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Louis drags himself off the sofa, bed covers pulled up over his hunched shoulders, eyelids heavy to the point where he’s not sure whether he’s actually awake or if this is just an incredibly realistic dream.
He stumbles over the covers pooled at his feet as he walks, hears the vague sound of his doorbell ringing again over the weird hum going on in his brain and yells a “coming”, which he realises no one is going to hear because he’s got virtually no voice.
It takes almost all his strength to yank open the heavy mahogany of his door, and when he’s regained enough of it to actually open his eyes and look at the intruder, he loses it all when he sees who’s standing in front of him.
“Oh, Louis...” Liam says, deep brown eyes huge and worried, eyebrows pushed together.
And this is why he didn’t want to trouble anyone, because it would mean troubling Liam.
All he can do is cough in response.
-
“It’s too late for me.” Louis groans, throwing an arm across his face, letting it rest over his eyes because the sun is too fucking bright and he can’t stand to even look at Liam’s face. He’s doing that thing again where he just stares at Louis all sympathetically, as if his dog’s just died and the only way he can fix it is through the power of his eyes.
“You can’t fix me. I’m broken. All you can do is save yourself, Liam. It’s my dying wish.”
He figures it’s safe to look up again when he hears a scoff, and thankfully, Liam’s face has gone back to something manageable now, eyes narrowed and lips taut, all business. This is Liam’s default face whenever Louis’ around. This Louis can handle.
“You’re not dying, Louis.” Liam deadpans, voice flat. “You’re just sick.”
“Sick of life, perhaps.” He croaks, tightening the grip he has on the edge of his blanket, pulling it further on top of him and trying to get comfortable. Liam had coerced him into the bedroom, which had seemed too much of a feat for Louis to get to, what with stairs and the uninviting hard wooden floorboards. Louis had been perfectly fine on the sofa. It was comfy and close enough to the downstairs bathroom and kitchen for whenever he needed a tea break (which seemed to be fairly often in his ill state).
Liam ignores him, placing a hand to Louis’ forehead, letting it rest there for a few seconds as Louis relaxes into the soothing touch.
“Well, you don’t have a fever,” Liam says, looking down at him with furrowed brow, “but you look and sound pretty horrible.”
“But how will I go to the ball now.” Louis gets out before being consumed by his dry rattle of a cough. He coughs until he’s wheezing, and he knows without even looking up at him that Liam is going to be watching him with that disapproval that he hates. He gets like this whenever any of them are sick, has to be the mother hen, but especially when it comes to Louis and whatever nonsense thing he’s gone and done this week.
“No balls for you until you get better.” Liam counters, tucking him in further, fitting the bed sheets in properly, and making sure Louis is wrapped in enough that he can’t get up from bed. Not that he’s going to. His whole body is aching, and all he can really think about at the moment is sleeping. He giggles a bit anyway at Liam’s words because he’s sick not dead, couldn’t miss a sexual pun like that even if he tried, and as usual, Liam pays him no mind.
He closes his eyes, lids already weighing him down with the effort it took for him to climb up his staircase and into bed. He feels Liam sit down beside him, feels the younger boy sweep strands of his fringe back from his face, his hand cool against the warm flush of Louis’ cheek.
The last thing he remembers is Liam humming something softly, almost absentmindedly. He thinks it’s maybe one of their songs (Gotta Be You? More Than This?), but he’s too exhausted, limbs feeling heavier than they’ve ever felt before, like he’s swimming on dry land through a sea of duvets. So he let’s the gentle sound of Liam’s voice lull him back into the tenuous grip of sleep once more.
-
When he wakes up, he can’t say that he feels that much better. His throat is scratchy as hell, but his body feels lighter. Like, all he really needed was a bit of rest and recoup to recharge up his batteries. Get his mind back on track.
He’d woken up enough times during his nap to recognise that he wasn’t going to get a proper sleep due to the persistent nature of his cough. It came in spurts, making his throat feel like a small animal was brushing its bushy tail down his throat, trying to build a kindling fire that Louis kept attempting to cough back up.
He’s pretty sure that he’s given himself a nice work out from all the coughing (Liam would be proud). His stomach is so tender and sore that he half-expects to lift up his shirt and find a six pack under there instead of the small pouch of a tummy he knows is actually hidden beneath his pyjamas.
