butterfingers (l.s mpreg)

fourteen, week 17

"Fuck." Louis grunted, almost tripping over Mark on his way toward his bedroom to grab his speaker.

He still kept his headphones wedged far into his ears, blaring The Limousines and aged Maroon 5 (stuff Harry didn't like all that much, hoping there would be little value to each song.)

Although, when Harry finally made his way up to Louis' apartment door he couldn't help but hear Marky's loud barking over all of the noise.

It took a moment, and Louis' thin brows furrowed before he shrugged, figuring he may just be whining and crying over the missing Harry again.

But Mark was not standing at the coffee table, where Harry rested his feet during his early morning tv marathons. He did not sit by the bedroom door and whimper, thinking Harry was mad at him and refusing to let him inside.

Instead, Mark patiently waited an entrance at the front door.

Louis plucked out an earbud.

"What, buddy? There's no one here, silly!" He sat down to gently rub Marky's face, slighting tugging his ears.

But there was another knock at the door, loud and stern and another bark erupted from Mark's big jaw.

Louis yanked the door open, yet when it opened all the way he did not expect the love of his life waiting in the hallway.

He hadn't even hoped, hadn't even thought of it being his Harry waiting on the other side. He stood, slowly but with a constant view of Harry's glowing pale cheeks. As he did so, his mind and heart raced in tune, Mark waiting patiently at his feet.

"Hi." Harry smiled, a solid blush forming on his hollow cheeks. The lack of sleep was weighing on him, and Louis was positive he looked just the same. A mirror image, aside from Harry's gradually swelling tummy and Louis' sweaty palms.

For some reason it was far too quiet, only the sound of Mark panting and the beads of sweat dripping off Louis' forehead (and a small bit of Harry's heartbeat, but it was hiding underneath his hoodie.)

"Hi." Louis was so sure that the smile on his face was going to break skin. The blue that had disappeared with Harry in his eyes was sneaking back in, flooding his pupils like rapids. He shook.

"I've just-" Harry began, shutting his doe eyes for a brief moment for Louis to admire the flutter of his thick lashes, which were messy and looking even longer than usual.

"I've had so much to tell you, Louis. There's so much." Harry looked down, like maybe staring at his favorite pair of sneakers was going to push the words out that have been lining his tongue for what feels like years.

"Yes?" Louis begged.

"I've got this problem." He said, biting down on his plump bottom lip.

Louis' shoulders sunk, his tanktop swaying at the movement.

"And that is?" He begged again, he wanted it, he wanted him.

It felt like years, waiting for Harry's response, like they sat in that archway until they grew old together.

"My god, Lou," he gasped for air, "I am so in love with you. I'm so in love with you it stings."

And Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson were never really into theatrics.

Harry absolutely despised the Fourth of July, and quite frankly, fireworks and pyrotechnics all together. All too loud and all too obnoxious for his particular taste, although he quite liked Louis, who at times was both loud and slightly obnoxious.