. There’s a fresh piece of gum in his mouth, and he keeps his lips parted as he breathes, lets the freezing air mix with the mint in his mouth, and revels in how it burns. It’s so pure, in a way that feels like something hotter than fire, so cleansed that the flame is icy blue and jagged, that the smoke is nothing more than a fine mist that leaves his eyelids sticky with condensation.

It’s a clear night. Harry can see the stars in the water.

-

They have breakfast outside, beanies over their ears and giant mugs of coffee steaming in their gloved hands. Harry has a double shot today. He’d slept heavily, heavier than he usually does, and he’d woken with the sun, late and drowsy at a slow, hesitant crawl.

Room service had brought them syrupy waffles, stacked high and hot to the touch. Their plates are balanced on the thin wood of the boardwalk. Harry breathes in deep and exhales slow, watches his breath puff out in front of him and float away rhythmically as the world turns from pink to blue.

“It’s so calm,” Liam says, muffled around the lip of his mug. “I forget how much I miss it, sometimes.”

“Greenland?” Harry asks. Far across the fjord, a lone fulmar glides down onto one of the ice sculptures. It’s the first flicker of movement Harry has seen on the bay.

“Not necessarily,” Liam says. “Just, like, the feeling of being somewhere isolated. Somewhere separated from all the shit in the world. It’s not really the places I miss, just the element of being there. Actively doing something. Helping.”

Harry can only nod, unable to relate. He thinks he could understand with time, maybe.

Jonas flies them to Kangerlussuaq just after ten o’clock, greeting them with wild, bedraggled hair and a sheepish smile at his apparent lateness. He often switches between Danish and English mid-sentence without seeming to notice, and once he does, he falls into a guffaw of laughter and apologizes, crackly through their headsets as they fly over the ice.

It still feels like stepping into a ghost town, the same as yesterday. Harry truly can’t get passed the silence, so used to constant noise.

The lab is a hotbox today, a waft of stuffy air dragging them inside when they push the door open. Harry spots Louis immediately, standing at the front of the room in front of the whiteboard, talking to Allan exasperatedly, who’s leant against one of the desks with his arms crossed. He’s clean shaven, with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his sweater pushed up to his elbows. Zayn greets them with an amused expression, feet up on his desk.

“-focus on the crevices more,” Louis is saying, tapping his hand against the board. It’s covered in blue marker, a giant diagram taking up most of it, with a jumble of equations and notes squished in around it. “They’re getting deeper, wider. More water is running through, and the height of the sheet is changing. The closer it gets to the rock bed, the faster it slides and calves.” 

“The most we can do is some time lapse cameras, maybe another tube test,” Allan says. “But we won’t be able to retrieve any solid data out of that for another two or three years, minimum.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Louis tries. He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand, marker still in his grip.

“I’ll consider it,” Allan says, pushing off the desk with a huff. “It’ll be expensive.”

“I don’t really think it’s fair to put a price on saving the-“

“Alright, alright,” Allan tries to appease him with a wave of his hand. “Jesus.”

Louis simply lifts his head and smiles triumphantly, letting out a content huff of breath. He caps his marker with a solid click, drags his fingers through his hair, and takes a seat at the table in the centre of the room.

“Morning, all,” Liam says, then, closing the door behind them. “It seems I’ve missed some interesting developments.”

“Oh, not really,” Zayn says, pencil tapping against his teeth. “Just another daily debate.”

“Shut it,” Louis glares across the room. Zayn sticks his tongue out at him and lowers his feet, swinging around to start working. “Morning, team.”

They settle in for the day quietly. Across the room, Jonas flips through pages of charts and mutters under his breath in Danish, and it comforts Harry a little, something to occupy the background. Liam takes the seat across from Louis, working with the data that Allan had sent him the day before. As he does so, Zayn pushes off his desk and rolls over to compare his graph with the numbers. That leaves the only remaining seat at the table beside Louis, who’s laser focused.

Harry’s muscle twitch slightly as he takes a seat, but Louis doesn’t look up or make any move to communicate. Silently, Harry pulls his laptop out of his bag and connects to the buildings Wi-Fi to check his emails. Instantly, his laptop is beeping rapidly, loudly, with messages from Renee. He smashes the volume button wildly, and sees everyone in the room incline their head towards him.

“Sorry,” he whispers, certain his ears are scarlet.

“At least it wasn’t porn,” Louis whispers back.

Harry’s hands freeze over the keys, sure he’s misheard.

“What?” he whisper-shouts. Louis glances at him, a wry smile on his lips, and says nothing.

He spends the morning replying to Renee’s lengthy emails, downloading the files she sends him to format and edit. Check this for me. This is lacking, work your magic. New theme. Change the images. It appears that even away on a field mission, she’s decided to unload all unfinished work onto him. At least he’s busy.

“Curly.”

He’s been flicking through the images that Renee had sent him from her last trip to Beijing, almost absently now with no real intent of writing anything. He leans his cheek against his palm as he presses the little arrow monotonously, watching the colours and the haze of the polluted fog changing. Once he gets sucked in, he finds himself unable to pull away from it all unless he’s properly jostled. Louis seems to realize this rather quickly.

“Curly,” there’s a gentle elbow into his side, which turns more into a nudge than anything. Harry almost inhales his gum, startling slightly and flicking his gaze to Louis’. He’s watching him with a tiny furrow between his brow, but it’s paired with a quirk of his lips.

“Hi,” Harry says.

Louis’ smile widens. “Watcha looking at?”

Harry flicks his eyes over the room, not wanting to disturb the silence. “Uh, just some pictures my boss sent me from Beijing. She did some work over there with Ma Jun.”

“Interesting,” Louis leans closer, reaches across Harry’s body to flick through the pictures himself. Their sides are pressed together entirely, and if Harry were to lean forward Louis’ hair would tickle his chin. He smells like the sharpness of the broken ice on the fjord, of the earth and the frozen bluebells.

He doesn’t lean forward. Instead, he stares at the wall in front of him and tries not to move at all.

“Want to see something cool?” Louis says out of nowhere, retracting back the tiniest bit so he can meet Harry’s gaze. They’re still so close, and Harry wills his heart to slow, feeling rather silly.

“Sure,” he manages. Louis turns back to his computer and starts to click through files rapidly, going through folder after folder until Harry’s eyes almost go hazy with how fast he’s sorting through them all. Finally, he makes a happy sound in the back of his throat and angles the laptop towards Harry.

It’s one of the supraglacial lakes, but it looks like it’s been taken in the water, so that everything is bright sapphire blue and the light refracts through it all in beams of white-gold. The bottom curves with jagged bumps, but the outside is smooth, almost dome like. Louis is silent as he clicks through them all, and Harry watches the light with fascination, watches the way the water curls towards the crevices that it’s created.

“Gorgeous, huh?” Louis muses. Harry nods. He isn’t really sure why Louis is showing him this, but it feels nice, feels like he’s included in this all. “It’s funny how something so pretty can be so bad for the planet. I wish it just stayed where it was and didn’t plunder through the mountains.”

Harry lets out an unexpected snort of laughter, shoulders twitching with it at Louis’ brashness, the pure disdain tugging on the corners of his mouth but the fondness in his eyes.

“Love-hate?” Harry says.

“I’m considering a breakup,” Louis says seriously. Harry’s grin curls over his entire face.

“Was that a pun?”

“Oh, God,” Louis groans, rubbing a palm over his face. “No, it wasn’t, and it makes it even worse that you think it was.”

“Sorry, I was just trying to break the ice,” he says lamely. Louis gives him a sideways look, cheek squished in his palm. He looks a bit like an angry puppy. Harry attempts a wobbly smile.

“Fine, I’ll give you that one,” he sighs overdramatically, but nudges Harry’s shoulder gently.

“I, um,” Harry fumbles. “I like your sweater.”

Louis blinks at him for a moment, before he looks down to inspect his torso. It’s a Christmas sweater of some sort, maroon until the shoulders, then cream for the rest. Tiny little stars and a pattern of two reindeers kissing, their antlers symmetric.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and there’s a private, coy smile on his lips that makes Harry’s stomach fill with gooey warmth. They lean away from each other slowly, eyes flicking over their bodies before they turn back to their respective computers. Between them, Harry can feel the thickness of the air.

Around noon, Jonas heads downstairs to make them lunch, sandwiches with heavy, flour-dusted crust, butchered meats and thick, tangy cheese. Harry spills crumbs all over himself, the outside of the crust flaking away with the slightest touch, and he tries not to watch Louis watching him, just stares intently at his sandwich and taps his feet together under the table.

He offers to clean up, and he hisses a little when he forgets to let the water warm before he runs his hands underneath it. Once the plates are all sitting in the drying rack, he looks through the cupboards until he finds the mugs. He’s just poured the boiling water in and is reaching for the sugar, steam rising and turning his vision foggy, when he hears footsteps on the staircase.

“Please tell me you aren’t about to put sugar in that.”

Harry looks over his shoulder, spoon frozen in the small jar as Louis regards him with both his eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. He leans on the railing for a moment, before he flits the rest of the way down when it becomes apparent that Harry’s answer isn’t coming anytime soon.

“I like it sweet,” he says eventually, a little petulantly.

“You had such potential, too” Louis sighs and shakes his head, scandalized and with mock devastation. “How short-lived our friendship was.”

“Heey,” Harry whines quietly. “My friendship is way better than any cup of tea.”

He hides his smile over the rim of his cup, and through the curling steam he sees Louis glance up at him, curious and soft. Behind him, the sky is clear and the world is painted in grey and cornflower blue, like porcelain or fine china.

“I find that very hard to believe, Curly,” Louis remarks. Harry’s smile widens at the nickname, and then Louis is cracking too, his poised disbelief twitching with a smile.

“’s true,” Harry holds his mug with both hands, drawing warmth from it. “My mother tells me I’m a charmer.”

“Well, it must be true, then,” Louis says sarcastically. He reaches up for a mug of his own, and Harry watches in quiet amusement as he pushes onto his tippy-toes, as his voice comes out a little strained when he lifts his arm up. “Wouldn’t want to disrespect Mother Styles.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and then forgets to say anything more, because his eyes have caught on the swell of Louis’ ass, and he clutches his cup so tight it might break beneath his fingers. Louis drops back onto flat feet solidly, and Harry blinks his gaze back up to his face.

Louis isn’t looking at him, but there the whisper of a smirk on his lips, and Harry feels hot, all of a sudden.

Then Louis pours the milk into his tea before he puts the teabag in. Harry is suddenly very much out of his daze.

“Woah, woah!” he points down at the cup almost accusingly. “You’re telling me off for sugar when you’ve just committed the biggest tea crime there is.”

“Excuse me,” Louis holds up a palm, not looking at Harry as he dunks his tea bag in, then flattens it against the side of his cup with a spoon. “I am far beyond your years in tea knowledge. I’m a seasoned tea drinker.”

“You look like more of an amateur to me.”

That earns him a whack, and he tries not to slosh his tea over his fingers as he attempts to dodge out of the way. Louis levels him with a look that spells less-than-impressed, but his lips purse in a way that pulls them into a scrunched v-like shape, and his only retort is to stick his tongue out.

“If you take that back,” he says after his first sip, blowing on the hot liquid, “I’ll let you have a biscuit.”

“What am I, a dog?” Harry says. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Do you want a custard cream or not?” he huffs. Harry sends him what he hopes is a winning smile.

He watches as Louis crouches and starts to sort through one of the cupboards, pots and pans clanging together as he manoeuvres them. Finally, he reaches into the very back and pulls out a thin box of cling film. With a sceptical, cautious glance over his shoulder to the staircase, he lifts the lid. Harry snorts into his tea.

“It looks like you’re storing coke,” he laughs, teeth scraping over his mug as he watches Louis unwrap a small bundle of biscuits. “Bit much, isn’t it?”

“These people are savages, Harry,” Louis says. He holds out a biscuit for him, then ducks back down to hide to box. “You don’t understand the trauma I face here. Zayn is like one of those police dogs.”

“You trust me with this information, then?” Harry says.

“If you tell anyone I’ll fly your ass up to the tip of Greenland and leave you there,” Louis says, eyes deadly serious. Harry presses his lips together to stop himself laughing, and dunks his biscuit.

It goes quiet around them. Harry leans back against the sink, watches as Louis pulls his biscuit apart delicately and scrapes the cream away with his front teeth. It reminds Harry of when he was a kid, for some odd reason, when he’d do the same thing and get unexplainably upset if the biscuit broke under his fingers, or if the cream filling didn’t leave one side clean.

The silence stretches for a few minutes, just the tiny slurps of their tea and the barely there drip-drip of the sink. Within these few minutes, Harry finds himself flicking his gaze over to Louis hopelessly, and then flicking it away again when Louis stares back. It’s so strange, and there’s an unidentifiable bubbling in his stomach. It amplifies when he looks over and finds that Louis is already watching him, their eyes lingering. Lingering, until. Until they both don’t look away, and Louis’ hip is leant against the counter and he’s looking at Harry from under his eyelashes, lips resting against his mug.

“So,” he says evenly. “What’s a journalist doing in Greenland over Christmas?”

Harry manages to find his voice eventually. “It was last minute thing. I’ve never actually been out of the office before, so.”

“Really?” Louis eyebrows flash, and he looks surprised.

“Yeah…” Harry trails off, and Louis huffs a tiny, amused noise.

“Sorry, you just seem, like,” he waves a vague hand in Harry’s direction, “really informed.”

“I’ve wanted to get out in the field for a long time,” Harry explains. “And, like. I’ve been quite passionate about this stuff since I was a kid, science and earth and everything to do with saving it. I read a lot, keep up to date with things, you know?”

“So what stopped you, then?” Louis’ brow furrows. “Getting into the science side of things, I mean.”

“Honestly?” Harry lets out a puff of humourless laughter. “I didn’t get the grades for the course I wanted. It shouldn’t have stopped me, I guess. But it did.”

Harry tries to mask it all with a smile, but he knows it’s small and unconvincing, and he knows the moment Louis sees right through it. He tries not get stuck on the swirling in his chest, the one that seems to jumble everything into a giant knot.

“That’s unfortunate,” Louis says softly. “But if you ask me, school is one big joke and a way to make kids feel small. You know what my geography teacher told me? ‘You will never amount to anything.’ I sometimes wonder now if he could locate Kangerlussuaq on a map.”

“That’s awful,” Harry frowns.

“It was,” Louis says simply. He finishes the rest of his tea and wipes his mouth with the back of his sweater covered hand. “But now I’m here, and so are you. Obviously we’ve done something right along the way.”

“I guess we have,” Harry concedes. He taps his nails against his mug softly. “I’m glad to be where I am now, you know? Social media is so powerful. If I can’t be on the front line the least I can do is make sure the world knows what we do.”

“How long have you been with WWF for?” Louis asks.

“About a year, officially,” Harry says. He turns and starts to wash his mug out in the sink, reaching for Louis’ too. “I interned for them in D.C for about six months before I got a permanent job in London. Before that I spent my time trying to get my foot in the door wherever I could.”

“Mm,” Louis hums. “It took me a long time to work my way up here, too. I’m never going near a dingy weather station ever again.”

Harry lets out a soft patter of laughter, and when Louis joins him the air around them eases. The knot in Harry’s chest starts to loosen. He can still feel it, lumpy and a little bulky, but it’s slowly sliding apart and easing his breath.

Behind them, footsteps sound on the staircase.

“Oh, good. You’re not dead,” Zayn notes with a raise of his eyebrow. “If you two are done, Allan wants to go over the plan for Monday.”

“Be right up,” Louis smiles sweetly. Zayn rolls his eyes and disappears.

“You two seem friendly,” Harry notes.

“Our friendship thrives on hatred and dry sarcasm,” Louis says. “Mortal enemies, we are.”

“Ah,” Harry nods. “Must be nice to have a friend all the way up here, though. It could get pretty lonely.”

“It is nice,” Louis says. “Still gets lonely though. It’s a small place. Not much happens.”

“You don’t mind that?” Harry asks carefully. Louis shrugs.

“I like the quiet,” he says. Sighing, he pushes off the edge of the bench and starts towards the stairs.

Harry turns and places the mugs into the drying rack.

“Hey, Harry?”

Harry looks over his shoulder. Louis has his lips bitten into his mouth curiously, eyes trained on his.

“If you, uh,” he taps his nails against the banister, looking shy all of a sudden. “If you need some holiday company, let me know. The bar goes pretty wild on a Friday night.”

Harry’s lips curl into a smile. “Really?”

“No,” Louis laughs. “But I can offer you free jager and great company.”

“And who might that be?” Harry questions.

Louis grins. “Me.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Harry muses.

“Excellent,” Louis chirps. “It’s about time something exciting happened around here.”

They’re stuck in that moment again, just looking at each other with nothing else to say, because embedded in the silence is something weighty and palpable. Something exciting, Harry thinks, looks at Louis’ eyes and sees the ice, looks at his mouth and sees his own hovering just above it. Something exciting.

“Thank you” Harry says, sincere.

“No worries,” Louis continues up the stairs, but he pauses after a moment and turns back to him. “But if you tell anyone about the custard creams, I’m going to throw you in the fjord.”

“Noted,” Harry says. He pushes off the sink and moves to follow, heart fluttering in his chest.

-

Once the sun has gone down and the moon waxes full and glowing above, Harry leaves the warm safety of his silver igloo with a shuddery breath. It floats up around him like smoke, tinged by shadow. The zipper of his jacket is a prick of ice on his chin, the sleeves of his sweater, wine red and frayed, pulled down over his hands so that they pop out from the tight cuffs oddly.

He waits out the front of the hotel with his knees shaking back and forth, gloved fingers shoved deep into his pockets. The bus pulls up a few minutes later, blinding him for a moment with its headlights as it crunches along the gravel. It’s empty. He sits close to the window and watches himself blend with the murky shadows outside, his face layered with rocks and the glint of the distant water.

Puttering over the bridge into town, he casts his gaze over the harbour. The light are tiny orange beacons, fuzzy and gentle. Despite its purity the water looks like oil, inky and slick as it laps at the boats with a thick tongue. It shimmers on top like it’s dusted with pearls under the glaze of the moon.

Baren is the name of the bar, which apparently also just means ‘The Bar’ in Danish. Harry doesn’t know whether it’s endearing or strange, but he supposes that there isn’t much need for fancy labels when it’s the only place in Ilulissat to go for a drink. Simple and straightforward, he supposes. He likes it.

Out the very front, tiny streams of smoke waft up from an area enclosed by walls of glass, lower than ground height, tinted orange and red from the lights hanging from the sturdy wooden beams overhead. Harry spots Louis standing there, leaning over the glass to speak to a man on the other side. He’s on his tippy-toes, head cupped in his palm, both elbows resting over the barrier. Wrapped up in a coat, beanie, and gloves, he looks incredibly small and warm.

The man he’s speaking too is gazing up at him with a tiny smirk, dark, dirty blonde hair that looks brown in the light and a square, cut jaw. His cigarette is a tiny firefly when he brings it up to his lips. Louis lowers himself back onto the balls of his feet, and Harry approaches cautiously, inexplicably nervous.

“Louis,” he calls softly.

Louis turns, one arm still resting on the glass. He looks cosy and soft. “Hey! Y’alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Harry nudges his shoulder when he’s close enough. It feels too odd to go in for a hug.

He feels a little choked up too quickly, and he casts his gaze over the tiny area, the hazy way the light cuts through it all and turns it into an amber cloud.  Just as he turns to ask Louis if they can go inside, he feels his hand on his arm, pulling him away.

“Let’s go in, yeah?” Louis says, fingers insistent and firm. Harry looks at him curiously, but Louis is already marching ahead, shucking off his jacket before he’s even in the door.

Immediately, Harry is enveloped in pleasant warmth and 60’s blues, the clinking of glasses and the whoosh of tap brew. It’s all dark brick and deep wood, a mix of honey and oak and glazed over, tainted orange. At the end of the room there’s a tiny raised stage, empty now. Along the wall to its left, a row of booths with old wine coloured seats and sturdy tables. On the other, a bar with rickety wooden stools and a shiny top. Harry isn’t sure if it’s varnish or sticky alcohol.

