The first thing Harry's senses picked up when he awoke was the smashing in his head.
For a short second he wondered what the fuck was throwing furniture around inside of his skull, and then the (vague) memories of last night arrived, and he groaned.
Flailing out a hand, he grabbed up the hoodie he slept with- oh, it wasn't his hoodie. It was Dougie's, purely because Dougie- Smell was the best of smells, and it helped him sleep. However, the strong scent was doing absolutely nothing to lessen the dizziness Harry felt as he attempted to stand.
He fastened it around his waist and began the perilous journey to his front room, to face the carnage undoubtedly left from last night.
Harry faced his living room with an expression he felt brought new meaning to the word 'aghast'. Muttering a quick prayer to whatever deity might clean up his house in the time it took to swallow a pill, he banged through to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen- hangovers are no time to exhibit shows of elegance, after all- and downed a glass of water with the first headache tablet he came across. Returning to the living room, he realised that there was no such God that tidied party left overs (or if there was, he didn't like Harry) and so the drummer set about organising the carnage.
Half an hour later, the room resembling somewhat a normal living room once again, Harry flopped down on to the sofa and flung the hoodie over his face. Breathing in Dougie, the headache seemed to ebb away, and he relaxed slightly. Just as Harry reached a point of slight relaxation, his mobile went off with a violent vibration and a 'Kaa-zing!'
Cursing Danny and his habit of changing people's ringtones 'for fun', Harry tracked down his phone from the floor under the sofa and glared at it for a moment.
The screen displayed several tweets, a voice mail and a missed call. The latter two were from Dougie, so Harry decided to check the tweets first, in an attempt to deny the fact that yes, he was obsessed with the younger man.
The only interest Twitter held for him was Dougie's agreement to try and get Tom to sing Teenage Dream. Rolling his eyes, Harry envisioned Tom's reaction- of course he would say yes.
Closing Twitter, Harry flipped the mobile to his ear, listening closely to Dougie's voicemail.
"Answer your goddamn phone, Judd, I've got exciting news for you... eep. See? That's genuine excitement right there. Eep."
Harry chuckled as he pressed call back, anticipating Dougie's news. Flicking on the TV as the phone rang, Harry didn't realise Dougie had picked up until his cheery voice rang out.
"Morning, sunshine! How's the hangover? Found the smashed glass yet?"
"Yeah, it's- wait, what smashed glass?"
"Um. Um, what? What smashed glass? Nobody said anything about a smashed glass. Weirdo. How's the head?"
Shaking his head, Harry made a mental note to yell at whoever broke the glass later. "Better, thanks to the dusty Nurofen at the back of the cupboard."
"You really need to keep your alcoholism in check, you know, then you wouldn't be in these situations."
"I barely drank a thing!"
"Harry, you downed an eight pack of Fosters, a bottle and a half of wine and several glasses of... Ribena, actually, which was quite amusing."
"I drank Ribena? I hate Ribena."
"This was after the Fosters, Judd. Focus."
"Oh." Harry grimaced. "Right. Jesus, I really drank all that? What did Danny drink then? He must've been worse than me."
"Danny passed out after his sixth Foster. We suspect foul play in the form of him sneaking twelve Stella Artois in your bathroom."
"Fucker."
"'S Danny. Then there's us sensible folk who stick to water and feel like saints come morning. I'm gonna be over in half an hour, be dressed or... well, be naked."
Harry began to form a retort but gave up and laughed. "Fine. Bring your own key or you can wait in the rain."
"Lovely."
Hanging up the phone Harry began making his way to the bathroom to get washed, discarding the hoodie on his sofa.
Twenty minutes later, after a long shower in which he thought over his career (slightly above average, being in a wide selling band) plans for the week (depressing) and love life (didn't really bear thinking about), Harry finally walked through to his bedroom. Clad only in a white towel, he scratched at his damp hair as he entered the room, then, letting out a less- than- manly shriek, promptly exited it again as he caught sight of a person on the bed. The towel slipped to the ground and Dougie let out a snigger.
"My, how you've grown."
Harry swallowed and tried to come up with a suitable retort. "Jealous?"
Work on the come- backs, Judd, you twat.
"Of what? Your ever present wit, or ever absent genitals? Did they shrink in the wash?"
"At least two inches bigger than you, Poynter."
"My God, I have something to worry about then, don't I."
Harry smirked and walked over to the bed, realising with slight confusion that being naked in front of Dougie didn't bother him in the slightest. Jumping on to the bed, he flung himself on the smaller man, grinning down at him playfully. After a second, he noticed Dougie's attempt at a subtle look over his body. Needless to say, subtlety wasn't Dougie's strongest point, and he resembled a perverted fish, with his slightly- bulging eyes directed mainly at Harry's chest and groin.
Harry started crawling towards Dougie, placing his arms either side of the blonde. They half- sat, half- lay there like that for a silent moment, staring at each other in obvious lust.
After a moment, Harry cracked a smirk. "Alright?"
"Yeah, mate." Dougie cleared his throat. "You?"
"Never better." Harry swallowed, and let a sly smile slide on to his face. "Excited about something?"
Dougie was caught off guard and he blinked. "Wha- what?"
"You blush when you're horny, Dougie."
"I- I do not!"
"Eight years I've known you, think I haven't noticed? Not that I mind, of course."
Leaning closer, Harry prepared to press his lips against Dougie's.
Suddenly, a voice yelled from downstairs. "Oi, Harry, Dougie! You shagging or something?"