Apocalypse | L.S [Completed]

XVI

"Do you realise how worried Horan was? He called us at four in the morning! Four!" Zayn continues his rant on Louis—the only thing he's been doing since he arrived fifteen minutes ago along with a sleepy Liam trailing behind. Louis zones out for the most of it, his hot chocolate no longer hot, sleepy eyes battling to stay open all while a cranky Zayn scolds him like his high school teacher.

He glances past Zayn's shoulders, eyes falling on Harry, curled into a warm-looking Liam, wrapped in his fluffy blanket, still wearing his hello kitty shorts and emerald eyes barely open. Niall stands beside Zayn, agreeing to every word he says like an arse-kisser, chiming in every now and then to add to Louis' tragical misery.

"'s not his fault," Harry's nasal voice pulls Louis back to the torturous reality, each pair of eyes in the room darting on the red-nosed beauty. "He didn't-achoo-ask me to come, I went by my own choice."

Harry tries to save the blue-eyed man, palms curling into an adorable ball as he rubs his abysmal greens, a small yawn escaping his lips and his curled-up figure retreating from a cosy-looking Liam. He walks up to Louis, snuggling into the older once placing himself on the cramped-up recliner, surprising each and everyone in the room, Louis included. One touch on his pallid skin, Louis' suspicions are confirmed; he's burning.

Not that Louis felt any different, but, he managed to mask it for the sake of the younger.

"Erm I think I should take him to his bed, he's quite feverish." Louis explains in a guilt-filled voice, three pairs of accusing eyes fall on him.

"And who's fault is that?" Niall mutters, walking up to the pair and stroking Harry's hair protectively. One look at Niall's eyes and Louis can tell how much the Irishman truly cares for the younger—his pelagic blues overflowing with vigilance and agita with a tint of acrimony for Louis.

"Wake up, Harry," Louis whispers, cautiously cradling his face in his hands in an attempt at bringing the younger into a more attentive state, and to detach Harry's clinging body from his own.

"Let's get you to bed."

Louis wraps Harry in the blanket like a burrito, guiding him up the stairs with stable hands holding Harry's almost limp body. "Which one's yours?" Louis questions a slumberous Harry, barely managing to stand up without Louis' support. Harry points at the room on the left with closed eyes, hands weak and a small, knackered sigh leaving his plump lips in the process.

Louis complies, guiding the feverish boy inside the raspberry cream coloured room, walls emblazing an aggregate of antique-gold frames, each frame holding a picture and each picture capturing Harry's infectious smile.

He's always smiling.

"I'm sorry." Louis whispers, after gently placing the boy on the airy bed, blanket wrapped protectively over the unmoving body.

"Don't be," Harry mindlessly mumbles, voice tired and dead. "Not your fault," He tries again to console a remorseful Louis, who just strokes his curls until Harry drifts into a land of peaceful unconsciousness. The burn of his skin lingering on Louis' palm every time his skin touches the edge of Harry's forehead while stroking his chocolate lusciousness. He watches Harry rest—as creepy as it sounds—he watches him with a strange tingle in his chest, the kind he hasn't ever felt, it not bad, simply; strange.

"Sorry."

Louis apologises for the final time, and with a last glance at the almost serene-looking boy, he shakily makes his way downstairs, body aching at every step and a violent pound echoing through his head.

Fuck, he's going to be sick. Wanker cold.

"You alright?" Zayn questions immediately once Louis' in his sight. Zayn knows something's wrong, that Louis does not feel alright.