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Sometimes Harry doesn’t think before he speaks.
“You can’t be serious,” Louis stops, then adds, “Oh my God, you are serious.”
“Lou-”
“I have a bad attitude? Huh! That's rather interesting. Maybe you ought to do some self reflection because I’m not the problem here.”
Harry sighs, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Obviously you did!” Louis shouts, crossing his arms over his chest. His shoulders are dominantly rolled back and his weight is shifted to one leg. “If you didn’t mean it, then why did you say it?”
“You haven’t exactly been a joy to be around tonight,” Harry argues. “I can’t help that you’re caught up in your own bullshit. It isn’t my fault that you’re having a bad time.”
Lottie shakes her head. “Can you two not do this right now? This is my launch, not yours. Tonight isn’t about either one of you.”
“Lottie,” Harry says, turning to face the blonde girl, “I think I can say on mine and your brother’s behalf-“
“Don’t you dare talk for me, Styles,” Louis snaps. “You’re the last person I need talking for me.”
“Maybe you out to just go home then,” Harry says. “Since you can’t put on a smile in support of your own bloody sister.”
Louis scoffs, stepping closer to Harry. “And since when do you think you get an opinion on any of this? You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?”
“I don’t-“
“Well, you sure seem to have an answer for everything,” he interrupts. “I’m allowed to have a bad day, Harry. Hell, when you have a bad day you’re absolutely miserable to be around. You’re a proper prick.”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, so now I’m a prick?”
“You constantly take your frustration out on me!” Louis shouts. “I never say a word about it, but the one night I don’t feel my best, you deem it necessary to yell at me. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here to show my support for my sister. I don’t need you to patronizing me.”
Lottie sighs, bowing her head, and pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Can you two please stop?”
Harry shakes his head. “I’m not patronizing you. I’m just saying-“
“What are you saying?” Louis retorts.
“If you would let me fucking finish, I would tell you,” he barks. “I’m saying there’s cameras all around and you don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, alright? Just try to look like you’re having a good time.”
Louis arches his back with a laugh. “Why the fuck am I listening to you? Half the time you’re too disoriented to even know what’s going on. What do you know about the press? I’m always the one to save your ass.”
“Yeah, and I’m trying to return the favor,” Harry says, simply.
“Guys,” Lottie sighs.
“Well it’s about fucking time!” Louis shouts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do me a favor and leave me alone for the rest of the night and if I feel better, maybe I’ll come home.”
“Louis-“ Lottie whispers-
“Don’t you dare hold that above my head,” Harry says. “If you’re gonna do that, then don’t bother coming home.”
“You act like that bothers me,” he bellows. “You need me far more than I need you, Harry.”
Harry narrows his eyes. “If you think I need you then you’re sadly mistaken,” he says. “I don’t need anyone. Why are you being such a fucking prick? If you don’t feel good then why did you come at all?”
“Because unlike you, Harry, I try my best to be present. I don’t concern myself entirely around the things that go wrong in my life.” He shifts his weight to one leg, standing confidently across from Harry. He is more than certain that he can maintain his side of the argument.
“Are you really equating your cold to my epilepsy?”
“What are you going to do about it?” Louis asks, snidely.
Harry turns his head, clenching his eyes shut as he attempts to process Louis’ frank idiocracy. “You-” he chuckles- “You do realize that your cold, or whatever fucking miniscule illness you’re suffering, will last a week at most, don’t you? My epilepsy will remain intact for the rest of my fucking life. It isn’t a fair comparison.”
“Everything always has to be about you, doesn’t it?” Louis asks. “I understand the severity of your disorder, Harry. I think I understand it more than even you do, but this isn’t about you right now. It’s about me not feeling well and you needing to be the one to step up for once, which you’ve failed to do.”
Harry feels his heart sink. He didn’t know the reason behind Louis being so upset, but now he has a firm understanding, and he isn’t content with knowing Louis feels this way in regard to him.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t know you weren’t well.”
“Of course you didn’t. If something doesn't pertain to you, you don’t pay it any attention,” Louis points out.
Harry stares at him, awestruck. “Louis, I-”
“Just-” he interrupts, then sighs- “just do me a favor and stay away from me for the rest of the night. I need time to think.”
“But I said I was sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry doesn’t mean anything if it isn’t sincere. I don’t think you understand why I’m frustrated.”
“I-”
“I’ll see you later tonight, okay?” He doesn’t allow him an opportunity to respond. “Take it easy.” He turns on his heel and exits the room.
Lottie steps closer to Harry, reaching for his hand, and squeezes. “You know how Louis gets. He’ll come around soon. Now,” she looks to the table littered with nail varnishes, attempting to lift Harry's spirit. “Do you think I should wear the pink polish or the blue one?”
“Hm,” Harry hums, approaching the nail polishes. He holds the pink shade in his right hand and the blue in his left, examining each of them. “I like the pink one.”
“Okay,” she pauses. “Will you wear the blue?”
Harry raises his eyebrows.
He has always enjoyed painting his nails, though he chooses to decorate them in his own time, away from those who may tease his queerness because of his colored nails. He often debates presenting varnished nails to the general public, but considering he loves his boyfriend’s sister so much, he feels compelled to do so.
“Sure,” he says, nonchalant. “I don’t see why not.”
“Perfect!” she exclaims, embracing him from his side. “Thank you so much. Lou wouldn’t dare wear nail polish for me.”
Later in the night, Louis is nowhere to be seen. He’s clearly around because there are whispers pertaining to him every now and again. As much as Harry would like to speak with him, he knows better. He knows he needs to allow Louis time to cool down because they won’t be able to have a mature conversation until he’s done so.
