California Sold - Larry Stylinson

chapter 3

Louis wakes up earlier than Harry the morning after the stunt. His back protests loudly when he rolls back from where he is curled around the other boy's sleeping body. His shoulders land on the mattress, and an unpleasant snapping shakes through his joints. He groans softly, scratching the back of his head. His mouth tastes like rotting alcohol, and his teeth are furry against his tongue.

Last night was shit. Proper fucked up.

A normal night out for Louis means getting wasted, dancing into the AM, and leaving in a black taxi while trying not to pass out in the backseat. A normal night out does not entail forty paps shouting in his face, and his best mate having a meltdown.

His right arm is still tucked under Harry's body, numb from the pressure of his weight. They're still in the same clothes as when they arrived home, and everything around them reeks of alcohol and sweat. Harry smells disgusting, to be completely frank. Louis will tell him that, too, once he wakes up. Which might take a couple of hours. The other man is still out like a light, shoulders rising and falling with deep inhales and heavy exhales. He probably needs all the extra hours of rest he can get, considering how rough things have been for him these last months. Louis won't wake him up, despite the plethora of questions that are nibbling on his insides.

Something in him twists at the thought of Harry's behaviour the previous night. He knows Harry's journey has been largely unsmooth the last few weeks, and he fears that this wasn't a solitary incident. Letting off steam by getting high or drunk is one thing, but getting so smashed he can't stand up unsupported during a stunt is another. Maybe Louis is overreacting, but he is worried. He even uncomfortably contemplates asking Alberto, but it feels like that would be going behind Harry's back. He is his best mate, not a parent.

The curtains to the bed are pulled up, and the vague sunlight from outside is beaming in through the large windows and the balcony door. Louis sighs, and leans over, without removing his arm, toward the nightstand where his phone seems to be perched. It's only eight, and there's a text message waiting from his mum. She is asking if the flight to America went alright, and there's another where she requests he gets Harry to FaceTime her later. He tosses his phone away to the end of the bed, figuring he should go take a shower. His contact lenses are itching like a bitch, too.

Harry stirs when Louis removes his arm, sliding it out from beneath him. He doesn't wake up entirely, and Louis leaves him, ambling toward the bathroom. He finds lavender coloured towels waiting on a pretty shelf, the softness of the material as he picks one making him hum softly. His own back home need to be replaced, honestly. He turns on the shower, letting the water fall to the nicely done tile for a few minutes while he brushes his teeth, rubbing the stench from his mouth away.

The bathroom is spacious. The shower is large, and he could probably attempt a handstand in there if he so desired — which he doesn't, gymnastics of any sort isn't really his thing — the mirror is round and clean, reflecting green tile from the walls, that matches the dark brown tile floor perfectly. The colour scheme is interesting in this house, to say the least, but Harry has always had quite eclectic tastes.

Somewhere in between rubbing shampoo against his scalp and washing it out, Louis hears the door open and somebody falling to their knees by the toilet. He winces before he has even heard the retching noises, pressing his eyes shut under the spray.

"Mate," he hums eventually, when there is a pause in the noises of Harry's insides turning upside down. "You okay?"

"No," comes a coarse sound back.

Louis can't see him properly. The glass separating them is steamy, and his eyesight is already fuzzy without contacts or glasses. He rinses the shampoo and soap off his body, before shutting the water off. He steps out, fetching the purple towel off the counter by the sink and dries himself off, ensuring his hair isn't dripping on the soft rug on the floor. When he opens his eyes, he finds Harry leaning over the toilet, shirtless, but still in his fancy striped trousers. Those are probably expensive. His stylist would surely freak if she knew they'd been slept in.