Baby Lips [l.s mpreg] (boyxboy)

seventeen weeks - mar 27

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The next day, to say the absolute least, is anything but relaxing for Louis.

He starts his morning off with a flurry of brief panic when he realizes that he's overslept by twenty minutes, which is truly not that out of the ordinary, but even more so when he goes to grab his keys out of the bowl by the front door only to grab at nothing but air, fingers scraping the bottom of the wood roughly. "Motherfuck," he curses, because dammit, he really has to go. He doesn't suppose he could call Harry up to ask for a ride, after all, so walking is really his only option at this point - not to mention he has to drop the girls off at the primary school just down the street from his own, and he really, really needs a cuppa if he's even going to make it through three periods without passing out from sheer stress, exhaustion, and frustration.

When he does manage to stumble into his homeroom, however, he is forced to implode for a reason completely out of his rationale- the game, shit. His palm comes up to his forehead so forcefully that he stumbles a bit, groaning to himself, and nearly drops all of his books when a body comes breezing past him and bumps purposefully into his arm. Louis grits his teeth.

"Watch where y'er goin', creampuff," says the perpetrator, tone spiffy and snobbish as though he's proud of his barbarism - foolish, Louis thinks, and promises himself that the day will be over faster if he just pretends it never happened.

So, irritably, he slides into his seat, fixes his jumper and his fringe with his index finger and his thumb, and sets his arms atop his desk with one wrist atop the other. It's quite possible that he's radiating his annoyance throughout the entirety of the classroom, but there's no need to be subtle about it - it's not like Louis gives more than a rat's ass about what these people think of him, anyway.

He thinks that Harry would laugh at that - a rat's ass, he means - and his heart does an uncomfortable somersault in his chest, floats down to his stomach and then up into his throat where it becomes increasingly hard to swallow around the lump that it creates. He'll see Harry later. He forces himself to shove all Harry-related thought into an unkempt crevice of his mind for now, tucks it away and entertains himself with all of the creative ways he's going to have to attempt to do his schoolwork before the game tonight - and the efforts he'll have to go through to get a last minute ride home. Stressed and overwhelmed - ah, what would school be like without it?

Two classes later, Louis walks unsuspectingly into the first class that he shares with Harry - looks up from his stack of notebooks, catches Harry's eye, and immediately begins to back out of the room. His chest bumps into someone else, though, and as they curse quietly at him he realizes he sort of really has nowhere to go but his seat.

So, begrudgingly, he shuffles over and sets his small pile of supplies down on his side of the table, drops his bag by the foot of his chair, and settles in. Harry doesn't even look up from what he's doing - doodling, Louis thinks, judging by the stars and the squiggly trees - but he does noticeably stiffen when Louis clears his throat.

It's possibly the most awkward situation Louis has ever found himself in in the history of forever-ness, especially when Harry straightens and pulls his jumper down further over his protruding abdomen.

So that's that, Louis supposes - Harry doesn't want to talk, and Louis doesn't want to talk either. Despite the fact that he realizes just how much of a child he's acting like, he decides to cross his arms across his chest and stare at the front of the room. Two can play at this game, he reminds himself, even though Harry smells really nice today and Louis sort of wants to ask if he can see what he's doodling. No.