He stands in a back room, allowing Lottie to enjoy the night without his presence overpowering it, with a few of Louis’ friends, Lottie’s friends, and Eleanor.
“It’s been awhile,” Eleanor says, a glass of white wine in her hand. “How are you, Harry?”
Harry stares at her drink, then shifts his attention to her face. He figures he’s consumed enough alcohol for the night, limiting himself to two Martinis, because he doesn’t want to risk seizure activity. As long as he doesn’t drink more than two or three alcoholic beverages he’s usually safe.
“I’m well,” he says.
Eleanor smiles, tight-lipped. Speaking with her does not feel comfortable considering she was apart of the poor media image placed on Louis. “That’s good,” she looks away from him. “And your epilepsy, how is that?”
“How is it?” Harry rephrases, unimpressed. He hates how his disorder frequently becomes a conversation starter. It’s difficult for him to live conventionally when someone is asking about his epilepsy every time they see him. “Still existent, I suppose. It’s a hassle. Some people aren’t very impressed with it, I’m afraid.”
She raises her eyebrows. “And by some people you mean Louis. Don’t tell me you two had another falling out. That can’t possibly be healthy.”
“I’m not worried about it. We’ve always argued,” he supplies. “We’re at a rough patch right now. Since the band went on hiatus, we’ve been at a loss. We don’t know what to do with ourselves.”
Eleanor sighs, “It probably doesn’t help that Jay’s been sick. I heard you’ve also been sick,” she says. “I bet he’s under a lot of stress.”
“Yeah, I can understand why he’s upset with me,” he answers.
“Lottie said you were really sick last month,” she points out, changing the subject of conversation. “Like, properly sick. Had a stint in the hospital and everything.”
Harry shakes his head because, of course, Lottie would let his personal business slip to Eleanor in privacy. While Eleanor is a nice girl, she enjoys gossip too much and is constantly seen as an instigator. “I had the flu,” he says.
“I heard you were in the hospital for a week,” Eleanor says. “Seems a bit extensive for the flu if I’m being honest.”
“You have got to be the nosiest person I’ve ever met,” he replies, dryly, “but since you’re so keen on knowing, my seizure threshold spiked and I couldn’t keep my medication down. Louis panicked obviously, as any normal person would, and it took me at least a week in the hospital to feel better.”
Eleanor drinks. “That’s terrible.”
“I appreciate your lack of sympathy tremendously,” he says.
“Sorry,” she shrugs.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes and instead sits at the unoccupied table located near the back of the room, scrolling through his social media accounts, all of which have been significantly inactive.
Eleanor leans against the wall, drink in one hand and cell phone in the other, as Lottie’s friends converse with her. Harry knows a few of them, has even spent time with a couple of the girls, considering Lottie and Gemma spend their time with the same people. Gemma was supposed to come tonight, but couldn’t due to her boyfriend feeling under the weather.
As he scrolls through his phone, an intense sensation crosses over him, causing him to drop his phone, sending it crashing to the floor, and a rumble spans in his throat. No one looks over. He assumes he isn’t being too obnoxiously loud, even though he feels like he is, and begins to bend over for his phone.
The issue is he isn’t bending over. He’s still sitting upright and each time he tries to move, his body further contracts. It isn’t until bile unexplainably rises in his throat and expels out of his mouth, staining his clothing and the carpeting, that he realizes something isn’t right.
His body finally allows him to move. When he stands, his knees nearly buckle underneath his weight and he retches again. He stumbles towards the wall, attempting to use it as a support structure.
He vomits for a third time, coughing as the acidic substance leaves him. Though this time, Lottie walks into the room. “Have any of you guys- Harry?” she calls, alarmed, quickly approaching him. “Harry, hey. Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” she asks, voice low, frantically touching his neck. “What’s wrong?”
Eleanor thrusts her glass into a friend’s hand upon noticing how distressed Harry is. “The lot of you need to give him some privacy,” she says. Her friends immediately exit the room in a panicked manner.
“Hey,” Lottie whispers, trying to meet his eyes, although he clearly doesn't comprehend his surroundings. “I think we should get you sitting down, okay? Can you walk? Love, can you walk?”
Harry groans, sinking against the wall.
“No, hey,” Lottie encourages, grasping below his elbow. “You can lean your weight on me, alright? I really want you to lean on me so we can get you sitting down.”
He seems to understand because he drapes his arm around the shorter girl’s shoulders and she wraps her arm around his back. “There you go,” she whispers, leading them to a new chair, one that isn’t surrounded by vomit. Once he’s sitting down, she kneels in front of him. “I’m going to find Louis for you, okay? I’ll be right back. Eleanor is going to stay with you.””
“I am?” Eleanor asks, eyebrows raised.
Lottie sneers. “You are."
“I am,” she repeats, confidently, stepping closer to Harry.
Lottie leaves the room and begins to push through party attendees. Many of them try to stop her to initiate conversation, but she ignores them, focused on locating her brother. “Louis!” she shouts over the trap music blaring through the speakers.
There are not nearly as many men present as there are women, yet she is unable to track the location of the short, brunet lad. She taps a lady with long, dark hair and long legs on the shoulder. The woman stands with a group of five girls - or women rather, as they’re presumably aged between early to mid-twenties - and turns her head to peer at Lottie, raising her eyebrows.
“Sorry to interrupt, but have you see Louis around?” Lottie asks.
The woman scoffs at her. “Louis? As in the Louis Tomlinson?”
“Yeah,” Lottie says, slow, eyes narrowing. A height difference is evident between them - Lottie is much shorter than her - but she has no issue maintaining eye contact. “What’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing, love .” The woman shares a giggle with her uppity socialite friends. “I just don’t think he’d want much to do with you.”
