The Exceptionals

Chapter Twelve: Headache

Maneater - Daryl Hall & John Oates

Louis woke up from the odd, perturbing feeling of saliva pooling at the base of his mouth. His breathing is tightened on thin air through the burning acid threatening to burst through his throat. His attempts at swallowing that strange feeling narrow down as his body catches up to his mind, and his eyelids quickly flash open and before he knows it, he's running towards the bathroom. He trips over something and lands on his face, rushing on his hands and knees until he pushes the door open and crawls the cold floor until he desperately clutches the toilet bowl at the same time his stomach is being hurled down it, throwing up every inch; every single thing he consumed was all being stiffly gagged out of him. The poisonous sensation crowding him's intoxicating. He feels absolutely everything, being too immersed in every sensation consuming his body. He feels the tiles beneath his knees claw bitterly, he feels the pools of sweat at every other patch of glossy skin, the hair that tickles his neck, the chilly feeling of the toilet pressed up against his bare hands, and the distasteful, searing burn that travels up his throat.

It's fucking disgusting.

When he's done, he drops his bedridden face onto the cool seat and feels drool slide down his cheek like syrup, creating a pool on the plastic and dampening his heated skin. He flushes the toilet with an arm he can't even feel and weakly stands up with legs he forgot existed-and stumbles towards the sink, splashing his mouth and face with warm water. The water makes Louis sink with relief, his eyes fall halfway shut and he drops his head, lazily holding himself up against the sink with his elbows on the counter as he watches the water drain in a riveting daze, leaving him tired in a abyssal trance. His mind is working at a leisurely pace for him to register anything anymore. But fuck is he fucking sweating, Jesus fucking Christ. He looks up at the mirror, frowns, and looks away. Wine-like bruises blaze his under eyes and the oil slicking his hair and skin are satiny underneath the bathroom's sandy gleam. He looks dead-he doesn't need to see that. He ambles back to his room with a hand gripping his hair, holding his headache, as he slides inside his bed and groans. The pain-streaking headache burned into him.

He can't stop fucking sweating. His mouth tastes stale and his breath reeks. His skin is so fucking sticky, so fucking gross. His limbs feel heavy as they drag him down into the cushions and sink him into the bed, where he lays in his sweat.

Nothing is happening inside his mind right now, as his sanity drains his eyes train on the fan above his head that continues swirling, and his eyes follow that swirl. He attempts to breathe through and deep while lying face up.

Every time he begins to think-at all, his head pounds a little more, so he stops trying. He doesn't remember a single thing that happened last night nor how he came to this... state. Everything's a giant blur shoved into each other.

He reasonably spends 10 minutes sitting on top of his sheets, staring at the edge of his worn side table without a thought sparking with room to grow. When the phone rings it doesn't even startle him.

"Hello." He says, leaning over his bed with the coiled cord dangling just enough so he can remain lying down.

"Mate."

"Hey, Niall."

"So...? How you feelin'?". Louis hears the quiet movement of rustling from the other side of the phone, the mattress moving underneath Niall.

"Great," Louis says grimly.

"Liar, tell me the truth."

"I think I'm dying Niall."

"Yeah, I know," Niall says, almost laughing. His voice is groggy and his laugh is just as rough. It seems Niall isn't doing too well either.

"I woke up throwing up. I have a lousy headache. Umm. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm hanging up and going back to sleep now."