little bitty rattle (and all our dreams are comin' true) | Larry Stylinson

Chapter 6

Twenty and Twenty-Two

The filtered sunlight from the window in Louis' new bedroom seems to hit Harry's face just right in the mornings, and when Louis wakes up on the day after Harry's birthday, pillows all messy and bunched around their heads, he lays still for a while and just admires him.

He'd looked beautiful last night. He looks beautiful right now, too, all pale and soft and surrounded by sheets, but last night. Last night they'd gone out to eat for Harry's birthday, at a freaking Applebee's because that's what Harry'd said he was craving. He'd worn a green sweater that perfectly accentuated both his stomach and his eyes, and he kept his hair down, curling and waving down his shoulders all clean and shiny. At home afterward, they'd laid in the nest together for a bit, and Louis couldn't stop the urge to whisper constant affections to him as they'd kissed, then they'd gone to bed, where they'd kissed some more, rubbed against one another, and ultimately came into one another's hands, smiling.

Now, Harry looks just as pretty as he had when he'd been on the brink of pleasure, just as pretty as he always does, with his lips pursed and parted in sleep, his little teeth showing as he mouthbreathes. Louis fights the urge to reach out and run his fingers through his hair. He shouldn't wake Harry up just because he himself can no longer go back to sleep.

Louis used to be able to sleep in. He'd trained himself at a young age to get up early, anyway, to mow neighbors' yards or do whatever money-making thing he'd be up to back then, but still. If he wanted to sleep in, he could.

He used to be able to stay up late, too.

Maybe living in this house with everyone on a schedule has trained him or something; he's in bed with Harry by ten or eleven, asleep not long after that, and awake around seven. And that's on a good night, one without last-minute assignments, or a brain that won't shut off, or bad dreams that assault him.

When Louis moves a little in the bed to stretch, just a tight little kicking-out of his leg accompanied with a grunt, Harry murmurs, "Stop staring at me," in his stupid-deep voice, eyes still closed.

"Nah," Louis just replies, chuckling. He watches Harry until he winks an eye open, and when he opens an arm up, Louis smiles and snuggles in close.

Sometime during the night they'd shifted from their normal position of chest-to-back, instead sleeping chest-to-chest—or, well, chest-to-bump—and as Louis settles back in close to Harry, he splays out a hand on Harry's stomach and kisses the tip of his nose. He doesn't stop staring at him, just examining all the skin on his face, the little marks, his hairline, the shape of his nostrils. He's just lovely, and pregnancy's only enhanced it. Louis prays that their child looks just like him. Eventually Harry opens an eye again. He weakly swats at Louis. "Go back to sleep."

Speaking aloud this time proves to be a mistake. Bruce hears the slight noise and starts loudly wagging his tail against the foot of the bed, now awake and excited. Harry groans and covers his face with the blanket.

"I'll let him out and come right back," Louis whispers to Harry while rolling over and sliding off the bed. He's already wide-awake, so why not.

A muffled "Y'gon'seepme?" comes out from under the covers. Louis throws on a pair of sweats and strides back to the bed to pull the blanket off Harry's face.

"You gonna go back to sleep with me after?"

"Yeah, babe," Louis answers, truthfully not really knowing if he'll end up falling back asleep or not. Maybe they could just lay there. Maybe they could do other things.

"You said you're off today, right?"

Louis nods. "Just gotta go to the library later to do some shit, but it can wait awhile."