He’s also pretty sure that Liam had come in some time during the day, but he isn’t sure if that had been a dream or real, because he isn’t here right now, and the other side of Louis’ bed is cold, as if no one was ever there at all. It’s weird because he could have sworn that the few times he’d woken up coughing, he had felt a reassuring hand run down his back, a warm presence wrap themselves around him, but his mum always did tell him he had an overactive imagination, and it was entirely plausible that his mind had made all of it up. That he had maybe hoped for something so much that it had actually weaved its way into his dreamworld in an attempt to make him feel better.
Right now it just makes him feel even colder though, despite having stewed in his own body heat for the last however many hours he’s been napping for. He knows that no matter how hard he tries, his throat won’t allow him to go back to sleep now.
This is shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.
He tries to roll over, but the duvet is pulled tight across his shoulders, pinning him down to the bed. He shifts over slightly, peering down at his mattress to find that someone has tucked his sheets under the mattress hotel style, which he’s fairly certain is not his doing (though he can’t be that sure because he was half out of his mind with exhaustion the last time he was awake). He figures that it’s possible his housekeeper came in some time during his sleep to clean up a bit, but when he looks around his room it doesn’t seem any cleaner, just looks mostly the same. And it’s not like she would come into his room, tuck him in super tight (to the point of almost constriction) and leave. She’s not even scheduled to come in today because it’s Christmas.
He wiggles around uselessly for a couple of minutes, trying to extract himself from his bed without mucking up the covers, but fails miserably. He struggles some more before finally giving up and settling onto his back, the only position that the bedsheets allow him a little bit of leeway with.
The effort of making it out of his bed, going down the stairs, and making a cup of tea sounds too physically fatiguing at the moment, and he’d really rather just stay lying in his bed, drowning in his sheets, hoping to god that his housekeeper is not actually a creepy murderer lurking in his kitchen waiting for him to come down to kill him on Christmas Day of all days (or holding him up here as a hostage, which would explain the whole binding him to the mattress thing). He pushes the thought from his mind after he realises that if she wanted to kill him, she could have done it when he was sleeping rather than tucking him in.
He’s mulling his theories over in his mind, when his bedroom door suddenly opens, and instead of his housekeeper, it’s Liam that’s walking in, bed tray in hand. He smiles when he sees that Louis’ awake, and Louis tries not to let his heart burst out of his chest the way he can feel it trying to. And, oh ok, so that wasn’t a dream after all.
“Feeling better?” Liam asks kindly, setting the tray down over Louis’ legs. He wriggles up a bit, so he’s sitting up against the headboard.
“A bit.” Louis wheezes, actually managing to hold the cough he can feel in his throat down. His voice still sounds shot, but everything other than that, feels a bit better. He can actually feel his head now which is definitely something.
“Here,” Liam says, picking up a mug and passing it to Louis. It’s hot and Louis nearly drops it all over himself, luckily Liam’s still got his hands around it. “Tea will make you feel better.”
And Liam doesn’t need to tell Louis that because tea always makes him feel better, but he already feels all warm and lovely inside just holding it and knowing that Liam made it for him. He blows on it, taking a sip, and let’s his hands cup around the mug until it’s too hot for him to hold. He puts it down on the tray, eyes moving curiously to the bowl of chicken soup next to it.
“Thanks.” He whispers, because that way it actually sounds more like words rather than him being possessed by the devil. Liam’s face lights up a bit at that, and Louis feels his throat constrict, which in turn makes him cough some more. It takes him awhile to get his breath back but then Liam’s patting him comfortingly, letting his palm linger even after Louis’ coughing spell’s broken.
“What are you doing here?” He asks, once he’s chest feels a little less painful, and the words come out a bit harsher than he meant them to. Liam’s eyes flicker in that way Louis knows all too well, like he’s done something wrong. “I just,” he continues, wanting to patch it up because he can’t stand when Liam thinks he’s messed up, can’t stand that ridiculous look on his face when it’s Louis who should be the one feeling shit about himself. “What are you doing with me? Shouldn’t you be with your family?”
Liam shrugs, but the flicker is gone, expression set in that soft default mode of his that Louis knows and loves way too much. It’s more exasperated than anything else, and despite having travelled the world, seen so many sights in his short life span, it’s still one of the best things Louis has ever seen.
“Niall texted me. He said you were ‘absolutely, totally, completely, 100% not even a little bit under the weather’.” He sounds unimpressed, but Louis knows him well enough to read past it. He can sense the undercurrent of fondness there that’s threaded into every one of Liam’s ‘I’m very, very disappointed in you’ speeches.
“And as you can see, he was right.” Another series of coughs. It’s selfish how glad Louis is that Liam’s here. He should be with his family, it’s not like he gets to see them that often, and he has to put up with Louis’ ugly mug all day every day. Even if Louis doesn’t need a break from Liam, he knows that he can be a handful to deal with sometimes, and he figures that Liam needs as much break as he can get, so he feels no small amount of guilt over Liam having to change all his plans to come over here and babysit him.
