Baby Lips [l.s mpreg] (boyxboy)

blush

"So... what is it that friends do?" Louis asks. Harry's room smells like... Harry, unsurprisingly. A lovely mixture of green apples and hair products. Well, as lovely as such a combination can be.  Harry's bed is comfortable and large, and Louis wonders briefly to himself how Harry can manage to get up out of it every day.

It's also obvious that Harry's parents are financially stable, to say the least.

"Well," Harry hums, slotting himself between Louis and a pile of fluffy green pillows, "I was thinking we could finish our school work."

"You do your school work?"

Harry's brow furrows. "Of course." His lower lip juts out when he glares. Louis thinks it's kind of adorable. He hides his smirk behind a cough.

"You just don't seem the type."

"Just because you think that I'm dumb and feminine-"

"No, Harry. Not every assumption I make about you has to do with your attire or physique."

Harry's glare dissipates into a sour pout. His attitude is vastly different from the room around him. Harry's bedroom is decorated all nicely with varying colors; blues and greens and yellows and beige, paintings on the walls, flowers in vases. Sparkly curtains cover the windows. A shiny guitar rests in one of the corners. At the foot of the bed, a soft and inviting looking sofa sits facing a television that likely costs more than Louis's entire wardrobe. A stack of magazines sits on the table by the bed. His closet doors are wide open, and Louis can clearly see each and every one of Harry's articles of clothing - all color coordinated, no less - between skirts and trousers and button-ups and blouses. It all screams Harry so loudly that Louis considers getting earplugs.

"Sorry, you're right," Harry huffs. He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm just used to... well, you know."

Louis nods. He does know. "Yeah, well. I've been hangin' 'round you for a week or two, now; it's time you start trusting me."

"You're getting a little ahead of yourself," Harry teases, but he smiles and nudges Louis's shoulder with his own in a way that makes Louis's heart flutter. Just a bit. "You haven't given me a solid reason to trust you."

Louis bats his eyelashes as best he can. "What about now?"

Harry bites his lip, "I- well, as tempting as your eyes are, I don't think that changes much."

"Bollocks," Louis says without any heat. He doesn't think they'll be doing their school work anytime soon. "Guess I'll have  to pull out the ol'-"

"Don't pull anything out," Harry rushes, the left corner of his mouth twitching as Louis fights back a grin of his own. "My mum is downstairs."

Harry's mum is lovely. Louis really appreciates the fact that she doesn't drill him with questions, and he certainly appreciates the freshly baked goods that always seem to be lying around the kitchen. He's not sure what Harry's mum does for a living, exactly, but he's glad that she does it as he slips back and buries himself in Harry's mass of pillows. Everything is soft and warm and every one of his senses is lit up with Harry-ness. It's nice. It's comfortable.

Louis can't remember the last time another person made him feel comfortable.

"Y'know, I don't think this is very... progressive." Harry's voice sounds muffled and distant. Louis giggles into the pillows. He can feel fingertips gripping his ankles, so he curls his toes up and clenches his eyes shut. Harry's fingers are cold against his skin. "Louuu."

"That's what they call me," Louis mumbles into the fabric. Harry tugs him down the bed a bit, just enough to spark a reaction. Louis sits up and pushes his fringe from his face, a bit irritably, and smiles at Harry as innocently as he can. With a purse of his lips, Harry drops a large and uninviting textbook in front of him. A pencil is in his hand before he even has time to blink.

"Work. Get started."

Louis huffs. "You're not the boss of me."

"Just do it," Harry grunts, and when Louis leans back against his bedframe, legs crossed, Harry rests his head on Louis's knee. His hair tickles the bare skin there, because Louis has long since broken out his shorts in lieu of jeans due to the warmer weather. "I want it all done by... well, let's give it a good hour."

"And what if I'm not finished?"

"Then... I'll be upset."

Louis considers this. "Sorry, not good enough."

Harry makes a noise of discontent in the back of his throat, low and quiet, but he ignores Louis. The only sound in the room comes from the tip of his pencil scratching at the paper rapidly, and Louis gets so caught up in it that he forgets what his own priorities are. He dives into his English for approximately five minutes before he decides that enough is enough. 

The book is closed quietly and set next to Louis on the bed without Harry noticing. Gently, Louis pinches a section of soft curl between his fingertips. Harry doesn't move or protest, and soon Louis has thrown caution to the wind - he cards his fingers through Harry's hair and twists it around his fingers. He braids little bits of it and pushes some in Harry's face. He's having an amazing time, actually, until Harry's hand comes up to rest on his own. Harry's palm is much larger than his, and it envelopes Louis's almost entirely. Louis gulps, sweat gathering on his hands, and Harry's fingers brush against his wrist.

"You're being a distraction," Harry scolds half-heartedly, releasing Louis's hand and going back to what he had been doing before. "When your grades drop, don't complain to me about it."

"I won't," Louis replies, a bit breathless; Harry's touch seems to electrocute him sometimes. He's not sure why, is the thing, and he's not sure if he wants to figure it out just yet.  He shudders a bit at the thought. The last thing he needs is something more to set him apart from everyone else. "Don't care that much about them anyway, to be honest."

Harry hums a little tune to himself in response, alternating from the highest of high notes to the lowest Louis thinks humanly possible. He lets his eyes lock on the way Harry forms letters and numbers and even the periods at the end of his sentences. Harry's fingers and arms flex as he writes, flips pages, erases; he's like a work of art, beautiful while portraying the simplest of things. Louis pushes such thoughts out of his brain, however, because Harry is his friend and even daring to think otherwise was definitely out of the question. For Louis, of course.

When Harry is done, however, he turns to Louis and gives him a little smile and a wink that has heat rushing to Louis's cheeks faster than ever before. When Harry kisses him on the nose, it's just this close to being too much.

Louis can handle it, though.

He can handle this - this real Harry.  The Harry that scolds him like a mother, treats him like a doll, lets him muck up his perfectly organized - well, everything - and play with his precious hair. He can handle their mindless babble and the quiet conversations, just the two of them. He can handle the way they've taken to sharing lunches, because Harry's mother always packs too much and Louis's school-bought lunch always tastes terrible enough to make even the hungriest of men cry.  He can handle the nose kisses. He can handle the blushing. He can handle the ankle grabs, the wrist brushing, the fingers bumping. He can handle it. He can handle it.

He has, after all, always wanted a real friend. He finds it difficult to open up to Harry, though; he expects that will come with time. Or he hopes, rather.

"You alive?" Harry snaps his fingers together directly in front of Louis's face. Louis blinks a few times, realizing rather sheepishly that he had let his mind wander, and apologizes, meekly, under his breath. "Oh, it's alright. You're pretty when your cheeks are pink."

"Thanks."