This is the New Year (Larry Mpreg)

Twenty

Harry and Louis decide that since the flats for Harry that they're being shown today are relatively close to Louis's place, they'll just walk, because as Harry puts it, "An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day!" he chirps, bouncing with every step he takes.

Louis shakes his head and scrunches his face at his boyfriend as he locks his door. "What kind of shit are you talking about right now, mate?"

"Excuse me, Louis," Harry scoffs jokingly. "I'm not to be referred to as a 'mate' by you. If anything, my nickname is 'love.'" Louis just rolls his eyes fondly. "And it's a quote by Henry David Thoreau," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders.

"Who?" Louis asks with squinted eyes, swiping his fringe out of his face as he pops a beanie on his head.

"The poet," Harry answers as if Louis is supposed to have heard of him. Louis just replies with a confused look and a shrug of his shoulders. "'I Am the Autumnal Sun?' 'On Fields O'er Which the Reapers Hand has Passed?' 'Epitaph On the World?' Anything?"

"I've got nothing, I have absolutely no idea what you're going on about," Louis says, his accent thick as ever.

"He's my favorite poet," Harry says softly, looking down at his feet.

"I didn't know you were into poetry." Louis takes Harry's hand as they saunter their way to the apartment building a few streets down.

Harry nods. "English was my favorite subject during secondary school and college. I also took a few poetry classes as electives during Uni."

"Really?" Louis asks. He's not quite sure why that surprises him. Harry is the biggest hipster he's ever met. Of course he likes poetry. "Have you ever written any?"

Harry's cheeks go very pink very quickly. "Um," is all he can say.

"You have!" Louis gasps fiddly, skipping up and down a few times as they walk. "I want to see! I want to see! I want to see!" he shouts like a child.

"Louis," Harry chuckles, placing his hands on Louis's per arms to try and get him to stop jumping. "People are staring."

"Oh, please. I'm gay and pregnant, do you really think I care if people stare?" he laughs. "Hey, I just rhymed!" Louis gives Harry a look, and Harry knows exactly why he's staring at him.

Harry sighs. "You're a poet and you didn't even know it," he says monotonously, giving Louis what he wants as they continue down the street.

"That's right, Harold," Louis replies quickly, nudging Harry's chest with his right pointer finger.

"It's Harry," he chuckles, shaking his head. "Anyways, you don't even look pregnant when you're wearing clothes yet, Lou."

"Are you kidding me? I'm glowing. This is the best my skin has ever been," Louis flips his fringe out of his eyes again, adjusting his beanie. "Plus, I've definitely worn a couple of those horrendous pregnancy shirts in public."

"That sounds like something I would do," Harry laughs.

"Could you see yourself ever being pregnant?" Louis asks, genuinely curious.

"Yeah, I've always wanted kids," Harry nods.

"You can have the next one then," Louis says, his chuckle coming to an abrupt end once he realizes what he's implied and sees the surprised expression on Harry's face.

"Oh," Harry snickers, raising his eyebrows, his voice raising an octave. "Didn't realize you were already imagining us with kids," he says, poking fun at Louis.

"No, I didn't mean - that's not - I don't expect - oh my god," he stutters, mumbling the last bit and hiding his face in his hands.

"I'd love to have the next one," Harry laughs, nudging Louis with his elbow. "Hey, Lou?" Harry asks before Louis can respond.