fic: let me breathe in the moments i won't let go of
Harry/Louis
4110 words
PG
Harry has always loved winter, and it seems that winter has always loved Harry, too. (or, a sort-of Rise of the Guardians AU in which Louis is Jack Frost and Harry is his first believer in a long, long time.)
I don't own 1D, or anything to do with the Rise of the Guardians movie or books. Title is from Drowning by Conor Maynard.
Harry ducks his head and hurries along the wet footpath, digging his fisted hands further into the pockets of his heavy grey pea coat as he rushes towards the school, more to get out of the cold than to actually make it to class on time- like he cares about that. Holmes Chapel’s had another heavy snowfall this year, and while the soft powdery snow is beautiful and picturesque and all that, the novelty has sort of worn off for Harry after all these years, because he’s seventeen now and playing in the snow is for children, obviously (obviously.)
Just as he’s working up the courage to reach out and touch the metal handle of the school entrance (it’s bound to be freezing and he’s forgotten his gloves and he’d rather not get frostbite, thanks), a small lump of snow hits the back of his neck, and, oh god, he can feel it slipping down his spine, and yep, that’s going to be uncomfortable all day now, great. He whips around to search for the culprit, bits of snow flying every which way out of his brown curls, but there’s no one about. Confused, he rubs the back of his neck idly as he turns to face the doors again, and as he pushes it open he swears he can hear a tinkle of childish laughter in the air, like something he’s heard in his dreams before, but he shakes out his hair and steps into the (thankfully) well-heated reception, rogue snowballs forgotten as he goes about starting his day.
❆
At lunchtime, Harry takes his usual table by the window and rests his head against the cool glass panel as he waits for Niall and Liam to show. He didn’t get much sleep last night (no, he hadn’t been sitting on his window seat admiring the snowfall in the moonlight till the wee hours, what would make you say that?) so he lets his eyes slip shut just for a few seconds, only a few seconds, jeez. He figures he’ll be able to tell when they’re close.
“….and then I was like, ‘where’s your Christmas spirit, miss?’ I mean really, who sets that much homework the day before the holidays? Is that even allowed? I reckon there’s gotta be some sort of like, regulation or summat -“
Yep, he can definitely tell when they’re close by.
“Let’s be real though, who’s gonna do the work anyway?” Harry says over the top of Niall’s complaints, without even opening his eyes.
“Valid,” Niall agrees as he parks himself on the bench opposite Harry’s and reaches across the table, helping himself to Harry’s chips.
“You alright mate? Why are you so…asleep?” Liam asks, carefully placing his tray on the table next to Harry and taking a seat.
“I don’t know if you know this, Liam,” Harry says sincerely, still slumped against the window but reaching out blindly to pat Liam on the shoulder, “but when people sleep it is usually because they are tired, although there are some cases where - ”
He’s cut off by the thump of a snowball hitting the glass right where his head is resting, his eyes flying open as he jerks his head away from the window and searches the courtyard outside for the person who threw it. After this morning, though, he’s not really surprised when his search comes up blank, and he turns to the other two who are both wearing matching shocked expressions.
“What was that?” Liam asks once he has recovered the use of his jaw.
“A snowball, Liam, do you need me to explain that too, or -”
“Oh don’t be a twat, you know what i mean.”
“Yeah, it happened to me this morning too, one hit the back of my neck but there was nobody there. My back’s still wet, look, it feels so gross,” Harry says, turning his body to face the window and lifting his jacket to reveal a darkened grey wet patch spread across his upper back.
“Jack Frost’s got it in for you, mate, well past nipping at your nose now,” Niall laughs, and Harry hears a soft ringing to it, like there’s more than one laugh mixed together, but before he can place where he’s heard it before it’s gone, and Harry laughs along, agrees, watches the snow melt off the window pane until it’s gone completely.
