Harry Styles Imagines/Blurbs

When You Don't Feel Well

Feeling sick is never a pleasurable experience, but you’d sometimes wonder if, out of sympathy, Harry somehow felt worse than you. The look he’d get when he’d walk in the room to find you all curled up in blankets and looking awfully pitiful would be even worse than his own face when he was feeling a bit under the weather. His brows would furrow and his lips would purse together for a moment before he’d begin walking over to you, concerned and upset. (“Love.. are you alright? What’s wrong?”) You’d respond with a dismissal, trying to act like you weren’t as bad as you really were, but he’d know—he always knew—and he’d sit on the bed next to you, brushing a hand to your forehead. (“Don’t give me that.”) And then your face would involuntarily frown because, well, you did feel awfully terrible and his concerned eyes made you feel loved and protected and cared for and, really, when you’re sick that’s all it takes to make you feel a huge surge of emotion, tears pricking at your eyes and sighs quick from your lips. (“Ah, love..”) With that he’d be able to tell all he needed to, a quick trip to the kitchen providing a cold washcloth and more blankets from the closet and his laptop from the living room… 

In no time he’d be cuddling up next to you in the bed, Netflix paused on your favorite TV show, blankets thrown all over. He’d let you shift his body however you wanted, careful to not jostle you too much or do anything that’d make you move without you wanting to, because he’d know that sometimes you just need to be just so in order to feel better. So it really didn’t matter if your head ended up on his chest or his arm ended up over your leg or even if you just didn’t feel like being touched at all, because all he’d be worried about would be making you feel as okay as you could considering the circumstances. If you did cuddled up next to him and bury your face in his neck—which happened more times than not, his hand would gently find your back, thumb rubbing as softly as it could manage to comfort, but not disturb. And if you were really upset about it all, he’d know to just talk. Talk about his day or his ideas for redecorating the living room or how the clerk at the store had the most interesting name or— really anything, as long as it was low and quiet and got your mind off of the gross feeling in your stomach. Because somehow his soft, deep drawls would always hush your anxious thoughts and calm your scrunched up muscles and though it wouldn’t magically cure your illness, it sure would help you calm down. And then he’d just lay there with you, watching episode after episode, until he’d gently kiss your head as you’d finally fall asleep, never moving or speaking or touching unless you needed him to. Because no matter how much he’d want to just kiss you so hard it’d make everything better, he’d always want your comfort over that, always want you to feel better as fast as you could, no matter what it took. His girl would deserve the best, and he’d do whatever he had to in order to give it to you.