Lottie purses her plump lips together, swallowing rude comments she desperately wishes to rattle off to the ladies before her. “Not that it matters now, but Louis happens to be my big brother. You should really think before you speak.”
The girl’s mouth falls agape. “Oh my God. I had no idea. I’m-”
“Whatever. Thanks anyway.” Lottie mutters, quickly slipping through the throng of flowery perfume and short dresses. She recognizes a familiar silhouette. A thin, olive complected woman. “Sophia,” she breathes, acknowledging Liam’s ex-girlfriend. She is thankful to perceive the delicate face of a close friend. “Sophia, have you see Louis around?”
“Um,” The chic girl glances around the congested club. Braced in her hand is a vibrant, alcoholic beverage. “No, I haven’t babe, sorry. Last time I saw him he was talking about heading home. He looked tired.”
Lottie swallows, one hand fisting at her side. Her acrylic nails dig into her palm. “Shit.” Her other hand nervously rubs her face, smearing her pink lipgloss across her chin. “Shit, are you sure he left?”
“I don’t know if he has yet, why? What’s the matter?” Sophia asks, gazing into Lottie’s petrified blue eyes.
“Harry, he- I don't know.” She shakes her head, loosening her brunette curls. “He’s really sick. He's having a seizure and I want to find Louis for him, but no one knows where he is,”
Sophia’s mouth drops open. She sets her drink on a nearby table. “Oh God, do you need a hand? I have a cousin that has seizures, remember? I can help him.”
“No, it needs to be Louis,” Lottie explains, frustrated. “Neither one of us have ever seen one of his big episodes. I left Eleanor with him, but he needs someone who can settle him. He’s starting to get overwhelmed. He needs Louis.”
Sophia hesitates. “Maybe check the parking lot? He might be waiting for a ride.”
“Oh, you're brilliant,” Lottie exclaims, grabbing her hand, and kisses the top. “I love you. Thank you.”
She hurries to the front of the club, recklessly pushing through groups of strangers. After some time, she reaches the front door. Pushing it open, she steps into the chilly night, searching the grounds for Louis. He's nowhere to be seen.
It isn't until she walks a quarter of the way around the building that she sees him. He leans against a wall, one heel kicked against the brick siding, and a cigarette hangs between his middle and pointer finger. A mass of smoke floats in the air, hesitating in front of his face.
“Louis!” she calls, quickly approaching him. Her heels clack against the pavement.
His head snaps toward her. “Oh, hey Lotts. Did you wanna bum a smoke?” he asks, beginning to dig in his pocket for the nicotine drug. “I've got plenty. Just don’t tell anyone.”
“No,” she snaps, then sighs, “I hate to do this to you, but you need to come back inside.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? Why's that?” he questions, sticking his cig between his lips.
“Harry's really ill. He started pacing about and now he’s throwing up. He can't-” she sighs- “He can hardly keep himself upright. I think he’s having a seizure. I finally got him to sit down, but-”
“Fuck me,” Louis whispers, stomach clenching, as he processes what his sister has explained to him. “Alright, alright, calm down. Let me get back to him.” He drops his cigarette on the cement, then crushes it with the bottom of his sneaker.
The two of them rush inside. Louis files in behind her as they shove their bodies between partygoers. “Is he alright?” he asks. “Does it seem like a bad one?”
“He was throwing up a lot,” she says. “I thought it was food poisoning or something until he stumbled and fell into the wall. He had to lean on me in order to walk.”
“Shit, okay,” he mutters, continuing to force his way through many drunk young adults. “He’ll be okay once I have him settled.”
Some of the attendees aren’t conforming to the situation, choosing to stay in Louis’ way even as he kindly asks them to move. “Hey asshole! You need to move,” he snaps at one particularly stubborn lad.
“Oh, yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”
Louis scoffs, unable to help himself from shoving the larger man. “Why do you have to be a fucking prick, huh? Don’t you see I’m trying to fucking do something?”
“Louis,” Lottie scolds, grabbing his arm. “Louis, stop. Harry needs you.”
He realizes his sister is right and slides past the rude man he’s been faced with. When he finally steps into the room, Harry has himself braced against a chair, white knuckled grip on the sides of the plastic, a piss stain expanding between his legs, and he's crying out, neck straining to the side. Eleanor is crouched down beside him, brushing his hair off his sweat streaked face. He can hear her whisper, “You're alright, Harry, shh, Lottie is getting Louis for you.”
Louis’ face falls and he quickly approaches Harry and Eleanor, kneeling down in front of Harry’s trembling form. Eleanor stands, dismissing herself from the room. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s alright, let me help you, love. Let’s get you on the floor,” he says, tucking his hand between Harry’s sweat saturated back and the chair.
Harry whines, attempting to pull away from him. He strains his body, tension especially evident in his neck and face, as the veins darken and protrude.
“Shh, let me help you,” Louis whispers. “I want you to be comfortable, love. Will you please let me help you to the floor?”
“I-” Harry tries- “I- I ca-”
“I know you can’t, shh, I know,” he whispers. “Try to relax for me. I’m going to get you on the floor now, okay? I don’t want you seizing upright.”
As soon as he tugs Harry forward, the younger boys slumps over, having to be held up by him, “You’re okay, shh, it’s alright,” he whispers, slowly moving backward to slide Harry off the chair and onto the floor, though he finds it rather difficult to do so.
“What do you need me to do?” Lottie asks, polished nail wedged between her teeth.
Louis shakes his head, holding Harry in his arms. His husband’s head weakly lolls against his chest. “Nothing. Why don’t you go stand outside with Eleanor? You don’t need to see this.”
