Larry sick fics

Harry drugged at a bar

Everything's so foggy. Harry doesn't understand why or how it happened, snippets and portions of the night slipping in and out of his grasp like flashes from a tripped out film across his eyelids.

He only went to the club tonight because Niall asked him to, he remembers that. Louis hasn't talked to him in what feels like ages. This morning, Niall told him that Louis had ordered them to look after Harry because he couldn't do it himself at the moment. He was still mad this morning, Louis was, remembers thinking that he deserved it but now he can't quite place why.

"Babe," Louis' voice breaks through the fog a bit, but Harry can't see him. "You gotta wake up for me, okay? Stay awake for me, love."

"M'kay," Harry answers, at least he thinks he does, but his mouth feels strange, like his tongue's gone all fat or something.

He remembers thinking he wouldn't go to the club, didn't want to piss Louis off any further even if Niall said it was alright, but he decided to go anyway at the last minute. He remembers walking in, remembers flashing lights and a pounding bass line. He saw Louis at the bar, talking with some laddy lad in a too-tight tee shirt and ugly tattoos.

"Dammit, Niall, drive faster!" Louis shouts from somewhere above Harry, but Harry still can't see him, even if he tries.

"I'm goin' as fast as I fucking can," Niall snaps back. He sounds angry. Or maybe panicked. It's hard to tell right now. "Can't exactly get us pulled over with him all strung out, can I?"

Strung out. But Harry didn't take anything. Oh. Right.

There was another bloke, smaller. Harry thinks he looked shifty, like a little weasel or maybe a ferret. But not as cute as a ferret. The bloke was not cute at all, not with the way he kept watching Louis' back as he spoke and gestured animatedly. He wasn't cute when he dropped something in Louis' drink, something Harry couldn't see.

"Just get us home. I don't fucking care how," Louis screams.

It hurts Harry's ears, the screaming. Something's gone wrong. He can't focus and he can't feel his fingers or his toes. Everything is heavy and blurred. He doesn't feel right at all.

"Lou," he says, though it's mumbled behind his stupid lips, because they're not working right, either.

"I'm right here, babe," Louis says, touching Harry's face so, so gently. "Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart? Open those pretty green eyes for me, yeah?"

He does, but it feels like they weigh a million pounds each. "Hi," he finally says when a fuzzy version of Louis swims into his vision, still dark around the edges and too bright in the middle.

"Hi, love," Louis says, and it sounds like he's whispering now, slipping further away. Harry can't quite make out his features, but his hand feels leaden against Harry's cheek.

The drink, he remembers that. He remembers being angry, so very angry, and charging toward the bar with every intention of knocking the teeth from the weasel-ferret's head, wanting to kill him more than he's ever wanted to kill anyone, and he's been quite angry more than once in his lifetime.

But Louis was about to drink from the tumbler on the bar, about to drink whatever that asshole had slipped him, and Harry couldn't stop him and commit murder at once. He snatched the glass from Louis, sloshing some of it over both of their hands.

Louis wasn't so gentle with Harry then, not like he is now. He looked as angry as Harry felt and Harry forgot what he was doing for a moment. He panicked, if he's honest, and drank the entire glass in one go. He just forgot for a second, just one, and now he can't feel anything.