Louis leads them to a seat close to the stage, and Harry sits with his back facing it so he can see the length of the room. The ceiling is high and peaked, wooden beams stretching across it like the ones outside. Harry piles his jacket and gloves beside him and settles in. It’s then that he notices how tiny the booths are, and that when he shifts, he can feel Louis’ knee brushing his own. Their legs are practically interlocked.

He tries not to flush when he notices. It’ll be too awkward to try and rearrange them now. Louis seems to pay no mind, instead ruffling his hair with his nose scrunched after his pulls off his beanie.

“I’m sorry if I was kind of weird out there,” he says, patting his hair down softly once he seems satisfied. “I’m, uh. I’m still trying to quit.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks. Oh. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, fiddling with his fingers. “What about you, you ever smoke?”

“When I was younger,” Harry says. “Usually just a social thing.”

“Mm, I feel that,” Louis nods, gaze lingering behind him to the bar. The light hovers over them, and it paints shadows across Louis’ features, defines the slope of his jaw into a deeper hinge, the cut of his cheekbones and the little dips in his collarbones that peek out from his jumper when he twists his body. “I also feel like a pint and a pot of mussels. Where is he?”

A group of older men a few tables down burst into a roar of laughter, their whiskered faces red and jubilant, skin cracked and rough from the sea air. Louis rises in his seat a little, eyes squinted as he looks over the bar. He then turns and looks out the window, trying to see through the blurry glass.

“Aha! Han overlevede sit forræderiske falde!” a voice shouts across the room. “Han beærede os med sin tilstedeværelse!”

Louis hollers, half in what seems like annoyance and in greeting. A young man approaches them, hair deep brown and soft on his forehead, glasses flashing in the gentle light. He looks put together, fitted sweater and jeans, giant boots and a grin. He’s also looking at Louis with brimming amusement, and he claps him on the back when he reaches them.

“I heard Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” he leans his palms on his knees and leers closer. Louis glares. “How many times are they gonna put you back together, egg man?”

“Jesus, you’re fucking lame,” Louis moans.

“Not as lame as you,” he accentuates the last word with a bop to Louis’ nose and a grin. Louis looks ready to bite his finger off.

“Zayn’s too bloody quick,” Louis huffs.

“No, he actually just values our friendships and comes to visit me more than you,” the man says matter-of-factly.

“He comes to visit you so you suck his dick,” Louis says. The man immediately whacks him over the back of the head harshly, to which Louis yelps and shoves him away.

The man takes in a deep breath, smiles winningly, and then turns his attention to Harry.

“Hello,” he greets. “I’m Niall. I am so sorry he’s pulled you into his trap.”

“Fuck you,” Louis mutters under his breath.

“Harry,” he holds out his hand. “I’m here with the WWF team.”

“Oh, sweet!” Niall promptly shoves Louis across the booth – causing their legs to tangle even further – and rests his elbows on the table with a solid thump. “I find all that stuff so interesting.”

“Do you bloody mind?” Louis asks, from where he’s squished against the wall. His shoulders are curled in, and he looks even smaller like this. Harry shifts his legs a little to try and give him some more room, but all that does is slide his knee along Louis’ thigh. They both pause, eyes locked together for a moment.

“No, I don’t, actually,” Niall sniffs. He reaches across the table and plucks a menu from the napkin holder. “So, Harry. What are your intentions with my son?”

“Niall,” Louis hisses, pushing him out of the booth. “Go be useful and get us some beers and mussels. It’s baffles me that Victor hasn’t fired you yet.”

“It’s because of my charm,” Niall argues.

“The only charm you have is pissing me off,” Louis glowers. “Shoo.”

“Du ved du elsker mig,” Niall sings in a slow drawl as he drifts away from their table, fingers splayed and wiggling like he’s casting a spell.

Louis drops his head into his hands and rubs at his forehead.

“Right,” he says, placing his palms flat on the table. “That was Niall, the village idiot.”

“He seems lovely,” Harry’s words turn into laughter as Louis’ face morphs into disbelief.

“It’s all a façade,” he says primly.

It’s then, as their laughter dies off, that Harry notices Louis hasn’t moved back to the centre of the booth. Their legs are still twisted awkwardly and he feels hot under his collar. He tries not to move his legs at all, keeps them stock still so Louis doesn’t notice. It seems his tactics fail him, however, when Louis lets out a soft breath of laughter, private and almost shy this time, and starts to shift his legs as he slides across the seat.

“Sorry,” Harry says, trying to pull his legs back as far as he can.

“You’ve got giraffe legs,” Louis says. “All gangly and long.”

“And you’ve got elf legs,” Harry says. “Short.”

The change in Louis’ expression is immediate. “I’m five-nine,” he grouches.

“Uh-huh,” Harry’s lips curl slowly. “Definitely.”

“Oi,” Louis says lowly, leaning forward menacingly. “Do you want free dinner or not?”

“Niall seemed to like me,” Harry shrugs. He leans away and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sure he’d be happy to compensate.”

That seems to tick Louis off further. “No way. I’m treating you, not Niall.”

This isn’t a date, Harry’s brain repeats it like a mantra, over and over. Don’t be an idiot.

“Right,” he says, realising he’s taken too long to answer and the air between them has gone thick.

“Oi-Oi!” Niall slams the pints down on the table in front of them, sloshing some over the sides so that it trickles down in a gooey haze.

“Christ!” Louis holds a hand over his heart, then looks up at Niall with narrowed eyes. “I regret teaching you that phrase every day of my life.”

“And I regret helping you with your Danish,” Niall claps him on the back. “Now you can understand when I talk shit about you with everyone.”

Louis waves him away and starts on his pint, taking two longs gulps. Harry follows to keep his eyes away from the bob in his throat. It’s strong, stronger than he expected, something local or close to it that’s sharp like liquid gold but fades into honey on the back of his tongue with tingly fizzles.

“Good?” Louis asks. He wipes at his mouth.

“Yeah, really good, actually,” Harry says. “I’m usually more of a fruity, sweet guy.”

“Knew it,” Louis smiles. “Let me guess, mojitos and raspberry vodka’s, that type of thing?”

“Sorta,” Harry licks at the foam stinging to his top lip. “Vanilla Galliano is my weakness, I think. With a bit of lemonade.”

“Ew,” Louis’ nose scrunches in disgust.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Harry says. “Seriously, it’s like drinking sugar.”

“Liqueur is always a bit iffy for me,” Louis takes another long sip of his beer. “I do like Black Russians, though. Those are so smooth. Niall makes a good Black Russian.”

“Never had one,” Harry says. Louis brightens immediately.

“We should try each other’s, then,” he suggests with a wry smile. “Just one.”

Their mussels come out steaming and wafting headily, rich. The sauce they’re in is bubbling still. Harry has never been a massive fan of seafood, but he’s salivating already. Niall also dumps another smaller bowl on the table, mussels tucked among cubes of ice instead.

“Filthy local, you are,” he ruffles Louis’ hair as he leaves.

“Are those raw?” Harry makes a face. Louis grins up at him, tiny canines poking through, and cracks open the first shell to pull the mussel out with a little fork.

“The best way to eat ‘em,” he pops it into his mouth, then closes his eyes and smiles around his mouthful. “In the summer, when the tide is low, you can walk along the coast and pick them right off.”

“Not too sure how I feel about that,” Harry wrinkles his nose and pulls the bowl of cooked mussels closer to spoon some into his bowl.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Louis echoes, all slow, deep drawl and mirth.

Harry glares and starts eating.

He spends the remainder of the night feeling full and warm, a little fuzzy around the edges from the last waves of travel-exhaustion and the constant buzz in the air around them. Louis has reclined against the side of the booth, glass in hand. Their legs are tilted together this way, tucked under and over one another warmly. Harry’s head feels a little heavy, but he blames it on the mix of coffee-liqueur and vodka.

As he thought, Louis is almost halfway through his own drink, and takes back his previous disgust.

The whole thing is just. Odd. Harry doesn’t know what it is exactly that turns him to that conclusion. And it isn’t a bad type of odd, necessarily. It’s just unfamiliar, strangely comfortable and earnest and altogether lovely. He’s been here a day, and he already wants to dive deeper, too eager to learn and too eager to be learned himself.  

It’s all just so odd.

Their quiet chatter is interrupted eventually, by the man that Harry recognizes from outside earlier. In the light of the bar he looks softer around the edges, maybe the same height as Harry. Louis’ mouth tightens a little, and he chews on his straw absently.

“Hey, Lucas.”

“Hi,” Lucas says eagerly, and he’s completely ignoring Harry’s presence, it seems. “Are you still up for tonight, or…?”

He finally trails his eyes over to Harry slowly, mouth turning down. Louis lets out a sigh and sips his drink, then wipes his thumb over his mouth.

“No thanks,” he says plainly. Lucas’ eyes flicker, what Harry thinks might be hurt, or maybe even jealousy.

“I just thought that, y’know,” he makes an odd jerking motion with his head, “outside, uh. We-“

“Sorry,” Louis stirs the tiny bulbs of ice in his drink distractedly.

“Right,” Lucas takes an awkward step back. “I’ll just. Okay. Bye, Louis.”

“Bye,” Louis flicks his eye down to the table and waits for Lucas to leave before he lifts them again, gauging Harry’s reaction.

“Old friend?” he asks simply. Louis lets out another sigh and leans his elbow on the table, body shifting forward.

“You let a guy fuck you a couple of times and suddenly it’s love,” he rolls his eyes lightly and picks up his glass with both hands, chasing the straw with bared teeth as it slides. Harry can feel his cheeks heating, and he isn’t sure why.

“He doesn’t do that all the time, does he”?” Harry asks carefully. “Like, he doesn’t give you any trouble or anything?”

“No,” Louis says. “He just won’t seem to go away. I think the last time we hooked up was about a year ago. Drives me up the wall.”

“Jeez,” Harry huffs a laugh. “Surely there’s someone else around here that he can get along with?”

“Well, you can say there are plenty of fish in the sea,” Louis starts, “but right here we’re all in a tiny, overflowing pond. It’s a bit hard to find fresh new faces.”

“And when you do?” Harry finishes the last of his drink, lips sticky with coke.

Louis bites the end of his straw into the corner of his mouth, sips it long and slow and watches Harry carefully. “Keep ‘em close.”

That’s. Well. Harry has nothing left to drink, so he just rests his glass against his lips to trap the words threatening to tumble out. He can feel the tips of his ears burning, can feel hot coals ghosting over his stomach. Louis curls the straw into his mouth with his tongue, eyes impish and coy and Jesus. He’s flirting with him. Blatantly.

Harry swallows. “Understandable.”

It comes out thick and croaky, and Louis giggles, releasing his straw so he can rest his palm against his pink cheek. He knocks their knees together, teeth folding over his bottom lip in amusement. Then they’re just watching each other, cards on the table, both fully aware of where their bodies are pressed, fully aware of what’s been zipping between them; this undeniable chemistry that feels like it’s come boiling over too fast, hot and bubbling frantically, waiting to be released so it can singe everything in his path.

“I should get you home, huh?” Louis says, lip quirking. Take me, Harry thinks, quietens his brain before those words can slip out.

“Okay,” he says.

When they manoeuvre their legs to slide out of the booth, the apples of their cheeks are both flushed, and Harry tries to stop himself from resting his palm in the dip of Louis’ spine on their way out.

-

Saturday morning brings a stroll along the harbour and up into the hills above Ilulissat. The day is intensely bright, frosty air gleaming with the sunlight. 

He and Louis walk with their hands buried in their pockets, kicking a rock back and forth as they chat. There’s a steady swirl of white cloud uncurling around them, quiet laughter and gentle voices sending it floating into the sky.

They walk slow, unhurried, and they talk about everything, the earth and the glaciers and themselves, little bits and pieces. Harry finds himself falling open, caving in like the crevices that run like cold veins from the icy lakes. It feels strange to talk this way. He feels like he should be having this conversation hidden under his covers, whispering in the dark. It feels like the kind of talk that means too much, that means trust and revealing the small things that make up the bigger ones, except they’re both barely blinking an eye.

For the remainder of the day, and much of Sunday, he settles his elbows on the railing outside his igloo, right on the water, and writes stiffly with cold, gloved hands. With his breath coming out in short puffs, and his eyes glazed like the water, he feels passion in his words for the first time in so long. It take some searching, takes some time like all things do, but it’s there, a warm little bulb that he lifts from the soil in his chest, that he lays gently on the paper to watch grow in the sharp sun.

Some of it is for his job, and some of it is just because, words that don’t particularly mean much in the grand scale of things, but mean a lot when he looks close. When he lowers his pen, his breath is now mixed with peach light. It flutters over the still fjord and turns it all pink, matching the flush on his cheeks from being out in the cold.

Inside his chest, something ticks, like flicking on a switch.

He continues writing until the short day comes to a head, and sun waves him off to bed with one last orange wink.

-

Stepping onto the edge of the glacier feels like stepping foot on the moon.

Not that Harry knows what stepping on the moon would feel like. But if he were Neil Armstrong, or some other astronaut, he imagines that the feeling would be similar. There’s no space dust flicking up under his feet, no helmet over his head or the giant abyss of the dark sky around him. But it feels like a vacuum of silence. It feels untouched by mankind. It feels like wherever Harry treads his foot, he could very well be the first.

One small step.

His fascinations with space have always remained tucked behind his ear, a casual dwelling that he occasionally explored. Looking out at the ice, he knows why it lay there. He can imagine the excitement of space travel as clear as anything, a whole new world to explore, a bridge between the earth and the stars.

But there’s a whole new world right here. A world that needs their help. A world that they spent billions of dollars to fly away from, that’s slowly being destroyed by its own industrialisation. Harry knows, without a doubt, that he’d rather step foot on any part of the earth than on the moon. This is where he needs to be. This is where he wants to make a difference.

The glacier looks endless, and he’s breathless at the sight of it. It runs like an electrical wave, like a pulse, jagged yet smooth and rising and falling in tiny breaks and starts. It looks like a fingerprint magnified, the individual grooves and ridges like no other. They’re right on the edge of it all, where the ice is calving into the sea. Below him, icecaps dot the surface of the sapphire water, and out further giant bergs cast shadows as they run hundreds of metres downward.

They’d taken the helicopter early that morning to Kangerlussuaq, once the sun was high enough to be deemed safe and the soft, wispy mist that clung to the hills had scattered. Louis had flown them, chatter crackly and excited through their headsets. Harry had watched him instead of the shifting land beneath them with a tiny smile.

Huddled together over breakfast, Harry had munched on his toast and hidden his gushing smile behind it when Louis had teased him about his tea again, after offering to make a cup for them all. Louis still passed it to him gently though, and Harry had taken it from him just the same. Louis heated waffles in the microwave and doused them with butter and honey, munching happily while Zayn had grimaced at him. Louis just stuck his tongue out and wiped at his sticky lips.

Now, on the northern side of the glacier, he watches Allan and Louis tinker with the time lapse cameras, opening their thick protective cases to download their data. Apparently, a huge chunk had broken off last summer, and the response to the glacier is going to show through these images. Mostly he stays quiet, jots down the scenery and asks Allan about how the equipment functions step by step. Liam, Jonas and Zayn have walked further towards the side of the glacier itself, little specks against the white slate.

Eventually, he ends up sitting on a rather large rock just watching it all, breathes and tries to comprehend that he’s actually here, that he gets to see this all with his own eyes. Louis and Allan are huddled around one of the cameras, discussing softly and peering at the edge of the glacier ahead. From here, in one direction Harry can see right out across the water, right back to the horizon, and in the other the infinite expanse of the ice. He tries not to look right in the middle, where it used to be made of ice, too.

When they return to the centre early in the afternoon, Allan shuts all the blinds in the lab and plugs in the hard-drive. Harry blinks against the bleary light. It reminds him of his office back home. But then Allan loads up the pictures, arranges them into a slideshow, and presses play.

It’s a whole two year’s worth of change, a shutter of the world every thirty minutes for over seven hundred days. Harry is sure he doesn’t breathe the entire time. The slideshow has been sped up so it plays like a stuttered film, the ice falling and changing and warping in gradual motions. It’s one of the most incredible things Harry has ever seen.

About halfway through, a giant chunk calves off the front of the glacier, and Harry can’t help but gasp, can’t help but lean forward a little in his chair and watch it all happen, watch the gigantic surge of the water rising up and cascading over the newly forming icebergs like a tidal wave, the foamy spray of it and the constant pelting of chunky ice like bullets.

It’s one of the strangest feelings, because on the surface it’s gorgeous, a moment in nature captured forever, a glimpse at a world that’s hidden and uninhabited. On the other, it makes Harry’s stomach curl desperately, makes his heart sink as he watches it all break away. He wonders how many millions of litres of water have shunted into the ocean over the last two years.

When it comes to a stop, Harry glances beside him. Louis is cast in glowing blue light, the shadows of his lashes like delicate ferns across his cheekbones. His arms are crossed, his hand curled over his mouth in thought, brows set and eyes steely. As soon as Allan draws back the curtains, Louis swivels in his chair and starts writing, mouth in a thin line as he draws a diagram in the top corner and starts writing dot points beside it.

Harry lets him be and focuses on his own work, gets Allan to make him a copy of all the images so he can send them to Renee. He writes what he can, checks over the final draft of the article for Beijing, and pops his first piece of gum for the day into his mouth and chews it until it goes tacky.

Around three o’clock, Louis taps his arm absently beside him, fingers gentle with his eyes still trained on the paper in front of him.

“Curly,” he says distractedly, circling a small group of numbers and drawing a line from them up to a scribbled sentence.

“Mm?” Harry hums in response.

“What are you doing tonight?”

Harry’s eyebrows raise slowly. “Was that a line?”

Louis’ lips quirk, and he finally sends him a sideways glance. “No. Just curious.”

“Well, you’re my only friend here-“

“Hey,” Liam protests quietly from across the table.

“-so, nothing that I know of.”

“You should come to Pisiffik with me,” Louis says. “It’s another world at night. And I need someone to help me set up the Christmas tree.”

“Pisiffik…?” Harry questions.

“It’s like Tesco,” Louis explains. “But a lot smaller. And a lot more, uh, Greenlandic.” 

“Oh,” Harry drawls, nodding. “Okay, that sounds fun.”

“Great,” Louis chirps. “I’ve been waiting to dance to Mariah Carey for weeks. Zayn’s such a Grinch.”

“I am not,” Zayn swivels in his chair as quick as a whip. “I’m just sick of you making me dance to that godawful song.”

“Hey, watch it!” Jonas points a threatening finger from across the room. “Mariah is an angel.”

The squabble continues for quite some time. Harry meets Allan’s eye from his desk, and barely contains his guffawed laughter at his expression.

-

As expected, Louis is a shopping menace.

Besides the two of them, there’s only one other person in the store. They’re currently behind the register flipping through a magazine and paying them no mind.

He flies down the poorly lit aisles on his cart, making loud revving noises and screeches as he turns corners while Harry follows with a steady stride, hands in his pockets and an amused grin on his lips.

It’s already close to pitch black outside, winter time drawing the sun down early and freezing the whole world. Louis was right. Inside, it does seem like a whole other world compared to the terrain and ice. It’s all fluorescent, flickering light that casts murky green shadows like the ones in Harry’s office, the buzz of freezers and the odd clunk of the faulty wheels on their trolley.

They come to a mutual agreement on spaghetti, which they find the ingredients for fairly easily. After that, Louis makes it his mission to glide away from Harry as fast as possible, and scoop bundles of snacks into their trolley. Harry rolls his eyes but lets him be.

They walk along the side of the road with their bags swinging between them as they chat idly, breaths warm puffs of silky air under the hazy streetlights, orange and turning the snow an odd shiny colour. There’s a faint mist in the air, and it makes the stars seem blotted and distant.

Louis’ house is tiny, a square little thing that’s all navy blue and white with a faded, paint-scratched picket fence and an already smoking chimney. It’s warm inside and Harry shucks his jacket, notes the wooden interior and the homey rugs, the books stuffed into the tiny shelves and the papers and maps strewn all over the table, laptop open and still glowing. It’s all bathed in the amber-red glow of the small fire still burning low.

