Infatuated ( l.t.+ h.s.)

chapter 8

"I need your help," Harry whispers, his warm breath stirring Louis' hair.

Louis jolts awake, shooting upright and clutching his covers to his bare chest, still tired and confused. Pausing to blink back sleep and shove his glasses on, he is able to make out the small boy shape sitting on the edge of his bed. It's Harry, criss cross with a backpack on. For a brief second he wonders why the younger boy from across the hall is on his bed of all places, until he remembers they're like- dating and it's weird and illicit and wonderful. Louis can feel Harry's warm knee digging into his thigh through his sheets and tries not to think about how few layers separate the two.

Harry bats his long lashes. "Why don't you have a shirt on? Did you forget to put one on last night?" He tugs at the end of his own sweater. "You can have mine, if you really need one. I don't mind."

"Oh god, no, sweetheart, you can keep your shirt," Louis says quickly, although he wanted to tell him to hand it over along with everything else so he can see the boy bathing in morning glow and glimmering in fairy dust from his laugh.

"Oh, okay. Good, because I like this particular jumper. An old lady on the street gave it to me," Louis is now very glad he didn't take it, "But I like you more, so, anyway," He shrugs his backpack off before abruptly scrambling onto Louis' lap, his tiny hands grasping Louis' biceps for balance. Louis stares at the ceiling, and although he isn't a very religious man, he prays to something.

"Can you do something for me," Harry asks with a pout.

Nobody can resist that pout. He's used it to get them free food, he's used it get the landlord to unplug the sink (after he spectacularly dropped a yo-yo down it) and he uses it drive Louis absoloutley crazy with want. Louis is mesmerized.

"Yes," he says desperately, "Anything." Harry feels like the moon and Louis is a tide.

"Ah, well," Harry stammers, nervous, and pauses to shift in his lap. Louis chokes swallowing back a stream of swears. "So, I don't know about you, but dressing up is quite fun, so I was wondering if you could come to parent conferences after school today dressed up like my dad, and then pretend to be my dad, and then afterwards we can kiss because you won't actually be my dad."

Louis sits up suddenly, accidentally throwing Harry off of him, where the boy proceeds to hide his glowing cheeks behind a pillow. Louis drags him back out. "Christ, Harry, I can't do that. Why would I- that'll just end horribly."

So will illegally and secretly kissing a boy six years younger then me, Louis thinks. But maybe he likes horrible things.

Harry frets, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. "My parents refuse to come to teacher meetings, and my teacher says that he really, really must speak to an adult. I'm afraid I'm in trouble, and my parents get mean when I'm in trouble." Pausing to blow curls out of his face, he regards Louis with wide eyes. "And you're never mean to me."

Which will explain that at the end of the day, Louis is driving over to the school in a button down polo and khakis, his hair slicked back and glasses on. He borrowed a leather man purse from Zayn ("It's an art satchel," Zayn had said, miffed). "My son, Harry," Louis practices in a deeper octave. He rolls down the window to spit the words out of his mouth because they taste funny.

Harry is sitting on the front school steps looking picturesque when Louis shows up. He scrambles to his feet and bounds over, tripping over his untied shoelaces in his flurry of joy. Louis grabs his shoulder and pushes him back down so he can tie his shoes.

"Your hair isn't as fluffy like clouds when you put it back," Harry observes, ignoring as Louis chides him to stay still, "But I still like it, Daddy."