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Louis is hot. So, incredibly hot. He thinks to himself that he’d probably be cooler sat in the middle of the desert. Currently, though, he’s under three duvets and half a body. Harry’s body, that is.
Harry who, oh right, yes. Harry who Louis is currently trying to rouse from the depths of hell, apparently. Harry who really is bloody heavy when he sleeps. Harry who really honestly, for all his whining, Louis really, really doesn’t want to disturb.
But Louis is also really, really uncomfortable. His pyjama pants are rucked up his legs and his shirt is stretched awkwardly over his shoulder. His skin is clammy and hot and honestly, he really didn’t think being pregnant would be so much effort. All in all, he should have probably though the whole thing through better when Harry had bounded over to him, eyes twinkling after meeting Jay’s new twins, and baby let’s have a baby he’d said, nipping lightly at Louis jaw, hands winding around his waist as he drummed his fingers over Louis tummy.
Which, yeah. He never could say no to Harry.
And really it’s not that he doesn’t want a baby. It’s just that he doesn’t really want to be pregnant. That's the problem.
He actually, really, probably should have listened to his mum seeing as how, yano, she’s had 7 children herself. But Louis is Louis. And Louis doesn’t listen to anyone. Except Harry.
Harry who, oh right, yes. Harry who still needs to move his fucking dead weight limbs so Louis can have a fucking piss, Jesus.
Louis also really wants a pickled onion. Desperately so in fact.
He sighs, trailing his fingers down his chest, resting them lightly on his belly. He can’t help but smile really, through everything. He’s excited. Really fucking excited. Nervous though. Can’t imagine bringing up a little girl. It’s a girl, Louis thinks. Doesn’t know why. Just does. Knows Harry does too, really, even though he tells everyone it’s a boy. Doesn’t really mind either way though. Its theirs and wow. Its theirs. His and Harry’s. LouisandHarry’s baby. Who’d have thought.
Everyone. So they found out when the big reveal turned into more of a paying up of bets.
From beside him, Harry mumbles something incoherent into his shoulder and he thinks that maybe if he could just shuffle over a little bit this way…
Harry jolts awake with a start, sitting up so fast he gets a head rush, looking for the source of the loud noise that so rudely interrupted his otherwise peaceful slumber. Slipping back under the covers, satisfied his life is in no real danger; he reaches out to pull Louis into him which, Louis. Where’s Louis?
“I’m okay.”
Oh, so he said that out loud then and right. Louis is on the floor. Why is Louis on the floor? With a groan, Harry manoeuvres himself to the edge of the bed, looking down at Louis who is still half wrapped in one of the duvets that was on top of them moments ago.
“Shit, Lou, ‘re you okay? Why ‘re you on the floor? ‘re you hurt babe?”
His voice is gravelly, thick with sleep, which, naturally, goes straight to Louis dick. But really, now is absolutely not the time for that. Besides, he hasn’t even brushed his teeth yet.
“I’m just, really Haz, I’m fine but can you, just. Would you quit staring and help me back up and. What are you smiling at, what is it?”
Harry shakes his head and offers a hand to Louis, who proudly refuses it.
“M’not moving till you tell me what you’re grinning at. I mean it.”
“Nothing. S’nothing, c’mon get back into bed.” Harry mumbles something nonsensical, rolling back into bed.
With a shake of his head, Louis raises an eyebrow and folds his arms across his chest, sitting up to peer at Harry, cocooned in duvets, almost completely hidden except for his hair. “Sorry love, didn’t catch the end of that. What’d y’say?” There's an evident smirk in Louis voice as he clambers back onto the bed, rubbing at his aching back, fitting himself against Harry as best he can given his current size.
Rolling over, he kicks the duvet out from between his legs, pressing his forehead against the column of Louis throat, finger dancing along the round neck of his sleep shirt, along his collar bones, tracing along the words inked forever on his chest.
“Said you look so gorgeous like this.” His voice muffled by Louis body.
“Oh.”
Peeking up through his curls, Louis face is like the sun, Harry thinks. He thinks he could look at him all day. Thinks people who enjoy visiting the same tourist attraction time after time are crazy when they could just stay at home and look at someone like Louis all day. Then again, not everyone has a Louis. In fact, no-one has a Louis. No one is as lucky as him.
“Christ, you’re such a sap.” Louis giggles into his hands.
And, okay, he said that out loud too.