Louis reaches down to put more wood in immediately, flakes of timber dusting the ground at his feet.

Surprisingly, all the furniture is tucked together in one room. The kitchen is in one corner, dining table on the other side of the counter. To Harry’s right is a wide single bed and a little bedside table, in front of that a worn maroon couch, and on the wall opposite lays the fire. By the kitchen, there’s a thin door that Harry assumes leads to the bathroom.

It’s homey and warm and very well lived in. Harry toes off his boots and digs his socked feet into the sturdy wooden floor.

Louis plugs his phone into his portable speaker while they unpack their groceries. Harry smiles softly to himself at the mix of it, 2000’s hits and 80’s synth-pop and indie-folk, a few random country songs that Louis quickly skips sheepishly, and a dash of blues. Harry knows most of them, and they sing along quietly together.

Louis grates and Harry chops. They have a system going, comfortable silence between them as they work and hum along to the music. Harry brings the water to the boil while Louis mixes the tomato sauce in with the vegetables, and it all feels very lovely and domestic. Harry tries not to think too hard about it.

Instead of eating at the table they curl up on opposite ends of the couch, feet overlapping in the middle. Louis had apologized for the mess on the table with flushed cheeks, but Harry had waved it off. It seemed like it needn’t be disturbed, whatever he was doing with it all. In front of the fire, Harry’s whole body feels warm and cosy, belly slowly filling with hearty pasta.

Once Louis puts on the Christmas carols, the calm atmosphere quickly changes. Harry’s cheeks hurt from his laughter as he and Louis wrap tinsel around their shoulders and belt out the words, as they slip shiny red baubles on Louis’ tiny tree and hide bon-bons among the fake needles. They swing their hips and twirl around each other like children, crooning with glowing eyes.

Louis insists on listening to both version of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You.” Harry is unaware that there’s more than one version, but then Louis switches it to the apparent extra festive version. Then, he starts a dramatic performance, holding a strong stance with his back to Harry and then turning to look over his shoulder slowly with the first few notes, hands flaring. Harry doubles over with laughter and joins him.

Harry is giggling constantly, his singing coming out in short, awkward bursts as Louis jumps onto the couch and dances. It’s impossible to sing when there’s so much laughter caught in his throat. Inside him, there’s something warm, something that’s filling him. The anticipated loneliness of these next few weeks vanish, whisked away by the tiny bubble of hope in Harry’s chest and the look in Louis’ eyes.

And later, when Harry leaves, he pulls his hood up against the cold air so that the fluff around it tickles his eyes. Louis rests on the doorframe with one leg crossed behind the other, one hand crossed over his chest and resting delicately against the wood as he watches him tie up his boots. The light behind from inside turns him bronze-tipped and soft, and Harry feels an odd pull in his gut as he starts to shuffle along the tiny porch.

“Harry,” Louis says, a low hum.

“Yeah?” Harry says, stopping on the first step with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

“I’m not-,” Louis looks away for a moment, fingers tapping against the door. “I’m not making this all up in my head, am I?”

Harry stares at him, looks at the messy halo of his hair and the soft sweep of his eyelashes. Right in between his ribs, something presses it’s hands down firmly. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you are.”

Louis flicks his eyes back, hooded and so full. On his lips, a private smile, barely there.

“See you at work,” he says, stepping back inside.

Harry swallows thickly and forces himself to move down a step, forces himself not to run into Louis’ arms and press him back, back, back until they’re encased in nothing but wet heat.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. There’s a steady thump in his chest. “I’ll see you later, Lou.”

When he hails the bus down and settles into his seat, he can’t wipe the tiny smile off his face. He nuzzles his face deeper into his jacket and searches for warmth.

-

They spend the next few days trailing down the glacier.

The ice moves and curves with the land, powers through the mountains and runs in steely rivets across everything. With every new destination Harry feels that same breathlessness, and perhaps he always will. He writes, writes, writes. Writes with numb fingertips and a running nose, sits on the rocks or the ground or the rail of the helicopter and scrawls all he can think of, all he hears and sees.

He and Louis draw closer. They eat their meals together always with their feet knocking under the table, make each other tea without a fuss. Harry spends his nights at Louis’ house for dinner, the two of them orbiting each other as they cook and clean or just reheat leftovers and be done with it. Louis has stacked all his things neatly, and they eat dinner with the pendant light swinging above them and painting shadows. After, they settle on the couch side by side, and Louis rests his laptops on one of the dining chairs so they can watch movies together, or they just play music and talk for hours.

It’s so, so easy.

Louis shows him all his records from his first ever trip here, how messy and unprepared he was. They lean together close, so close that Harry can smell him, the sharpness that reminds him of the ice and the softness that reminds him of the snow, smoke and flowers and earth. He wants to put a gentle hand over Louis’, stop him, pause him for just a moment so he can lean down and kiss him, so he can touch and let everything building inside him go. It all feels like so much so soon.

They fall into this pattern quickly. He and Liam wake with first sunlight and huddle together on the helipad. Jonas, Zayn and Louis meet them there, and then Louis flies them to Kangerlussuaq. They eat, gather their things, and go. Within this, though, Harry finds a deeper rhythm to it all.

At breakfast he sits next to Louis, makes him his tea and heats his waffles in the microwave while Louis is upstairs in the lab. In the helicopter he sits as close as he can, so that Louis’ voice isn’t so crackly in his ears, so they don’t have to shout to talk. He sticks close to Louis’ side out on the glaciers, listens intently while Louis explains each experiment and number, watches the way his eyes go clear and intensely startling in colour, reflecting off the ocean and the ice.

In the warmth of that little house, Harry flicks his eyes over him again and again while they cook, gets caught on the little prickles of hair that gather on his jaw when he doesn’t shave, the arch of his brows and the way his body slopes. He watches him when they eat, when they talk. He watches him when he’s supposed to be watching the blurry laptop screen, when the only light comes from the moon behind them and the fire before them, illuminating them in coolness and warmth all at once. 

And he doesn’t stop, doesn’t scold himself.

Because he knows that Louis notices. Louis does it all right back.

Harry can’t deny that Louis is the kind of person he’s drawn to, the kind of person that’s passionate and truthful in what they love and believe in, someone bright and different and unique. Someone who’s smaller than him, blue eyes and a body that his hands would fit right over, that he’d touch soft because he’s polite and touch rough because when he’s asked he’ll leave his manners to rest. Someone with a mouth that would fold just right with his, someone whose fingers would fit in the gaps, someone that would let him push him down and take, but would push him right back with no restraint.

Louis is beautiful. All the time. It never stops.

He’s beautiful when he pulls his beanie off his head and his hair is a static mess. He’s beautiful when he slops tea down his favourite jumper or snorts it out his nose when he laughs at Harry’s stupid puns that really aren’t that funny. When he stands like an explorer and looks out over the glaciers, when he wrangles with a thirty foot pole that’s stuck in the ground to try and measure the levels of melt. When he’s back in the lab and his pen is flying and Harry is distracted from his own work because, simply, he’s just so beautiful to watch.

-

“We all know who the clear winner is here, Zayn. There is no dispute. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“If you would just-“

“Nope.”

“You are so-“

“Sh,” Louis presses a finger against Zayn’s lips, squishing them. “No more.”

It’s Friday, officially a week since he and Liam arrived. They’re all flushed from a freezing day out on the glacier, settling in at the bar now and revelling in the warmth of it. It’s late, their bellies full of steaming, hearty food and now a few drinks. Harry is resting lazily against the wall, squished right into the corner of the booth with Liam and Jonas beside him, and he blinks sleepily at Louis and Zayn in front of him, squabbling, as always.

“Here’s the facts,” Zayn says seriously, holding up one finger. “Michael Bublé is actually enjoyable to listen to.”

“So is Mariah Carey!” Louis shouts indignantly. “If you’re not a bloody grouch.”

He’s got a glass of Galliano in his hand, and Harry’s had a little smile permanently plastered to his face for at least an hour now, arms crossed over his warm stomach. This time, their legs are pressed up purposely, even with the squishier seating arrangement. Louis has been flicking his eyes over all night, sending him little looks with his mouth pressed into a hidden smile, eyes lazy and slow as they watch him. Each time their gazes lock, he pushes their legs together firmly and bites at his straw.

Every so often Niall will flutter over to piss Louis off with little quips. Harry has decided he likes him. Very much so.

He’s exhausted, if he’s honest with himself. The helicopter flight between Kangerlussuaq and Ilulissat is almost an hour, and they rise at first light in the morning to savour the sun. Though afternoon draws to a close rapidly, the nights always seem suspended, seem to have a drawn out sense of time about them. When Harry is in his little igloo, flushed and full and thinking of Louis back in his own little house, it takes him a long time to fall asleep, especially with the moon so full and the stars so bright.

Tonight, when he’d stumbled in to Louis’ place ready to fall face first into his couch, Louis had risen immediately, taken his bag off him, and turned him back around. So now he’s here, the strong smell of wood and earth around him as he leans his head on the wall, the windows lined with thin films of ice, everything cast in soporific, blushing light, in delicate shadow and amber film. He’s content, sleepy, and for the first time in forever, properly settled despite the noise around him.

“We’ll settle this on Christmas Eve,” Jonas says, who’s leant across the table to put an arm between Louis and Zayn with an amused grin. “You two can have a proper showdown, alright?”

“What’s on Christmas Eve?” Liam asks.

“Karaoke night,” Zayn explains, “except it’s all Christmas carols, and everyone gets ridiculously drunk and it’s possibly the worst and best thing you’ll ever see.”

“Definitely the best,” Louis says. “Last year Niall dressed up at Santa Claus and stripped to ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’ Singing both parts. Incredible.”

“Why did he strip?” Liam’s eyebrows have risen into his hairline.

“Nobody knows,” Louis shrugs. “It was perhaps the funniest moment of my life to date, though.”

“Sounds like fun,” Liam grins. “I’m in.”

“Good lad!” Louis reaches forward and slaps his shoulder. Then his gaze drifts to Harry, softening. “Curly, what about you? Ready to give us a star performance?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry says. “That’s the whole reason I came on this trip, didn’t you know?”

Louis hides his laughter behind his hand, wipes at his nose with his knuckle and drops his eyes to the tabletop. Harry’s heart flutters in his chest, and he knocks their knees together again.

They stay until the music cuts off and all that’s left is the gentle whistle of the wind outside, until the lights dim and Niall chases them out by whipping a wrapped tea towel at them so he can clean up their mess. Outside, the air is biting, the night clear. Harry tugs his beanie over his ears and pulls his hood up, peeks up at the stars through the wispy bits of faux-fur that cut across his vision.

Their little group parts way with hugs and chilly shudders of shoulders.

“Hey,” Louis’ hand wraps around his arm from behind, once Liam, Jonas and Zayn start off down the path, keeping him back gently. “You need to come and get your things, yeah?”

“Oh,” Harry remembers with a blink. “Yeah, I do.”

“Alright, c’mon then,” Louis starts to lead him, and he doesn’t lift his hand, tucking himself close to Harry’s side against the cold.

Harry’s stomach is turning with every step. Each time he glances down, Louis is already watching him with a soft smile. Harry returns it, but it does nothing to quell the waves of unwarranted nerves that are washing over him. He hopes that Louis can’t feel him shake.

When they shuffle inside the fire is dead. The only light comes from the window at the end of Louis’ bed, splaying a silver glow over the edges of everything, moon waxing and crawling in to be close. It’s still warm, the soot in the fire cracked with red.

Harry steps in first and tugs off his gloves, then his beanie to shake out his hair. He hears the door shut behind him, feels Louis’ presence, but the light doesn’t flick on. They’re both still, silent aside from their breathing. It’s all so quiet.

But then Louis lays a gentle hand on the small of Harry’s back, and all he hears is blood rushing in his ears. Then comes Louis’ forehead, pressed between his shoulder blades, hair tickling the back of Harry’s neck. He can hear Louis’ release of breath, a shaky sigh as his other hand joins the first, as they slide around Harry’s front to rest over his stomach. Harry swallows audibly, eyes fluttering at how gentle it is, at how much he needs.

“Harry,” Louis whispers in the dark.

Harry turns in his arms, brings his hands to his face, and kisses him.

His entire body slumps with it, falls into Louis’ own with weak knees, falls, falls, falls until he’s crowding him against the door, until their thick coats rub and rustle together and the icy tips of their noses brush along their cheeks. It makes Harry inhale sharply, makes him open his mouth wider to try and take warmth from Louis’ own.

They kiss fiercely, wet and harsh and so much. Harry cradles his jaw, presses his thumbs in to say I’m here, I want this, I’ve wanted this since I first saw you. Louis unzips Harry’s jacket roughly, shoves his hands under the thick fabric of his jumper and pulls desperately, drags his nails over Harry’s skin to say I know. They’re both gasping, both pushing and pushing until it almost hurts. Harry has Louis’ thigh in his hand, hikes it up over his waist to pull them closer.

Louis whimpers into his mouth, and Harry feels everything go blank, hears white noise as the sound reaches his ears, overwhelmed. His jacket is half hanging off his shoulders and Louis arms are around his neck, his fingers deep in Harry’s hair as their tongues move in lush velvet swipes. Harry can’t be gentle, can’t contain the way he bites at Louis’ bottom lip, the way he digs his fingers in and feels the warmth and thickness of his thighs, the way he wants to drag his mouth over all of them.

“Haz, haz,” Louis gasps for breath as he manages to pull away, swatting at Harry’s shoulder. Harry brings his lips to his jaw and sucks, listens to the high, keening sound Louis makes and shudders. “We gotta-. Want. Fuck.”

He doesn’t let up, rolls his hips into Louis’ and moans against his neck, low and throaty and full of so much want. He wants this so much. He can’t remember the last time he had sex, not like this, not with anyone he’s felt so much for, felt so much that he still doesn’t understand.

“God, Lou,” Harry breathes into his skin, brows furrowed as Louis digs his fingers into his skin.

“Get your clothes off,” Louis whispers against his lips, warm breath fluttering around them. He tugs at Harry’s jacket frantically, legs slipping from his long fingers. “Get them off.”

Harry lets him down reluctantly, captures his mouth into a slick kiss as he shrugs off his jacket, almost stumbles as he toes off his boots. They have to separate here and there, but once they’re both down to pants and their thermals, Louis grabs at Harry’s forearms and drags him to the bed, falls down and pulls Harry with him.

Harry is on him immediately, crowds around his body and grinds his hips. Louis is hard against him, straining in his pants. He wants this so badly, wants to spread Louis wide and take, wants to grip at him and let him bite his neck, let him make it hurt.

“C’mon,” Louis huffs as he tries to wiggle out of his pants. “Need you.”

“Yeah,” Harry sits up to undo his pants, struggling out of them along with his boxers and his shirt in one go. His skin erupts in goosebumps right away, and the sensation sends him spinning. He’s flushed so hot, feels like his blood is running thick like magma, but his skin runs like the ice, bumps and curves that ache to be smoothed, to be touched. Louis' palms run over Harry’s chest, and he brings himself closer again, pushes into it.

“Woah,” Louis breathes, mouth going slack against Harry’s. His fingers run softly over Harry’s tattoos, a feather-light touch from his wrists up to his shoulders that has pinpricks of electricity zapping through him, meeting between the sparrows in his chest and then trailing down, over the moth and the ferns. They come together again by the soft trail of hair above Harry’s waistband. “Didn’t expect that. Look at you.”

It’s breathy and soft and Harry keens under the attention, leans back to look at Louis’ body because the realization hits him then, that he’s never seen this much of his skin, only up to his elbows, little slips of his ankles and his collarbones. He’s stunning, chest dotted with downy, light hair, tummy soft, the curve of his waist dipping obscenely. They’re both just frozen, completely naked and tracing their eyes over each other’s skin like a mantra.

“Can’t believe you’ve been here all this time,” Harry whispers, and it slips out, pulled from the oddest part of his brain. “So beautiful and lovely and just-. And nobody’s made you theirs. How is that possible?”

Louis flushes pink. “I’ve been waiting.”

Their eyes lock, and Louis’ are shiny in the moonlight, little pools of inky blue, like the ocean in the harbour when night comes and turns it into a twisted pearl. Harry leans down to kiss him, breathes in slow and sharp through his nose as Louis’ legs wrap around his waist, as his hands trail down his stomach, then to his cock, just feeling the head of it. Harry traps his bottom lip between his teeth, pulls it back and then slips his tongue past the gasping space that Louis leaves, that he turns into a whimper when Harry’s hand joins his own.

Their knuckles bump and slide together, hipbones knocking as they shift, as the hush and the tentative, exploring caresses turn into desperate presses, into moaning and teeth and curled fingers that dig in. Louis is warm in his hand, pulsing and thick, and Harry is skirting down Louis’ body before his brain connects, splitting his mouth over his cock and sinking down until his eyes fill and it burns, so needy to ground himself, to give Louis everything he can.

“Shit,” Louis’ hips shift, and he tugs at Harry’s hair the moment his lips are on him, spreads his legs obscenely. Harry’s nose brushes the fine hairs at the base of him and he rests there, shuts his eyes and tries to breathe, smells the sharp ice and the sweat and everything that Louis is. His lips are wet with spit, fingers shaking as they smooth over Louis thighs. “Yeah, like that.”

He sucks him off dirty and wet and urgent, blood roaring through his ears in tidal waves. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, this sudden burning in his chest, this sudden need to roll over and give everything up, the sudden need to hold and to touch and to take. His stomach is sitting low, hot like coals, shaking. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this, since he’s felt, felt with such strength and truth and it’s just. He can’t stop it.

“Harry, wait,” Louis gasps, hips shifting up uncontrollably. Harry digs his fingers in. “Wait, wait. I don’t wanna – fuck – I. I don’t wanna come yet.”

Harry pulls back slowly, breathing heavy as Louis’ cock rests against his lips. His throat is burning and his mouth is tingling, feels swollen and red. Louis’ chest is flushed, hair at his temples sticky. Harry moves himself slowly, crawls over his body and presses in kisses as he goes.

“I want you,” Harry whispers against Louis lips, once they’re level with each other again.

“You have me,” Louis whispers back. He tightens his legs around Harry’s waist, reaches for Harry’s wrist with shaking fingers and guides his hand down, down, down. They both let out a soft gasp when Harry’s fingers brush over Louis’ rim. “Please. I haven’t-. Haven’t had it good in so long.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Harry promises. He leans down to kiss him, sighs into the warm honey-sweet of his mouth, still lingering with vanilla. His fingers are still brushing absently over Louis’ hole, and he can feel Louis shaking beneath him, can feel the jump of muscles in his thighs.

“Top drawer,” Louis says. Harry reaches for it immediately.

Louis is-. He’s so tight, and Harry swallows when he slips his first finger in, anticipation shooting through him at the tiny sound Louis makes, the way his legs fall open and he presses into it. Their faces rest together, breaths coming out stuttered and hot along their cheeks, chests quaking together. Louis has his hands on Harry’s waist, his thumbs digging into the sharpest point of the bone, where his skin is pulled tight.

Harry scissors his fingers when he adds the second, and Louis bites at the hinge of his jaw sharply. “More.”

The kiss that Harry pulls him into is messy and uncoordinated, and it becomes broken when Harry pushes his fingers in hard, stretches them and slips in another, when Louis whines and his teeth graze over Harry’s chin, when his eyes scrunch shut and his fingers scramble over Harry’s back. He pushes into it, rolls his hips as Harry thrusts his fingers in and out. It’s overwhelming, the tight heat of him. Harry aches for it.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Louis babbles, high and strained as Harry presses his fingers in as far as he can and holds them there, fucks into him with sharp, short bursts that go deeper and deeper. “Harry, please.”

When Harry pulls his fingers out slowly, he holds Louis’ jaw in his free hand to bring their lips together again, to swallow the broken noise that Louis makes, to anchor him as his body twitches, desperate. They’re both flushed and sweating, bathed in moonlight the colour of the snow, a white-blue metallic that skates over their skin in refractions as they shift.

And when he holds Louis’ legs open and pushes in slowly, he thinks back to that first day on the glacier, of that first footstep onto the edge, of the entire world at his feet, the endless expanse that left him breathless, that left him with burning fingertips. Right now, in the dark, away from it all, the feeling of that moment echoes perfectly.  

