fire and the flood - l.s. mpreg

three

Harry is on hour three of trying to paint something remotely good, and he's getting more and more frustrated.

Millie lays belly-up on the hardwood floor, right in the middle of a stream of sunlight poking through the window. Sometimes, Harry wishes he was a French bulldog laying in the sun. Things would be much simpler.

The canvas on the easel in front of him is covered in eraser marks from failed sketches, things he thought maybe he could start, but lacked the creative drive. He wants to paint, he loves painting. It's usually what fills his time on weekends when Louis isn't there. Why is it so difficult right now?

He sets his paintbrush down, next to his pencil, and picks up his tea to take a sip. He looks around the room, what they both usually call the guest room, although they've never had a guest. There's not even a bed, just Harry's painting supplies and a few boxes they still haven't unpacked. They had both liked the spare bedroom when they found the house a few months ago, an unspoken use for it in both their minds, but neither have verbalized it.

Harry stares at a corner of the room, the pile of brown moving boxes slowly morphing into the image of a wooden baby cot. He blinks hard once, twice, but it won't go away, maybe even intensifies.

It's always there, in the back of his mind, tucked in the corner of any room. He wants it, and Louis knows that, and he knows Louis wants it too, but. Maybe he wants it sooner than he had thought.

He turns back around, and almost automatically reaches for his paintbrush. Starts dipping it in paint and covering the pencil-scuff marks without a sketch, letting his mind and his hand wander. He hears the front door open and close, but doesn't stop, so focused on his creation that he only notices Louis in the doorway when the familiar smell of smoke fills the air.

Harry looks up, sees Louis, unshowered and tired and giving him a soft smile. "Hey, darlin'."

"Hi," Harry replies, tilting his head upward expectantly. Louis' grin widens, eyes weary as he walks over and indulges, kissing him sweetly. Louis then moves to stand behind him, looking over his head at the painting, and they both fully realise what Harry's painted at the same time.

It's a wooden cot, like Harry had imagined in the corner of that same room. There's no baby in it, instead tall flames rising out of it and over the bars, spreading halfway down the frame. It's unfinished, the start of the hardwood floor in the corner, a paintbrush covered in brown paint still in Harry's hand.

Louis doesn't say anything. Harry hears the catch in his breath, but doesn't dare look back at him. After a moment, Louis' arm is in front of his face, resting down across his chest. A kiss is planted on top of his head. He almost thinks there's going to be something, a conversation about it.

But, Louis just mumbles "'M off to bed. Gonna shower later, before dinner."

Harry feels a little deflated. He just reaches up and squeezes Louis' arm as an acknowledgment, and Louis kisses the top of his head once more time before leaving the room. Harry looks back at his painting. He doesn't have the stomach to finish it anymore.

♛

Louis sleeps until after dinner is ready. The table is set, it's on the table, and Harry waits fifteen minutes before going to the bedroom to wake him up.

It's hard to, because he looks so content sleeping. No furrow in his brow, face lax as he hugs Harrys pillow to his chest. Keeping his footsteps light, Harry approaches the bed, climbing up onto it and sitting against the headboard. He runs his fingers through Louis' hair, watching him wrinkle his nose slightly.

"L," Harry whispers. "Babe."

"Hm?" Louis hums.

"Time for dinner, love, 's ready," Harry says. Louis preens under the touch of his hand, sticks his arm out of the comforter and feels for Harry's leg before fully maneuvering himself so his head is in his lap. Harry continues to card through his hair, deciding not to tell Louis about the two grey ones he finds.