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It was around three in the morning when Louis blinked himself awake. While waking suddenly from a nightmare wasn't unheard of for him, there was no cold sweat or heavy breathing to accompany his rise to consciousness. Confused and still half-asleep, he reached his arm out to the side and was met with nothing but a bunched-up bedsheet pulled free from its corner of the mattress. He pushed up onto his elbows, and a crease formed in his brow. Not only was his husband missing, but his pillow and the knit throw were also gone. The bedside table hosted a sizeable pile of used tissues that certainly hadn't been there a few hours ago. Louis freed himself from the duvet and padded out of the bedroom. He grew worried when he found the bathroom vacant, but spotting the faint light from their television led him downstairs to a scene that made his heart ache.
He was met with Harry’s sleeping figure curled up on their sofa, lit by the screen asking if he was still watching whichever show had lulled him to sleep. The missing blanket was wrapped tightly around him, and the pillow held his messy curls, all splayed out and tangled. His chapped lips were parted, and his breaths were crackly and audible even from a distance. The sofa was far too small for a man of his size, so his long legs were bent uncomfortably, one foot dangling off the cushions entirely.
Harry had spent the beginning of the week with a barely-there rasp in his voice and scattered coughs, but he brushed it off, blaming it on the temperature change. Louis knew how hard the boy had worked in the studio lately. The stress of starting up a debut solo album was clearly weighing on him; the normally even-tempered Harry he knew seemed drained and irritable, often snapping at the smallest of things. When Louis asked about his cough and got a grumbled hayfever, Lou, he knew better than to push it.
The stubborn young man spent much of the week hard at work, acting as if nothing was off. The first few days went about as usual: spending countless hours in the studio to write and record (and re-write and re-record) while clearing his throat subtly every now and again. By the end of the week, Harry had secluded himself in a corner of the room, preferring to work on his own. He would sit hunched over, hair in his face, sniffling over his journals with a pen in hand, singing under his breath and pointedly ignoring the packet of cough sweets that Adam slipped onto his disorganised pile as he passed by, a travel pack of tissues conveniently dropped outside the recording booth by Sarah, and any other little odds and ends that materialised around him. Everyone could see the exhaustion cloaking Harry and he knew it, but he pressed on as if everything was fine (and if Harry slipped the gifts into his pocket an hour later… it was nobody’s business).
Louis’ heart broke. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen it coming, but he was sure that Harry wasn’t nearly so ill when they kissed goodnight just a few hours before. He knelt in front of the sofa, hand reaching to push back damp hair and reveal the flushed cheeks and fevered brow beneath. Harry snuffled into his pillow but didn’t seem to wake. A soft kiss pressed to his forehead was enough to stir Harry from sleep, and he roused with a few small coughs.
“What's happened, lovely? Why you all bunched up out here?” Louis murmured, stroking Harry’s rosy cheek with the backs of his fingers and giving him a small smile.
“Won’t g—” he cut himself off with a shallow, jagged breath and turned his face into the pillow to sneeze, “—get you ill out here.”
Louis cooed and slid his hand up to scratch lightly at the side of Harry’s head.
“You should be in bed, darling,” he said, twirling a stray curl around his finger.
“Can’t. Don’t want—” Harry cut himself off again, body wracked with coughs that seemed to take up his whole chest. Louis helped to unravel Harry from his blanket and settled down at his side. Their proximity confirmed his suspicion—he could feel Harry radiating fever heat even before they touched. He reached under the sweat-soaked shirt to rub circles into Harry's spasming back until he transitioned back to shallow breaths. Louis pulled his hand out from the damp fabric and took hold of the larger, shaky one in front of him with both of his own.
“Harry, baby, I need you to take a breath. Calm yourself down a bit, yeah?” Louis kept his voice light for Harry’s sake, though he was starting to get anxious, and placed a hand on the back of his love's overheated neck. “I promise there’s nothin’ t’worry ‘bout, H, but if you’re this worked up ‘bout it I can kip on the sofa. Give you the nice soft bed, hm? I bet that'd feel much better. Stretch them legs out a bit.”
At that, Harry just whined, head hanging low as shaky breaths accompanied the tears that stung his aching eyes. With his heart officially shattered, Louis manoeuvred himself off the sofa and onto the floor. He squatted in front of Harry, gently rubbing the too-warm, pyjama-clad thighs.
“Let’s get y’back to bed. You get yourself a fresh shirt, I'll look for somethin’ t’help that nasty little cough ‘fore we tuck in all nice and warm. Jus’ lemme help you, darling, please.” Louis gently turned the tear-streaked face in his direction. He hadn't yet been able to take in how truly ill Harry looked—his eyes were glassy and over-bright, face far too pale apart from his pink cheeks and raw nose.
“I feel… m’all hot, Lou,” he slurred out before lifting his fist and turning slightly away in a feeble attempt to cover the sneezes that sent visible shivers up his spine. They seemed to have sapped the last of his energy, and Louis knew he needed to get the poor, ill boy back under the covers whether he liked it or not.
“Oh, baby. C’mere, H, you’re shiverin’ up a storm. Up we go, there’s a good lad.” Louis took advantage of Harry’s post-sneeze daze to scoop the younger man into his arms before he could protest.
Once he placed Harry’s limp body on the bed and propped him up against their pillows, Louis bustled around the bedroom. Intermittent coughs and sniffles were the only indicators that his boy was still awake. Armed with supplies, Louis tended to a very drowsy, very stuffy Harry, speaking softly to him all the while. He raked the pillow-mussed hair back into a bun as best he could, hoping it would help to cool him down. Harry hadn't stopped sniffling, so Louis held a tissue up to his nose so he could clear himself out before planting a kiss each on his forehead, cheeks, and the tip of his nose, to which Harry gave a sleepy face scrunch.
Louis finally climbed back into bed and got situated, his human furnace practically glued to his side. With the blankets tucked around him and gentle fingers rubbing at his scalp, Harry began to drop off. Louis knew that Harry was asleep when the nose pressed against his neck had sniffed itself into near-silence, and only an occasional soft snore or snuffle broke the quiet of the night. Pulling his ailing boy in even closer, Louis kissed his head and murmured into his hair.
“Feel better soon, darling.”
His only response was the warm, steady puffs of breath on his collarbone.