“Oh, God,” Louis’ hands scramble to Harry’s ass, and he pulls him in faster, harder, insistent and impatient. Harry’s jaw is locked open, arms shaking as he holds himself up, as he’s surrounded by wet heat and tightness. “Haz, need you to-. Fuck, you’re so big. Fuck.”

“You feel amazing,” Harry gasps, blinking harshly as he cradles Louis’ ass with his hips, words muffled against Louis’ neck. It’s so much, too much all at once. Louis is fidgeting beneath him desperately, rolling his hips to try and find that sweet friction, to stretch himself more.

For a moment, Harry’s mind drifts back seven days, when Louis had taken him to the bar and Harry had been caught in his trap, tangled in a web he has no hope of escaping, one that he’ll happily stay in. I think the last time we hooked up was about a year ago. Harry pulls out and thrusts back into him, a hard snap of his hips that punches a choked gasp from Louis’ throat.

Harry thinks of the indifference, thinks of when he’d rolled his eyes and said, you let a guy fuck you a couple of times and suddenly it’s love. Their eyes meet as Harry moves again, both so open and trusting, both so desperate. Harry tries to push his thoughts to the back of his mind, tries to stop himself from thinking that this is love, that this man he’s known a week is it for him. He tries to convince himself that he’s in the moment, that he’s just overwhelmed, that it’s just in his nature to get too attached too quickly.

And then Louis grips Harry’s hair in his hand, tugs hard and slams their mouths together, take me, take me, take me.

It all rushes over him like a tidal wave, and he moves relentlessly.

None of it makes sense, none of it. It doesn’t make sense that Harry knows just where to press, knows just how fast and how hard to fuck into Louis to make him throw his head back and shout, to make him squirm and dig his nails into his back and loop his hair in his fingers. It doesn’t make sense that Harry feels more emotion now than he did being like this with past boyfriends, past fucks.

Because this is the type of sex that screams love, the type of connection that makes him feel like he can do anything, be anything. Their bodies are pressed together, limbs interlocked in a jumble, just trying to hold on wherever they can, just trying to press close enough that it almost hurts, that every part of their bodies is feeling it.

He knows that it’s ridiculous, that he can’t possibly feel so deeply about this yet. He only knows the little things, has only seen this tiny part of Louis, a week of his laughter and his smile and his passion, and he knows that he’s only just scraped the surface, that what he has of Louis now is just ripples in the water. There are waves coming, huge sets that could bowl him over and send him tumbling and skidding along the sand.

So it doesn’t make sense that it feels like those waves have already arrived, that he’s already drowning under it all.

“Harder,” Louis whimpers, clinging to him. “’S been so long, fuck. C’mon, Haz. Give it to me.”

“Yeah,” Harry grits out, slams into him so that their bodies shift, bed creaking and shaking. “I’ve got you. Taking me so good.”

His hips are snapping fervently, chest heaving as he tries to breathe with it all, tries to get enough air into his lungs to stop himself from going under too fast. He can hear the hitching in Louis’ breath, can feel the way he’s starting to flutter around him, muscles jumping and twitching. He leans one elbow just above Louis’ head so he doesn’t fall, and brings his other hand to Louis’ cock, stroking him fast and slick while he presses in deep. It sends Louis crying out, chest rising off the bed slowly as he starts to come, as Harry rocks into that spot over and over.

“Fuck, fuck,” he wraps his arms over Harry’s shoulders, clings to him as he shakes through it, then slides his hands down to push Harry further, to keep him chasing his own orgasm. “Fuck me so well, Haz. C’mon, babe. C’mon.”

When Harry comes, he sees white, see’s snowfall and ice and a blizzard that whips around him violently, feels it rattle his chest and shoot through him, from the core of his heart down to the tips of his fingers. It leaves them burning, that cold he felt in those first few days, the one so icy that it becomes hot, that it strips him bare for the sun to sink its teeth into.

Slowly, his hips come to a stop, gradually rocking in and out until his body is calm enough again to be rational, to pull out of Louis gentle and press a firm kiss to his lips, to his chest, his collarbone. His fingers are twitching when he pulls the condom off and ties it, when he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Both of their chests are heaving, mouths parted and eyes wide.

They both tilt their heads towards each other at the same moment, and then they’re curling together in laughter, hands over their stomachs as they shake now for a whole other reason.

“Well,” Louis says, and Harry is still flushed, thinks he might have been pink cheeked since day one. “I didn’t pick you for the athletic type.”

“Oh my God,” Harry groans and covers his face with his hands, can feel the warmth between them.

“Noo, don’t hide,” Louis giggles, thin fingers prying apart Harry’s own. His eyes are bright even in the shadows. Harry turns his palms so he can link their fingers together.

“That was, um,” he bites the corner of his lower lip into his mouth, half a smirk and half an attempt to stop himself from saying something stupid. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Wow.”

And then they’re just staring at each other again, eyes searching. Harry’s throat feels tight, but it’s not with a bad kind of nerves. It feels like an anticipation, the type of fluttering feeling he would get as a teenager when he’d try to pluck up the courage to talk to a boy. He doesn’t know why it feels so teenage, when it isn’t. It’s just sweet, maybe, something out of a fantasy, something that shouldn’t be real.

“So, I kinda like you,” Harry shuffles closer to bump their noses together. “Just a bit.”

“Only a bit?” Louis raises an amused eyebrow. “That’s a shame. I like you more than a bit.”

Harry beams and presses his face into the pillow. It smells like Louis, flannelette and soft on his cheek. “Can I, um. Can I stay the night?”

“Course,” Louis dots a light kiss below Harry’s eye, then sits up and starts to fiddle with his hair. His very mused, knotted, messy hair. “I’m just gonna clean up real quick. Get under the covers or you’ll get cold soon.”

Now that it’s mentioned, Harry does notice the little bumps over his arms, the adrenaline and flush slowly fading. He watches Louis’ bum as he heads to the bathroom and pulls the thick duvet over his shoulder, snuggling into it with a content sigh. He feels cosy and sated. His mind is calm.

When Louis slides under the covers, Harry pulls him close, warmth spreading down to his toes. Louis buries his face against his neck entirely, slots his leg between Harry’s and pokes his frosty toes into his calf, which earns him a gentle slap on the bum. He responds by biting at Harry’s collarbone, kissing that same spot, and whispering a very delicate goodnight.

-

When Harry wakes, he notices two things immediately.

Firstly, the blinding light that surrounds him when he blinks his eyes open blearily. Second, the hardness of his dick.

With a tiny groan he rolls onto his stomach and presses his hips into the mattress, rocks them down a few times and exhales a long breath. He reaches out blindly, but finds the spot beside him cold. Confused, and a little disoriented, he lifts his face out of the scrunched duvet around his shoulders, and freezes. His carton is open on the bedside table.

“You’re a filthy liar, Styles.”

Harry rolls onto his side gingerly, lips bitten into his mouth. Louis watches him from the end of the bed, elbows resting on the open window. There’s a chill in the air, Harry realizes now as the duvet slips around his shoulders. There’s no anger behind Louis’ voice, but there’s a tiny smirk on his lips and he looks sleep-worn, swimming in Harry’s clothes as he leans out the window to take a long, heavy drag.

“What gave it away?” Harry asks softly, stomach curling.

“The gum,” Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “I think I knew, anyway. But I don’t mind.”

“Sorry,” Harry sits up slowly and drags the duvet up to his chin. “It’s easier to stop if you pretend you don’t do it.”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says. “I understand.”

“Um,” Harry runs a hand over his face. “Did I-. Did I do something to make you-“

“No, no,” Louis says quickly, reassuringly. “I just, like. Need it sometimes. Even though I don’t. That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“No, I get it,” Harry says, watches the blue-grey smoke uncurl from Louis lips as he exhales, the way his skin looks in morning light. He wants to touch, to breathe it in from Louis’ lips.

“I can put it out if it’s bothering you, love,” Louis says, eyes serious, flicking over Harry’s face like he’s looking for distress.

“I’m alright,” Harry says. He flops back down into the sheets and turns, buries his nose in them so that the smoke mixes with Louis. “I’ll be okay.”

He shuts his eyes against the sunlight, listens to the fulmars squawk in the distance as they wake and the distant bells on the harbour. Slowly, he sinks into a not quite sleep, aware of the buzzing at his fingertips, the tension in his shoulders. It makes him sink lower under the thick blanket.

He barely notices when Louis slides the window closed and crawls in beside him, skin naked and warm save for the jumper when he curls around Harry’s side, an arm slung over his lower back. Harry shifts his head so he can look at him. He’s chewing Harry’s gum, minty and familiar. Harry closes his eyes and nuzzles closer to drop a kiss to Louis’ chin.

“When did you start?” Louis whispers. He brushes Harry’s hair away from his eyes, and then keeps his fingers among his curls for no apparent reason other than just to touch.

“Here and there during uni,” Harry mumbles. “When I was in America it was pretty bad. I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be as hard as it was. Fell into some shitty habits. I’m-. I’m doing a lot better, now.”

“That’s good, love,” Louis smiles softly. “You’ve been through a tough time, yeah?”

“I guess,” Harry says quietly. He reaches for Louis' waist slowly, just rests his fingers there for something to touch. “I think that, like. Sometimes when you try so hard to do the best you can, and it all goes wrong, there’s only so much you can do to pull yourself out of that before you just want to open a window and-. Y’know.”

“I know,” Louis says.

“It doesn’t help in the long run, but,” Harry bites his lip into his mouth. “Emotionally, like. Sometimes taking care of yourself like that is okay. Even if it isn’t the best thing for you in the end, right?”

“Yeah, I see that,” Louis shifts closer. His eyes are pale in the light. Harry can see the details of his freckles this close, the light dusting of them over his nose. “You gotta cheat sometimes, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry finds himself smiling at that, a tiny laugh spilling from his lips and mixing with Louis’. “You wanna take a nap?”

“Mm, yes please” Louis gets a hand under Harry’s shoulder to roll him onto his back, and Harry tips willingly, wraps his arms around Louis’ waist as he curls against him and presses his face into his neck.

Harry smiles up at the ceiling for a moment, before he settles and holds onto Louis properly, wraps his free arm around him and rubs it over his back, under his jumper to press against the hot skin there. He run his other palm down his side and settles it over the warm fuzz of his cheek, fingers spread completely. Louis makes a happy noise, slings his leg over Harry’s, and kisses his neck.

They go quiet, and Harry closes his eyes against the light, focuses on the feeling of Louis’ smooth skin under his fingers. It feels like a perfect moment, almost, the type of thing that’d be photographed from the corner of the room and slotted into the rough pages of an unknown magazine. Harry slides them down the bed a little, so that Louis’ head is almost completely tucked under the duvet, cosy and safe.

But the thing is, he can smell the smoke clinging to Louis’ skin, and it doesn’t make him uncomfortable. It does the opposite. He nuzzles closer, tries to breathe in without disturbing him out of sleep, without jostling him. He draws light patterns on Louis’ back and presses his nose into his hair, swallows at the heavy sensation forming in his abdomen.

“You okay, love?” Louis murmurs, almost slurs as he nudges his head against Harry’s chin.

Harry opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling again, fingers stilling. There’s a steady ticking in his chest, a weight that’s pulsing there, that he wants both settle and encourage at the same time.

“Let me taste,” he breathes out. It comes off whinier than he wanted, more desperate and strained than he ever wanted it to sound, and he almost winces at himself.

Louis lifts his head to peer down at him, thumbs coming up to brush at Harry’s jaw. He leans up and dusts a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, and the arm that Harry has around his waist tightens. He presses his face into the hinge of Louis’ jaw, tiny hairs there scratchy against his cheek, and mouths at it, breathes it in. It’s heady smoke and Louis, the lingering twinge of sweat from last night, the shadow of his facial hair. Harry makes a soft noise, one that he doesn’t mean to let slip.

“Hey, y’alright?” Louis pulls back to look at him, really look at him, cheeks cradled by his fingers. “Do you need me to have a shower to get rid of the smell?”

“No,” Harry says quickly, fingers tightening. “I-. No, it’s just. I like it. It’s fucked up but I like it.”

“It’s not,” Louis whispers, pecks Harry’s lips and then leans back to pull the gum from between his lips. “It’s not. Come here.”

And then Harry’s mouth is wide, Louis dipping over him and pressing his thumbs against his jaw to make him gasp into the lush kiss. It makes him feel starved, desperate and needy to take more. Louis sighs into his mouth, fucks his tongue in sensual and slow, pets Harry’s cheekbones with his fingers while Harry does the same on his back.

Harry can’t help but whine, because it’s just-. Louis tastes like the swing on the back porch in Holmes Chapel at three in the morning, of the bugs whizzing around the light and a lone firefly flame burning in the dark. Louis tastes like his apartment in D.C, of the rain and the cars in the street and the feeling of the railing against his hips. Louis tastes like the ice and the air, tastes pure but tainted all at once, tastes like every good thing that Harry’s missed out on and every good thing that he’s grasped.

He kisses him like he’s drawing the smoke right back out of his lungs, chests pressed warmly together, encased in the heat of the heavy blankets. They’re worlds away, and Harry feels like he could be floating, feels like he’s coming in and out of his body, like he’s watching from the window with dreary eyes and a cigarette between his fingers, but also remaining right where he is, pushing that image away with every fold of Louis’ lips over his.

Louis pulls back abruptly, breath shuddery and soft, his eyes a little wide, mouth parted. “You’re something else,” is what he says. “I’ve never-. It’s never been like this for me before.”

“Me neither,” Harry whispers. “I feel so…I don’t know. I don’t know how to make words out of it.”

“In a good way though, right?” Louis says.

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “The best way.”

“Would you want to, like,” the tops of his cheekbones are dusted peach, “stay here? With me?”

“You want that?” Harry blinks up at him, a little surprised.

“I do,” Louis says, ducking his eyes shyly. “I’d, um. I really want to get to know you. Properly.”

“Me too,” Harry presses a kiss to his jaw, smiling. “That’d be lovely.”

“Good, because I wasn’t going to give you a choice anyway,” Louis grins, sliding his arms gently under Harry’s neck to tug him close. “You’re way too cuddly. I’ve missed cuddles.”

Harry wraps both his arms around Louis waist and rolls them swiftly. Louis lets out a quiet yelp of surprise and scrunches his nose up at him, but his grumbling turns into giggles when Harry bundles him up in his arms and blows a raspberry against his neck. Louis’ legs kick out, body squirming. He sticks his fingers into Harry’s sides, and then it’s an all-out tickle fight, the two of them wrestling until they’re in a muddle of limbs and tangled blankets, out of breath and pink cheeked.

“Child,” Louis says shortly. “You’re a child.”

“’M not,” Harry drawls, smile dopey and big. “You’re just fun to mess with.”

“I’m offended,” Louis raises both his poised eyebrows. “No more custard creams for you.”

“Noo, Lou,” Harry whines petulantly, peppers kisses over his cheeks. “I hate those oatmeal ones. They taste like cardboard.”

“Well, what are you gonna do to make it up to me, huh?” Louis says, eyes narrowed but his mouth quirked.

Harry’s pout slowly curls into a smirk. “I can think of a few things.”

-

They spend their days trekking along Jakobshavn, the chill in the air growing icier and burning brighter. In the mornings the light is practically blinding, so sharp that it’s reflections on the fjord glow white and yellow, that it turns the houses into vibrant boxes of colour. Out on the sheet, sticky particles of ice cling to their feet, trailing down the hills like veins to the body of the glacier.

The snow is coming. 

The nights are no longer clear, a mist crawling in off the glass water and shrouding Ilulissat in a hazy cloud, blotting out the sky. When the moon shines above, it makes it shimmer and turn white, trying to peek through. It takes longer to clear in the morning, so their time on the sheet is quick and methodical, step by step and thorough as they collect precious data.

It feels like work, real work, and Harry loves it. He writes and writes and sends emails to Renee every day with updates, with drafts and pictures and little notes. Liam has shifted the full article to Harry now, and he wants to prove himself, wants to create something he knows will get him moving again, will get him exploring.

He spends the afternoons creating, scanning diagrams and designing graphics for the spread. Louis is always right beside him, glasses perched on his nose and lips tucked in concentration as he works. It’s all numbers and hypothesis and constant checks, and Harry watches it all with complete interest, watches Louis chipping away at it.

The charm hasn’t worn off, and at night they rest in front of the fire, lying on their tummies while Louis trails his pencil feather-light over maps and diagrams, while he explains it all to Harry soft and slow. He shows him how the precision GPS works, the way the satellite signals tell them which way the sheet moves, how fast it’s melting and how much.

He closes his eyes and breathes slow and sated when Louis sits on his thighs and runs his fingers over Harry’s body, mapping out the melt lakes and the rivets they leave on his ribs, explains in a whisper the way the water rushes, the way it falls deep, the way the ice slides and gets slick and moves faster, faster, faster.

They take the night to learn each other’s bodies, finding all the places to touch and kiss and bite, all the places to dig their fingers in or to circle them like a whisper. It’s all in shadows of red and orange, the tiny bulbs of Louis’ Christmas lights blinking beside the fire. Then it turns blue and silver, the white sheets crowded over their shoulders heavily as they move together, pressed up close and sighing into the warm heat of their skin and their lips.

Harry finds peace in the place where Louis’ thigh meets his groin, the hot, sweat-dewy musk that lingers there, the salty tang of it when he sucks, when he mouths from that spot to the base of his cock. He finds solace in the crook of Louis’ neck, finds comfort in the shadow of his jaw, right in the hinge of it. Louis’ body is a furnace and Harry is snow under his touch, melting into the warmth of him.

Louis teaches him little slices of Danish, mostly endearments and profanities that have Harry giggling into his skin. Louis traces the slopes of Harry’s face and calls him min blomst and min kære, and, once, when he murmurs a goodnight into his hair, min elskede.

On Wednesday, whilst Zayn, Liam and Jonas are climbing out of the helicopter, Louis tugs Harry back with a firm hand on his coat, a cheeky smile on his lips. Harry just blinks at him, a little confused, but then Jonas is slamming the door closed with a wink and Louis pulls him into the cockpit.

He flies them directly west, where the glacier is broken up by thick rivets that lead out into the ocean. The land is barren and untouched for miles, just pure white and blue. The steady sound of the propellers and Louis’ voice nearly lulls Harry to sleep as he looks out the window, almost pressing his nose against the glass like a child would do. Louis’ eyes are soft over him, hair a fuzzy mess and looking small in his coat and with the large headset over his ears.

They land in Sarfannguit just before lunch, a tiny town of less than two hundred people that’s nestled among the hills and sits in the mouth of a thin bay. The houses are in little rows of clay-blue, mustard and wine-red, dotted in wonky rows in a steady incline up the hills. Louis holds his hand as they start down the path towards it all, the grass buried under the frost, the thin pathway beneath their feet slippery and slick with melt.

The wind rolls off the water as a gentle caress, the weather vanes on top of the little houses rotating lazily with it. It’s quiet and quaint, the bay still and stunningly blue, clouds hovering in the distance on the opposite side of the hills. Harry’s nose is an ice prick, but his fingers are gloved and toasty, especially the ones that are pressed close with Louis’.

Louis leads them down to the row of houses closest to the water, paint peeled and weather-beaten, the windows prickled with frost in the corners. He offers no explanation as he knocks on the door of a little yellow house, shoulders tucked in and his feet already scraping against the welcome mat.

A small woman opens the door, olive skin lined with deep rivets along her forehead, eyes and mouth, speckled with sunspots and freckles and age. Her hair is almost white, eyes tiny jewels of hazel set under thick lids. Her face lights up when she spots them, the beads around her neck jangling as she pulls Louis into a tight hug and starts to speak. Harry can’t understand it, but he watches the exchange in fascination as Louis greets her, soft and so gentle.

“Jeg har savnet dig, lille kerub,” she coos at him, eyes almost closed with her smile, Louis’ cheek cupped in her cracked palm.

"Jeg har også savnet dig, Ánga,” Louis smiles, then a little teasing. “Du har ikke været alt for ensom uden mig?”

