Larry sick fics

Harry's surgery

"Are you comfortable, Mr. Tomlinson?"

Harry nods. He's as comfortable as he can be, considering he's naked (save one thin cloth draped over him to preserve his modesty), lying on a table with an oxygen mask strapped over his face and three gigantic silver lights looming over him.

"Good," the anesthesiologist says, turning away from him briefly. "I need you to take deep breaths in and out and start counting backwards from 100. Can you do that for me?"

Harry nods again and looks up from the masked woman beside him, back to those enormous lights. He sleeps under lamps at home, he thinks, but this is a bit much, even for him. For some reason, the thought strikes him as hilarious. He giggles under his oxygen mask. Is the drug working already, or is this just nerves?

"100... 99..."

Lord knows it could be nerves. He'd spent the night before tossing and turning in bed next to Louis, trying to keep his mind off of all the articles he'd read about this surgery over the past few weeks. More specifically, the articles he'd read about how it could go wrong.

"98...97..."

He'd been a nervous wreck on the drive over this morning, and sleep deprived and hungry to boot. Louis had been amazing, though. When he'd finally broken down and confessed his fears in the hospital parking lot, Louis had held his hand and promised him that everything would be okay. He'd kept up a gentle litany of reassurances all the way up until the orderlies had wheeled Harry into the prep room. He'd sent him off with a squeeze of his hand and an "I love you," and Harry had, he'd..

"96, ninety... ninety-"

Wait. What had he...

His mind is so foggy that he can't remember what he'd said in response. Had he even responded? Had he told Louis he loved him before they brought him in here? What if he hadn't? There are so many things that can go wrong... so many... what if he never gets a chance to say it again?

"Wait," he tries to say, turning his gaze back to the anesthesiologist sitting next to him. "Wait, stop. I have to tell... I have to..."

He can vaguely hear a rapid beeping somewhere above his head. The anesthesiologist finally turns back to him in response.

"Mr. Tomlinson, I need you to relax," she says in a calm, reassuring voice. " Everything will be okay, just keep taking those deep breaths, remember? 96, 95..."

"No," he pleads through the mask, trying his hardest to stay awake as the edges of his vision grow dark, "My husband... I have to tell... my husband..."

The anesthetic is kicking in now, and his eyelids feel like they weigh a ton. They keep slipping shut despite his best efforts. Doesn't she understand? She has to take this mask off so he can go and tell Louis that he loves him, before it's too late...

"Your husband is just outside in the waiting room, Mr. Tomlinson. Don't worry."

He can barely hear her. The rapid beeps from the heart monitor are slowing as the drugs' effects continue to work on him. He can no longer keep his eyes open, and the sounds seem muffled and indistinct. He feels light and heavy at the same time. But he can't sleep yet! He needs... Louis... he needs to tell him...

"...L've you" he murmurs into his mask, and sleeps.

-

Time passes strangely after the anaesthetic kicks in. When Harry's eyes flutter open for the first time after his surgery, he isn't sure if it's been mere seconds or entire years since his desperate, ill-fated battle with unconsciousness. Then again, when Harry's eyes flutter open for the first time, he's not sure of much at all.