You And Me - A Collection of Les Twins One Shots

Never Again

A/N: I got a prompt from LeenaXu for Sick Larry. I've done him with the flu before, so here is a bit of a different scenario. Hope you enjoy!

Larry is dry-heaving.

He barely has enough strength left to hold himself up at this point, legs shaking, arms weakly propped on either side of his head as he's puking his guts into the toilet of the ensuite bathroom.

Laurent is rubbing his back in a soothing pattern, alternating between circles and straight lines, and somewhere in the depths of his alcohol-swaddled mind, Larry knows that he should probably tell him to get lost, to give him privacy in this miserable, degrading moment of his life. But even drunk, Larry knows that this whole ordeal would be a whole lot worse without Laurent by his side, taking care of him.

He thinks about where it all went so wrong, about when he'd gone from having fun at the party to slurring his words and stumbling across the dance floor until Laurent had eventually taken mercy on him and dragged his sorry ass back to the hotel.

The few seconds of contemplation bring about another wave of nausea, and whatever little he'd eaten at the party comes back up with a vengeance, burning in his throat and stinging in his nose; it's awful and disgusting and Larry's skin crawls with how much he hates himself for this. He's sweating and shaking and he has lost track of how long they've been in here.

His stomach muscles quiver in pain when he clumsily reaches up to flush the mess down.

"I'm dying," he rasps out miserably, resting his forehead against the cool porcelain and closing his eyes in a mix of shame and exhaustion. "I'm dying. I'm gonna die and you'll have to cancel our cooperation with Henessy to honor my memory."

"You're not dying. And it's not their fault that you're stupid."

"Wow," Larry sniffs and regrets it immediately. His head is spinning, there's static in his ears and his pulse is racing, and why the fuck is this happening. Why doesn't it stop? Before he knows it, he's retching again, much more violently than before but all that comes out this time is bile and saliva. It's painful, muscles all locked up and cramping, throat aching from all that stomach acid.

"Damn it, Larry." Laurent pulls Larry's hair out of his face. He ties it up in a loose knot, taming the unruly mane in a  few practiced moves and Larry is too weak to protest against it, his eyes flutter closed at the feeling of Laurent's cool fingers on his scalp. "Why couldn't you go through this phase when you were a teenager like everyone else? Mami would have hit you over the head with her wooden spoon and made you clean up after yourself."

Larry wants to laugh, but it comes out as a jumbled mess of snot, air and tears. 

Sweat drenches his face and Laurent is right. He'll never, ever, EVER drink again in his life, no matter what kind of million-dollar deal they sign. He can't believe he spent most of his life sober only to go through this shit at age thirty-two.

Laurent turns on the faucet somewhere above him and the next thing Larry knows is that there's a wet washcloth in his neck, cool water dribbling down his skin and it's so fucking good that it makes him sigh in relief. 

He's sure if he doesn't die of bliss right this second, he'll die of mortal embarrassment the next.

Laurent crouches down beside him, another washcloth in his hands, and wipes his mouth and chin and the better part of his throat, he turns the cloth around like their mom used to and wipes his face down too, just for good measure. 

Larry allows it all to happen, doesn't yammer or complain or try to pull out of his brother's grasp as he goes to work. He's lax in Laurent's hands, but even now his stomach is rebellious, although there's nothing left to bring up.