Larry sick fics

Harry bits part of his tongue off

inspired by some real events when Harry explained in Rolling stones that he bit off a tip of his tongue while tripping on shrooms.

The wallpaper on the far wall of the living room is alive. It's a swirling, textured pattern of branches and leaves on a plain beige background, but at some point during the course of the night, it's come alive, shifting and growing and following the path of Harry's gaze, creating new patterns as if he's manipulating it like dragging his finger through sand. It's captivating, the magic of it, and Harry can't even drag his eyes off of it long enough to alert anyone else to look over and watch it happen. He's sure that if he breaks his concentration, it'll stop, and it's far too pretty to stop.

"Harry," someone's voice cuts through the loud tinkling sound echoing through Harry's head. He wasn't aware of the sound before right now, but it almost sounds like a guitar, high pitched and far away. "Harry," the voice says again, the syllables long and drawn out, punctuated by a giggle. Harry blinks and looks away from the wall, finding Mitch beside him, gearing up to reach out and tug on his hair.

"What'd you think about that?" Mitch says, grinning like he's found something magical, as well.

Harry giggles, mostly because he has no earthly idea what Mitch is asking him about, but the giggle comes alive the same way the wallpaper is still swimming in his periphery, taking hold of him and forcing out another laugh, louder and brighter. It blends in with the tinkling of the distant guitar and it sounds so pretty, Harry can't stop laughing, and then Mitch joins in, too, hunching over the guitar perched on his lap and adding his laughter to the symphony.

It's only then that Harry realizes that the sound of the guitar is only in his head; Mitch isn't actively playing, and Harry's own guitar is propped up against the piano on the other side of the room. He sobers up a little, trying to listen to the song happening in his brain.

"Play that," Harry says, pointing vaguely into the air, in the direction he feels like the sound is coming from.

"What?" Mitch asks, still giggling quietly.

"That sound!" Harry laughs, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to keep listening.

Mitch laughs, too, and then he starts playing, somehow matching the tune perfectly with the song Harry's imagining. Harry gasps, looking up at him, jaw hanging open while Mitch gently pulls the melody straight out of Harry's brain. It's like a string of light, golden and sparkling, feeding out of Harry's ears and straight into Mitch's fingers, glowing from the body of the guitar in waves of sound. Maybe the string is moving in the opposite direction, now that Harry thinks about it, but he can't really tell, and he can't really be bothered, anyhow.

He stands up, and his legs feel like jelly. His whole body does, actually, like all of his bones are made of marshmallow, and nothing in the world could hurt him. He starts dancing without meaning to, twirling around the room to the beat of Mitch's song. The wallpaper reaches out for him, like so many wriggling fingers of adoring fans, and he floats over to graze his hand over it, all the tendrils of the design following him, left aching in his wake.

Mitch is laughing again, playing and laughing, and Harry thinks he might be laughing at his dancing, but his eyes are closed, and he doesn't feel like opening them to find out. He likes it, though, likes the sound of Mitch's laughter, especially if he's the one causing it, so he dances a little more, puts a little more of his body into it, undulating around the living room in swirling movements like the wallpaper, like he's gone inside of it, become one with it.

He's singing something, too, dancing and singing and laughing and he's so, so fucking high, he's never tripped like this in his life and he never wants to come back down, feels warmth and light emanating from his mouth every time he sings, dripping down his body and soaking him in radiance.