How could I not? • Tom Holland

Three

Summary: Harrison finds out what's going on and Tom needs to lean on you a little more then usual.

Words: 3.6k

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The baby was merely a baby. You probably couldn't even call it a baby. The doctor had said that the thing was merely the size of a blueberry and so Tom had taken to calling it that for now. His fickle, only just existent blueberry. Tom and you both ignored the fact that he hated blueberries, always finding them too sour or too bland because you loved them.

Your creation was yet to have limbs like arms and legs or a face, yet the blueberry sized figure had fetal organs and a working heart. Yet those had merely just formed and it's a wild concept to think about, really. It was even harder to comprehend when the sonogram only showed an alien-like blob. Not a blueberry, a blob.

It was the heartbeat that brought you to tears, however. It was small and the room went dead silent– not even the sound of Toms exasperated breathing could be heard as you both waited in anticipation, holding the others hand with a deathly grip. But the second the dull beating filled the room you dropped his hand, allowing his paper white knuckles to breathe for the first time since you entered the room.

You were seven weeks and three days. Your baby had forming fetal limbs, a heartbeat and was the size of a blueberry. The best part? The developing baby was healthy.

If Tom remembers correctly, seven weeks ago Harrison went away to see his parents for the weekend and the two of you took to staying in his and Toms shared flat. If he remembers correctly, you two had stayed up until eleven playing video games and shared bowls of overcooked popcorn before crashing in his room surrounded by clothes that you had demanded he clean. (To which he had the very next day)

Two pocket-sized pictures of the blueberry sized, alien-like blob with a heartbeat and no limbs had been printed out and taken in two sets of shaky hands. Thank yous had been muttered by nervous expecting parents and yeah–, the drive back to yours was dead silent and you barely said a goodbye as you clambered inside and Tom was left outside the apartment building sitting behind the wheel of his run-down car, contemplating whether or not he wanted to go home for a few moments before he flicked his indicator on and did a three-point turn.

He didn't go home then. He spent a night at his brothers, crashing on the couch instead of his own bed that sat empty for another day. A mere few texts were sent back and forth between the two of you as well as a few photos on Instagram– funny animal pictures to be exact. Tom refrained from sending photos of baby outfits he stumbled across, or stuffed animals.

By staying with his brothers, Tom was, in a way, running from his problems. But you weren't the problem. The problems were the list of questions he'd be bombarded with when he pulls up to his shared apartment.

He knew what was waiting for him at home. Surely, it was Harrison. With possibly a hundred and one questions and confusion– confusion was a sure one, it'd be written all over the blondes face. Strung up in his eyes and shown in the way he'd purse his lips and screw up his nose.

So when Tom opens the front door of his apartment, keys jingling in the palm of his hand and the blonde dives out of his seat, tugging at his navy blue t-shirt to unstick it from wet (post-shower) skin, Tom isn't surprised in the slightest. The boy already looked frantic and he'd barely laid eyes on Tom yet.

"Y/N's pregnant and it's yours?!" He exclaims, asking as if it were a question when Harrison knew– boy did he already know, that it was, in fact, a statement.

Tom wants to groan. He wants to sigh and he wants to remain silent all at the same time. But the same questions would still remain an hour from now. 2 days from now. Three weeks from now.