“I’m not a child,” Lottie argues. “I know what’s going to happen. Let me help you. What do you need me to do?”
“I-” He begins to argue- “Okay, fine. I need you to help move him. You need to grab the chair and slowly pull it out from under him. I’ve gotta get him situated on the floor before he starts seizing.”
Lottie steps behind the chair, taking the backing in her hands, and proceeds to do as Louis instructed, allowing him to take Harry’s weight in his arms. “You’re doing so well for me, love,” he whispers.
Harry begins to loudly whimper against him, pained cries catching in the back of his throat.
“Shh, it’s okay. Shh, shh, relax. You’ve gotta hold on for me. Just another second, baby, and then you can go.” He lays Harry on the floor, adjusts his legs, then proceeds to aid him on his side. “It’s alright, shh. I’ve got you.”
“What else can I grab?” Lottie asks, hesitating over Harry as he withers on the floor.
Louis’ facial expression is tight, lines concentrated around his forehead and mouth, as he rubs his hand along Harry’s backside. “You’re okay. You’re doing so well.” He looks to Lottie. “Will you take your jacket off? I need to get something under his head. I don’t want him to brain himself on the floor.”
Lottie doesn’t hesitate, pulling her light sport jacket off, and hands it to her brother.
Louis pillows the jacket under Harry’s head, holding his neck steady as he positions him correctly. Then, he swathes Harry’s necklaces over his shoulder, to prevent them from tightening around his throat when he starts seizing.
“Shh,” Louis hushes as Harry’s cries begin to grow louder and more intense. “You’re alright. I think you’re gonna go, love, it’s alright.”
Lottie lowers herself to her knees, tugging her dress down. “What else can I do?”
“We just have to make him comfortable,” Louis answers, leaning over Harry to unbutton his blouse and loosen his suit jacket, peeling it off his shoulders. “Shh, it’s gonna be over soon, baby, then I’ll get you home.”
“Does-“ Lottie hesitates- “Does talking to him like that help?”
“I’d like to think so,” he says, “but I don’t know if he can understand me or not.”
Harry stiffens his neck, burrowing his face into Lottie’s jacket as the convulsions expand from the right side of his body to his entire body. He loudly groans, molars grinding together as his jaw clenches.
“You’re okay, shh,” Louis reminds, tugging his own expensive jacket off to swathe over Harry’s damp crotch and bucking hips. He knows how embarrassed Harry feels when he wets himself and he doesn’t think attention needs to be drawn to it. “You’re doing so good, baby, so good. It’ll be over soon.”
“Why do you put something over his legs?” Lottie asks.
“It’s okay,” Louis keeps his eyes on Harry. His face is shifting to a hue of purple, the straining causing a few of the blood vessels in his face to burst. “Seizures put a lot of pressure on his body which sometimes causes him to lose the contents in his bladder.”
“Oh,” she whispers.
Louis flinches at the sound of Harry gasping, unable to breathe properly. “You’re alright,” he whispers. “You’re almost over the worst part, love. It’s gonna be okay.” He looks at Lottie. “If he ever has a seizure and I’m not around, you have to make sure he’s on a flat surface and his airway is open. You see how I put him on his side and have his head tilted? You want to position him like that, so he doesn’t asphyxiate.”
Lottie furrows her brows. “And the jacket under his head?”
“Keeps him from busting his head open,” he answers, wincing when Harry’s neck jerks especially hard, “or giving himself a concussion.”
A particularly brash cry expels out of Harry and Louis shuts his eyes. He wants to touch Harry, brush his hair off of his face, stroke his cheek, rub his back, something, but touching him when he’s in such a severe state has proven to be more trouble than it’s worth. He has accidentally dislocated Harry’s shoulder on two separate occasions due to being unable to resist the urge to console him.
Harry doesn’t stay on his side for very long, involuntarily shifting onto his back, whimpering as the spasms intensify.
“How can you stand that?” Lottie asks.
Louis sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, observing Harry with watery eyes. “Stand what?”
“Listening to him cry like that,” she answers.
“I have a hard time with it,” he replies, “but it’s good to know he’s not actually in pain. It has to do with his body reacting to the seizure. Sometimes he screams, and I do mean screams, right before big seizures like this happen. His doctor told me it has to do with him being unable to properly breathe.”
Lottie turns her head away from Harry as he trembles against the floor. Blood and saliva has fused together and leak out of his mouth, coating his face, her jacket, and the floor. “He doesn’t breathe during seizures?” she asks, pinpointing her focus to one of the blank walls.
“The muscles in his chest lock up,” he explains. “Sometimes he’ll stop breathing for the duration of the seizure. I’ve learned to stay calm even when he turns blue in the face.”
The shaking slowly stops, leaving Harry uncoordinatedly lolled against the floor, much like a forgotten ragdoll. As soon as the convulsions leave him, Harry whines, fingers and toes curling as he lays, defenseless.
“Shh,” Louis whispers, leaning over him, gently touching his face. He tilts his head, draining his mouth of the accumulated saliva, then uses Lottie’s jacket to wipe his mouth. “You’re alright, love. You’ve got to take it easy for me.”
Harry tries to move, but proves unable to do so, slumping against the tiled floor.
“Should I do something?” Lottie asks. “Like grab him something to drink? Or a rubbish bin?”
Louis shakes his head as he stays close to Harry’s face. He releases Lottie’s windbreaker and uses the back of his hand to pet Harry’s cheek. “It’s okay, Harry. I’m right here,” he promises. “I love you very much.”
Harry opens his mouth to speak, but his tongue falls between his lips and his eyes roll a few times then his shoulders weakly sag.