“Shut the fuck up.” He laughs, surging forward to press his lips against Louis’, their lips fitting together in a way born only with years of practice.
Harry pulls away moments later with a gasp, hands flying up to cover his face, breathing laboured, his chest feeling like he has an elephant sat on him or something. Something heavy. He doesn't know.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so incredibly in love with you. So, so, so in love with you I feel like I’m drowning with it.” He manages to punch out, rubbing a hand over his face roughly.
“Hey, come here you. It’s okay, it’s okay. Calm down.” Louis voice is loud in the otherwise silent room as he reaches out to grab Harry, pulling until he’s flush against his front, his bum sticking out at an awkward angle as he attempts to tangle his own legs with Harry’s. “It’s okay Haz.”
Harry shakes his head, jostling his curls against Louis chin. “God ’m sorry. It’s just, fuck, Lou. We’re having a baby.” His laugh is loud and sudden and honestly, Louis thinks he could listen to it on repeat for the rest of his life. Harry reaches out a hand for Louis hip, his fingers bunching the material of Louis sleep shirt up enough that he can run his fingers over the exposed flesh, feather light touches, fingers cold in contrast to Louis hot, hot skin.
They lay together for a while, quiet, content, Harry’s hand a constant gentle pressure on the baby bump and Louis thinks that yeah, he wouldn’t mind staying like this forever. He wonders, as Harry’s breath evens out, as he watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, feels his grip on his stomach loosen slightly, he wonders how he got so lucky. Wonders how Harry doesn’t see how gross he looks, how he doesn’t see his puffy red skin, his swollen ankles, the harsh red stretch marks he’s starting to get across his tummy.
“Stop thinking. It’s distracting.” Harry can almost hear Louis eyes rolling, even with his own eyes closed tightly. “Also stop rolling your eyes. S’rude. Didn’t your mum tell you that?”
All Harry gets in return is a fond head shake and a kiss. Not too bad all things considered.
“Hey, Haz?” He opens one eye, peering at Louis. He can see Louis’ mouth moving but he isn’t listening. Isn’t even making an effort to seem like he is. Can’t really. Not when Louis is bathed in the early morning sunlight that’s streaming in through the thin curtains framing the window behind him, the ends of his hair lighting up like fireworks, the shadow falling over his face framing him like a Rembrandt. Or a Monet. Or something. He never really did pay attention in art.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“No.”
Louis sighs exasperatedly, wriggling out of Harry’s arms. He sits up, immediately pressing a hand to the small of his back and groaning. Partly from the dull ache that hasn’t left his spine in the last three months, partly because he can’t see his fucking feet.
“Can’t see m’fucking feet Haz. M’such a heifer. Don’t know how you can stand the sight of me.”
He can’t see Harry from behind him, but he can feel the dip of the bed, can feel strong, strong arms wrapping themselves around his waist, can feel big, big hands spreading across his bump, can feel hot, hot breath against his ear.
Harry doesn’t miss the way Louis’ breath hitches in his throat as his teeth close gently around his ear, doesn’t miss the way he sinks back into Harry’s larger body like its second nature to him, because, well, it is really. They’ve been doing this for almost 10 years now. Don’t know anything else. Harry doesn’t think he wants to.
“You…” He presses his lips firmly against Louis neck, right below his ear, running his hands down over his belly, fingers dipping slightly below the waistband of his sleep pants. “…are so, so gorgeous. So gorgeous and you know it, Lou.” He slowly runs his hands higher and higher, his cold hands soothing the hot skin he uncovers as he lifts Louis sleep shirt up until it sits on top of the bump.
“I love you.” Louis declares so open and raw and unabashed that Harry’s heart clenches and he’s fucked if he thinks he can stop the smile that spreads across his face. Completely and truly fucked. Harry doesn’t think he minds.
“Also please will you get me a pickled onion?”
His laugh is loud and raucous confined within the four walls of their bedroom, spilling out into the hallway and down past the nursery they started decorating yesterday. Well, which Harry started decorating because really Louis can’t possibly be around all the paint fumes, God, Lou, what kind of boyfriend do you think I am huh? So he was confined to the rocking chair, watching Harry struggle to assemble the cot and the chest of drawers and the stupid bloody wardrobe. Which, yeah, was probably much more fun than helping out anyway.
Harry shakes his head, muttering something about pickled things and babies.
But, of course, he still agrees.
Which, yeah. He never could say no to Louis.