Larry Stylinson Sick Oneshots

We've Got to Get Away

Harry's eyes were fixed on the snowy road ahead as he drove towards the pale pink sunset. Tonight was going to be perfect. After a long stretch of touring they were finally back home in London for the holidays. It had been agonizing trying to keep their PDA in check for so long due to the constant media attention they received. Now, to celebrate being home, the pair were headed for a romantic excretion.

They'd be spending the weekend in a rented cabin by the lake. It was perfect really. Louis would be able to icefish while Harry would skate around making up ridiculous dance routines, because could just imagine how his husband's eyes would light up with amusement and fondness.

The frozen weather was a nice change of pace too. They'd finished off their tour in the LA are, and it was constantly too hot, the air on the tourbus always too sticky with humidity. Cold weather was cozy. Harry hoped Louis would get a little too chilly at some point and need Harry to keep him warm. Maybe by the fire, and they could crack open a bottle of wine. Maybe they'd kiss, and maybe if Harry was lucky, which he usually was, kissing would lead to more than kissing.

The best part about this location was that it was beautifully secluded. In fact, it was so far out in the middle of nowhere that for the past hour and a half of driving there had been nothing but trees, snow, and the very occasional other car in the opposite lane.

He glanced away from the road to steal a quick glance at his husband. Louis had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole way down.

"I can't wait to spend the weekend together, just us," Harry said, trying to spark up a conversation. "What do you want to do first when we get there?"

"Honestly? Sleep."

Harry pouted. He could feel his excitement deflating. He didn't blame Louis for being tired, but Harry was just so giddy to spend time together that it hurt to realize the feeling might not be totally shared.

It was around dinner time when they finally arrived. They were barely out of the car and into the driveway before Harry was already bombarding Louis with questions about what he wanted to eat.

"I was thinking Italian food," Harry mused, his cheeks rosy from the frigid December wind. Snow blew off the nearby pine trees, falling onto his curls.

It was cute, Louis thought. His husband was the cutest. He mustered up a weak smile, despite how awful he was feeling. "Haz, whatever you want is fine, darling." Truthfully, his stomach had been bothering him the whole ride down, but he wasn't about to complain about it and crush Harry's spirits.

"I could make spaghetti and that homemade red sauce you love. Oh! And garlic bread. Definitely garlic bread."

The thought made Louis' stomach queasy. "That sounds like a lot of work, you don't have to-"

"Wait no garlic bread. That would be bad for kissing," Harry decided, wrinkling his nose. "But spaghetti? How does that sound?"

Louis grimaced. "Sounds great."

The cabin is sat at the top of a very steep, winding hill that overlooks the lake, and by the time they've walked up with all the stuff they've packed, it is fully dark, and Louis is so nauseated and exhausted he could collapse.

****

While Harry was cooking up a storm in the next room over, Louis sat on the couch with his face buried in his own lap trying not to cry. He could smell the sautéing tomatoes and hear the faint pop of the oil, and it sent shockwaves through his sickly stomach. He groaned.

"You okay, my love?"

"Me? Oh, yeah... just stubbed my toe," Louis lied. Louis hated lying, especially to Harry. That seemed to be enough to placate him though. No further questions were asked on the subject, and Louis knew his husband had gone back to cooking because he heard the sink running, then the sound of a cutting board.