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Louis is sick. He’s aching and coughing and sniffling and complaining, and Harry couldn’t be happier.
Harry knows that most people don’t exactly feel the desire to celebrate when the love of their life gets the flu, but he really can’t help it. It’s just Louis’ weak and pitiable at the moment, and he needs Harry to look after him. And if there’s one thing Harry was born to do, it’s to look after Louis.
Normally Louis’ too stubborn to accept help. As the older of the two, he’s always the one looking out for Harry and Harry’s happiness. It’s always been that way, ever since they first met, back when Harry, Gemma and his mum all packed up and moved to Doncaster.
Harry remembers he was fifteen, and his parents’ had just gotten divorced. His whole life had been uprooted, and he’d had to start at a new school, miles and miles away from all his old friends. The divorce had hit him particularly badly. His parents were never the type to fight, or have yelling matches way into the night. They’d just drifted apart, and kept drifting, until one day they’d sat both him and his sister down in the living room and told them they’d fallen out of love, and it happens, but that they both still loved Gemma and Harry very much.
Harry couldn’t accept it. He’d been raised on stories where the hero gets the girl (or well, guy in Harry’s case) and everyone lived happily-ever-after. That was his ideal of love. But now Harry wondering how the hell could that kind of love be real? How could two people who had loved each other so much that they’d agreed to spend the rest of their lives together, to start a family together, just become like strangers? Wandering around the house with nothing but a quick “how are you?” exchanged, watching TV in silence until it was time for bed. How did it happen to his parents? How had they let it happen?
So Harry had grown angry and bitter, his belief in true love, in happily-ever-afters, completely shattered. But he didn’t act out. He didn’t rebel, or run away from home, take up drinking or smoking. He just quietly seethed, turning inwards, ignoring his mother’s attempts at conversation and his sister’s gentle teasing, even as they pulled into the driveway of their new home in Doncaster.
He was no different when he finally started at his new school, so quiet and withdrawn that teachers would often pull him up after class to make sure he was settling in alright. And he shrugged, and told them he was, and that the other students were being perfectly nice to him. Because it was the truth, they were. Several girls and boys tried to speak to him and offered to let him sit with them at lunch, but Harry just felt tired. He hadn’t had the energy to socialise anymore.
Harry was at his new school for about a fortnight, and he was sitting in the school canteen by himself, when a boy dropped down in the seat next to his and said, “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Louis.” Harry grunted in reply. Throughout lunch, he tried to shake Louis off, avoided answering his questions or just gave him short one-word replies, but Louis persisted on sticking around.
Like a lot of students before him, he insisted Harry sit with him and his mates, Niall, Zayn and Liam, at their lunch table, but when Harry flatly refused, he just made all his friends move sit with Harry instead. By the end of lunchtime, Louis’d scribbled out his number for Harry on a scrap of paper and forced Harry to take it. Harry shoved in into his pocket just to shut Louis up, but he had no real intention of actually programming it into his phone.
It went on like that. Louis would meet Harry by his locker in the morning, and made sure to sit beside Harry in every class they shared together. Harry didn’t even talk, really, but Louis seemed to be able to speak enough for both of them, nattering on enthusiastically as he walked along beside Harry in the corridors, and passing him silly notes in class that made Harry crack a smile despite himself.
And then one day Harry had been walking home from school, when a car pulled over next to him, and a familiar voice called, “Harry! I didn’t know you walked home. Come on, get in. I’ll give you a lift.”
Harry knew Louis well enough by now to know Louis didn’t give up easily, so to save himself the argument he just got into the car. But then on the journey home, to Harry’s horror, a song came on the radio. Harry recognised it immediately from the old home movies he used to love to watch. Love Me Tender by Elvis Presley, the song his parents had danced to at their wedding. He couldn’t help it, he burst into tears. Louis immediately pulled over the car, and dragged Harry into his arms. “What’s wrong, Harry?” he murmured, sounding so concerned.
And the whole sorry tale came pouring out. Once Harry started telling him, he couldn’t stop, he just sobbed in Louis’ embrace, asking why all those dumb novels and magazines and movies had to lie, had to spread this idea that love was ever more than a fleeting desire, that two people could love each other for their whole lives.
Louis just listened, for once saying nothing. When Harry was finished speaking, finished crying, Louis leaned in, wiping the tears away with his thumbs, before pressing his lips to Harry’s and kissing him gently.
“Love exists, Harry,” he whispered. “True love. You’ve just got to give it a chance.”
And well, Harry had. It was a slow process, very gradual, but eventually he’d let himself love Louis, and he’d let himself be loved in return.