❆
Snow is falling heavily by the time Harry reaches home, and he fumbles for his keys at the front door, cursing himself for forgetting his gloves for the zillionth time today. He does a quick scan of the area for any more impromptu snowball attacks as he pushes the door open, and catches a glimpse of something silvery peeking out from behind the bare, snow covered tree next to the kitchen window, but he blinks and it’s gone. A trick of the light, it is, it must be, so he shakes the snowflakes out of his mop of hair and goes inside.
He heads straight up the stairs and to his room, ignoring his mum’s complaints of why have you brought winter inside with you and it’s like you’ve jack frost riding on your coattails and couldn’t you just brush yourself off before you come inside and we have a shoe rack by the door for a reason young man.
Dropping his satchel at his door, he shrugs off his coat and shucks off his shoes, grabbing his laptop and snuggling under his heavy winter doona, opening up a movie and settling in to watch it, because it’s his first night of holidays and he’s not doing homework, no way. His mum says he shouldn’t use his laptop like that because it will overheat but what’s the point of a laptop if you can’t use it on your lap and it is positively (or negatively, depending on how you look at it) freezing out so if it did overheat at least he would be a bit warm, right? Okay.
When Harry looks up again, having finished the movie and its sequel and the special features because they’re the best bits, it’s dark out and late. He looks towards the window to check on the snow situation and finds that it is, in fact, snowing, tiny flecks of ice twinkling in the moonlight as they fall towards the ground, many catching on the window sill and the trees and the back fence before they get there. Captivated, Harry swings his socked feet out of bed and pads across his room to the window seat, bringing his knees up to his chest and locking his fingers around them, assuming the ‘cosy ball’ position he had perfected over the last few nights he’d been watching the snowfall and named himself, which he thought was very a direct and descriptive term, to be honest.
Resting his head against the glass, his breath creates a fug on the window, a tangible representation of the air in his lungs, which is soon replaced by a rapidly spreading layer of frost, an intricate pattern woven in ice sprawling from the centre of the window that soon covers the entire pane. Nature creates some beautiful things, Harry thinks as he stares in wonder at the opaqued window, like snowflakes, and avocado, and Daniel Craig's bum, but this cannot possibly be natural, no, not a design that delicate, that soft yet that precise, that fast.
He runs his fingertips over the glass, gently tracing the icy pattern, and then he hears it - that faint jingle of laughter from this morning, from lunch, and before he can stop himself and think about how it’s absolutely sub zero outside, he kneels for leverage and pushes up the other window, not wanting to destroy the beautiful ice artwork that something-but-definitely-not-nature had created.
“Hello?” he whispers into the night, because really, what else is there to say when you don’t know what to expect?
He isn’t really surprised when he receives no reply (what was he expecting, like, fairies or something? honestly) and he slowly turns his back to the windows, changing into his pyjamas before quietly making his way down the corridor to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
When he arrives back, he takes no notice of the boy perched cross legged on his window seat with his head bowed until - “wait, what?”
“Um. Hello,” the boy says, looking up meekly through his tousled fringe, and okay, wow, Harry thinks, this boy is possibly the most beautifully wonderful person he has ever seen in his life.
“Aren’t you cold?” Harry blurts awkwardly, unable to help himself, noticing the boy’s simple blue hoodie, sand-coloured skinny jeans and bare feet.
“No,” the boy replies simply.
Harry is stumped.
“Okay. Um. Well. Who are you, actually?” Harry stumbles, inwardly cursing himself as he does because he would, wouldn’t he, the unexpected arrival of gorgeous and underdressed boy in his bedroom and he’s just stuttering away, when anyone else would - well, this isn’t exactly a normal situation, is it (he supposes his newfound social incompetence is a little bit more alright, then.)
“Well, I do have a name but not many people call me that name most people call me another name but i don’t even know where that one came from it has nothing to do with my actual name but they think that name is just a story so that’s why I have that other name so people know I’m real but not many people do because not many people can see me so I don’t get to use that name a lot. I’m surprised you can see me, actually, because you’re quite old to still believe in me but don’t get me wrong I’m glad you do because you seem nice and pretty and I’d like to be your friend and tell you my proper name and all that,” the boy gasps and claps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he can’t believe that just came out of his mouth. Harry smiles, thinks result! He’s not the only one overcome with social awkwardness in the face of strange boys with lovely faces in his bedroom - not that he’s got - not that he’s - whatever.