“You don’t need to talk, baby. Let’s try to build your strength up, then maybe you’ll be able to sit up for me,” he suggests, feeling Harry’s forehead with the back of his hand. His skin is remarkably discolored and clammy. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Can you look at me?” he asks. “Harry love, can you look at me?”
Harry isn’t able to. His eyes lethargically wander as though they’re incapable of holding still. Then, his body clenches and his head lurches as he vomits on the floor, sputtering as the acidic substance forces itself out of him.
Lottie crinkles her nose, looking away.
“Shit,” Louis mutters, carefully sliding one hand under Harry, the other clutches his hip, to remove him from the puddle of vomit. “It’s okay, baby. If you’re sick again that’s okay too.” He cards his fingers through Harry’s hair, brushing it off his fevered skin. “Oh wow,” he says, noticing the blue varnish painted on his husband’s nails, “that looks beautiful. I always thought that shade of blue looked dapper on you.”
Harry groans.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you paint your nails,” Louis adds, tuckinug Harry’s hair behind his ears. His thumb grazes his temple. “It was very sweet of you to do it for Lottie’s launch. You’re so thoughtful, Harry.”
Harry reaches for Louis’ button-up, blindly tugging on the sleeve as the older brunet continues to encourage him.
“What’s the matter, baby?” Louis asks, leaning in closer. Harry’s grip on his shirt is not strong, rather concerningly weak, but he allows Harry to touch and grab him as he needs to. He seems to be agitated as he enters his positical stage which is odd because he isn’t usually so bothered. “You’ve got to take it slow, love,” Louis whispers, moving one hand to rest on Harry’s shoulder. He squeezes, kneading the tips of his fingers into his skin. “You had a seizure. I need you to calm down.”
Harry shifts on the floor, rolling his shoulders back as he tries to sit up.
“Stop baby,” Louis says, gently placing his hand on the center of his chest. “Easy, you’ve got to take it easy for me, sweetheart.”
He whimpers, squirming under Louis’ touch.
“Shh, I know,” Louis whispers, using his hand to wipe Harry’s face since he continues to heavily salivate. “It’s okay, shh. I want to clean you up that’s all.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to grab anything for him?” Lottie asks.
Harry’s eyes wander as she speaks and shifts beside him. He tries to talk, but his words slur together too severely.
Lottie glances at Louis as if asking him for guidance. “Do me a favor,” Louis says, “and move closer to him. I don’t think he knows who you are.”
“Okay,” she mutters, hesitant, and inches closer to Harry.
Harry furrows his eyebrows, releasing his grasp on Louis’ shirt, and reaches for Lottie’s hand. She holds her hand out and Harry wraps his fingers around her petite ones. Though, his grip is weak.
“Do you know who that it is, love?” Louis asks, continuing to brush his fingers through Harry’s wavy hair. Harry furrows his eyebrows as he stares at Lottie, not attempting to speak or move. “That’s my little sister, Lottie. The two of you are really close.”
Harry starts to repeat her name, first syllable slipping between his lips, then jerks his head away as another round of retching attacks him.
“Move Lotts,” Louis says, leaning over to aid Harry on his side. “It’s alright, love. You’re alright,” he whispers, running his hand along Harry’s side, showing support.
As soon as he finishes, Harry lays on his side, dry heaving as he fights the urge to vomit again. There isn’t anything left in his stomach for him to rid of.
“Harry. Sweetheart, do you know where you are?” Louis asks, carefully pulling his blouse off his broad frame. He’s drenched in sweat. His shirt is saturated in the salty fluid, now a dark shade of pink versus the rosy hue it had initially been.
Harry trembles against the floor as Louis pulls his shirt off. He’ll help him clothe himself again once he’s calmed himself down and become aware of his surroundings. “Harry,” he repeats, touching his cheek, “Harry, do you know where you are?”
The younger boy arches his neck to look at Louis, eyebrows furrowed. A lack of recognition is clear in his eyes. He doesn’t know who Louis is nor does he acknowledge where he is. “That’s okay, baby. Take all the time you need. Can you talk?” Louis asks, coaxing him into trying to function. “Harry, can you talk, love?”
Harry narrows his eyes, struggling to string several poorly enunciated words together.
Louis nods as though he understands. “You’re doing such a good job,” he says. “I can help you sit up. Do you think you can do that for me if I help you?”
Harry doesn’t answer him.
“Lottie, can you give me a hand sitting him up?” he asks.
Lottie nods, not saying a word as she slides one hand under Harry, Louis following suit, and the two of them push him into a sitting position. Though as soon as he’s upright, he slumps forward, too weak to support himself. Louis shifts to sit beside him, forcing him to sit between his legs, and his head lolls back against Louis’ chest.
Louis kisses the top of his head, feeling extremely guilty for yelling at him earlier. “I think we’re gonna sit here for a while,” he says to Lottie. “He won’t be able to walk and those paparazzi are going to make it worse. This is your party, babes. Go out there and enjoy it.”
“I’m not gonna leave the two of you,” Lottie replies. “I can-”
Her words are interrupted by a sharp cry. Harry curls in on himself, burying his face against Louis’ neck, body shaking as cries rumble in his throat. “Shh, it’s alright,” Louis whispers, pressing his chin to the top of Harry’s head, wrapping both arms around him, holding him close. “You’ve done so well for me. I’m gonna get you home and in bed soon.”
Lottie swallows, pursing her lips together. “Is he okay?”
“He goes through rapid mood swings in his postictal state,” Louis replies, shutting his eyes as Harry sobs against him.
“Postictal?”
“It’s an after seizure symptom,” he explains, kissing Harry’s head again. His neck is moist with Harry’s tears. “Shh, you’re alright, love. I’m so proud of you for coming out of it for me. You’re doing so well.”