Once the two of them had finished school, they moved from Doncaster to pastures greener. In this case, that was a tiny one-bedroomed flat over a Chinese restaurant in Manchester. They both got jobs, Harry working in an office in the city centre, and Louis working as a receptionist at a local gym. Until, that was, Harry was offered an internship at a small independent record label. Louis insisted Harry take it, even though they couldn’t really afford it, not without making a lot of cutbacks. But it was a huge opportunity, and Louis insisted it was worth every single sacrifice.
Which is exactly what Harry does now. He has to work long hours, and although he does get paid, it’s barely enough to cover the groceries. Louis has to work stupidly hard to pay for everything else, all the rent and utility bills. They barely scrape by most months.
But Louis never complains. Not about anything. He lets Harry steal all the covers at night, and he scarcely even grumbles about it the next morning. He can’t cook to save his life, but when Harry comes in late from work, exhausted, there’ll be a bowl of some kind of hot sludge waiting for him on the kitchen table. And even though it tastes horrific, Harry eats every single bite and asks for seconds, just to see Louis smile.
Louis’ taught Harry that true love does exist. It has to, because Harry knows he’ll never feel for anyone else again the way he feels for Louis. Louis’ it for Harry, he’s ruined him for anyone else. But that’s okay. Louis does everything he can to take care of his boy, and Harry loves him for it, more each day. He’ll never stop.
But now Louis’ sick, and all he can do in lie in bed, surrounded by crumpled up bits of tissue and cough drops, and Harry, quite frankly, is delighted.
He’s in the kitchen, stirring a saucepan filled with chicken and chopped vegetables, and a broth made of stock and water, when he hears Louis’ weak cry coming from the bedroom. “Haz?”
Harry, of course, immediately drops everything and rushes in to Louis. “Yes darling?”
Louis’ sitting in bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows that Harry had lovingly stacked. He has the TV on in the corner with the footie on He looks tiny, buried amongst all the bed sheets, and Harry feels like his heart could burst, just from loving this boy.
“My throats really dry,” Louis rasps. “Do you mind grabbing me a glass of water?”
There’s nothing Harry minds less. He’s practically skipping out of the room to get Louis a drink. When he comes back with the water, Louis rolls his eyes. “Admit it, Haz. You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
“No baby, of course not!” Harry’s quick to deny, but he’s always been a shit liar, and Louis’ always been able to see right through him. Louis just shakes his head, but he accepts the water from Harry without further comment.
He gives a weak cough after he’s finished the glass, and Harry’s immediately back to fussing. “Do you want some medicine? I picked some up at the pharmacy yesterday.” Louis’ face screws up in distaste, so Harry quickly continues, “or some cough drops? I got the orange-flavoured ones.”
Louis hesitates, always afraid of asking for what he wants, but he then he nods. “Yeah please. Bring me in the packet.”
Harry’s just about to run and fetch them when he pauses, a strange smell hitting his nostrils. “What on earth is that smell?” he asks, more to the air than anything.
“What smell?” Louis responds anyway. “I can’t smell a thing, my nose is so blocked.”
“It’s smells like... SHIT!”
Harry darts out of the room, ignoring Louis repeating, “It smells like shit?” in a bemused tone.
“Oh no,” sighs Harry, when his fears are realised. He switches off the gas, but it’s too late. A lot of the soup has evaporated, and the chicken and vegetables that were at bottom of the pan have become a charred mess. “It’s ruined.”
“What’s ruined?” croaks Louis as loud as he can. “What’s happening?”
Harry wanders back into the bedroom. “Don’t try to shout, Lou,” he chastises. “You have to save your voice.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Just tell me what happening,” he instructs, clearly frustrated.
“I was trying to make you soup, but I burnt it,” Harry replies sadly.
Louis frowns. “There’s loads of tins in the press, aren't there? Just heat another one up.”
“No, Lou! I made you it from scratch.” Harry’s pouting, and he feels unreasonably close to tears. He just wants to look after Louis the way Louis always looks after him.
Louis obviously notices his mood. “Oh, Haz,” he says, patting the bed beside him, and clear signal Harry should sit down. “You’re so good to me, you know that?”
“Not as good as you are to me. You work so hard. This is the first break you've had in ages, and it’s only ‘cause you’re sick.” He sighs. “I wish I could take you on holidays somewhere. Somewhere warm where we could just spend the entire time sunbathing on the beach and drinking cocktails.”
Louis smiles. “Someday, baby. We’ll get there someday. But in the meantime we've got each other, and that’s all that matters.”
Harry wants to cry. He leans in automatically, about to kiss Louis, but Louis raises up a hand to stop him.
“Noooo,” he whines, “Don’t kiss me! I don’t want you to get sick too.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but he hangs back, just looking into Louis’ eyes with a hand on his face.
“I love you, Harry, you know? I don’t tell you that enough.”
Harry smiles fondly. “You tell me all the time.”
“Still not enough.”
And Harry can’t help it. Flu or no flu, he has to kiss his boy.