“Um…so what’s your name then?”
“Louis.”
“I’m Harry,” Harry says, and Louis laughs, says, “i know,” and laughs some more, just to himself, and yes - it’s that sweet ring of soft bells he’d been hearing all day. Watching Louis with his head thrown back in joy, Harry thinks, okay, wow, this boy is definitely the most beautifully wonderful person he has ever seen in his life, and Harry understands. Sort of.
“Why would I not be able to see you?” he asks quietly, not wanting to upset Louis or to scare him.
“I’m a sprite,” Louis explains, equally as quietly, equally as afraid of scaring Harry off. “I’m a guardian, like Santa, or the Tooth Fairy. We look after children, we try and keep them happy, in our own ways, you know? But we have to be believed in to be seen, and, well. Most people think I’m just a story,” he finishes sadly.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Louis.”
Harry waves his hand in dismissal, not wanting Louis to think he didn’t care enough to remember what he’d been told less than a minute ago. “No no no, your other name.”
“Oh, I- Jack. Frost. Jack Frost.”
Harry lets out a breath, runs his gaze over Louis’ perfectly tousled silver hair, his icy blue irises, his almost iridescent pale white skin and the intricate frosted detailing on his hoodie. As Louis stands on the window seat and makes to climb out the open window, Harry’s eyes finally fall on the long wooden staff Louis clutches in his right hand, its hooked shape covered in the same icy patterns as had appeared on his window earlier in the night and emitting a pale blue glow where Louis’ hand winds around the twisted wood.
Harry watches as, already halfway out the window, Louis dips his head towards him in parting and then dives gracefully from the sill, caught in mid air by the wind and drifting away through the night, leaving a trail of fluttering snowflakes behind in his wake.
So apparently that’s a thing he can do. Flying. Jack Frost.
Yeah, Harry thinks. That makes sense.
❆
Louis comes back the next night, and the next, and the one after that, always leaving his icy message on the window before climbing inside through the window Harry eagerly opens for him. They talk into the early hours of the morning, and Harry thanks blessed god and also the British school system that it’s holidays and he can sleep in as long as he likes in the following mornings.
Harry learns that Louis creates the snow, has magic that allows him to manipulate and play with it as well. Harry learns that Louis seeks the fun in everything and is always looking for a laugh, lively, bubbly and daring, but brave and kind too (a little bit selfish at times, but who isn’t.) Harry learns that Louis is, like, three hundred years old, but is eternally stuck in the body of a nineteen year old, (a really fucking hot one, Harry would like to just put on the record) since the man in the moon chose him to be a Guardian. His infinite youth is good, great even, he supposes, because who wants to get old anyway?
“Like Peter Pan,” Harry says, laughing.
“No, he stopped at 12,” Louis says seriously.
Harry is incredulous - “you know Peter Pan?”
“Yes,” Louis says, looking at Harry like that’s the stupidest question of all time, “but I don’t get to see him a lot. Neverland is actually, like, really far away, and I’m always so busy. Snow doesn’t just fall all by itself, you know.”
“Of course not,” Harry says, shaking his head. This shit is cray, man. Wow.
❆
The next day is Christmas Eve, and Harry spends the most of day out in the snow, which now covers the ground and the rooftops and everything in between. Around dusk, snow starts to fall again and Harry looks up to the sky, basks in it, tries to catch the flakes on his tongue. He whispers a thank you to Louis that is soon answered by the soft laughter he has come to know so well, and he smiles at nothing, tucks his curls into a soft grey marl beanie and turns in for the night.