Ánga throws her head back in laughter, patting Louis’ cheek with an amused shake of her head. “Du er for fræk.”

“Ánga, dette er Harry,” Louis pulls away from her embrace and slots his arm around Harry’s waist to bring him forward, one palm resting over his chest. “Han er her for at skrive om Jakobshavn.”

Ánga’s eyes brighten once more, and she brings the tips of her ringed fingers to her lips with a happy squeak. Then, with a tiny wriggle of her shoulders she darts forward to hug him. Harry blinks a little in surprise, but bends down to greet her. Louis smiles at him over her shoulder.

“Du har ikke fortalt mig du havde en kæreste!” she says to Louis as she pulls away.

Louis’ cheeks warm, a little wide eyed. “Vi er ikke, um. Harry er bare på besøg, Ánga.”

Ánga scoffs and tugs Harry’s head beside hers with gentle palms, so that he’s bent over awkwardly with his head almost resting on her shoulder. Louis has an amused grin on his lips.

“Lyv ikke for mig,” she says, lips pursed at Louis. “Jeg kan se du allerede elsker ham.”

“Tea!” Louis claps his hands together abruptly, pulling Harry from Ánga’s grasp. “Let’s have some tea. I’ll put the kettle on, c’mon.”

Louis drags him inside, Ánga snickering behind them and muttering under her breath. Inside, it’s toasty warm and charming, old picture frames hung on the walls and leant against the mantle of the fire, mismatched and dusty around the edges. The dining table is small but sturdy, all thick knotted wood but skinny chairs with faded cushions. It’s a tiny space, the kitchen tucked into the corner in rusted white and the couch pressed against the wall by the window.

Ánga steals Harry back from Louis when he moves to make tea, plopping him on the creaky couch with a kind smile, humming under her breath happily as she watches him, flicks the tiny kernels of her eyes over his skin happily.

“Louis, hans øjne er som små ædelsten,” she coos. Louis makes an odd noise from the stove. “Kridhvid hud, røde læber. Jeg tror, jeg vil kalde ham Kerub i stedet for dig!”

“Ánga!” Louis crosses his arms over his chest, but there’s an amused sparkle in his eyes as he shakes his head fondly.

The old woman simply throws her head back with laughter as she falls into the armchair behind her. There’s a little basket just by her feet, and she reaches into it to take out a tangle of wool and knitting needles. Louis brings their tea over slowly. He’s hung his coat over the back of one of the dining chairs, so now he’s only in a thick maroon sweater. He looks so lovely.

“Here, H,” he sips from his own cup as Harry takes his, the old china stained and warm in his palms.

“Thanks, love,” Harry smiles. Ánga has paused her knitting to observe them, eyes giddy. When Louis sends her a look, she winks and the gentle click-click of her needles resumes.

“Sorry if this is odd,” Louis nudges Harry’s shoulder, but then seems to think better of pulling away and instead leans further into his side, plush from the thickness of his coat. “Ánga lived in Ilulissat for the first few years I was there, right next door. She made me hats and things in the winter, and she made some for the girls to send home instead of me.”

“That’s sweet,” Harry murmurs.

“Mm,” Louis blows on his tea gently. “Her husband died last year and he left her this house. I try and visit her a couple of times a month, especially around the holidays. She looked after me quite a bit.”

“Oh, poor love,” Harry’s heart thumps in sympathy. “That’s really nice of you, Lou.”

“It’s nothing,” Louis snuggles deeper into Harry’s side. “I like being here. It’s quiet, and Ánga is like my mum away from home.”

They settle into silence, comfortable and warm. There’s a thickness in Harry’s throat that he can’t place. Maybe it’s because this is such a private little slice of Louis’ life, part of a routine that he’s now brought Harry into the loop of. It feels special, shared between them and only them. And Ánga, of course, who’s singing under breath as she knits, Louis humming along.

Eventually, Harry must be lulled into sleep by Louis’ hand in his hair and the warmth of the fire, because when he comes back to himself there’s a crick in his neck and he’s squished into the corner of the couch oddly, his cup limp in his fingers.

“-en drøm om ham,” Ánga is saying. “En lille stjerne på fjorden.”   

“Hvad tror du, det betyder?” Louis asks, almost a whisper. His fingers are dragging through Harry’s hair lightly.

“Skæbnen, lille kerub,” Ánga says. “Sendt til dig fra himlen, fordi du har taget dig så godt af isen.”

Louis’ intake of breath is soft. Harry shifts, snuffling as he lifts his aching neck slowly. Ánga’s eyes have a gentle glow about them as she watches, her hair flowing over her shoulders freely.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles as he wipes a knuckle over his eye. “Was a bit rude of me to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright, love,” Louis presses a kiss to his temple. Harry can feel his cheeks flushing. “We better get going, anyway, if we want to get back before the sun starts to go down.”

“How do you, um. How do you say ‘thank you’ in Danish?” Harry asks.

“Tak,” Louis says warmly.

Harry turns to Ánga shyly. “Um, tak. You have a lovely home.”

He doesn’t know if it gets across at all, but the old woman lights up rises from her chair to pull them both into a tight hug.

Before they leave, she pulls Louis in close and whispers in his ear, then pats his cheek fondly with a wink. He rolls his eyes at her but leans down to kiss her forehead and tuck her hair back over her shoulders with a soft farvel.

Harry falls in and out of sleep on the way back to Kangerlussuaq, only truly waking when Louis lands to pick the rest of the team up and Jonas jostles his way back into the cockpit. Harry straps himself in behind Louis’ seat and pointedly avoids Zayn and Liam’s waggling brows.

They spend sundown on the edge of the fjord, watching the gold light on the water slowly retract like a wave, only to be eclipsed by a pink-orange blush as the giant sun lowers below the still icebergs. Louis’ fingers rest over his gently as they lean against the thin boardwalk, and his skin is lit up in shadow and soft sun, something out of a grainy film, out of the old magazines Harry would beg his mother for as a child. Their breath swirls in shiny clouds, and he thinks, distant and echoing, that this very well may be one of the most brilliant moments of his life.

-

They learn the deeper parts of each other in bits and pieces, lying in the dark, facing the middle of the bed with their hands locked between them.

Louis tells him in whispers about growing up in Doncaster, about his abundance of siblings and his mother, his hyperactive tendencies that got him in trouble more often than not both at school and at home. Tells him about his obsession with weather and plants and the earth, tells him that while the kids in his class wanted a Yo-Yo or a Game Boy he wanted a copy of National Geographic. Or a satellite.

In return, Harry uncurls the delicate petals around himself slowly, hides the words in Louis’ skin. He doesn’t like to talk much about his time at school, only because he didn’t enjoy much of it, and what he did enjoy was tainted by those last few years, the stress and the loneliness that he slowly came to terms with. His little town didn’t spare him, really, and in the end his dedication to studying seemed like it didn’t pay off. It took him a while to get back on his feet after that.

He tells Louis things he’s never spoken aloud, things that have been laid to rest in the back of his mind for so long and shared only between himself and a cigarette at three in the morning. And Louis does the same, quiet murmurs against Harry’s neck that are strained with the disuse of thought, both of them digging through their memories like tugging well rested roots out of the ground.

But after, Harry always feels better, feels safe, and he tries to make sure that Louis feels the same. They hold each other as they drift off, bodies curled and snug with the blankets tucked around their ears, breaths warm and soft.

“Do you see them much?” Harry asks one night between sporadic kisses. They’re lying together on the couch, Louis curled around him. The fire is bright and dancing, licks of heat and orange sparkle that hiss against the guard. “Your family, I mean.”

He tries to tell himself that he isn’t asking for his own benefit, but there’s a constant ticking in his skull, one that’s slowly counting down the days until he has to fly home. He tries not to think about it.

“Not as much as I used to,” Louis says. He drops a kiss to Harry’s lips. “It’s expensive.”

“What about in the summer?” Harry asks, hands smoothing over Louis’ back.

Louis is quiet for a long time, just tracing shapes on Harry’s chest. “It gets harder, I think. To go back. I’ve…I’ve fallen in love with it, a bit. It’s quite jarring to stay here for so long and then go back to a place like England. It’s all very loud and just-. It’s a lot, I guess. And the summers here are so beautiful. I hate to miss it.”

I’m going to miss it. Harry’s heart clenches in his chest. I won’t be there to see you love it.

“Will you come see me?” It’s out before he can stop it, too fast and slurred and he winces at himself immediately, wishing he could take it all back when he feels Louis tense, his head lifting to look at Harry in quiet alarm. “If-. If you come back to see your family, will you visit?”

“I…” Louis blinks down at him, almost dazedly. “I will, yeah. I will.”

Harry swallows and hides his face, tips their bodies so that Louis’ back is pressed up against the couch and Harry can tuck himself away, so he can wrap their limbs together and just rest his lips over Louis’ pulse.

“I’m sorry if that was weird,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to-. I don’t want to ruin…whatever this is.”

“You haven’t,” Louis slides his fingers into Harry’s hair and pulls his face out of hiding, kisses him slow and wet, breathing heavy through their noses. The fire is hot against Harry’s back, and he presses closer. Louis leans away, but their lips brush together when he speaks. “I want to see you.”

Harry kisses him again so he doesn’t say something stupid.

-

The snow falls on Friday.

When Harry wakes up, it’s to the sound of flurrying wind and the gentle patter of snowflakes against the house. It’s freezing, even with the scalding press of Louis’ front against his back and the thick layer of blankets that leave them trapped. Louis is still fast asleep, lips brushing the back of his neck and making him shiver harder.

“Lou,” Harry mumbles, trying to roll over. It proves difficult with the blankets pulled up so high around him, and Louis’ arms secure around his waist. “Lou, wake up.”

“’m sleeping,” Louis grumbles, palm flattening over Harry’s stomach. “’S a sleep in day.”

“Cold,” Harry whines. There’s a puff of laughter against his neck, and Louis’ hand starts to trail down. Harry stops it with a huff, and he turns his body roughly, pouting. “Lou.”

“Alright, alright,” Louis sighs, sitting up slowly with a yawn. He crawls over Harry’s body to the fire. Harry watches him intently, the roundness of his ass and the dip of his waist, the petite cut of his ankles and his toned calves. In the white light his skin glows, and Harry’s fingers twitch.

When he slides back into bed, Harry wastes no time pinning him down and getting his mouth on him. It doesn’t take much for them to both warm up.

They spend the day dozing and watching reruns of Friends on Louis’ laptop, drifting in and out of sleep and soft kisses, nestled under the covers out of the wind. Louis reminds him of a cat, curling up around Harry’s body and nuzzling into his skin, petting at the softest part of Harry’s hips when he wants a kiss.

By the time dusk falls over them, the wind has settled and the snow now falls like misty rain, barely there and coating everything in powdery dust. They eat ramen sitting cross-legged under the covers, steaming and almost too hot to touch, slurping the leftover juice from the bowls. Harry feels a sense of calm, watching the snow fall out the window, and it helps him to relax, helps him sink into the mattress and lick into Louis’ mouth without thinking.

He hasn’t ached for a cigarette in a week.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been thinking about time, either.

It’s late when Louis speaks, Harry’s mind in a fuzzy haze, fingertips still tingling from the fire of Louis’ skin. He’s almost dead to the world, face mushed against the pillow while Louis plays with his fingers idly, washed in navy light.

“Hold out your palm,” he says out of nowhere, wiggling his middle and pointer fingers. Harry grunts. “C’mon, sleepyhead.”

Harry turns his hand up in Louis’ own, shuffling closer. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m gonna read your fate lines,” Louis says. Harry peeks one eye open.

“Really?” He says in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Louis scrunches his nose up at him. “Ánga taught me how.”

 Harry lets out a little sigh, eyes heavy and sated. “Go on then, love.”

“Alright,” Louis clears his throat, cooling his expression into one of complete professionalism that has Harry muffling soft laughter into the pillow. “Let’s see what we’re working with here.”

He runs his fingers over the deep rivets in Harry’s palms, lets out wondering hmms and aahs that Harry rolls his eyes fondly at. Mostly, he keeps himself still, breath caught in his throat as Louis’ traces over his skin, fingers twitching when the feather-light drags become ticklish.

“These three here,” Louis starts softly, tapping his fingers against the three tiny lines at the centre of Harry’s palm. “This is the building block of your psyche. Your first one here, the little one, that’s kindness. The middle one is determination.  And this last one, the deepest one, that’s the biggest portion of yourself. Love. That’s your three.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asks softly. His throat feels tight.

“It can mean a lot of things,” Louis says. His fingertip rests over love. “It can mean that you like to put others before yourself, that if you want to you can give wholly without needing anything in return. But you like to receive love back. Love is your deepest line, so it’s the one that you connect with the most. If it gets neglected, it’s what makes you feel the most imbalance.”

Harry says nothing, just nudges his hand closer so Louis keeps talking, so he can ignore the heavy weight over his chest.

“This one here,” he draws his finger over the long crease that runs horizontally just below his fingers. “It tells me you’re passionate, that you push yourself hard. Sometimes too much. You want what you do to be perfect, so that others pay attention, so that it reflects how strongly you feel about it.”

“This line, the connecting one,” Louis runs his finger along the line that slopes from between his thumb and pointer finger to the bottom of his hand. His voice is a whisper. “That’s telling me you’re someone who nurtures and protects. Where those two lines meet together is where you’re the most emotional.”

“Where they meet?” Harry asks.

“Right here,” Louis taps the edge of Harry’s palm. “If there’s something in your life that uses these two lines, it’s what creates the strongest response in you.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes, staring down at them.

“This one,” Harry shivers when Louis drags his hand down the centre of his palm like a whisper. There’s a tiny smirk on his lips. “That’s for your sexuality, and for you it cuts right through passion, and it runs parallel with protection. You like to be in control, but you like to give, too. You want your partner to be fulfilled, to be safe and feel cared for.”

Harry’s neck is hot, and he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Don’t think you need to read my palm to know how much I love to make you come first.”

Louis’ eyes are bright, lips curled into a suppressed smirk. “That’s true. I just wanted to do it to make you squirm.”  

“Rude,” Harry whispers. Louis hushes him with a soft kiss, then focuses his attention back on his hand.

“These last few, the litter indents below your pinkie,” Louis continues, “these are tiny parts of your personality that overshine the rest, aside from the other lines. Things like your wit, intelligence, your awareness of others around you, friendliness and selflessness.”

Harry’s sure his face is bright pink.

“And what this is all telling me,” Louis circles his finger around his entire palm slowly, “is that you like your experiences to be shared. You crave love so you can share it, you want your passion for what you do to be shared in your passion for who you love, someone who shares that same passion. You’re quick to be disheartened even when you shouldn’t be, naturally kind and willing to see beyond what’s given to you, which lets you connect to people so fast but can make you vulnerable. You prefer life lived in companionship, so you can always share your passions, so you can have someone who bounces off you the same way.”

Harry is shocked into silence, eyes wide. Louis notices this, and he clears his throat.

“You’ll have two children and four dogs and live on a lake somewhere,” he finished abruptly, a little frantic. “It’ll all be very picturesque and sweet.”

Harry laughs, but it’s too quiet, too thickly laced. Louis stares back at him, and Harry can see the scarlet of his cheeks even in the blue-dark.

“Do you think that’s all true?” he whispers, not flicking his gaze away. Louis swallows, and he knows what Harry is implying, knows when their fingers curl together. I want to share with you.

“It could be,” Louis bumps their noses together. “I’m very smart, you know.”

“I do know,” Harry says, a smile curving over his lips. Louis returns it, but they both soon fade. Harry bites his bottom lip into his mouth, searching Louis eyes. “What did Ánga say about me, that day you took me west? I woke up when you were talking.”

Louis cups Harry’s cheek and strokes his thumb lightly over his skin, eyes so incredibly open and soft, voice barely there. “She said she dreamt about you. That you were a star sent to me from heaven in return for watching over the ice. That it was fate.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks, warmth oozing out from his heart and spreading through his veins slow like honey.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers. “She dreams about that kind of stuff a lot.”

“Do you…” Harry trails off, throat buzzing with unwarranted nerves.

“Believe them, the dreams?” Louis asks. Harry nods slowly, and Louis smiles, leans forward to brush a barely there kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I do. Not….not in the literal sense, because they’re obviously not meant to be taken that way. But, yeah.”

It’s there now, out in the open. Harry’s heart flutters softly, palm still resting in Louis’ slack fingers. He turns it over so he can link them together, and presses a kiss to Louis’ shoulder, working his way up to his lips.

“So do I,” he says quietly.

Louis pulls him closer.

-

“Haaaarryyyy.”

Harry makes a grumpy sound in the back of his throat and shuffles down further under the blankets, grabby hands reaching for Louis’ waist.

“Harry.”

“Mmph,” he grunts.

“Wake uuuup!” Louis shouts, shaking his shoulders wildly. Harry blinks quickly, jolting as he snaps out of his reverie. Louis is half on top of him, leant down so that his hair falls into his bright eyes.

“What? What’s wrong?” Harry asks urgently, leaning up on his elbows with his chest half heaving.

Louis’ grin is sunny, and he squishes Harry’s cheeks in his warm hands and shakes his head. “It’s a special day. I need you awake and ready to go!”

“Christmas Eve?” Harry blinks up at him in confusion. He rubs a knuckle against his eye.

Louis bites his lip, quieting and dropping a kiss to Harry’s slack mouth. “It’s my birthday.”

Harry’s hand freezes over his eye. Louis watches him carefully, a little flushed but his eyes still impish and sparkling, smile widening as he watches for Harry’s reaction.

“You-. What,” Harry says. “Birthday?”

“Twenty-five today,” he says softly with a nod.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Harry sits up then, wrestles Louis into his arms which earns him a joyful peel of laughter. He grits his teeth and scrunches up his nose playfully as he tickles him. “You little shit.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Louis says breathlessly, his fingers squeezing Harry’s.

Harry just shakes his head and lets out a puff of disbelieving laughter. Then he pulls Louis into a bruising kiss, cupping his cheeks and stroking the wispy hair by his ears. “You,” peck on his left cheek, “are,” peck on his right cheek, “ridiculous.”

“That’s no way to speak to the birthday boy,” Louis raises both his eyebrows and taps Harry on the nose.

“Sorry,” Harry apologizes with another kiss, just a long press of their lips while his fingers card through the soft knots of Louis’ hair. “Nice words for you today, only.”

“What about tomorrow?” Louis huffs.

“Slander,” Harry says flatly. “Pure slander.”

“You suck,” Louis pouts.

“I’ll let you do the same though,” Harry says reassuringly. “Mutual slander.”

“Be quiet,” Louis presses a finger to Harry’s lips, smile giddy and fond. Then he leans down to kiss him again.

The snow fell heavy overnight, leaving the morning light stark and full. There’s still a gentle trickle of it now. Louis makes himself comfortable with his legs either side of Harry’s waist, opening his mouth wide to run his tongue over his bottom lip. He circles his fingers through Harry’s hair and tugs on it gently, idly. Harry pets the soft skin of Louis’ back and breathes out slowly through his nose, lets his lips catch on the tiny scratch of stubble on Louis’ top lip and sink into his smell.

“Can I ask you something?” Louis says, pulling away with a quiet smack.

“Mhm,” Harry hums, kissing along his jaw. He can’t help but rub his skin against the short hair there.

Louis fingers curl on his chest, chest stuttering as he takes in a deep breath. That has Harry pulling back curiously, and his gaze flickers when he notices the pinkness of Louis’ cheeks, the way he’s biting his lips.

“Um,” he starts, suddenly shy and quiet. “I know you didn’t get me anything because obviously, I didn’t tell you. But, um. There is-. Something.”

“Yeah?” Harry drawls slowly, urging him on with a gentle incline of his head. Louis sucks in a deep breath.

“Iwantyoutoeatmeoutplease.”

It’s all said in one huge rush of air, and Louis is almost scarlet at the tip of his cheekbones, fingers twitching on Harry’s chest. It take Harry a few seconds to process the words, and once he does, blinking slowly and widely, heat rushes from his chest down to his cock so fast it makes his head fuzzy.

