Smut and fluff

I will rearrange the stars

Harry pressed his face against the cool glass of the display case, fighting back nausea as he soothed his hot skin. He felt like he'd been fighting some horrific disease or other for over a month. He'd had strep for a bit, right after his first heat, but luckily antibiotics had taken care of that pretty quickly. Some weeks later, and it seemed to be some sort of stomach bug or flu.

He'd woken up just this morning by clambering over Louis' prone form, hand clamped to his mouth as he rushed to the toilet, dropped to his knees, and puked up his dinner with a low whine of anguish and disgust. His Alpha had appeared several seconds later, crouching down beside him and gently pulling his long curls away from his sweaty, pale face, which Harry had been eternally grateful for. He'd nuzzled back into him miserably before another wave of intense nausea had sent him back to praying to the porcelain goddess.

It had truly started days ago, with a spectacularly awful vomit after attempting to grill raw chicken breast, and this morning Louis had mentioned the d word: doctor. Harry wasn't exactly the fondest of medical places, but he'd agreed with Louis after only being able to eat a breakfast of half a banana and some heated lemon water. Perhaps it really was time to get sorted again, especially since he'd never had a tummy bug for more than a few days, and today marked a week. And it couldn't be the flu; he'd had no temperature, no chills, no huge aches and complaints, and he was a little more tired than usual, but it certainly wasn't like any sickness he could ever recall having.

So, here Harry was, trying not to look or smell anything in the cornucopia of sweets and sugary treats. It was difficult, since he had to touch and pick up and then bag them whenever a customer ordered something. The tea, at least, made him feel significantly better; that was a comforting scent. Harry glanced at the clock and moaned pitifully, as he still had two hours to go.

Suddenly, the door to the shop opened, and in tumbled Liam and Niall, the blond making an immediate beeline for the pastries with practical heart eyes. The boy tugged the display case open himself, without permission or even a question, and Harry managed a weak smile, suddenly and intensely sickened by the cloying sweet smell of baking. He was quite green about the gills, he was sure, and Liam's face went rather alarmed as he hurried over.

"Alright?" he asked worriedly, brows drawn together in concern. Harry nodded carefully, his stomach openly rebelling. Niall pursed his lips into a frown and bit his bottom lip.

"Are you still sick then? Christ, it's been a week. This must be something serious," he hummed, slipping around the counter and protectively pressing himself to Harry's side, arms carefully wrapping around his torso and squeezing comfortingly. Harry heaved a slow sigh, mindful to breathe only through his mouth. Liam shut the case quickly, and Harry sighed once more, this time in relief.

"Yeah. Lou said I have to go to the doctor," he huffed, wiping back his curls and grumbling. He felt better almost as soon as he didn't have to smell the baked goods. Niall had busied himself with the beverage machines, and suddenly produced a hot cuppa of something, brandishing it towards the Omega. Harry leered warily at it, uneasy with his stomach at their rocky truce.

"No, s'ginger tea. It'll help, cross my heart and hope to die. It was the only thing that made my mum sane when she was pregnant with me," Niall swore by it, eyes bright.

Harry froze a moment, his breath stuttering in his chest. No fever. No chills. No coughing, sneezing, hacking. Yes nausea and vomiting, lethargy, frequent wee breaks, and, now that he thought about it, his chest had been sore lately. Just last week, he'd almost bitten Louis for getting too rough with his nipples.

"... Lads. Lads! Oh my god," Harry whispered, the pieces falling into place. It all made sense. The food aversions, and seemingly random bouts of tummy trouble. The only thing he couldn't figure out was how. He'd been on his 'pressies since the end of his first heat, and he knew, quite confidently, that no Omega could get knocked up during it; the first one had way too many hormones and mixed-up puberty for an egg and sperm to successfully meet. So, how on earth could he be?