When Harry finally makes it upstairs to his room after the family Christmas Eve celebrations have settled down, he finds Louis upside down in a handstand against the wall next to the window, humming quietly to himself, tiny feet waving in the air and worn hoodie slipping up (or down? handstands tend to make identifying directions that little bit more difficult) to expose a sliver of pale skin covering a flat, toned stomach, and harry starts a little bit because okay. Um.
Louis, noticing Harry’s presence or perhaps feeling the way his eyes are burning a hole into Louis’ stomach, jumps in one swift movement back to an upright position, (sprites, is Harry right?) runs his hand through his silver fringe to fix it back into perfect place while the other grasps at the staff he never abandons. He says simply, “come with me,” before bounding effortlessly over to the window and climbing outside.
And what else is Harry going to do but follow him? He pokes his head out the window and looks from side to side to see where Louis has actually gone.
“I’m here,” Louis says reassuringly from somewhere to the right, and Harry follows the melodic voice, swinging his legs over the sill and grasping on to the eave before pulling himself up onto the roof, where Louis is waiting, hovering in the air a few centimetres above the snow covered tiles.
Louis reaches out a hand to help Harry up, and as their fingers entwine and their palms touch for the first time, their joined hands glow blue like Louis’ staff, just for a second, even less, really, Harry can’t be sure he actually saw it, but if he did, it was beautiful.
Louis’ skin is cool to the touch, but not uncomfortable - in fact, Harry feels like his hand could stay in Louis’ forever, and maybe, he’d actually really like that, a lot.
He’s yanked out of his reverie when Louis tugs on his hand, pulling him up, over and down the slope of the roof on the other side. Their hands are separated as Harry scrambles down the tiles, while Louis floats weightlessly and gracefully over to take a seat on the edge of the roof.
When Harry finally settles into a spot next to Louis, having extremely carefully swung his feet over the edge so that both boys were now sitting with their legs dangling off the roof, he raises his head and gasps, realising they’re sitting at the front of his house, facing the street, and the view is stunning to say the least.
The ground is covered in layers and layers of snow, shining bright white in the moonlight and twinkling under the flickering of Christmas fairy lights that adorn every snow dusted house on the short street. Louis reaches a hand out in front of him, palm facing away, and snowflakes begin to fall from the sky above them, just like that, just like magic. Which, Harry supposes, it is.
“It’s beautiful, Lou,” Harry says.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They sit in silence for a while, neither feeling the need to say anything more, but Harry can’t help but feel the solemnity in the air. He’s never seen Louis this serious or subdued before, and it starts to worry him.
“It’s my birthday today,” Louis says quietly, which Harry finds to be quite uncharacteristic because Louis seems like the type of person that gets really overly excited about birthdays even though he’s had, like, over three hundred of them and he’s turned the same age for over two hundred and ninety of them.
“Try and curb your enthusiasm, Frost, you’re only turning, what, three hundred and twenty?” Harry says lightly, trying to break through the gravity of the situation and almost succeeding as a soft laugh slips from Louis’ lips, quickly quashed as they slip into silence once more. Harry waits for Louis to speak up again, which he does, a few minutes later.
“Do you ever get lonely, Harry?”
“All the time,” Harry replies.
“I’ve lived for hundreds of years, hundreds, chasing fun and keeping children happy and making Christmases beautiful for kids and adults alike, but after a while it becomes hard, you know, when your entire existence is dismissed by the very people you’ve dedicated your life to protecting. Your friends are celebrated, idolised, believed in, but you’re nothing, you’re no one, you’re a fable. And if someone does believe in me, they outgrow me after a while, but I get to see them live out their full lives, while I’m stuck in time, never changing, never aging. All the people I’ve seen, all the people who’ve seen me, I’ve outlived them all. Nobody's believed in me properly for generations. That’s why I’ve never let myself fall in love, because I know I’ll have to let them go one day and I can’t go through that, that - pain, so I just keep to myself because it’s easier that way. Except - no, never mind.
I’ve spent all these years alone, and it gets really difficult to believe in yourself when nobody else believes in you at all.”