“You-,” he chokes out. “You want that?”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes. He fiddles with his fringe nervously, eyes downcast so that they fan out delicately. When he flicks them back up, they’re hooded and hazy. “It’s, um. It’s been a long time since anyone’s done it for me. And, like. I only let people I trust do it? It’s more intimate for me that way.”

“I-,” Harry’s throat is so dry. Louis is so bashful, and it makes something in Harry’s mind tick, protect, love, care, makes him want to fold Louis’ fingers between his own. So he does. “I’ll do that, of course. I’d love to, Lou.”

“Okay,” Louis exhales, small and hushed.

“What do you like?” Harry asks lowly, fingers dipping beneath Louis’ sweats to feel the hot skin there.

“Um, like,” Louis stutters out a breath when Harry’s mouth finds his neck, that spot just before his shoulder that makes him twitch. “Just play with my ass a bit? And, um, go slow at first.”

“Jesus,” Harry whispers, lips brushing over Louis’ skin as he tries to untangle the fuzziness of his mind. “Yeah, Lou. That’s-. Yeah.”

He tilts his head up to kiss him, keeps it slow and lush as he lets his hands spread, palms rubbing gentle circles over both his cheeks, plush and round under his fingers. Louis makes a quiet sound, and Harry swallows it with his tongue, rocks his hips up in slow rolls until Louis is responding with the same motion, both of them letting out harsh exhales through their noses as they press close.

“Belly or back?” Harry drags his slick lips to Louis’ ear, whispers the words husky and low.

“Belly,” Louis whispers shakily, hips still rocking down.

“Alright, love,” Harry starts to slide from underneath him, hands on his hips. “Relax.”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs, face buried into the warmth of Harry’s pillow, breathing slow with his lids fluttering. That sends Harry’s blood flushing, spiked and hot, Louis being so easily overwhelmed by just his presence.

He wants to take him apart, slow and almost too much.

“So gorgeous,” he breathes out hotly against the exposed skin of Louis’ back, watches the skin there ripple with goosebumps as he tucks his fingers into the waistband of Louis’ pants. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

Louis’ shoulders curl in slightly, and he lets out a soft whine when Harry drags his lips over the tops of his cheeks. He’s pulling his sweats down so slow, just dotting whispered kisses over the skin as it appears. By the time Louis’ is naked from the waist down, he’s spreading his legs and pushing his ass back, needy and pliant. Harry dips his fingers under his shirt and pushes it up until Louis reaches to tug it off dazedly.

Harry swallows thickly when he looks at him, the paleness of his winter skin that still manages to look sun-kissed, like the light has sought him out, crawled through his window in the morning to rest a gentle hand over his forehead and say good morning. He gets caught on the soft dips, the circle and fullness of his cheeks when he shifts, the peach-fuzz hair that dusts the small of his back. The fluttering of his hole as he waits for Harry to touch.

Slowly, he rests his fingers over Louis’ cheeks and digs them in, just rubs the hot skin there and takes a moment to feel it under his hands. When he spreads them the tiniest bit and exhales hotly, Louis keens and pushes back, fingers already tight in the sheets. Harry bites back a groan and ducks his head, palm coming to rest on Louis’ back to push him forward a little so he can attach his lips to the place where his thigh and cheek meet.

Louis squirms when his teeth sink in, when he sucks and laps at the skin, salty and hot.

He lets his mouth wander freely, leaves a wet trail of kisses all over his cheeks, rubbing his hands in wide circles, feeling the thick muscle shift. Louis is whining softly, breath stuttered and quiet, biting his lips red. It’s gorgeous, and Harry is throbbing in his pants. He pulls himself over his waistband quickly, swallowing a choked off moan at the touch.

“You want my mouth, love?” Harry lets the words flutter over Louis’ hole, lips brushing down his spread crack teasingly.

“Please,” Louis shakes his head frantically, rolling his hips back. “Need it.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, presses his lips against his rim so Louis can feel it. He whimpers, and Harry pulls away with a tiny smirk. “Not done with you yet.”

“Harry,” Louis whines, craning his neck to look at him, eyes woozy and blown. His face is flushed and shiny along his cheekbones. Harry crawls forward to kiss him, and runs his fingers from the small of his back down to his balls. Louis whines into his mouth brokenly, biting at his bottom lip.

“Ssh, min elskede,” Harry smiles when Louis moans at the name, pressing against him desperately.

“I hate you,” Louis whispers, smiling with his mouth still agape, eyes fluttering shut. Then, even quieter, sincere, “min elskede.”

Harry trails his fingers along the inside of Louis’ cheeks repeatedly, mouthing over the spots he touches but skipping over his hole. It makes Louis huff, makes him flush deeper and shudder desperately, makes him whine Harry’s name high and broken.

“I never stop thinking about this,” Harry murmurs against his skin. “Touching you. Always want to be touching you. Tasting you.”

“Then do,” Louis says, but the tiny grit in his voice turns into a breathy gasp when Harry’s tongue flicks over the skin just below his rim. “Please.”

“Think I might,” Harry muses, and he brings his hand down firmly to grip at Louis’ right cheek, digging his fingers in and watching the flesh mould under his touch. Louis’ shoulders spasm, mouth open and panting into the sheets wildly.

“Again,” he says desperately.

Harry does the same on his left cheek, digs his fingers in and spreads him wide. Louis goes wild for it, lets out these soft yeahyeahyeah’s under his breath, almost absently, eyes clenched shut. Harry can feel himself leaking messily already, just from watching him, cock straining and red, twitching at every sound Louis makes.

When he finally presses his tongue over Louis’ rim, he gives him no warning, and it’s almost unexpected to himself, the way he simply collapses forward and licks.

“Shit,” Louis breathes, the word straining at the end as Harry pushes his lips over his hole and sucks, gets him wet and pliant quickly.

It’s all musky heat and the sharp, zapping scent of sweat, of something so distinctly Louis. It makes him lose control too fast, done with teasing as he laps at the tight muscle, works his tongue in fervent velvet swipes and feels Louis fall apart under his hands, hears him crying out and whimpering and breathing harshly.

“Let me hear you, baby,” Harry says, throaty and flushed. Louis keens at the name, and Harry feels himself slipping, unsure of where this sudden burst of heat is coming from, the sudden urge to press Louis down completely.

But he does, both hands putting pressure on Louis’ cheeks and pushing him down onto the mattress, legs spread in a V, stretched almost painfully as Harry looms over him and bobs his head in frantic presses, slowly fucking his tongue into tight heat. Louis throws his head back, hands scrambling as he moans unabashed and loud, hips rocking down into the mattress and back against Harry’s mouth like he doesn’t know where to move to, head too muddled to communicate with his body.

One of his hands reaches back to grip at Harry’s hair, and he gets a handful of curls at the front, a sweet blossom of pain. Harry moans helplessly against Louis’ hole and tries to spread him wider, slows the flicks of his tongue so he can press inside him properly, focuses on getting him slick and open. His mouth is wet and shiny, and he’s sure his eyes are entirely glazed over.

“God, your fucking mouth,” Louis gasps out, brow furrowed gorgeously, hair stuck at his temples.

“Gonna come just from my mouth?” Harry presses the words feverishly over Louis hole, blows over it to make him shake.

“Yeah,” Louis croaks. “So close. So fucking close.”

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Harry whispers, licks a fat stripe from his balls back up to his hole. “Wish I met you sooner, wish I’d had my mouth on you for years.”

“You can make up for it,” Louis says, shaky but with a laugh that’s punched from his chest in a choked breath. Harry can’t help the laughter that spills from his lips, and he nips his teeth over the inside of Louis’ cheek as he grins, both their chests shaking. He can’t remember the last time he laughed during sex since Louis.

“Cheeky,” Harry murmurs, letting the words buzz low and firm over Louis’ hole. He brings his hand down randomly, and Louis’ laughter turns into a gasp.

“You love it,” he breathes, hips rolling into the sheets. Harry follows him down with a wicked swipe of his tongue that says I do.

He can tell when Louis is close, can feel the way he starts to flutter sporadically around him, the fervent, shaky snaps of his hips in to the sheets, the way his spine dips until his back is arched in a way that looks almost painful, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets. Harry just presses in harder, flicks his tongue frantically and keeps his hands roaming, pushes Louis down into the sheets and lets him curl his fingers into his hair.

He comes with a choked sob, hips pushing back onto Harry’s lips frantically as he rides it out. Harry’s brings his hand around to stroke him through it, jerking him off quick and slick. Louis whimpers into the sheets, chest rising and falling noticeably as he comes down, thighs quivering.

“Lou, can I-“ Harry’s lips drag over his skin wetly, and he reaches for his dick urgently, almost chokes on his own breath at the first touch. “Can I come on you?”

“Fuck,” Louis breathes, looking at him over his shoulder with dazed eyes and parted lips. “Please, yeah.”

Harry wastes no time touching himself, tipping his head back and moaning at the feel of it. His cock is so wet already, precome sluicing through his fingers as he flicks his wrist desperately. It only takes a few more hard strokes before he’s collapsing forward, palm sliding down Louis’ back as he comes over Louis’ hole, breath ragged and caught in his chest. Louis lets out a tiny whine, mouth slack and his eyelashes fluttering prettily, completely sated.

“Christ,” Harry breathes after a moment, swallowing thickly. Louis is flushed from the chest down, sweat clinging in a thin film over his back. He’s entirely naked, and Harry is mostly clothed, and it’s just. It’s so much. Christ.

“That was so good,” Louis grins into the sheets, a giggle bubbling in his chest.

“Yeah?” Harry draws, leans forward with a dimpled smile to bite playfully at Louis’ jaw.

“Yeah,” Louis tucks his neck down and bumps their noses together. “Thank you, love.”

“My pleasure,” Harry pats Louis’ side gently and dots a kiss on his warm cheek. “Let me clean you up.”

Louis is almost asleep when Harry returns with a damp towel, a content smile on his lips, face buried in his arms. Harry kisses his shoulder and noses the hair by Louis’ ear to make him giggle softly.

“I’m gonna make you breakfast,” Harry says as he falls onto his side, hand rubbing over Louis’ back. “Full English. Or whatever’s in your cupboards.”

“You don’t have to,” Louis yawns, smiling sleepily. His cheek is squished against his forearm. Harry wants to pinch it.

“I want to,” Harry says. “I’m spoiling you today.”

Louis’ eyes crinkle. “You’re too sweet.”

“Not as sweet as you,” Harry sing-songs, grinning when Louis rolls his eyes.

“Alright then, hop to it,” he shoos him away with a wiggle of his fingers. “You’ve had your breakfast, I’m hungry.”

“Lou,” Harry guffaws, poking his side. “You’re so crude.”

“Says you,” Louis raises a challenging eyebrow. “Go brush your teeth, sweetheart.”

“Do you want food or not?” Harry snipes, mouth pursed. It wobbles, only slightly.

Louis rolls onto his back and stretches his naked body out, scratching at his stomach lazily. Harry’s fingers twitch, and he sighs to himself when he knows he’s been beaten.

“I guess,” Louis drawls lazily, bending one leg up. “It is my birthday, after all. Wouldn’t want to upset me, would you, Curly?”

“No,” Harry says softly, ducking closer to kiss Louis’ neck. “D’you want pancakes?”

“I’d love pancakes,” Louis chirps softly, ruffling Harry’s hair. “With choc-chips if you can find some.”

“Sure, love,” Harry says. “Anything.”

He does end up finding choc-chips, but they’re stuffed right into the back of Louis’ cupboards and nearly two years out of date. Instead, he shaves what Louis has left of a block of chocolate with the edge of his knife and uses that instead, turning the mixture into cream and brown marble.

Louis dozes while Harry cooks, and he can’t help but look at him over his shoulder every few seconds. He’s rolled onto his stomach again, legs sprawled and his fingers curled into loose fists, hair its usual mess. Late-morning light brushes against the soles of his feet. He’s ethereal.

“Lou,” he nudges him softly to wake him, a plate stacked high in either hand, syrup and butter just how Louis likes it. Louis makes a soft noise and shifts. “C’mon. Gotta eat them while the chocolate is all melty.”

That wakes Louis from his stupor fairly quickly.

Per Louis’ request, they pull the sheets up to their chests and watch Adventure Time, legs pressed together firmly so the laptop can balance between them. They eat with their fingers, Harry rolling his pancakes into cigars while Louis holds his up with the tips of his fingers and bites around it, slopping syrup all over his plate while they watch Finn and Jake.

“Hey,” Louis nudges his shoulder, chewing for a moment before swallowing thickly. There’s a shy smile on his chocolate smudged lips.

“Mm?” Harry hums around his pancake, syrup dripping out the back and onto his fingers.

“I liked it when you called me baby,” Louis says, and Harry almost chokes on his pancake.

“Oh,” he coughs, clearing his throat with his first curled in front of his mouth. “You, um. You heard that?”

“Uh-huh,” Louis grins knowingly, a dirty smirk that doesn’t leave his lips when he takes another bite. “Loud and clear.”

It’s Harry’s turn to flush now. “Um.”

“It’s alright, Haz,” Louis nudges him again. “I just told you I liked it. It’s cute. And, like, really fucking hot.”

Harry snorts into his pancake. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis smiles. “Don’t be embarrassed. Feels nice, being called that.”

“Noted,” Harry says with a tiny smirk. Louis rolls his eyes. His lips are shiny with syrup, and Harry presses his dopey smile into Louis’ mouth gently, tastes the sugar that clings there. Their teeth bump softly, both of them grinning as they pull away, eyes hooded and crinkled.

Harry’s chest is a butterfly cage ready to burst.

They venture outside close to lunch, rugged up in layers upon layers, gloves and beanies and scarves, hoods turned up against the cold. The snow is barely there, a soft sprinkle of white dust. The cloud is still hovering over them, turning the water on the distant fjord a deep blue, the darkest colour Harry’s seen it during the daytime.

Louis jumps down the steps and into the powder, sending it spraying up around his feet as he stomps through it like a child. Harry joins him a moment later, feels the cold of it even through his thick boots, the gleaming of it even with the gloomy light, like clusters of diamonds. He kicks it up with his foot, watches it flutter in the air. Moon-dust, he thinks to himself. Almost.

This is much better.

And, it’s as he has this precise thought, admiring the snow, that a thick wad of it hits him in the back, right on his shoulder.

He freezes, mouth open in shock as he slowly turns.

Louis has a hand pressed over his mouth, eyes electric and giddy, cheeks squished with his smile.

“You didn’t,” Harry says lowly, his shocked mouth morphing into a disbelieving smile, the challenge in his eyes already brewing.

Louis takes off running around the side of the house.

It’s on.

Harry is scooping up snow as he runs, packing it into a tight ball and following the indents of Louis’ feet. There’s a smile on his face already, bottom lip between his teeth and a fire leaping in his belly. He feels like a kid.

He rounds the corner and gets a snowball to the face.

“Louis!” He roars, guffawing around the words as Louis cackles, hand over his stomach with wet eyes.

Harry leans forward and spits the snow out of his mouth, uses his free hand to wipe it from his eyes. It’s freezing, sliding along his cheeks and along his neck. He narrows his eyes into a glare, and darts forward.

Louis is too busy laughing to react fast enough, and Harry shoves his snowball down the front of Louis’ jacket, teeth bared playfully as they scuffle. Louis lets out what can only be described as a scream when the ice slides down, shoulders tucking up to his ears.

“H-Ha-Harry,” he whacks at his chest, face scrunching up as he tries to wiggle away.

“Karma’s a bitch,” Harry laughs, shaking Louis’ coat to make sure it all goes down.

Louis smirks, and hooks his ankle around Harry’s. They go down together.

“Shit,” Harry shrieks when he falls into the snow, Louis wrestling above him. He’s already scooping snow into his gloved hands, and Harry manages to get a grip on his arms as he tries to tuck it into Harry’s clothes. After a moment, he simply pauses and drops it onto Harry’s face again. Harry splutters wildly and rolls them, teeth chattering.

Despite the insane chill running down his spine, Harry feels warm on the inside, even with Louis kicking his legs out and wrestling him fiercely. His laughter pours out freely, loud and almost echoing into the quiet of the town. It’s freeing and fun and it’s just. It feels so good. He feels so good.

Louis is watching him now, their tugging hands slowing. There are little speckles of snow caught in his fringe, and against the white ground his eyes are the fjord on the clear days, shiny like the morning sun. They’re both breathing heavily, shaking, and with melted snow clinging to the tips of the noses.

Harry leans down to kiss him, just one, long press that’s warm and gentle, that he smiles into when Louis sighs against his lips, when his arms wraps around his waist.

“We should take a bath,” Louis murmurs against his lips. “Lots of bubbles.”

“I second that,” Harry slides off him slowly, offers his damp hand.

When they’re both clean and snug again, hair still damp, Louis’ laptop awakens shrill and unexpected, the tiny Skype bubble popping up.

“It’s my family,” Louis says, dragging it closer. Harry freezes with his mug of tea halfway to his lips.

“Is it alright that I’m, like,” he gestures to himself, “here?”

“Yeah, I want you to meet them,” Louis says, so casual as he clicks the little accept button, waiting for the video to load.

Harry’s heart is in his throat. He’s literally in bed with Louis, and he’s about to meet his family. Alright.

“Lou?” A tiny voice says.

“Is that a little munchkin I hear?” Louis muses. The video starts to load, and Harry blinks at all the heads crammed into the screen. He counts seven.

“Louis!” two of the smaller girls, twins it look like, scream. Ear-piercing screams. Harry hides his smile behind his cup as each person starts to talk over the top of each other. Louis just sends Harry a sideways glance, lips tucked into a fond smile.

“Alright, alright,” he hushes them. “I know I’m the family favourite, no need for a squabble.”

“That’s going to start a squabble,” the woman in the middle of it all says, eyes shiny. Harry knows with one look that that’s Louis’ mother.

“Can we sing Happy Birthday now?” one of the twins whispers, side eying Louis, who pretends to be oblivious. The woman nods.

They break out into song abruptly, and Louis covers his eyes with his hands, chuckling as the kids scream obnoxiously, the two youngest, who still look like toddlers, just yelling random sounds and clapping with the excitement of it all. It ends with an array clapping and unintelligible shouting.

“That was gorgeous, truly,” Louis grins. “Grammy worthy.”

“Still better than you singing Christina Aguilera in the shower,” one of the girls says, long blonde hair and a gentle face. “Which I don’t miss, at all.”

“Excuse me, Lottie” Louis says. “No insulting me on my birthday.”

“But this is the only day we get to make fun of you,” the girl on the other side of the frame says. “Remember that time you were dancing in the bathroom to Vanilla Ice when you thought nobody was home, and I came in and you slipped on your ass and took the whole shelf with you? That was a good time.”

“Fizz!” Louis yells, face red. Harry can’t help it when he snorts into his mug, laughter spilling through his lips, eyes watering from trying to hold it in. It doesn’t go unnoticed. He sees all seven heads perk up.

“Who’s that?” five voices say in unison. One of the twins claps again.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Louis says dryly.

“Louis,” Harry elbows his side, still laughing. Louis sighs.

“Alright, everybody stay calm,” Louis rolls his eyes and tilts the laptop towards Harry. All seven heads perk up immediately.

“Erm, hiii,” Harry drawls nervously with a tiny wave of his hand. Chaos erupts.

Louis winces and turns the volume down rapidly.

“Shh!” he waves he hands frantically at the camera. “You’ll frighten the poor lad.”

“Louis William,” his mother says sternly. “Who is that?”

“Mother Dearest,” Louis replies. “This is Harry. Harry, Jay.”

“Oh, aren’t you a darling!” Jay coos, then narrows her eyes at the screen. “Louis, move your giant head so I can say hello.”

Louis looks affronted, but he rolls his eyes and tilts the laptop further towards Harry, who’s clutching his tea in his hands like his life depends on it, very aware of the blankets pooled at his waist. Thank God he’s wearing a shirt.

“Oh, he’s cute!” Lottie chirps. Harry smile shyly. Louis groans.

“He is, isn’t he?” Jay smiles. “Y’alright, sweet?”

