Louis Tomlinson Imagines

When he is Sick

You felt sympathetic. You hated when he cried, especially when the reason for his cries was pain and distress. He propped himself up on his elbows, knocking his knee against the bucket as he shuffled upright. The pillow squishing between the base of his back and the headboard of the bed, his ankles crossing and muscles tense.

“Baby… It’s okay to be sick. I’m not bothered by it. It won’t make me love you any less, yeah?” You whispered, reaching around the grey bucket for his hand; his wet, sweat-covered hand. 

“I’m not goin-” he started, before his eyes widened and his face paled even more under the light coming from the bedside lamp. He reached for the bucket, and placed it on his lap as he thrust his head down into the confined space and brought up the contents of his stomach, your hand rubbing up and down his back, as your other sat on the bed. Your fingertips softly touching at his boxer covered thigh. “- I don’t like this. I want to bury myself in a hole and wait for it to pass,” he muttered, as he lifted his head and wiped his paled lips with the back of his hand. 

“I know, Louis. I know,” you whispered, dropping your forehead to his shoulder. His breathing was jagged and he seemed out of breath, his breath hitching slightly every now and then in his throat. “You feeling better now, though? Take a sip of water, okay? Get your throat refreshed,” you smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Will you stay with me tonight? Don’t go into the spare room. I just want you here,” he whispered, as you nudged your nose to the apple of his cheek. His skin hot and flushed, and if there was more light in the room, you would definitely see the red of his cheeks from the far corner of the bedroom. 

The last time he was sick in bed, you’d taken to the spare room just next door. In hopes you wouldn’t get ill, and to give him some of his own space. You knew from past experiences to the boys, that he was never happy when he was bothered but he wanted you to feel like you were never a burden upon him; whether he was sick or not.

“I’m staying in here, with you, baby, I promise.”

* * 

He snuffled against the side of your pillow, his legs bent and his body curled up underneath the sheet. You slowly kicked the cover from your legs, and placed your feet on the floor, the plush carpet soft against the balls of your feet. The time was now 4:43, and you still couldn’t sleep. Worry was filling your veins, as Louis kept snuffling and coughing in his sleep. You lifted yourself from the bed, and quietly walked around the bed to pick up the bucket from Louis’ side.

As quiet as you were, he could sense you were missing from his side, and a soft whine left his lips. His plump and pink flesh pouted and his eyes crinkled as you took no notice to his awakened state. You tried your hardest to keep your stomach at bay as you lifted the sick-filled bucket up, and held tightly on the handle. 

“You promised you weren’t going to leave me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and his throat raw. Your body jumping to his sudden voice filtering around the room. “You promised you’d stay here,” he begged, as he took hold of your free wrist. His skin still hot with a sudden flush of coldness running across his hairs. 

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m just going to empty the bucket in the bathroom. It’s okay,” you whispered, placing the bucket on the floor and taking a seat on his side of the bed. His fingers gripping onto yours, in a tight hold, as if he knew that when he let you go, you’d go to the spare room for the night; and he didn’t want that. “I promise, I’ll be right back, okay?” You smiled, as he shook his head. The pillow case rustling behind his head, his hair knotting and matting together.

“No. Stay with me, baby. I want you to stay with me,” he begged, and shuffled himself up on the bed, throwing his legs either side of your body and wrapping his arms around your waist. No matter how hot he was due to be sick, having your heat melded with his was no issue. “Please, stay with me,” he whispered, his lips grazing against the nape of your neck. The scruff on his upper lip tickling at your skin.