“I believe in you,” Harry says lamely. He feels like that’s an inadequate response to the momentous confession Louis has just made, but it’s the best he can do right now. Louis places his cold hand over Harry’s on the tiles between them, and harry knows Louis understands what he was trying to say.
“This is going to sound heaps cliché and shit, but I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,” Harry says, swinging his legs nervously as Louis’ thumb rubs idly over his.
“That’s because you have, Harry,” Louis says, and Harry closes his eyes and Louis’ sweet laugh swims around in his mind, painting beautiful pictures of snow and light and happiness in his mind. He thinks about the times he’s heard it at school, at home, in his dreams, thinks about all the snow in recent years in Holmes Chapel and he realises that Louis has been there with him all along. Jack Frost has been watching over him for years.
Harry opens his eyes, meets Louis’, sparkling ice blue. “But why me?” he asks slowly.
“I’ve had my eye on you for years,” Louis says, fidgety and nervous, like he wants to say something more but doesn’t know if it would be out of line, way too honest.
“You’ve stuck with me long after I should have stopped believing in you, in any of the Guardians, bringing me snow every year and just generally brightening my life without me even knowing you were doing it all. And why now? Why throw snowballs at me now? Why - “ Harry has so many questions he’s struggling to put them into words, but really, the main one is, “why did you choose me?”
Louis shifts his body closer to him, looks up and down his body and then right into his eyes, says “because” and then presses his lips quickly to Harry’s, before pulling away like he’s not sure he should’ve done that, whoops, and pushing up off the roof and disappearing into the night, leaving Harry alone with a cool tingle on his lips and a shiver running down his back.
❆
Harry doesn’t hear or see a thing from Louis until late the next night. He waits by the window for his arrival, but as the hours pass he resigns himself to the fact that Louis isn’t coming tonight, and he probably won’t be coming any more at all. Disappointed, Harry climbs down from the window seat and heads back to his bed, leaving the window open like the mother in Peter Pan in the vain hope for the tiniest possibility that Louis might come back.
Just as he reaches his bed, though, he hears the clack of wood on glass, and whips around in excitement to see Louis clambering in the window, silver hair askew and grumbling about his staff and how it’s always getting in the way and he was trying to be sneaky, goddamnit.
“Louis!” Harry whisper-yells, a skill he has perfected over the last few nights with Louis.
“Um. Hey.” Louis says, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, like he doesn’t know how Harry is going to react (because he doesn’t. he really doesn’t.)
“About last night -“ they both start, then laugh because that’s what you do in a situation like this, isn’t it. Louis gestures for Harry to continue.
“I’ve wanted to do that ever since I first saw you properly, that first night,” Harry admits, “so I’d like it if we could do that some more, maybe, possibly. A lot.”
A small smile creeps across Louis’ face as he registers what Harry has just told him.
“Really?” he says, genuinely surprised. He had never let himself wish for this, it was simply too outrageous to let himself believe that someone, a human, who’d never even seen him until now would want to kiss him.
“Yes. And you’re getting snow all over the carpet,” Harry points out, nodding to Louis’ clenched fists which are creating tiny blizzards around his fingers.
“Right, yes. Sorry. Nervous.” Louis says, opening his palms so the snow disappears. Harry will never get used to that.
Harry laughs, holds out his hand, says “come here,” and Louis grins cheekily and launches himself at Harry, his ability to fly a huge advantage in this situation. Harry feels cool arms wrap around his neck and he tilts his face upwards as his lips meet Louis’, cold moving against warm creating a sensation Harry nor Louis has ever felt before. Louis’ little bare feet aren’t even touching the ground, he’s hanging off Harry’s neck and pushing on his shoulders for leverage to deepen the kiss and Harry thinks this is definitely his new favourite thing ever in the world. Harry’s hands slip their way into the fine silver hair at the back of Louis’ head as they both smile into each other’s mouths, and nope, Harry will never get used to this either, but he’s willing to try.