“I’m well, yeah,” Harry says, throat thick with nerves. He isn’t sure why. “We had a snowball fight, which was fun. Was chilly outside with the snow, well, it’s always cold, but. We, um. All warm now.”

He’s aware that he’s just pointlessly rambled, and he flushes under the gaze of seven pairs of very intense eyes. They all seem to coo, except for the two toddlers, who poke at the camera with amused smiles.

“Louis, are you going to introduce us to your boyfriend?” Lottie huffs. “You’re so bloody rude, I swear.”

Harry glances at Louis in alarm. Boyfriend. They haven’t-. They haven’t even mentioned that, or talked about it. Louis just sighs, though, then makes sure he has Harry’s attention as he points at each face on the screen.

“Lottie, Fizz, Daisy, Phoebe, Ernest, Doris,” he says in one breath, fingers skirting over each face. Harry blinks.

Louis has mentioned his family before, but Harry can hardly imagine what it’d be like to have six siblings as opposed to his one.

“Nice to meet you all,” Harry says warmly.

He notices the way Jay’s eyes linger curiously under the sudden outburst of yelling from the twins, both of them chattering away at Louis about school and what they’re studying in science and if he can please help them with their homework after Christmas. It’s all very cute, and Louis is so enthusiastic about it, gets them to explain it all to him as he listens intently, nodding along. Harry feels very warm.

“Alright, you lot, shoo away,” Jay says, once the girls have had some time to talk. “Mummy time, now.”

“Bye, Lou!” Phoebe sticks her tongue out at the screen and leans in close.

“Bye, munchkin,” Louis laughs.

They scatter slowly, the twins remaining on Jay’s lap as they blink at the screen tiredly, looking ready for a nap.

“You’ve been alright, love?” Jay asks. “All safe up in the air? No more silly accidents?”

“All safe,” Louis says. “Had one little fall two weeks ago, but it was nothing.”

Jay tisks. “Someday I’m going to get a call to say you’ve tumbled into one of those things.”

“Oh hush,” Louis waves her off. “I know what I’m doing, mum. I’m very experienced and all that.”

“That makes me more worried,” Jay says. Then, softer. “Are you flying out after the holidays love? We miss you.”

Harry can feel Louis tense up a little, and he watches his face, the slow blink of his lashes. “Yeah, I-. I’ll try, mum. It’s busy here. There’s lots happening right now.”

“Hm,” Jay frowns, unconvinced. “Well, alright. It’s been too long for my liking. What about you, Harry? You two should fly home together.”

It’s incredible how quickly Harry’s stomach turns at that comment, how fast his throat fills with thick sludge. He glances down at his mug, swallowing. Louis says nothing, just blinking at Harry slowly, mouth pressed together. They’re both a little wide-eyed, struck by the thought sudden and hot, unprepared.

“Mum, Harry’s actually, um,” Louis fumbles over his words, eyes clouding. “Harry’s leaving next week. He’s a journalist for WWF.”

“Oh,” Jay says, blinking. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Louis says softly. Harry clears his throat and takes a long sip of his tea.

“Well, I expect that you’ll be coming soon anyway,” Jay says, the brightness back in her voice. “You still have to fix the porch.”

“Oh, God,” Louis groans. “Not the damn porch again.”

“You did a proper awful job last time,” Jay says.

“Happy Birthday, Louis! You’re the best son in the world,” Louis grins sunnily. “Good job fixing the porch!”

Jay lets out a fond chuckle. “My, my, whatever will I do with you? Harry must really be a good one if he’s stuck around this long.”

Harry smiles softly. “It wasn’t too much of a hardship. You’ve raised an amazing person, if I’m honest."

Louis is still beside him, just watching. Jay’s grin is sun. “Thank you, love. He was a menace but I tried valiantly.”

Louis squawks in protest, but Harry cuts him off. “The hard work paid off.”

“Okay, I’m ending this call now,” Louis says loudly. “Mum, I love you, send my love to the girls. Merry Christmas. I love you. A lot.”

“I love you too, Lou,” Jay blows a kiss to the screen. “Oh! And say thank you to Ánga for the mittens, they’re absolutely darling.”

“Will do, mum,” Louis blows her a kiss back.

“Bye, Harry,” Jay says. “Lovely to meet you. Hopefully we’ll see each other in person soon, hm?”

“I…” Louis is smiling softly at him. Harry turns to the screen. “I think we will. Bye.”

When the screen goes blank, they sit in silence for a few minutes, Louis blinking slowly and playing with a loose thread on the blanket.

Harry can still feel his heart crawling up his throat, words bouncing around in his brain. Boyfriend. Leaving next week. Boyfriend. Leaving. Boyfriend. Leaving.

It’s a gradual thing when Louis falls into his side. He leans his head on Harry’s shoulder, tucks his face into his neck and reaches for his hand. There’s a soft melancholy around them, and Harry swallows, squeezing Louis’ fingers tight. In a week, he’ll be flying home. He doesn’t want to go.

“Want to drink a lot of wine and kiss on the floor?” Louis says.

Harry lets out a soft puff of laughter and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I’d love to,” he murmurs into Louis’ hair. I’d do anything you asked me to.

-

On Christmas morning, Harry wakes to an empty bed. Louis is hunched over his laptop across the room, clicking the keys rapidly with his lips bitten into his mouth, looking frustrated.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry croaks, shuffling up the bed so he can sit up.

“Hey,” Louis says brightly, finally turning his attention away from the screen. “Merry Christmas, min elskede.”

Obviously, they both haven’t gotten each other anything, but Louis is fidgety and huffing. He slams the lid of his computer down with a sigh and crawls back into bed.

“What’s wrong, lille blomst?” Harry drops a soft kiss to his pouted lips. “You can’t be sad on Christmas.”

“Nothing,” Louis sighs again. “Just the snow ruining my plans, as usual.”

“Plans?” Harry asks. Louis gives him a tiny smile.

“I had a surprise for you, but,” he nuzzles into Harry’s chest. “We can’t go now because of the weather.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly, cheeks warming. “I’ll just have to hold you to a raincheck then, won’t I?”

He feels Louis smile against his skin, the shift in his cheeks and the scrape of his teeth. “Of course.”

They spend the morning fucking lazy and slow, Louis riding him with lush, gradual rolls of his hips, Harry’s fingers tracing his whole body like a whisper, both their mouths parted and their heads tilted back. There’s lots of giggling and tickling and soft, quiet keening, and Harry is warm, content, and almost-maybe, possibly, in love.

They meet up with the rest of the team at lunch, after they’ve both sent messages off to their mothers, shuffling into Zayn’s mustard yellow house with wine and hugs. Jonas flies Allan down from Kangerlussuaq in the afternoon, and by then Harry is already feeling a little fuzzy. Red always tends to do that to him, makes him tactile and cuddly and blink slow and heavy.

By the time they go to Baren for dinner, he’s well on his way to having a big night.

It’s packed inside, a large portion of the town crammed in together. Christmas lights and tinsel have been thrown over the wooden beams, some of it dusting the floor and landing in their hair as they shuffle inside. Louis has a few strands of glittery gold and red clinging to his fringe, and Harry pokes at it with a giggle.

Niall, bless him, has saved them the table in front of the stage. He’s also dressed as an elf, and greets them all with sloppy kisses on the cheek and a round of shots. Harry has decided that he definitely likes him.

The whole atmosphere is buzzing and excited, English and Danish swirling around him as they sit, as Niall starts to bring over plates of food, all steaming and hot and perfect to go with the wine sitting in his stomach. They eat with vibrant conversation and drink-slick mouths, eyes brightening as the night goes on, as Niall starts to round everyone up to start karaoke.

Harry has ended up with a Santa hat on his head, Louis with a pair of reindeer ears. He forces Liam to take photos of them, and when he pulls him in for a kiss that is nowhere near appropriate for a public place, Harry flushes bright pink and takes his phone back with a shy smile.

“Make that one your background,” Louis taps the screen harshly, lips brushing Harry’s ear. “And your lockscreen. And put in on Facebook. I need to add you on Facebook.”

“I will, baby,” Harry assures him softly, pressing a kiss to his tinsel dusted hair.

“Good,” Louis hugs his waist tightly, snuggling into his neck with a giggle before he hollers across the room for Niall to get karaoke started.

It’s an absolute mess from the word go.

At this point, ninety percent of the bar is completely gone, empty glasses stacked high around tables and on the bar, eyes bright with joy and laughter. The singing is horrendous and the dancing is even worse, and Harry has tears in his eyes from laughing, has tears in his eyes from how happy he is to be here, surrounded by all this.

When Harry is eventually pushed up onto the stage, he’s got a Black Russian in one hand, and he looks through the songs carefully, blinking hard to read the fuzzy, fluorescent screen. As soon as he sees the song, a manic grin lights up his face, laughter already bubbling in his stomach.

“Oi, Zayn!” He shouts, beckoning him up onto the stage. Zayn smiles at his dazedly and downs the rest of his drink as he stumbles up the tiny step, face flushed the same colour as his ugly sweater.

“Harry, my dearest,” he claps him on the back. “Whatever do you need me for?”

“I need a Bublé,” Harry grins. “So I can be Shania.”

Zayn throws his head back. “Oh my God, Louis is going to disown you.”

The opening notes for White Christmas start to play, Zayn smiling as he sings. Harry can see the exact moment Louis realizes what’s happening, his soft, fond expression going wide-eyed with betrayal.

“No!” he shouts, waving his hands in the air. “Turn it off!”

Niall pulls him into a rough headlock and sings along obnoxiously.

“Where the treetops glisten, and children listen,” Harry sings Shania’s part with a swing of his shoulders, blinking at Louis innocently, mouth curled into a mirthful smile, “to hear sleighbells in the snow.”

Harry knows he’s not a bad singer, that he can hold a note. He used to do a lot of singing as a kid, and Zayn is actually amazing. They seem to realize this together, and they start the duet with sparkling eyes, dancing around each other messily through the instrumental parts, both of them laughing around the low do-do’s in the background.

The song ends with a little riff from the trumpets, the bar erupting into drunken applause and shouting as Harry and Zayn stumble off the stage, arms around each other’s waists as they take clumsy bows. Louis has his arms crossed over his chest and his nose scrunched, but there’s amusement and fondness glistening in his eyes.

The second Harry sits down, Louis pulls him close, so that his lips drag over his ear. “’m gonna get you back for that,” he slurs, winking. Harry winks right back and steals a sip of Louis’ drink. Vanilla Galliano and lemonade. 

“This one goes out to my brother, Mr. Louis Tomlinson!” Niall hollers as he takes the stage, pointing at Louis and thumping his chest with his fist. “Love that guy, you’re tops! Oi-Oi!”

“Oi-Oi!” Louis shouts back, eyes crinkled.

Niall follows them with the funniest rendition of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town that Harry has ever seen. It seems to be the Justin Bieber version, and he bounces around the stage, swings his elf hat around and twerks terribly. Harry snorts his drink out his nose when Niall leaps from the stage and starts to dance through the audience.

“He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice,” he sings loudly as he plonks himself in Harry’s lap, waggling his eyebrows. Harry throws his head back and laughs, mushes a drunken kiss to Niall’s cheek that has him mock-swooning and fanning himself.

“Alright, I’m going to show you lot how it’s done,” Louis announces once Niall has finished with a bow that tips his inebriated body over. He pats Harry’s cheek and gives him another wink as he slides out of the booth, grinding back onto Harry’s crotch as he does so. Harry’s drunken mind is too slow to give him a whack as he retreats.

Louis’ reindeer ears are lopsided, and Harry bites his lips into his mouth as he watches him flick through the songs. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his pretty lips, hip cocked as he presses one and takes the stage, eyes locked with Harrys. He winks again, and Harry squirms.

The second the first few notes ring out, Harry drops his head into his hands and groans, laughter rippling through him as he peeks at Louis through his fingers. He’s swinging his hips, a shit-eating grin on his lips as he blinks at Harry slowly. The bar all starts to whistle and clap, cheering Louis on.

“Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree for me” Louis starts, breathy and soft. “Been an awful good girl.”

“Yeah, Lou!” Niall claps, wiping at his eyes as he laughs.

“Jesus,” Liam kicks Harry’s shin lightly under the table. “You’re gonna have a fun night.”

The bar is singing along drunkenly, hanging off each other and swaying. But Louis’ eyes stay locked on Harry’s as he dances, shakes his hips in slow rolls. His voice is melodic and high, and Harry thinks he may be in a bit of a trance, lips working over his bottom teeth as Louis sings to him, smirking.

“Think of all the fun I’ve missed,” Louis starts to come down off the stage, walking towards Harry slowly, shoulders swaying. “Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed. Next year I could also be good, if you’ll check off my Christmas list.”

When Louis reaches him, he tugs Harry’s Santa hat off and replaces it with his reindeer ears, running his hands through his hair and dipping close as he sings, breathy and with hooded eyes. Harry’s fingers curl into his pants, eager to just pull him into his lap and kiss him mid-song.

“Hurry down the chimney tonight,” Louis sings, walking his fingers down Harry’s chest with each beat. “Hurry, tonight.”

Harry can feel how hot his face in when the bar starts to cheer again, when Louis passes the microphone on and settles himself in Harry’s lap casually, picking his drink back up and biting the straw into his mouth. Harry leans forward and noses at his hair, presses a soft, wet kiss on the back of his neck, below his ear.

“That was mean,” he murmurs against his skin.

“You loved it,” Louis leans back further, and Harry wraps his arms around his waist, face mushed against his shoulder.

“Mm,” he brushes his thumbs over Louis’ stomach. “Will you hurry down my chimney tonight?”

Louis snorts into his drink and turns to whack him playfully. “If you ask nicely.”

Of course, Louis enforces that their night ends with All I Want For Christmas Is You. When it starts to blare through the speakers, Louis jumps up and sloshes his drinks all over his fingers, grabbing Harry and hauling him to his feet. Everyone dances, even Zayn, whose grin is wide and bright as he, Niall and Liam jump together, heads thrown back.

Harry and Louis swing each other around as they sing, and it might be the most cliché and ridiculous thing that Harry’s ever done. But he thrives off it, tries to get his fuzzy brain to take this all in, the stickiness of Louis’ fingers, the flush on his cheeks and he happiness glowing in his eyes, the sparkly tinsel in his hair and his voice blending with all the others.

It’s perfect.

-

The snow gets heavier that night, and it looks like it’s going to stay that way.

They’re stuck inside until it clears, and Harry notices how tetchy it makes Louis despite being around it for so many years. Harry notices him getting caught gazing out the window, or checking the radar on his computer in hourly intervals. They play Scrabble and watch cartoons and talk for hours, kiss and fuck and nap, settle into each other and savour this time.

Harry is almost grateful for the snow. He doesn’t want to leave Louis’ side.

Whenever the thought of packing up and going home enters his mind, he tries to push it away as quickly as possible, replaces it with the glacier and Kangerlussuaq and Louis. It sends a spike of panic through his chest, and he’ll burrow further into Louis’ side wordlessly. He doesn’t have to say anything, because Louis knows.

Harry is scheduled to fly out on Friday morning. It’s currently Tuesday.

He doesn’t want to admit that he’s almost scared to go back home, back to the bustle and the thick, polluted air of London. Back to his two-by-two metre office cubicle and the chair that hurts his back if his sits in it too long, back to editing articles that aren’t his own and running errands just because he’s convenient and can’t say no.

He wants to get back to that office and show Renee his work, wants to beg her to let him go free, to see the CCS systems in Australia and the complex ecosystems of the Amazon, to the edges of Alaska and the industrial world of Beijing. He wants to experience it all and work with it all, write pieces that come from his heart, come from what he knows and what he can give in the best way he can.

He doesn’t want Greenland to be just a distant memory.

“Hey,” Louis lifts his head from where he’s sucking a mark on Harry’s collarbone, lips shiny in the silver light. “You okay, min elskede? You disappeared.”

Harry blinks his gaze away from the ceiling and rubs his frozen palms over Louis’ back, nodding. “Yeah, sorry. Just lost my head for a second.”

Louis doesn’t look convinced, and he pulls back a little when Harry leans up to kiss him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry bumps their mouths together, thumbs massaging the dimples at the bottom of Louis spine.

“It’s not nothing,” Louis frowns, pulling away again. “Haz, you know you can tell me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says, but his voice comes out thick and wrong and Louis’ eyes soften, fingers caressing Harry’s cheeks.

“You don’t have to,” Louis whispers, and he smiles sadly. “I already know.”

Harry nods again, swallowing as he wraps his arms around Louis’ waist completely, tugging him close. The blankets are tucked around their shoulders, and Louis snuggles into Harry’s neck, lets his mouth rest there as they lie together, just breathing. Harry’s throat feels tight, his eyes burning and threatening to grow wet. He doesn’t want to cry. He won’t.

It’s so silent, the town fast asleep. Only the wet pitter-patter of snow on the roof accompanies their slow breathing. Harry closes his eyes and tries to memorize the feel of Louis' body entirely, all the places their joints meet, where warm skin touches. It hurts to breathe, almost.

“I told myself I wouldn’t say this, for both our sakes,” Louis says softly. “I don’t want you to go.”

Harry lets out a broken sound and kisses Louis head, holds him tighter. “Please, don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, and it’s almost a hiss, how quickly it tumbles out of his mouth, tight and strained. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I have to,” Harry says miserably. “I don’t have a choice.”

“I know,” Louis’ fingers dig into his ribs. “I know. I still don’t want you to go. It’s all I can think about, you not being here. Who am I supposed to share my custard creams with?”

Harry lets out a wet laugh, wobbly and broken. “You should get a dog.”

“Maybe I will,” Louis smiles against his skin. “One with long, terrible hair. I’ll name it Harry in your memory.”

“You like my hair,” Harry protests.

“I do,” Louis hums, reaching up to loop his fingers through it. Harry closes his eyes so they don’t spill over. “I like everything about you, min elskede.”

That sends Harry’s heart shaking, sends pinpricks of heat and pain spreading through his chest and down his stomach. Because he can’t remember the last time he thought that true, that somebody could like every part of him, someone other than his mother. He feels like he’s never truly been himself, because he’s always had to shy away from it. But here, he’s Harry, he’s got his heart on his sleeve and his eyes wide open, and Louis has taken him with open arms.

“I don’t want to go back to London,” he whispers. “I like it here. I like the air and the ice and how simple it is. I like flying in the helicopter and reading satellite images and watching you draw diagrams. I like the sun setting on the fjord and the melt lakes and Niall, Zayn, Jonas and Ánga. And you. None of that is in London. You’re not in London.”

He’s aware of his thick his voice is, how hot and misty his eyes have gotten. Louis is a feather on his chest, but there’s something else pushing its hands down, something else sitting like a huge, blue weight.

“You know,” Louis starts, tracing his fingers over Harry’s collarbone, “I’ve been thinking about how when you’re gone, I’m going to be on my own again. And I like it, the quiet and the simplicity. But not as much as I like having you here, not as much as I like waking up with your hair in my mouth and your cold nose under my chin.”

Harry lets out a tiny patter of laughter, and he gently rolls them onto their sides, so that Louis wraps around him like a koala, so that they’re both nuzzled into each other and the pillows.

“You’ve been escaping everything, being here with me,” Louis says quietly. “But now you’re going to be gone, and I’m going to be left the way it was before, and it’s not going to feel the same. There’s going to be something missing, something wrong. And that scares me, Harry. I’m scared to let you go.”

“So am I,” Harry swallows. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to work, doing what I do, when I know that you’re here, flying in the open air and walking along the fjord every morning. I don’t want to sit in that tiny cubicle when I could be standing on the end of a glacier with you.”

“We shouldn’t do this,” Louis inhales suddenly, quick and hurt, and his voice it wobbly. “Let’s stop talking, alright? Let’s just-. Just stop talking about it.”

Harry clenches his eyes shut, dips his head down to find Louis’ mouth blindly. It’s bruising and desperate and it almost hurts, but Harry just furrows his brow and digs his fingers in, swallows the noises Louis makes and tries his best to keep his own in his chest. If he speaks again, all that comes out will be a crying stutter.

They have two days left.