Lottie begins to stand. “Tommy might have extra clothing,” she says, mentioning her boyfriend who has so graciously spent his evening at her launch party. “Let me go find him.” She quickly leaves the room.
As soon as she leaves, Eleanor steps inside, arms uncomfortably crossed over her chest. “Is there anything I can get for him?” she asks.
She’s only witnessed Harry experiencing a seizure once. It was a late night at their home in London. Eleanor had come over to discuss the conditions of the media - as the two of them, Louis and her, were considered to be dating - and the tension was evident.
The truth of the matter is Eleanor is a very sweet woman, who was placed into an awkward situation, but she had caught Louis on the wrong night. The two of them argued while Harry sat on the couch, trying to ignore their harsh words toward each other, but the stress of the situation was too much for him, as it often is.
Needlessly said, Eleanor freaked, clamming up as Louis tended to Harry on the couch, aiding him in laying on his side and moving the pillows out of the way. She wasn’t revolted by Harry’s condition, rather scared. She stood still, head bowed, as Louis consoled Harry, whispering sweet encouragements as he convulsed on the couch.
After he had finished and regained consciousness, Louis pulled Eleanor aside, into the kitchen, explaining that they should continue their conversation another time because he needed to stay with Harry. She agreed and he thanked her for being understanding and not being rude in regard to Harry having a seizure.
“If you could find him something to drink, preferably water,” Louis answers, “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure,” she says, watching Harry as he quivers against Louis. The tremor in his hands is severe. He’s unable to hold onto Louis’ shirt because of it. “Is he going to be okay?” she asks.
“He’s alright, El,” he says. “He’s more shaken up than usual. I don’t know why.”
Eleanor twists the ends of her hair around her finger as she listens to Louis. “I’ll be right back,” she says, turning on her heel, and exits the room.
Louis moves his hand to the back of Harry’s scalp, massaging his head with the tips of his fingers. “You’re alright. It wasn’t too bad this time around,” he says, kissing his temple. “Do you know who I am?”
Harry nods, burrowing his face further into the crook of Louis’ neck.
“That’s good,” he encourages, shutting his eyes as he holds Harry. He feels bad. Not only did Harry have a seizure, but he’s half naked, sitting in wet trousers, unable to properly communicate, and the last conversation he had with him consisting of yelling and guilt-tripping. He needs to work on the way he speaks to him. “Lottie went to find you some fresh clothes, then I’m gonna get you home. Do you think you’ll be able to walk?”
Harry tries to speak, but ultimately fails, becoming tongue tied. He groans, slumping against his husband.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he hums, “which is okay by the way. I know you don’t feel good.”
Louis can hear Lottie speaking before he sees her. “Harry had a seizure,” she says to someone. “It was horrific, Tommy, but he’s still recovering so you have to be quiet.”
“Of course,” Tommy replies.
The two of them walk into the small room, Lottie striding in front of her boyfriend, and Tommy bares a hoodie and pair of joggers, both folded over his forearm.
“Hey Lou,” Tommy says, setting the clothes down beside him, “Lottie said Harry needed some clothes. Don’t worry about getting them back to me.”
“Thank you,” Louis replies, keeping one arm wrapped around Harry while the other reaches for the hoodie Tommy brought. “After I help him get dressed, I’m gonna need your help.”
Tommy nods. “Whatever you need.”
“He won’t be able to walk and I don’t want to carry him in front of the press,” he explains, “Would you mind helping me get him out to the car?”
“I can do that,” he says. “Lottie and I can step out while you help him change.”
“It’d be appreciated.”
The two of them do just as Tommy suggested they would, stepping back into the hallway.
“Here,” Louis says, “Can you move your arms for me?”
Harry stays still against him.
“That’s okay,” he sighs, separating himself from Harry, and carefully tugs the plain navy hoodie over Harry’s head, messing his hair in the process. “Alright love, I’ve got to pull your arms through the sleeves.”
Harry moves his arms towards the holes for the sleeves, but stops upon Louis helping him pull them through the sleeves. The hoodie is snug on him, but fits nonetheless. It’s always most difficult to change his trousers because he fusses over it each time.
This time is no different. As soon as Louis undoes the zipper, Harry groans, pushing his hands away, fidgeting with the damp fabric himself. “Harry,” Louis whispers, cradling his cheek, “It’s alright. Let me help you, baby. We can get out of here faster if I help you change your trousers.”
Harry tilts his head, confused, staring down at his legs. “Keep,” he mutters.
Louis furrows his eyebrows, lifting his chin. Harry’s voice is shaky and his words hardly comprehensible. “Keep what, love?” he asks, patiently. “What do you want to keep?”
“Keep,” Harry says, again, reaching to wriggle with the crotch of his pants.
“No, baby,” Louis reaches for his hand, pulling it away from his private bits. “You’ve got to tell me what you want to keep.”
Harry’s eyes begin to water. “Keep,” he repeats.
Louis doesn’t understand what Harry is upset about but his stomach clenches. He doesn’t like to see Harry upset, but with the added disorientation, he somehow feels worse about it. “Don’t cry, baby. It’s okay,” he whispers, moving his hand to rest on his neck, “Shh, what do you want to keep, love?”
“Pant,” Harry mumbles, pressing his forehead to Louis’ collarbone.
Louis understands then. “Love, you can’t keep your pants on,” he says. “You wet yourself. You’ll be really uncomfortable if you leave them on.
Harry shakes his head, repositioning his hand. He tugs on his hair in frustration.
“Easy. Don’t hurt yourself,” Louis whispers, pulling Harry’s hand away from his head. “I’ll help you change. You know I don’t mind. It isn’t a big deal.”
