It starts with the headaches.
Which isn't so unusual, really — they're on break, technically, but it's still weeks on end of being shuttled from one place to another with interviewers gabbing in their ears, repeating the same goddamned questions over and over and fucking over and it's so exhausting Louis thinks he might explode if one more person asks how his relationship is going.
Fine, he answers. Great, even. It really is. Just not with Eleanor.
They don't need to know that, though.
And they don't, but they still keep asking, and three weeks into promo Louis truly feels like his head is going to explode, like his brain is pulsing right against his skull. It's horrible and no matter how many cigarettes he smokes or pain pills and glasses of water and tea he swallows it doesn't let up; the pain subsides some but never truly goes away.
It's frustrating, but not alarming. Not yet.
Home, Louis thinks. Home. He just can't wait to get home, where he can kick off his jeans and curl up under the covers and close his eyes and sleep for an hour or maybe ten until his brain is fully rested and not feeling like it's about to bust through his skull. But for now he's trapped in the back of a car with Harry and a driver who apparently doesn't understand that silence is golden.
If he were in a better mood, Louis might just engage him in conversation, talking excitedly and laughing at his poor excuses for jokes but right now he's just not in the mood, and Harry notices. Of course he does. Harry notices everything.
"Your head again, hm?" Harry mumbles, lips pressed to Louis' temple. Louis just nods weakly, making a soft whining noise and cuddling into Harry's side. His head is still throbbing, but with his face buried in Harry's stupid, expensive leather jacket, it's a little better because all he can smell is Harry, all warm and familiar and home. God, he can't wait to get home.
They arrive at their flat just as Louis has started dozing. Harry thanks the driver, quick and polite – always so professional, he is – before looping a hand over Louis' shoulder and tugging him towards the door, urging him to be quick. Nobody knows where this flat is, but there's always been the chance of someone catching sight of them and following them home. Their drivers are usually good about making sure they aren't followed, looping around the neighborhood until any hangers-on are hopelessly confused, but Harry likes to be sure, anyway.
Louis toes off his shoes as soon as he's through the front door, making a beeline for the couch and burying his face in a terribly tacky and uncomfortable decorative pillow. He feels the couch dip slightly under Harry's weight as he sits down next to him, warm hand on his back, smoothing down his shirt and Louis feels all the tension leave his body, turning to give Harry a grateful smile.
Harry grins back, all dimples and teeth, patting his lap invitingly and Louis loves him so much he could die as he crawls over and rests his head in Harry's warm lap. Harry's hands are on him before he's even gotten settled, fingers stroking through his hair and scratching his scalp lightly.Louis hums appreciatively, nuzzling into Harry's hand.
"Good, boo?" Harry asks gently, fingers pressing lightly on his temple and Louis manages a soft uh-huh before he drifts off, wrapped up in Harry's touch and scent and it almost scares him to think he'll never be as happy as he is when he's in Harry's arms.
When he wakes up, the sky outside the window is dark, his head is still in Harry's lap, The Notebook is playing on the television, and he has to puke.
It's, like. His head is throbbing, pain no longer dull but sharp and clawing at every inch of him, and he can feel it, can feel it crawling up his throat and he doesn't even have time to give Harry a fair warning before he jerks himself away, staggering towards the hallway bathroom and he knows he won't make it to the toilet so he aims for the sink, instead, spewing breakfast and lunch and the really good iced tea he'd been drinking in the car into the pretty marble sink with the shiny silver faucet.
He barely has time to recover before he hears Harry's footsteps approaching, socked feet on carpet and then a large hand is on his back, heat seeping through his shirt and coming to curl around his spine like a napping cat.
"Hey," Harry says gently, moving closer so his hip is bumping Louis' waist, smoothing back the sweaty fringe from Louis' forehead and Louis is still gasping, out of breath, knuckles white as he clutches the edge of the counter. The pain is a little better now, reduced to a dull ache, like his head is being very, very slowly squeezed by a vice instead of, say, crushed under the weight of an anvil. "Babe," he tries again, fingers gently tugging at his bicep. "What can I do?"
When he can finally breathe again, nausea still coming and going in waves, Louis croaks out, "Water. Please." Harry is nodding, out the door and clomping on down the hall towards the kitchen before Louis can press his back against the wall, sliding to sit on the cool tiled floor. It feels wonderful against his burning skin and he shifts so he can lay down, pressing his temple and he has to bite back a groan of relief, eyes slipping shut. It's so nice. It'd probably be nicer if it weren't the tile in their guest bathroom, but he's going to take what he can get.
He's so lost in the feeling of the freezing tiles soothing his throbbing head that he doesn't even Harry coming back down the hallway until he's at Louis' side, panic-stricken voice slicing through the quiet like a knife and Louis jerks up, only to find Harry with one hand clutching a glass of ice water, the other pressed over his chest like he's nearly had a heart attack.
"Sorry," Louis mumbles, embarrassed, but not too embarrassed to pry the glass from Harry's hand and take an almost painfully large gulp of water. "Just resting. Felt nice on my head."
Harry's eyes are wide, still coming down from the fright of finding his boyfriend lying motionless on the bathroom floor, but he cracks a tiny smile anyway. "You goof," he mutters, fingers smoothing across Louis' forehead. Checking for a fever, Louis realizes, practically swooning at the gesture.
"You don't feel warm," Harry says finally, standing and extending a hand to Louis, pulling him up and promptly sweeping him off his feet, gathering him up in his arms.
"Harry," he protests weakly, slamming tiny fists against Harry's broad chest in vain. "Let me down."
Harry just grins, that little shit, and carries him up the stairs, depositing him gently onto their shared bed like he's precious cargo before crawling onto the bed next to him, lying on his belly and kicking his legs up, crossing and uncrossing them like a child. It's ridiculously endearing and Louis kind of wants to kiss him.
"Harry," Louis repeats, rolling over so as to get some distance from his favorite boy in the world. "'M sick. Gonna get you all germy."
Harry chuckles fondly, rolling over so he's just as close to Louis as when he started. "Don't care. Gonna take care of you, boo." He rests a warm hand on Louis' belly and his stomach flutters when he realizes yet again just how large Harry's hands are, covering almost the entire span of his torso. Harry notices too, murmuring a fond, "So little. My little Lou."
And, yeah. Louis could get used to this.