That Sounds Fake But Okay

Chapter 2

Harry gazes out the window as the first pink tendrils of sunrise appear over the treetops of Central Park. On the sidewalks below he can just make out the opaque figures of joggers stretching and setting out on their morning circuits, as well as the early birds bustling to work and the late-night stragglers making their way back home.

It's breath-taking. Harry loves the sunrise. As much as he hates waking up early in the morning, there's just no other feeling that compares to observing the Earth as it wakes up around you. To Harry, it always feels like a promise. Like nothing that has taken place up until this point matters because it's a new day and a clean slate. Like anything good might happen now, even if it seemed impossible the night before.

Harry lets out a wide-mouthed yawn. Well, he definitely didn't have to wake up early to enjoy this particular sunrise. He's been up all night.

He glances over his shoulder to where Louis is asleep in his giant bed. He looks so small. He's finally quiet and still, his fever-fueled hallucinations subsided. The worst has definitely passed. So as much as Harry would love to remain mesmerized by the striking view out of Louis' expansive bedroom windows, he knows it's time to get the hell out of there.

The last several hours were interesting, to say the least. After they'd arrived at Louis' building, Harry had half-wrestled, half-carried him across the lobby to the elevator, the night guard barely raising an eyebrow. It made Harry wonder how many times Louis had stumbled home with a random guy before.

At least Louis had been able to punch the correct code into the elevator to get them to his apartment. As soon as they stepped inside, he muttered, "I'm fine now. You can go," then promptly threw up all over Harry's shoes.

Harry stepped out of them gingerly and guided Louis gently to the bathroom, where he wet a washcloth for his burning forehead. For an hour or two, Louis had alternated between dry heaving over the toilet and lying with his face pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. Harry busied himself cleaning up the entryway floor and scrubbing his shoes in the kitchen sink. Then, he scoured Louis' cabinets looking for some Tylenol or anything that might help with his fever.

When he found it, he returned to the bedroom with a glass of water and discovered Louis wearing nothing but an extremely tight, extremely tiny pair of bright red briefs, looking quite delirious and aimlessly pulling clothes out of one of his dresser drawers.

Harry nearly dropped the glass of water on the floor. He wasn't expecting so many tattoos.

"I need clean clothes?" Louis scrunched his forehead like he wasn't sure whether he was telling Harry this or asking him. He looked completely lost in his own bedroom.

Harry rushed to place the water and the pills on the bedside table and then chose a pair of blue Adidas joggers and a plain white T-shirt out of Louis' drawer. It took every ounce of willpower in Harry's body not to look down for a better view of Louis in his red underwear.

"Here you go. These look comfortable," he said, handing the shirt and pants to Louis. "I didn't know Adidas came in extra small."

Louis snatched the clothes away and narrowed his eyes at Harry, stumbling over to the bed to put them on. "Okay, you can fuck off now. I don't need you," he declared, then proceeded to spend three straight minutes struggling to pull the pants on.

When Harry couldn't bear to watch any more, he asked if he could help.

"No."

"It's just a pair of pants. You're really sick. Just let me help you so you can get in bed and sleep."

Louis flopped back on the bed in defeat. "Don't get handsy."

"I would never," Harry promised as he grabbed the tangled joggers at Louis' feet, untwisted them, and guided them up and over Louis' hips. His fingers barely grazed the skin there—Louis' skin felt like it was on fire.