Chapter 14 ~ Cold Coffee

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Cold. 

Harry was so cold. 

He felt strange, in that moment, as if were isolated; solitary; alone. 

Lids dragged heavily over his eyes, his lashes fluttered gently against his cheekbones, and an admittedly horridly unattractive groan uttered from his lips. 

Oh, real nice, he thought sarcastically to himself through his incredibly drowsy state.  Where was he? 

As one of his arms flung wildly through the space surrounding him, his limb was restrained by something taught and soft, something thick.  As he grew limp once more, he relaxed into something cool and cushy, and he realised that, of course, he was lying in the bed of his bunk. 

What time was it, and what had caused him to wake so suddenly? 

Finally mustering the effort to peel his eyes open, he groaned again and allowed his vision to focus hazily on the darkness surrounding him.  His eyes darted slowly and mechanically towards the window set against the creamy wall, and as the pale, weak light of the full moon contrasted with the inky blackness of the night, filtering into the room, he realised that it must be quite late. 

As the groan died from his lips and silence fell over the space, he realised that a dim patter of rain was echoing gently across the rooftop, easing the entire house into a soothing oblivion.  He sighed quietly through his nose, blinking slowly up at the popcorn ceiling of the room and allowing his muscles to relax into the mattress as he prepared to let himself slip into sleep once more. 

He closed his eyes slowly, that familiar wave of drowsiness slowly settling upon him. 

“Hazza.”

By Harry’s reaction, one would have thought that a nuclear warhead had just detonated beneath him, for a wild gasp sounded roughly from his lips as his eyes flew open and he jumped spasmodically atop the mattress, and suddenly, he found himself hopelessly tangled while he thrashed spasmodically in the bedsheets. 

“Gee, Haz, calm down,” a familiar, sweet voice chuckled quietly, barely more than a whisper, and as Harry realised who the voice belonged to, he slowly had the sense to bring his flailing limbs to a shaking halt.  Eyes wider than golfballs, he sat slowly up, bound by the knotted blankets, and swallowed as his gaze lit upon the owner of the voice. 

Almost immediately, any panic or fear he may have experienced—and that was quite a lot, mind you—seemed to begin to seep from his body, and his wildly thudding heart reduced its speed to a light, quick beat. 

A very disheveled and sleepy-looking Louis was clinging shyly to the ladder of his bunk, and to Harrry’s surprise, he had never looked…well, smaller.  His delicate features cast tiny, feminine shadows across his gentle face, and his wide, innocent blue eyes glinted slightly in the moonlight drifting from the window. 

He was, of course, bedecked in nothing but a pair of boxers and one of Harry’s Abercrombie tee-shirts, one that was far too large for Louis’s slender frame and hung loosely around his arms and neck.  His thick, caramel-coloured hair was an impossible mess and seemed to be sticking out in every direction, its shape quite similar to that of a crumpled piece of parchment.  As he gazed guiltily up at the shocked Harry, amusement hiding behind his eyes, he bit his lip.

“God, Lou…You can’t scare me like that,” Harry panted, struggling to keep his voice quiet lest one of the other three awoke, and he placed a palm over his rapidly beating heart as he collapsed upon the pillows. 

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