next to you ❀ l.s.

fifty four - happy birthday

Harry sat up quickly, sending himself spiralling into another dizzy spell. He pressed his fingers to his temples, groaning softly as his head turned circles like a top. His bedroom looked strange, his vision blurry and distorted. Suddenly, cold hands wrapped around his upper arms, squeezing reassuringly as they pushed him back, and he couldn't quite find the strength to fight them.

"Hey, hey. Lay back down. Slowly, slowly. There's a good boy," Louis told him gently, coaxing him back down into bed.

"Lou," he rasped. He cleared his throat, but it didn't do much to soothe the ache. "Hurts."

"I know, baby, I know. Where does it hurt?"

Harry clamped his lips together instinctively. His brain felt mushy and muddled, and the only thing he could focus on was not burdening Louis with his problems. His body ached, shivering with fever, but he could take care of himself.

"Harry." Louis's tone bordered on scolding. "Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart."

He shook his head weakly. "I'm okay," he whispered shakily, insistent but unconvincing.

"Hazza. Come on, my love. Tell me what hurts."

"Head," he mumbled finally, the single word swimming in silent apologies. He buried his face in the pillow; the fabric felt sticky against his skin. "Tummy hurts, too," he complained quietly, his tone gradually stretching out into a whine. "And my throat."

"Poor baby. My poor baby."

Harry cleared his throat harshly, his heartbeat throbbing painfully in his ears. "I-I'll be fine."

"I told you to put on more layers before we went out. When I woke up this morning, you were burning up," Louis explained sympathetically.

"We went skating days ago," Harry argued. He tried to clear his throat again, but it just turned into a harsh cough. "Too long. Must be something else."

"Maybe you literally worried yourself sick, sweetheart. You've been running yourself ragged," the older boy laughed quietly, though his tone was more sympathetic than amused. He brushed Harry's matted curls away from his sweaty forehead, tsking softly. "You're burning up still."

Harry shook his head weakly, instinctively leaning into Louis's touch. "Cold," he murmured, grasping at his messy pile of blankets.

"Let's get you something warm to eat and drink, hmm? I heated up some soup earlier because I thought you'd be awake sooner, but it's probably cold by now."

"Don't want to move," Harry said, his voice muffled by the sheets. "Can't."

"You need to eat something."

"I know," he agreed. "I just don't think I can even stand up. Feels like my body is made of jello." Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to work past the little voice in his head that urged him not to ask Louis for help; that anything was too much. "Do you think you could . . ?"

Louis didn't even let him finish before he was reaching under the covers, hooking one arm under Harry's knees and the other behind his back, scooping him out of the bed like he didn't weigh a pound. Harry squealed in surprise, but Louis seemed unphased, heading down the hallway with both Harry and his bundle of blankets in his arms.

"Lou!" he exclaimed. His eyes shot open, and he clutched at the older boy's neck. Realizing that there was no use in fighting, he sighed, dropping his head onto Louis's shoulder. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Taking you to the kitchen."

"You could've just brought the soup to me, don't you think? You know, the tiny little bowl, quite easy to carry." Harry suggested. His eyes fell closed again, completely trusting Louis to navigate them into the kitchen without dropping him or banging his head against a wall.