You're a whole new level of charm. (Larry One Shots - book 6)

I'll Know My Name As It's Called Again

He stops himself from thinking it, though, because there’s no point in tempting himself with a rationalization he can’t quite make himself believe. Instead he slowly raises one hand -- one of Harry’s hands -- up to his face. The reflection moves with him, slow and tentative, until it’s prodding at its cheek as well, then its mouth, and then twisting its finger in its hair, yanking sharp.

The pain when he pulls on his hair is what snaps him out of it, sending him careening out of the toilet with a lurch and into the quiet corridor.

Zayn’s asleep in his bunk, the curtain left partway open, and Louis pauses outside of it, trying to keep... whoever’s hand it is that he’s got from shaking.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do right now. Is he meant to call someone? The police? Is he meant to say anything at all? Or will that inevitably get him carted off to some sort of institution? He hasn’t any idea, but he knows he has to do something, because there’s a mad energy coursing through him. He’s got to do something, or else he really will scream.

He leans in, maneuvering Harry’s long arm with a shaky cautiousness, and jabs Zayn harshly in the ribs with a finger.

He grunts, his face rearranging into a frown, but doesn’t open his eyes. Louis only jabs again harder.

“What?” Zayn asks shortly when he finally peels one eye open. “What’re you doing here?”

“What room is Harry in?” Louis demands. The feel of his voice -- of Harry’s voice -- rumbling out of him properly, not just a whisper this time, is almost as startling as the first realization. He’d expected to hear his own, he realizes, and it almost makes him want to laugh in a frantic, hysterical way -- both his own words coming out in Harry’s voice and the fact that he’d expected anything about this at all.

“‘S this a prank, Haz?” Zayn mumbles. “Too early for pranks, y’twat.”

“What -- what room am I in,” he grits out. It doesn’t even cross his mind to try and explain, because Zayn won’t be awake enough to hear it anyway, and really, what would he even say? The only person he wants to speak with right now is Harry, because this is surely his fault, somehow. He must’ve done -- something, and Louis can’t think of doing anything, now, besides shouting at him until he explains this all.

Zayn doesn’t answer, just frowns again and yanks the curtain of his bunk shut, leaving Louis alone in a pair of joggers that are suddenly an inch too short for him.

-

Paul texts him Harry’s room number, eventually, prefacing it with a lot of questions that Louis doesn’t bother to answer, including what he plans to do with that information, and why he’s up so early. Louis hadn’t realized it was early, but when he checks his mobile, he sees it is, not quite seven yet. They’ve an off day, so there’s really no reason for anyone to be awake yet, and it’s not like he’s generally an early riser, but the idea of crawling back into bed for a few hours more sleep when he’s in the wrong fucking body is nearly laughable.

Nearly.

It’s gray and quiet as he crosses the car park towards the lobby, walking as quickly as he can without seeming like he’s about to burst into a loping run. He already feels conspicuous, and that seems like it’d be a suspicious-looking thing to do. And anyway, he’s not sure he can make Harry’s legs work properly enough to run without falling over. They’re too long, and don’t move precisely the way he wants them to when he walks. There’s a tight twinge in his back, too, that makes him want to hunch his shoulders, any by the time he makes it to the lobby, they’re drawn up near his ears, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged over his new curls.