He thought he’d already had it all set with his own family, what with somehow, against all odds, managing to convince his mum that she didn’t need to come down from Doncaster to baby him for Christmas (not with four other little ones to deal with). He’d be fine. Liam showing up and being Liam was actually the last thing that he needed, even if it was maybe what he really wanted. Then again, he’s never been able to say no to Liam anyway.
“You should have told me.” Liam admonishes him sternly, and Louis sips at his tea gratefully. Dips his spoon into his chicken soup and puts it in his mouth while Liam sighs loudly a couple more times.
He’s halfway done with his soup, relishing in the way the hot liquid slides down his sore throat, when he finally works up enough remorse to open his mouth again.
“I didn’t want you to worry.” He slides down the headboard a bit, eyes sliding over to the alarm clock on his bedside table. “I’m honestly feeling better, Li. You could still make it in time for dinner if you go now.”
He hopes it’s not too obvious how everything in him feels like it’s sagging. As if to prove his point, he slips down the headboard some more, sinking back into the snug pull of his bed.
“What and leave you here with no Fairy Godmother? I don’t think so.” His lips are quirked up, crease in the middle of his forehead fainter than before, but still there. Louis reaches out a hand, presses his thumb to it, smooths it out because Liam works too hard and worries too much, and he should never have to worry. When he takes his thumb away, the crease is all but gone, and Liam is staring at him with so much light that if he closes his eyes, Louis swears he would see the purple outline of Liam’s form against the black of his eyelids. Vague and hazy, but there all the same.
“But how do I find my Prince Charming if I’m not allowed to attend any balls?”
He’s joking, of course, but Liam’s eyes are twinkling, corners of his mouth working up into a smile, and Louis’ never seen anyone look more like a prince, buzz cut, tattoos and all. There’s a fire burning in his chest, but it’s different to the one he’s been feeling the past couple of days. It’s more like the beginnings of a spark than a full blaze, and Louis just wants to ignite it.
“I suppose you’ll just have to make do.” Liam replies, nose crinkling in that wonderful way of his, lips pulled up huge against the slight pink of his cheeks.
“I suppose so.” Louis says before pulling himself up into Liam’s space and fitting their mouths together, fingers sliding along Liam’s collarbones to the back of his neck, trailing tenderly into the spiky strands of his shorn hair.
There’s a brief moment when Louis realises he’s ill and he’s being selfish passing it on to Liam like this. He reluctantly tries to pull away, but then Liam’s balling his fists in the material of Louis’ shirt, tugging him closer, and he can’t bring himself to pull away, not with Liam so hot and amazing and desperate against him like this. He’s not strong enough. He chalks it down to his already weakened state (though he knows it’s not true, knows that it’s Liam).
Liam opens his mouth and Louis melts into it, letting the heat from his chest works it’s way through his lips. Liam’s hands move up his shirt, past his neck, work themselves into his hair, which Louis really, really needs to wash, but he forgets about it the instant he thinks it, losing himself to the slow pull of Liam’s teeth on his bottom lip, his tongue working it’s way into Louis’ mouth.
They snog until Louis is absolutely breathless, has to force himself away because the fire in his throat is winning the fight. He coughs and coughs and coughs, in between moaning to Liam at length about how he hates being sick (even though he can’t really, not now). It’s made somewhat more tolerable now, what with Liam cuddling him to his chest, easing the covers back enough so that he can get in too. Louis’ not sure when exactly Liam moved the tray out of the way, but he’s just glad that he can press his body up against Liam’s. Glad he can breathe in the familiar, calming scent of Liam, and that it’s ok that he’s allowed to do this now (even if it took them a bloody long time to get to this point).
Liam hums, his chest reverberating with the sound, and this time Louis knows he’s definitely humming one of their songs (One Thing), could laugh at the cheese, but it’s theirs and it fits, so he just snuggles in closer, lets his head rest against Liam’s chest, lets the song flow through his body in time with the beat of Liam’s heart.
He thinks it’s the best medicine yet.
-
Liam wakes up the next day with a tickle in his throat. Louis’ slung across him, legs casually flung over Liam’s stomach. He lets out a cough and Louis opens his eyes, colour back on his cheeks again. Liam’s glare looks too much like the love that it is, and all Louis does is smirk, folding in closer to him.
“I think I know how to make it better.” Louis says, grinning mischievously, voice already halfway back.