Baby Lips [l.s mpreg] (boyxboy)

seventeen weeks - mar 26 (2)

edit; this chapter gets a bit intense, and it does briefly mention or imply intended nonconsensual sexual assault (nothing actually happens, but it is heavily hinted at) so please be aware of that. x
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"I said I need to think." Harry looks at Louis, brow set into a hard crease as he frowns. Louis looks at him as though he's just crushed his heart - rich, Harry thinks, coming from someone who had evidently been keeping a secret from him for months. It's not that he's bitter- well. He's very bitter, actually.

He turns back around and marches right out the door, shouldering it open, and begins to stalk down the hallway that leads to the cafeteria. Much of the school building is quiet, because it's technically the middle of the period and Harry isn't even supposed to be wandering the school without a pass, anyway, so he decides to just head to the washroom. It's not like he's going to go to the cafeteria with only ten minutes of his lunch period left. Not without Louis, at least.

Louis, he sighs to himself, oh, Louis. Harry loves Louis. He does. He's never loved anyone other than his family- maybe Skye, who is now becoming less and less of an adorable kitten and more and more of a fussy nuisance each and every day. It's scary to love Louis, sometimes. Louis, whose smile lights up the whole world, practically, and severely underestimates his own abilities; Louis, who sends postcards to Harry that he buys at the local supermarket; Louis, who, despite all of his siblings, still gets wide-eyed and teary over the baby blanket Harry's mum had knitted for them; Harry loves Louis, God, and he really doesn't want to see him go.

The washroom is empty when Harry gets there. He's glad. There's only two sinks in the room - across from the urinals and next to the single stall - and he goes to the one on the right. The one on the left either shoots out water hot enough to burn the flesh from his skin or water so cold that it's a wonder it doesn't become ice mid-air. He stands in front of the mirror and rests his hands on the sides of the sink.

He looks tired. Harry hasn't said a word to Louis, but he's been sleeping less and less - last night was the third he'd spent without a single moment of rest - and he just prays that Louis won't take it upon himself to notice. The darkness under his eyes is becoming more noticeable, though, especially because of the few hot tears that had slid down his face. Without thinking twice, he straightens and reaches into his back pocket for the small tube of concealer that he always has on him - for emergencies, of course - and begins to unscrew it.

He's in the middle of trying to blend the creaminess of it into his skin with the tip of his ring finger when the door bangs open, slamming unceremoniously against the tile of the wall, and makes him flinch enough to accidentally jab himself in the eye.

He mutters swear words to himself quietly, dropping his tube into the sink and bringing the heel of his palm up to his now watery, irritated eye. The intruder's feet shuffle into the room, and then they stop mere feet away from Harry. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

"Louis, I told you that I-" he drops his hand and turns to face the person with a glare, but the words die in his throat. The person isn't Louis.

It's just a tall, tall boy with ridiculously gelled up hair and a varsity football jacket on, looking at Harry with one raised brow and a hand on his hip. Harry's seen him in the hallways before - it's a small school, after all - and thinks his name is Ezra. Maybe.

"I, um. Sorry, mate," he mutters, turning back to the mirror sheepishly. He snuffles lightly and tries to keep his eyes trained on the sink as Ezra steps up to the other and begins inspecting himself in the mirror, playing with his fringe and fiddling with the shirt beneath his jacket.