Louis Tomlinson Imagines

When he is Sick

Credit: tell-the-world-you-are-mine on tumblr

His cheeks were covered in scruff, and his upper lip was covered with a set of fuzz that tickled at your collar bone. A leg was hitched over your tummy, as he had an arm thrown across your chest. His hand cupping your cheek as he snored softly into your neck. He felt hot, and sweaty, even though he was snuggled on top of the duvet in a pair of his boxers. A bucket was placed on the floor beside his side of the bed, with a glass of water and a few headache tablets sitting on the bedside cabinet. 

The red luminous numbers on your alarm clock read 2:48 and your eyes had stayed open since the first bout of sickness Louis had obtained. Midnight was when he’d woken up, pushing the duvet from his body and running into the en-suite bathroom. Waking you up in the process, knocking your sleeping pattern from you as you listened to his retching echoing around the bedroom. 

You could hear his belly churning as he shuffled over onto his other side, the warmth from his body being lost as he propped himself up from the bed with an arm. His head rising from the pillow he’d rolled onto, as he flicked on the lamp on the bedside table.

“Louis, baby? Are you feeling okay?” You wondered, rolling onto your back as you rubbed your palm across his bare yet muscled back. He felt sticky, glistening beneath the light of the lamp. “Baby? If you need to throw up, it’s okay. Just get it out,” you whispered, as you shuffled on the bed and sat upright and face his back. Your legs crossing into the pretzel shape and your knees touching his back; one at the top of his back, and one at the base of his back.

One of your palms cupped his hip showing from the waistband of his boxers, as your other ran up and down his back soothingly. His hair was pillow-messed and disheveled, and sticking up in all directions, and his back muscles were tense underneath your fingertips. He was never one to be sick in front of anyone. He liked to lock himself in the bathroom and hunch over the toilet, and be on his own rather than have his loved one watching him in pain and discomfort. And even displeasure. 

You were never one to handle sickness. You never took it well. You could sit there and comfort people, but when it came to having to clear it up or empty buckets, that’s when you ere a goner. He tried his hardest not to let you know he was ill, but your ears were trained to listen for any displeased sound coming from his body. Whether it be a cough, a sniffle, a retch or even a gas let off when he had an iffy tummy; you were always able to hear it.

“M’fine, babe. Just,” he sighed softly, turning his head so he could look over his shoulder at you, “I’m okay. Ya’know, you can go to bed? I’ll be fine on my own. I want you to get some proper sleep,” he whispered, and even though he was keeping his voice low, you could still hear the strain and the slight crack leaving his throat. 

“Baby…”

“I’m fine, (Y/N). Please, go to sleep. I want you to sleep, now,” he begged, as he flopped onto his back, and threw an arm over his tummy. His boxers low on his waist, and his breathing ragged. You could see his eyes glaze over, and you knew it was sleep catching up on his. “Please…” He whispered, his voice cracking softly, as he clenched a fist into the duvet.

“Louis… Baby, please. It’s okay. I’m your girlfriend. Let me take care of you,” you pleaded, as you took hold of the hand he had resting on his tummy, his palm sweating and wet. As you scanned his face, you watched as a tear rolled down the side of his face, falling from the corner of his eye and dribbling down by his temple. “Oh, Lou…”

“I hate being sick. I don’t want to be sick. Make it stop,” he sobbed, as he took his hand from your hold and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. His skin becoming wet from the moisture of his tears. “I don’t like this, I want it to stop. Please…” he begged, feeling you swiftly lean over his warm body and reaching for the empty bucket on the floor. Just in case a sudden bout washed over him.