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no mistletoe needed

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“But what if someone we know is there?” Liam readjusts his tie for the millionth time. “I’m certain no one is going to believe I’m your boyfriend.”

In the mirror, Harry frowns at him. Reaching around, he bats Liam’s hands away from the tie. “Leave it alone,” he murmurs. Then, louder, “Why wouldn’t they believe it?”

He really seems put out by the thought and Liam shrugs. “Your shirt costs more than my last three paychecks.” Said shirt is mostly sheer, embroidered flowers making their way up from the hem. Harry’s got three buttons undone, butterfly tattoo peeking out.

Harry waves Liam’s words away.

“S’just clothes.” He steps up beside Liam and tilts his head, considering. A moment later, he slip a fourth button open. It should look ridiculous, Liam thinks, and wants to roll his eyes, but somehow Harry always manages to carry it off. He blinks instead, focusing back in on what Harry’s saying.

“—what matters is that we look like we’re in love.” He glances over, meeting Liam’s eyes in the mirror and grinning. “You can look like I hung the moon, can’t you, Liam?”

Liam’s about to protest, ask why he’s got to do all the work—why can’t Harry look besotted with Liam, yeah?—when a thought hits him.

“We won’t have to kiss, will we?” He’d not meant to sound so disgruntled, but it is Christmas. Someone’s bound to have hung mistletoe. He’s resolving to pay attention, just in case, when Harry waggles his eyebrows, and does a stupid little dance, grinding his crotch into Liam’s hip.

“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it, Li?” he says. “Lots of people want to kiss me.”

Liam does rolls his eyes this time. “Ego, much?”

Harry just laughs at that, spinning around and grabbing a bright red scarf off the back of the door. He throws it around his neck and checks back in the mirror. A hand through his loose curls and he nods, satisfied.

“Now,” he says, “let’s go.”

There’s a tap at his dick that Liam’s too slow to block and another laugh that trails out into the bedroom. Liam takes one last look in the mirror too, and sighs. Maybe they won’t have too much trouble after all.


They don’t run into anyone they both know and it is ridiculously easy for everyone to think they’re together — Liam’s no trouble to stare fondly at Harry as he tells bad pun jokes and Harry’s had to slap a hand over his mouth more than once to stop a raucous laugh at some dry aside from Liam. It’s easy in the way that it always has been between the two of them.

Now though, there’s the warm slide of Harry’s fingers between his as he tugs Liam over to meet someone new. There’s the press of the same fingers into the small of his back as Harry stands next to him, talking.

And maybe Liam hadn’t quite realized just how comfortable they were in each other’s space, not until they’re in the middle of the floor, swaying back and forth to some horrible rendition of White Christmas. Harry’s got his arms slung over Liam’s shoulders, one hand toying with the short hairs at the back of Liam’s neck whilst he sings along, voice soft.

It’s making something twist in Liam’s stomach, but he’s doing his best to ignore it.

That becomes impossible when Harry, who’s mostly been leaning his temple against Liam’s, decides to drop his head on Liam’s shoulder. He’s an inch or so on Liam, so it can’t be too comfortable. When Liam glances up, there’s an older lady across the floor staring at them like it’s the cutest thing she’s ever seen. Seriously, Liam can see her heartfelt sigh from here. He drops his gaze quickly.

Harry’s not singing anymore, but Liam can feel his breath, warm across Liam’s neck. He’s just about to ask what’s bothering Harry when he speaks.

“Sarah looked like she was going to eat you up.”

Liam shuts his mouth, eyes going wide. That’s not what he was expecting.

“And Julian was a second away from proposing when you were talking about the bass line drop in whatever that song was.” Harry sounds like he can’t be arsed to remember exactly what song it was, whiny like he gets when tired and after one too many drinks. Perhaps Liam should have said something after that last eggnog.

He shifts, rubbing a hand over Harry’s back. “Hazza—”

“But you’re with me.” Harry’s head pops up and Liam can’t help jerking a little, startled. The hand on the back of his head tightens, fingers pressing into his skin and keeping him close. It’s intense, the way Harry’s staring at him right now. Intense and clear, without the haze of alcohol Liam’d been expecting.

“With me,” Harry repeats. Breathing is a bit more difficult that Liam remembers it being earlier. He licks his lips, trying to ease the sudden dryness there and nearly chokes when Harry’s gaze dips down to follow the movement, when he licks his own in response. Leaning in, Harry murmurs, “Maybe I’ll just remind them.”

Everything goes fuzzy around the edges when Harry licks into his mouth. He’s vaguely aware that his fingers are twisting too tightly in Harry’s expensive shirt, but Harry bites at his bottom lip, pressing in even closer, and Liam finds himself no longer caring.

Didn’t need to watch out for mistletoe, he thinks. And kisses back.