Harry turns his head, looking away.
“Is it okay if I help you? I don’t want you to feel bad about it, love. I really don’t mind. I know it’s because you had a seizure and I know you can’t help it,” he says, touching his husband’s cheek. “I’ll help you change into some sweatpants and then we can go home.”
Harry reaches for his crotch again, but this time Louis allows him to fiddle with the zipper and button of his slacks. It takes him several attempts, but he finally grips the zipper in his hand and yanks it downward.
“There you go,” Louis says. “Now, is it okay if I help you pull your trousers off? Your hands are a little shaky. I think you’re gonna have a hard time.”
Harry narrows his eyes, staring down at his groin, then slowly nods.
“Okay.” Louis has him lay back, then carefully pulls his pants and underwear off. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it because it isn’t one. He’s done this more times than he can possibly count, but he sincerely doesn’t mind it anymore. In the beginning, it bothered him, but now, it’s second nature. He knows how to care for Harry in these predicaments. He pulls Tommy’s joggers over his legs and hips then places his hand on Harry’s cheek. “See? It isn’t a big deal. Everyone needs a bit of help from time to time.”
As he finishes dressing Harry, Eleanor enters the room with a glass of water. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted it cold or not so I didn’t put ice in it,” she says, bending down to hand Louis the cup.
“This is fine,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can grab for him?” she asks.
Louis shakes his head. “No, this will do. Thanks again, El.”
She nods, then quietly leaves the room.
Louis helps Harry to sit upright again. “We’ve gotta keep you hydrated. All that vomiting is no good for you,” he says, holding the glass to his lips. Harry hesitantly drinks. “Small sips, love. I don’t want you putting stress on your stomach. It’s okay if we spill a little.”
Water spills down his chin and once Louis pulls the cup away from his lips, he wipes his face. “Tommy is gonna help us out to the car, okay?” he says, trying to meet Harry’s eyes, but Harry is too confused to bother meeting his eyes. “Do you remember Tommy, love? Tommy is my sister Lottie’s boyfriend.”
It’s been quite a while since Louis has seen Harry so disoriented from a seizure. He isn’t comfortable with his husband behaving this way, but there isn’t a whole lot he can do to help him. He can’t speed the process at which he begins to speak in cohesive sentences and clearly think.
“Tom,” Harry mutters, voice weak, laying his forehead against Louis’ neck again.
“There you go,” Louis whispers, touching his cheek. “I love you so much, Harry. So, so, so much.”
Lottie and Tommy step into the room. “Are you ready to go?” Lottie asks.
Louis nods. “Yeah. I’ve just got him standing.” He moves his hand to hold the back of Harry’s head. “Alright, babes. We’ve got to get you standing. I don’t think you’re gonna be able to walk, so Tommy and I are gonna help you out to the car.”
It’s a struggle. Partially because Harry is weak, but mostly because he doesn’t want to stand, he tries fighting Louis’ touch, whining and pulling away from his hands.
“Shh, it’s alright. I’m trying to help you, sweetheart, that’s all,” Louis assures, holding under his husband’s arms as he aids him to stand. Tommy steps closer and wraps an arm around Harry’s back, helping Louis to support him.
They struggle to carry him out to the car. Lottie follows behind them. Photographers make it worse, snapping invasive pictures and screaming questions, each of them hoping to promote a unique exclusive about the ex-boybanders.
“Easy, keep your head down,” Louis reminds, then kisses Harry’s temple. He and Tommy stop each time Harry stumbles, waiting for him to adjust before continuing, until finally arriving at the car. Louis helps Harry into the car and subsequently turns to face Lottie and Tommy. “Thank you for your help,” he says. “I’m sorry our time at the launch had to end this way.”
“It’s no big deal,” Lottie says. “I appreciate you both coming. Is he- will Harry be okay?”
Louis rubs the back of his neck, peering over his shoulder at Harry who sits in the car, fidgeting with the volume dial on the radio, mindlessly twisting it back and forth. “He needs a bit of time.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Tommy asks.
“No,” he answers, “but thank you.”
“I can stop by in the morning,” Lottie offers. “You know to check up on him and stuff.”
Louis sighs. “If he were in his right frame of mind, I’m sure he’d appreciate it, but I doubt he’ll want company. Maybe you can come over Sunday morning.”
“Plan on having me then,” Lottie stands on her toes, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek. “Be careful going home. Send me a text when you have Harry settled.”
“Will do.”
Louis turns over in the middle of the night. “H?” he whispers, carding his fingers through his hair. “Love, you feeling alright?”
Harry shakes his head.
Louis sits up, then moves closer to him, resting his hand on his hip. “What’s going on, baby? What doesn’t feel right?”
Harry doesn’t answer, retching over the side of the bed.
“Shit, okay,” Louis whispers, moving his hand to rest on Harry’s back. “Don’t worry about it, love. We’ll clean it up when you start feeling better.”
The symptoms after a seizure are never very kind to Harry. He tends to be ill for anywhere from a few hours to a few days following a seizure. “I’m-” Harry wheezes- “I’m sorry.”
“Shh, it’s alright. Don’t apologize, love,” he whispers, brushing Harry’s hair off his face. “Do you feel like you're gonna be sick again?”
Harry nods, shutting his eyes. He sinks against the mattress, pressing his cheek into the bedding.
Louis swallows. “I’m going to make you some mint tea,” he says, knowing if Harry becomes dehydrated he’ll have to take him to the hospital. Lack of fluids seems to worsen Harry’s condition, increasing the severity and multiplicity of his seizures. “I’ll be right back, okay love?”
He climbs out of the bed and walks to the kitchen. As soon as he’s in the kitchen, he puts water on to boil, then returns to Harry, kneeling down beside the bed.
