Sidemen Oneshots

Contagious

"Chriz's shick."

The words come out muffled around a (soup) spoon full of cereal, nearly incoherent to any ear unfamiliar with the likes of Harry Lewis.

"You what, what?" Stephen asks at the same time that Will hums, flicking a finger in the air with a simple ahh. Bless him, Stephen can't always hear at the best of times, let alone when someone has a gob full of food.

Harry rolls his eyes, swallowing, yet repeats himself anyway. He can put up a front any day of the week, but they all know he's absolutely weak for Stephen. "I said, 'Chris is sick,' you have ears for a reason, mate, so use them."

"Oh, sorry," the enunciation of the extended r sound earns him a little snort from Will (leading him to try and hold back a glow of pride, which he fails miraculously at). "I didn't realise you were my fucking doctor."

"Wait," Will interrupts, preventing Harry from releasing any actual words from his open mouth, poised to fire back yet forced to step down. "If he's sick, then what the bloody hell are you doing down 'ere? You've slept in the same bed as him the past two nights and then you wanna come cuddle up to me this morning. You've gotta be kidding me. I can't get sick! I have a meeting scheduled every day this week."

("Ooh, look at the big business man," Stephen mocks in a funny voice. He receives a glare for his efforts and promptly returns back to his own bowl of cereal, head lowered meekly.)

"I'm not sick! You can't exile me when I'm not even sick yet."

"Gonna have to put you in quarantine," Stephen remarks solemnly, shaking his head, at the same time that Will yells out, "'Yet!' So you admit it yourself! You're gonna get sick. And then me an' him are gonna get sick too. Then we'll all be sick, and it would be all your fault."

"Erm, actually," Stephen defends before Harry can even get the chance to, "technically it would be Chris' fault, not Harry's."

"Exactly! At least someone around here can see sense."

With that, Will harrumphs and stomps his way over to the sink on heavy feet. His ceramic bowl is deposited into the basin gently, a stark contrast to the look on his face as he turns and grumpily announces, "I might as well just go and kiss Chris, shall I?"

-

"Finally!" Chris exclaims the moment Will steps foot into the room, having perked up as soon as he saw the door handle rattle. (He has been watching it like a hawk since Harry got him settled and then left him alone twenty minutes ago.) "I've been waiting ages for one of you guys to come and see me."

The shorter man's voice is stuffy with disuse among other things, the croak of it causing Will to grimace and scrunch his nose. He doesn't want to be here: he can't afford to get sick at any point this month. His schedule is packed and won't allow for any time off, not even a day.

Oh, but Chris just looks so pitiful like this. He has a damp face towel folded over and resting on his forehead, a fluffy hot water bottle (a gift from Stephen's mother) clutched tightly in his hands, and a cooling bowl of soup and a slowly warming glass of ice water resting on the nightstand.

"Harry sorted you out good, didn't he?" Will asks, the question mostly rhetorical but followed by a brief silence that leaves room for Chris to answer if he wants to.

"Yeah but he forgot to bring me a spoon for my soup." The words, paired with the pouty scowl on Chris' face, have Will chuckling to himself.

"The cheek of you to badmouth him after he did all this for you." Will nods towards Chris, referring to his current state of stereotypical illness recovery. "I'll go and get you a spoon, then."