When he wakes up, the sky outside the window is dark, his head is still in Harry's lap, The Notebook is playing on the television, and he has to puke.
It's, like. His head is throbbing, pain no longer dull but sharp and clawing at every inch of him, and he can feel it, can feel it crawling up his throat and he doesn't even have time to give Harry a fair warning before he jerks himself away, staggering towards the hallway bathroom and he knows he won't make it to the toilet so he aims for the sink, instead, spewing breakfast and lunch and the really good iced tea he'd been drinking in the car into the pretty marble sink with the shiny silver faucet.
He barely has time to recover before he hears Harry's footsteps approaching, socked feet on carpet and then a large hand is on his back, heat seeping through his shirt and coming to curl around his spine like a napping cat.
"Hey," Harry says gently, moving closer so his hip is bumping Louis' waist, smoothing back the sweaty fringe from Louis' forehead and Louis is still gasping, out of breath, knuckles white as he clutches the edge of the counter. The pain is a little better now, reduced to a dull ache, like his head is being very, very slowly squeezed by a vice instead of, say, crushed under the weight of an anvil. "Babe," he tries again, fingers gently tugging at his bicep. "What can I do?"
When he can finally breathe again, nausea still coming and going in waves, Louis croaks out, "Water. Please." Harry is nodding, out the door and clomping on down the hall towards the kitchen before Louis can press his back against the wall, sliding to sit on the cool tiled floor. It feels wonderful against his burning skin and he shifts so he can lay down, pressing his temple and he has to bite back a groan of relief, eyes slipping shut. It's so nice. It'd probably be nicer if it weren't the tile in their guest bathroom, but he's going to take what he can get.
He's so lost in the feeling of the freezing tiles soothing his throbbing head that he doesn't even Harry coming back down the hallway until he's at Louis' side, panic-stricken voice slicing through the quiet like a knife and Louis jerks up, only to find Harry with one hand clutching a glass of ice water, the other pressed over his chest like he's nearly had a heart attack.
"Sorry," Louis mumbles, embarrassed, but not too embarrassed to pry the glass from Harry's hand and take an almost painfully large gulp of water. "Just resting. Felt nice on my head."
Harry's eyes are wide, still coming down from the fright of finding his boyfriend lying motionless on the bathroom floor, but he cracks a tiny smile anyway. "You goof," he mutters, fingers smoothing across Louis' forehead. Checking for a fever, Louis realizes, practically swooning at the gesture.
"You don't feel warm," Harry says finally, standing and extending a hand to Louis, pulling him up and promptly sweeping him off his feet, gathering him up in his arms.
"Harry," he protests weakly, slamming tiny fists against Harry's broad chest in vain. "Let me down."
Harry just grins, that little shit, and carries him up the stairs, depositing him gently onto their shared bed like he's precious cargo before crawling onto the bed next to him, lying on his belly and kicking his legs up, crossing and uncrossing them like a child. It's ridiculously endearing and Louis kind of wants to kiss him.
"Harry," Louis repeats, rolling over so as to get some distance from his favorite boy in the world. "'M sick. Gonna get you all germy."
Harry chuckles fondly, rolling over so he's just as close to Louis as when he started. "Don't care. Gonna take care of you, boo." He rests a warm hand on Louis' belly and his stomach flutters when he realizes yet again just how large Harry's hands are, covering almost the entire span of his torso. Harry notices too, murmuring a fond, "So little. My little Lou."
And, yeah. Louis could get used to this.
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