Perfect Storm

Chapter 1

It's January 1st, the first morning of the new year, and Harry can't imagine being more hungover than he currently is, right now, in this moment. His head is pounding, the Denver sun too bright even through the closed shades in the living room, and Louis will not stop fucking whining that he needs coffee, needs a sweatshirt, needs to unpeel his contacts from his eyeballs, needs something to throw up into.

"Lou, baby, for the love of God, shut the hell up," Harry groans from his position behind the kitchen counter, wincing as the refrigerator door slams behind him.

"No, it's your fault I feel so shitty. You forced me to drink."

He snorts as he pours the cream into his cup of coffee, watching the colors swirl together. "That's not exactly how I recall it. I believe it went more along the lines of you chugging a bottle of red wine, followed by 30 or 40 shots."

Louis whines louder, pulling a throw pillow over his face, voice muffled. "You lie. It wasn't that many. It was only, like, 27. And a half."

Harry takes a sip of his coffee, ignoring how it nearly burns his tongue, and makes his way to the couch. "It's astonishing that you aren't dead yet. Truly. Move over."

He doesn't actually move, just lifts his legs up, giving Harry about a quarter of the cushion to squeeze into, then drapes his legs across Harry's lap, complete dead weight. "I smell coffee," he says, face still hidden under the pillow. "That had better be for me."

"Yours is on the counter."

Louis lets the pillow fall to the ground, pouting and blinking heavily. "But that's so far away."

"Yeah, those 13 steps are killer."

"Exactly."

Harry's about to argue that Louis' laziness has reached an all-time high, but speaking feels like too much work. Instead, he sinks further into the couch, closing his eyes, resting his hand on Louis' knee, drawing circles with his thumb. Louis makes no attempt to get up and get his mug from the kitchen, Harry makes no attempt to point out that it's probably going to get cold, and he closes his eyes, head tipped back, brain screaming to shut down and go to sleep. And he's almost there, Louis' breathing even, thighs warm against Harry's, but then someone knocks on their front door, startling both of them, Harry spilling coffee all across his lap.

"Fuck, shit," he hisses, jumping up immediately. "What the fuck."

Louis laughs, the bastard, not bothering to sit up. "Harry, darling, someone's at the door."

He stares at Louis, unamused. "Sorry, I have a little situation here."

"Hurry up. It isn't going to open itself."

Harry rolls his eyes, scoffing as he makes his way to the door, and brainstorms ways to make Louis' death look like an accident. He grimaces at the way the coffee drips down his legs, quickly going cold, and so far, this year is not going well, barely ten hours into it. He squints through the peephole, surprised to see Liam, who looks annoyingly perky to be standing on the other side of the door at 9:25 in the morning, rubbing his hands together and smiling. Harry pulls open the door, jaw clenching when it creaks.

"Good morning!" Liam chirps, not bothering for Harry to welcome him in before he steps through the doorway. He looks down and frowns. "Looks like you might've peed your pants, Styles."

"It's coffee ," he grits out, shutting the door.

"Sure, whatever. Anyway ." He heads into the living room, nearly prancing. "Tommo! Hi!"

Louis sits up and looks up at Harry over the back of the couch. "Harry, why is this man in our home. He's scaring me."

"I know, baby, me, too," Harry pouts, taking a seat on the recliner, doing his best to ignore the way the coffee is now completely cold and seeping into his boxers. He's unsuccessful. It's disgusting.