“Oh, baby,” he pushes Harry’s hair off his face. “The nausea isn’t any better?” he asks.
Harry shakes his head.
“Why don’t you sit up for me? Changing positions might help,” Louis suggests. “I’ll bring you some oyster crackers and tea. Mint always seems to settle your stomach.”
Harry watches his lips as he talks. The lighting in their bedroom isn’t strong, but Louis still notices how flushed and clammy his skin is along the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He feels Harry’s forehead with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know, love. It feels like you might have a fever,” he sighs. “Do you feel sickly or just poorly from the seizure?”
“Just poorly, I think,” Harry mutters, eyes remaining shut. “My head's starting to hurt again.”
Louis hesitates. “How bad? Do you think you’re gonna have another seizure?”
“Don’t know.”
The squeal of the kettle can be heard through the house. Louis stands. “I’ll be right back,” he says, leaving the room to prepare Harry a cup of tea. He finds a bag of opened oyster crackers and dumps them into a bowl.
When he steps into the room, barring both items in his hands, Harry is sat upright with Bruce, his response dog, protectively curled against his legs. “Here,” Louis says, setting the tea and crackers on the bedside table. “Scoot over.”
Harry does, leaving room to slide into bed beside him. He brushes Harry’s hair off his face, clearly fretting. “What does your head feel like? Is it achy? Is the pain dull or sharp?”
“Doesn’t hurt too bad,” Harry says. “Really, Lou. It’s just- I don’t know. Doesn’t feel quite right.”
Louis doesn’t like the sound of that, but doesn’t press the issue further, knowing he’ll only upset Harry if he continues to badger him. “Okay,” he says, reaching for the mug. “Why don’t you try some tea for me? It should settle your stomach.”
Harry nods, taking the cup from Louis. His hands shake which is concerning for Louis, but he knows he’ll be alright. While it doesn’t look like he has control of his hands, he has enough to guide the steaming liquid between his lips. “I feel bad for Lottie,” Harry admits, lowering the mug to his lap.
Louis continues to stroke his cheek, fretting over him. “Why’s that?”
“I had a seizure at her launch party,” he answers, “and instead of advocating for herself, she spent her night worrying over me.”
“How do you know that?” Louis asks. “She didn’t even-”
Harry shakes his head, withdrawing from Louis’ touch. “Don’t lie to me, Louis,” he says. “I may not- I may struggle to remember the things that happen before and after my seizures, but I know Lottie was there.”
“So, what? It wasn’t a bad one. I would argue that trying to come out of it was worse for you,” he slides his hand under the mug, pushing it towards Harry’s mouth. “Keep drinking. I’m not going to bed until you’ve finished it and start to feel better.”
Harry sighs, slowly drinking the herbal tea.
After he finishes the cup, Louis takes it and sets it on the nightstand. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“Yeah, my stomach isn’t rolling anymore,” he says.
Louis touches his cheek. “That’s good. Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’ll make your head feel better.”
Harry doesn’t argue, repositioning himself on the bed. After cleaning the carpeting, Louis shuts the light off, then lays on his side, securely wrapping his arm around Harry. He falls asleep soon after him.
The next morning, Louis wakes without Harry in bed beside him. His heart drops into his stomach due to his worry of Harry experiencing more vomiting or even worse, another epileptic fit.
“Harry?” he calls from bed, shifting to rest in his forearms. When there isn’t an answer, he takes it upon himself to investigate, searching the bathrooms and entire second level to their home.
It isn’t until he walks downstairs that he sees Harry.
The younger man is sat out on their patio, staring at the acres of land, their land, before him. The sun begins to rise over the horizon, shining brightly on the forestry underneath it.
He has a mug of an unidentified steaming liquid on the table beside him. He appears relaxed, his shoulders sagging, and legs crossed at the ankles, one over the other.
Louis knocks on the glass, then walks outside. “You’re up early,” he says. Though, he means you’re up early considering you had a seizure less than twelve hours ago.
Harry looks over his shoulder. “Morning Lou,” he greets. “I had a hard time staying asleep. Figured I’d make the most of my day.”
“I see. How’s your head?” Louis asks, pulling a chair beside him, and sits. “Hopefully not hurting as badly?"
“It feels a lot better,” he replies, then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Louis tilts his head. “What’s the matter?”
“I feel so bad,” he says. “Not like ill, but guilty. I ruined your sister’s evening, I ruin a lot of things, I know that, but Lottie’s launch party should not have been ruined.”
Louis doesn’t know understand this idea has come from or why it upsets Harry as deeply as it does. “First of all, you do not ruin things. Secondly, Lottie’s launch party was not ruined. She had a great time even despite the small detour she had to take.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he mutters, coldly.
“Harry,” Louis sighs. The younger boy bows his head, chin tucked against his chest. “Harry, look at me,” he whispers, gently grabbing Harry’s chin, and forces him to turn his head. “You did not ruin anything. I talked to Lottie last night and she wasn’t upset, not even a little bit. She wanted to come around this morning to check on you, but I told her I wasn’t sure if you were up for company.”
Harry swallows. “Really?”
“Sincerely,” he adds. “No one is upset with you, I promise. Everyone knows you can’t help it. It isn’t your fault.”
“I don’t know.”
Louis glides his fingers along Harry’s define jaw. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then trust me when I say no one is upset,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t lie to you, love. Everyone is concerned. Not upset, not disappointed, concerned.”
Harry shakily exhales. “Okay, I believe you.”
“Good,” his older husband says, brushing his hair off his face, then leans in, kissing his cheek. “I’ll always love you, no matter what.”
“I love you too."