butterfingers (l.s mpreg)

twenty four, week 25

The sun rose the next morning to an empty bed.

Harry and Louis had fallen asleep on the couch during an episode of Law and Order and neither could bring themselves to wake the other to relocate to the bedroom.

The light seeps sweetly into the living room like molasses, sticking to the end tables and the twin rocking chairs facing the meadow hiding in the yard. The trees are orange and red and contrast well with the pink rising sun.

Everywhere is silent, though loud breaths fall from Harry's chapped lips and crash against the red couch cushion his face is pushed into.

"Lou," he stirs a bit, before shifting on the couch.

This, unfortunately, sends poor injured Lou into the wooden coffee table on the floor below.

"Fuck, Harry!" He wakes immediately, blue eyes sending a cold glare to the boy above him. His hair is an absolute disaster, and it sticks to his forehead. He is now coated in a layer of sunlight. His eyes and skin look illuminated by the early fall sunrise.

He puts a hand to his red plaster cast, which he had nearly forgotten about until it started to ache. He let out a groan.

The morning is filled with apologies and crocodile tears, and Louis couldn't help but tease him. He pouted stubbornly, constantly rubbing the little spot on his red cast that smacked against the coffee table.

The morning is filled with moans and groans and sleepy yawns (mostly from Harry.) Louis spends the day complaining and wincing and begging to be "cottled." Harry does.

The following hours smell of changing leaves and Harry's shower gel, a scent that Louis hopes to carry back home to Chicago the next week. They spent those fleeting minutes of the early morning sleeping and cooking and holding each other. It's sappy and nostalgic, falling in love all over again in a whole place. They could do it again and again and again if they wanted to.

Such a passion even put Louis back in the driver seat around 10 o'clock that September morning, the air feeling dangerously brisk in the northern Maine woods. Rental car on and sitting idly in park, Louis wide eyes are dead set on Harry, who, along with his protruding belly, is leaning over the hood with the most amusement in his eyes.

"Harry, if you could kindly remove yourself from the hood of our poorly insured rental, I'd be able to make my breakthrough." Louis leans the words out the drivers side window, Harry lifting his head to laugh at Louis' white-knuckled 10 and 2 grip.

Harry cautiously moves to the passenger side of the car, holding a hand on his tummy and adjusting himself into the seat, a movement that makes Louis mind spin and cock grow hard.

"Where to, buttercup?" An undeniable shakiness stumbles from Louis' lips, causing Harry to lean over and place a comforting hand on his thigh and rub.

And Harry shrugs.

So Louis puts the car in drive and goes, the long Maine freeways so open and warm compared to the menacing beeps and stoplights of Chicago. He wondered, beside his boy and the sky high pines, what it may be like for him and Harry to make a home some place like here. One day here and everything seemed lighter, rising to the view of the bay and his beautiful boy's bare skin in the light of the sun. Warming Harry with freshly chopped wood and adjusting the needle on the turntable while the hours ticked off fulfilled him in a way that no material item ever could.

He saw them here in this cottage, Harry out gardening with their little girl while he gripped his again swollen belly and Marky curled below Louis' desk while he typed and typed away.