-

They get the all clear to fly in to Kangerlussuaq early Wednesday afternoon, and Louis is up and ready within five minutes, fingers twitching and eyes bright. He babbles to Harry as they walk along the edge of the fjord, shiny and glistening now that the mist and the cloud has lifted. It’s left behind thick snow, and they trudge through it clumsily into town to catch the bus to the hotel.

Liam, Jonas, and Zayn are waiting there for them, and Louis kisses the door of the helicopter before he swings it open and hops in eagerly.

Harry watches the landscape from the window, concentrates on every dip and rivet, every shadow and shift of white and blue, the sapphire veins than run into the crevices of the glacier, the snow covered hills. Soon he’ll see a city instead.

Allan greets them with hot chocolate and a thick stack of printed graphs and data to be sorted through, all the work he’s collected the past few days staying at the centre. Nobody bats an eye or complains, and they hold their hands out for it eagerly. Zayn sharpens his pencil and Louis slides his glasses over his nose. Liam and Harry’s laptops chime in unison as they power up.

It feels good to be working again, and Harry savours that feeling as best he can.

By the time they’re packing up for the day, Harry’s article is nearly done, just needing final polishing and approval from Renee. His eyes have a buzz from staring at his screen, a little droopy and sore, but he finds that he doesn’t mind, that Louis tucks him closer into his side as they walk down the stairs.

They’re quiet when they get back to Louis’, and they orbit around each other naturally while they make dinner, humming along to the soft indie-folk that Louis has put on, just a guitar and a low voice in the background. The fire flickers in front of them, sitting in front of the couch with both their legs crossed.

Harry eats and watches the flames dance on Louis’ skin, tries to memorize the exact shadows of his face, the delicate curl of his gold-tipped lashes. Soon, his stomach is turning too much to eat, and he washes the dishes while Louis showers, methodical and slow with his shoulders curled in.

Louis’ skin is flushed and warm when he slides into bed behind Harry, hair damp and dripping, and Harry rolls over desperately, puts his hands on him and pulls his legs up around his waist. It’s fast and hot and too much, too strong and too hurtful and too mind-blowingly good. They breath each other’s air and taste each other’s skin, whisper min elskede, min blomst, over and over, and once, from Louis, min allerkæreste.

Louis holds him as they drift off, lips a constant, whispering weight on his shoulder blade, his arm slung over his lower back. Harry feels safe, warm, and strangely devastated.

-

“Harry, love. Wake up, darling.”

“No,” Harry mumbles into the pillow. “I’m cuddling you all day and we’re not moving.”

Louis' fingers card through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Harry peeks one eye open. Louis’ hand is a warm weight on his back, and he leans over him with a soft smile. “Surprise?”

“Mhm,” Louis gives him a chaste, dry kiss, lips quirking. “You’ve got to rug up.”

“What’re we doing?” Harry rubs a hand over his face, groaning slightly as he stretches.

“It’s a surprise,” Louis rolls his eyes, then tugs at his hair. “C’mon. You’ll love it.”

Harry sighs, and then with a tiny smirk, latches on to Louis and rolls them onto the floor, blanket and all. Louis is less that happy, and he makes it known fairly quickly.

By the time they’ve finished their squabbling, eaten breakfast and dressed, Louis is tapping the imaginary watch on his wrist with a raised brow in Harry’s direction, pushing him out the door swiftly.

“Lovely day,” Harry comments, eyes roaming over the still icebergs on the fjord.

“Perfect conditions,” Louis chirps, taking his hand and pulling them along the path.

They walk with their hands clasped and their breaths swirling together, quiet laughter floating up into the fresh air. Louis is chirpy and bounces on his toes, and Harry is thankful for it, that he’s trying to make this better. It helps, a little, and Harry finds himself genuinely smiling, finds himself loosening his shoulders and thinking enjoy it.

As they near the edge of town, Harry can hear yapping in the distance, can see the tracks in the snow, and he smiles to himself when he realizes where they’re going.

The dogs greet them excitedly from behind the gates, ruffling up piles of snow and sending it spraying along their boots as they yip loudly. Harry coos at them and lets them sniff his hand as they pass, feels the thickness of their fur under his gloved fingers. Louis leads them towards the little building at the end of the lane, the sleds lined up behind it.

A tiny bell chimes as they enter, and the old man behind the desk perks his head up. It seems a common thing that anyone who sees Louis brightens immediately. The man is tall and thickly built, with a silver whiskered beard and grey eyes. His skin is cracked and worn, red at the nose and the tips of his ears.

“Louis!” he hurries from behind the desk to lift him up into a tight hug, spinning him around. “I’ve missed you. How is the ice?”

“Still melting, I’m afraid,” Louis says, and the man rolls his large eyes and flicks him lightly on the ear. “How’re the dogs, Pâlo?

“Cheeky,” he shakes his head. “Both you and the dogs.”

“Truthful,” Louis counters with a grin.

Pâlo notices Harry’s presence, and he sends them both a beaming grin, before he pulls Louis into his side. “This must be the Harry you told me about.”

“That’s me,” Harry holds out his hand, but Pâlo scoffs at it and draws him into a rib-crushing hug instead.

“So nice to meet you,” Pâlo says.

“You too,” Harry squeaks. Louis muffles his laughter behind his hand over Pâlo’s shoulder.

“Alright, I’ll let you out in the pen for a bit,” Pâlo guides them back outside, and the dogs start up again immediately. “When you want to go for a sled let me know.”

He lets them into one of the smaller pens, and Harry can’t help the way he coos and bends down to pet the dogs straight away. They circle him in a flurry of snow and hot, panting breaths, curled tails wagging rapidly. Louis sits in the snow beside him and pulls one close to his chest, arms cupped around its head playfully.

The dog seems familiar with him, and it bites softly at Louis’ hands and nuzzles its nose into his jacket. They look a bit like husky’s, and the one Louis is playing with has deep brown fur, almost copper-red in its shiny undertones, with patches of white on its eyes and belly. 

“You’ve missed me, haven’t you, love?” Louis whispers to it, then slips into Danish as he bares his teeth and growls, eyes bright as the dog huffs excitedly.

“What’s her name?” Harry asks, heart warming at the dog that’s settled in front of him, head tilted to the sun while Harry scratches behind it’s grey ears.

“Mâlia,” Louis says, and she perks up at her name, bum wiggling in the snow.

“Do they all have names?” Harry says, looking down the row of wide pens.

“Most do, especially the ones they take out for the tourist sleds,” Louis explains. “The younger ones don’t, not until they get adopted. Pâlo names them, I think. But he forgets.”

“They’re so cute,” Harry coos.

It’s a lovely morning, sitting among the snow and talking quietly, petting and playing with the dogs as the sun rises over them, bright and sharp. Just before lunch, Louis helps Harry to his feet and knocks on the window of the building, pointing towards the sleds. When Pâlo exits, keys in hands, the dogs are set off again, barking and whimpering loudly as he unlocks the sleds.

Sledding is far more exhilarating than Harry imagined it would be. Pâlo stands tall and firm behind them on the sled as he shouts commands to the eager dogs. Snow flicks up under their paws in a spray of white powder, and the wind rushes around them as the fly along the snow, over the curves of the land. To their left, the infinite expanse of the icefjord, and to their right, the gorgeous spread of the land, the distant colour of the shrinking houses in Ilulissat and the hills.

Harry laughs giddily into Louis ear, their hands clasped. Louis looks entirely fond, just watches Harry watch the world move around them. It’s fun and mindless and the air is so fresh and sharp. Harry breathes it in giant gulps, feels the spike of it spreading down his lungs and back up again.

They stay out on the sled for two hours, watching the movement of the sun and the way it shapes the shadows of the ice on the fjord and the dips of the hills. When they make it back to town, the dogs are still barking and yipping, tails whipping frantically back and forth as they come to a slow stop.

“How was that?” Louis asks as they stand on wobbly legs.

“So much fun,” Harry breathes out.

“There’s more to come,” Louis grins.

They bend down to thank the dogs one by one, and Louis crouches to pulls Mâlia into his arms before they go. Pâlo wishes them well, tells Louis not to be a stranger, and sends them away with a wink.

-

The ‘more’ that Louis had mentioned comes in the late afternoon, when the copter from Kangerlussuaq floats over them.

Harry’s things are all packed and in a pile by the door, and every time he looks at it he feels like throwing up.

“That’s our ride,” Louis says from the window, grabbing for his coat and beanie.

“Where are we going?” Harry questions. Louis gives him a look and stays silent.

When they reach the helicopter, the others are nowhere in sight, and the sun has already started to dip. The water on the fjord is yellow and orange, and it casts its light over their skin, turning it all hazy.

They’re silent as they fly, and Harry frowns in confusion when Louis touches them down back in Kangerlussuaq. They slip out of the helicopter, but instead of going into the science centre, Louis pulls a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks Zayn’s 4WD.

“Is this the part where you take me into isolation to kill me?” Harry asks as he hauls himself up into the passenger seat.

“Obviously,” Louis says casually as he backs out, the car rumbling beneath them and clunking as Louis shifts gears.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Harry says, flicking on the radio. Louis grins and pokes a finger into his side.

There’s only one road that flows out of Kangerlussuaq, and Louis follows it slowly, wary of the slippery snow and the thickness of it on the hills. They’re cast in half-light, hidden by mountains. The sun casts a gilded aura around them.

The drive is long, and when they break through the cover of the mountains the land opens up like a wintery canyon, dipping and stretching for miles, ice and snow and the blue-grey caps of exposed rock. The sun looks like a mirage, so bright that it fizzles in the distance like golden mist, an iridescent sparkle.

Behind him, the car is packed high with blankets and sleeping bags, bright tent bags stacked up. The small pots clang together below the hum of the CD playing, a mix of folk and blues, and Harry’s stomach flutters with anticipation as he watches the sun light half of Louis’ face in almost white, pure light.

He’s rocked to sleep by the slow drawl of the engine and the bounce of the tires on unsteady terrain, and when he blinks awake dusk has settled over them in a light sheet, and Louis is slowing the truck to a stop.

They’re right on the edge of the glacier, and the snow here is thin, so that the rock beneath them is exposed and dark. It looks like the earth has been split in two, light and dark. To his left Jakobshavn is endless, a jagged ripple of ice that spans beyond his vision. The land dips down from where they stand, and by the edge of it the water gathers in little pools. Louis heads there first, a canteen in each hand as he crouches to fill them with the melt straight from the glacier.

Harry understands now why Louis was checking the radar. It would be impossible to drive here in the snow and the mist. Now, however, the air is still, the sky clear. It’s clean and pure and untouched. Harry jumps down from the 4WD and places his feet firmly on the ground.

They set up the tents quietly, the fluttering of the material the only sound, orange and stark against the white of the glacier. While Harry hammers and secures the tent into the ground, Louis gathers a bundle of thick rocks and arranges them into a circle, then starts to unpack the thin wood and some pans, burners, and a small esky.

“It’s so peaceful here,” Harry murmurs, standing on the very edge. Louis joins his side. “It feels like the edge of the world.”

Louis fingers slot through his. “It does.”

As the sun dips they sit on frosted rocks and eat noodles, the fire crackling in front of them gently. The sky is baby pink and blue, fuzzy around the edges. It turns the glacier flush, and it reminds Harry of Louis’ cheeks when he laughs too hard, when Harry dots kisses over his neck and his forehead and whispers to him, when he’s spread beneath him and begging.

Everything reminds him of Louis.

They watch the gradient of colour with their shoulders leant together, whispering back and forth and rubbing their thumbs over each other’s hands. Harry’s mind is quiet, in a little bubble away from the world, on a whole other plane. The world here is untainted by everything around it, untouched by past and present, frozen and gentle and there just for them, just for this moment.

They sit by the fire even when it becomes dark, the chill in the air nipping at the slivers of skin that aren’t covered. Harry nudges Louis a few times, asks him what they’re doing, but Louis just smiles softly and dips his head close to kiss him, murmurs wait, min elskede, against his lips.

So Harry waits, staring at the glowing ice across from them, the orange bulb of the fire and the cradle of the moon.

And then, all the sudden, like flickering into existence, it happens.

All breath rushes out of Harry’s chest.

“Oh,” he inhales sharply, eyes growing wet. “Oh, wow. Lou, look.”

“I’m looking, darling,” Louis whispers.

Green light dances above them in wisps, fluttering and shifting against the pitch black sky, the twinkling stars peeking through it like a veil. It doesn’t seem real. Harry can’t believe he’s seeing it.

“It’s hard to see from Ilulissat,” Louis murmurs, “and we were always gone from Kangerlussuaq by night. I wanted to make sure you got to see.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry says, and his voice is thick, eyes glossy as he watches the Aurora float over the glacier. “It’s so beautiful.”

They’re entirely silent as they watch, and Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever forget this, never. He isn’t aware he’s crying until Louis brushes his tears away with his thumb silently. Harry keeps his eyes upward. He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s waited so long for this, for something he didn’t know he was missing. Now, though, with the sky winking at him, he feels his chest swelling.

The Aurora shudders like a whip in slow motion, uncurling and shifting. There are thin gradients of yellow and white mixed among it like ribbons of sunlight, and it all plays across the ice before them like film, like the picture is shining down from a projector hazily.

Harry isn’t sure how long they sit there for, how long he cranes his neck up and keeps his eyes wide open, unblinking and shiny. He wants to sit here forever, wants to stay frozen in this moment with Louis beside him, just the endless spread of the ice and the stars. But then Louis rests his head on his shoulder, gentle, and Harry pulls his eyes away to watch.

Because he’s just as beautiful as what’s around them.

Later, when it’s closer to morning than it is to night, it’s all goosebumps and hot breaths, hands clinging on to any skin they find and desperate moans. It’s wet mouths and teasing fingertips, tongues and teeth and lips, eyes wide open and honest, misty and full. It’s the rustle of their sleeping bag dragging against the floor of the tent, skin on skin, broken whimpers and hushed words.

They cling to each other, press as close as they can.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Louis whispers into his ear, legs tight around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders. His teeth scrape along Harry’s jaw as he speaks, and it’s so strained and soft, accompanied by a hitch of breath as Harry presses deeper. “Promise you’ll come back to me in the summer.”

“I promise, baby” Harry says, fervent and slurred with his eyes shut tight. “I promise I will.”

“I’ll take you sailing on the fjord,” Louis gasps and tugs hard at Harry’s hair, fingers so tight that it feels like his scalp might be on fire. Harry bites at Louis’ throat harshly. “I want to see you on the water. You’d look so pretty with the midnight sun behind you.”

“Lou,” Harry whines, broken and choked off. He presses his forehead against Louis’ neck and snaps his hips, almost too hard. Louis’ nails scramble over his back.

“I’ll come for you in spring,” Louis exhales hot and wet against his cheek. “We can walk in Hyde Park, and I’ll pick you flowers.”

Harry’s chest is burning, throat so thick that every breath feels ragged and strained. It’s pitch black, but when he moves to press their wet lips together he can see the shine in Louis’ eyes, the thin film of tears that have settled over them like the lakes on the glacier. Their mouths are messy and it hurts when Louis bites, but he just pushes into it and tries not to think of this as the last time. He knows it’s not, he knows he won’t let it be, but there’s still an ache in his ribs that won’t leave.

But that feeling makes him determined too, determined to lift himself up, to go back home and show the world what he’s seen here. There’s passion roaring through his veins again, thick and buzzing and ready to flow from his fingers to paper, from his fingers to Louis’ skin. It fills him with as much hope as it does heartache.

Their words slowly die on their tongues as they draw closer to the edge, Harry looming over him and shaking with every harsh thrust. He can feel Louis’ thighs quivering around his waist, the way his hands won’t stop running over every part of Harry’s body. And then, with one shift of Harry’s hips, and a gasp from Louis’ pink mouth, their eyes lock in something magnetic, a click that echoes through Harry’s entire body.

I love you.

It almost slips out, and it sends his skin into a hot, desperate flush, mouth parted as he looks into Louis’ eyes. He can see it there, and he knows that Louis is reading him too, both of them caught up in the sudden jolt of it all. Louis’ hands slide up Harry’s neck and to his cheeks, and he pulls him into a scorching kiss, whimpering and pushing out fluttering breaths as he starts to shake, starts to come hard and fast.

I love you too.

Harry digs his fingers into his thighs as he comes, mouth dragging over Louis’ chin as he gasps brokenly, brow furrowed. Louis holds his face steady, cups his jaw and pulls him back up to his lips so they’re just breathing each other’s air, just letting everything settle around them as they come down, as Harry pulls out and Louis inhales sharply, as they curl together and hide their wet eyes from each other, kiss slick skin.

Harry doesn’t want sleep to take him. He brushes his fingers through Louis’ soft hair, watches the soft sweep of his lashes as he blinks at him. They don’t talk, but they don’t have to. It scares him, how quickly he’s become attached, how quickly he’s fallen. It feels like someone has hit him with a bag of bricks, and now he’s woozy and shaken and it feels like everything is rushing around him, like he’s tipped over the edge and the only way to stop is to hit the ground.

And the thing is, he doesn’t think he minds. Because Louis is there beside him.

Eventually, Louis’ mouth goes slack against Harry’s neck, his fingers uncurling and his breathing soft. Harry just holds him as he drifts into sleep, kisses his forehead and cards his fingers through his hair, draws shapes on the small of his back. He lies awake until the first sparks of dawn start to creep over the sides of the tent, the darkness replaced by deep amber hues and a yellow glow.

His eyes are crusty and sore, and he blinks them slowly. Louis is murmuring against his neck, random little sounds that vibrate gently on his skin. His eyelashes flutter in his sleep, ticking Harry’s neck. Harry cares for him so much. He doesn’t want to let him out of his arms.

But eventually, he has to. Eventually, Louis wakes up with a tiny yawn and curls further around Harry’s body. They lie in silence for a while, just touching each other’s skin, revelling in the warmth of it. And then Louis kisses him, so delicate and shaky. Harry lets his fingers trace the slopes of his face, draws in a stuttered breath when Louis rests their forehead together and bumps their noses.

“We should start packing up,” he says quietly, eyes downcast.

Harry swallows slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

Louis pulls his lips into his mouth, and Harry can feel his stomach shaking against his. “Okay.”

“Hey, hey,” Harry says, hushed and gentle as he cups Louis’ cheeks, dips his head to catch his gaze. “It’s alright. We’ll-. We’re gonna see each other, aren’t we? Skype all the time.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, barely a sound. Then, he takes in a thick breath. “I want to be with you. I want to make this work. If-. If you want that.”

“You-. Lou,” Harry brings their lips together. “Of course I want that.”

Louis’ eyes brighten, a tiny smile curling on his lips. “Min kæreste.”

“I like the sound of that,” Harry hums. “Boyfriend.”

They pack up slowly, reluctantly. Harry often finds his gaze lost on the glacier, hands frozen around the rope he’s looping as he watches the sun hit it, the tiny glow of pink that’s still settled on the horizon. It takes Louis’ hand over his to bring him back, eyes knowing and kind as he takes the rope from Harry’s limp fingers and smudges a kiss to his cheek.

Harry tucks himself into the door on the drive back to Kangerlussuaq, arms crossed over his churning stomach as he gazes out over the land. Louis hums along softly to the music playing, and Harry lets his eyes slip closed here and there, feels it wash over him and lull him into a light doze. It’s calming, and when Harry wakes, the airport in sight, the shaking in his stomach has ceased, and his chest is warm and fuzzy.

The rest of the team is waiting for them there, their bags already loaded onto the plane. Harry hugs them all tight, thanks Allan, Zayn and Jonas over and over for the opportunity, for showing him so many wonderful things. And then he turns to Louis, who’s watching him with a fond quirk of his lips, arms already open and waiting.

Harry lifts him off the ground when he hugs him, spins him around and cuddles him close, peppers kisses over his face to make him laugh and swat at him gently. When he lets his feet touch the ground again, Louis folds their lips together and tucks a stray curl behind Harry’s ear, petting at the skin on his neck. Behind them, the sun spills over the tops of the snow-capped hills and turns the world bronze and white.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says firmly, eyes trusting and wide.

Harry smiles, and he feels the aching in his chest float away a little, replaced by a fuzzy, pleasant hope.

“I’ll see you soon, min elskede.”