Just One Little Favour

Twelve

Joseph had a bad night last night.

Not only did he continously cry out that his throat hurt, he was also sweating buckets, goosebumps climbing up his arms and shivering. He claimed he was cold, but to the touch, he was burning up.

Louis slept in Joe's bed last night. He barely slept, so he kept busy by carding his fingers through the boy's hair, and watching a show quietly on his phone.

It's now two in the afternoon, and all they've done is lounge around.

Louis finds himself in the kitchen, just in his boxers. His tummy on show —getting warmed up by the sun— for anyone who might decide to trespass into the pool through the window. It's warm outside, and the sun stripes through the windows; being commando (ish) was his last resort, what with Joe claiming he's freezing so AC wouldn't be the best of solutions.

The kettle shakes on its stand, water bubbling from inside. The pop of the toaster makes him jalt with a jump, heart rabbiting for a split second before calming. The song on the radio finally changes, and Shivers by Ed Sheeran filters through the speakers.

Louis busies himself with humming along to the music, grabbing the toast from the toaster and slapping it on a plate.

It's all he's managed to bloody make today. Grace has the day off today, her and her partner celebrating their two year anniversary. Louis hasn't really been the greatest of cooks. Before Grace, when he lived in this house for two months with no help, he lived off of instant noodles, toast and takeaway meals. Only when he felt sluggish and more of a tummy protruded beneath his tight vest tops, did he decide that some proper hearty meals would be the best solution, along with the gym outside.

Crumbs sprinkle across his chest as the knife scrapes at the surface of the toast, spreading a thin layer of butter and jam— on Joey's request— onto it. Louis is just thankful that the kid hasn't vommed since yesterday.

He pours himself a tea before taking both the plate and mug upstairs toward Joe's room. The thin curtains flutter in the small breeze making its way through the open window. Louis sets down the mug onto his side of the bed's side table. He pours more squash from the pitcher on Joe's bedside table, into the now empty glass beside it.

"Keep drinking, love," Louis mumbles, stroking Joe's hair back. He lays the back of his hand on the boy's forehead and pouts. "You still have a temperature."

Joe grumbles under his breath, the sound crackly along his chest and he begins to cough into his hand. He flops his head further into the pillows.

"You going to eat your toast, darlin'?" Louis asks softly.

The space between Joe's eyebrows wrinkle, a frown on his face and he shakes his head, pushing the plate away from him.

"Why not? You asked for jam toast, I delivered. My toast making skills isn't that bad! You should see how I make my pasta." Louis gives a small smile, but Joe just stares at him blankly.

"I want Mummy," he croaks, crossing his arms over his chest, cheek nestling against Socks that has somehow made its way to the side of the pillow instead of in his arms.

Louis sighs. "I know you do, Skimbleshanks. But you also know that Mummy and Daddy are sorting out some grown-up stuff back home. They don't want you getting hurt along the way."

"If it could hurt me, then they shouldn't be doing the stuff in the first place," Joe says matter-of-factly.

Louis quirks a brow. He cannot argue with that. He purses his lips and nods, reaching over and takes a bite of the toast for himself instead. "Come on, if you eat your toast, I'll get you some ice lollies later to sooth your throat."