Baby Lips [l.s mpreg] (boyxboy)

seventeen weeks - mar 27

About ten minutes into class, after a bit of diligent note taking, Louis hears a little snap and a little grunt to follow - he forces himself to keep his gaze focused on the front of the room. Don't look, don't look, don't look-

"Hey, um." Fuck. He looks.

Harry's bottom lip is tucked beneath his top teeth and gripped tightly in his red-tipped fingers is a broken-tipped pencil and he's looking at Louis like he's the answer to all of his problems as well as the cause of them - which may very well be true - but he looks beautiful. Louis isn't five, so he doesn't actually stick his tongue out; he opts for a quick once-over instead, cocks his brow and purses his lips to keep from displaying any sort of emotion.

"Can I borrow a pencil?" Harry continues, whispering like it's a big secret, and waves his broken pencil around for emphasis.

"I only have the one," Louis says, and he's not lying - he really only does have the one pencil. But Harry looks at him like he thinks he's fibbing, what with his big eyes and his little frown, so Louis immediately thrusts his own pencil out for Harry to take without so much as a second thought. "But you can share mine with me, if you want."

Harry eyes it before he glances back up, locks his gaze with Louis, "I- I think I'll just go sharpen this one, actually." Louis slumps. "But, um. Thanks, Lou."

As Harry stands, his words do pirouettes through Louis' mind - he certainly can't be too angry if he's using nicknames, right? Louis ponders this instead of paying attention, staring unabashedly at the back of Harry's figure as he makes his way to the pencil sharpener, and manages to successfully embarrass himself when he's called on by the teacher.

Through the red, heated cheeks and the whispers of his classmates, Louis is still able to catch Harry's eye through the thickness of his lashes. Swallowing dryly, he decides they need to talk. Very soon.

The class breezes by in a medley of lecture, pencils scratching at paper, and the occasional groan of a chair squeaking across the floor as someone stands, and they don't say a word. Harry doesn't seem to be acting weird or in any sort of way that makes Louis more suspicious than he already is, especially since he seems less nervous than Louis himself does, and when he catches Louis staring at him through his peripheral vision, a small smile twitches onto his face.

Louis can't take it anymore.

Once the bell rings and people begin to flood from the classrooms, Louis rushes out and waits for Harry while standing off to the side of the doorframe. He grabs Harry gently by the arm as he exits and, though Harry is clearly caught off guard by the gesture, manages to tug him to the nearest corner. It's their lunch period now, so Harry isn't able to scold him for making him late and, as predicted, the stream of students fluttering throughout the corridors is slowly dying down, so there really isn't anywhere for Harry to go or any excuses for him to make. He's going to talk to Louis, damnit, and they're going to work this thing out.

Somehow, despite all of his frustration, the only thing Louis manages to say now that he's got Harry exactly where he wants him is, "Hazza, you look lovely today," and he wants to slap himself upside the head.

Harry does look lovely, today, of course - he's got his pretty dark red jumper on and a pair of soft looking black trousers that are clearly a little too short for the length of his legs, as they stop above his ankles and expose the thin, pale skin there. His shoes are busted up and stained, which is fortunately appropriate for Converse, but he has a pretty headband pushing his wild, unruly hair back. It's white. Louis thinks it makes him look like the angel that he always has been on the inside.

Lips bitten red and shiny, Harry's face is a different story. It looks mostly the same, sure, and maybe Louis only notices because he prides himself in being a Harry Expert, but he looks a lot paler than usual. Perhaps he just decided not to wear any makeup today and pointing this out verbally would reveal Louis for the cosmetically uneducated buffoon that he is, or perhaps Harry had gotten just as little sleep as he did. For other reasons. The thought settles in his subconscious, and Louis imagines it to be a little monster waggling its pointy fingers at him, tempting him to succumb to the urge, to just accuse Harry of what he suspects- but, Louis refuses to be that much of an asshole. He hasn't even spoken to Harry yet.