And What If I Were You

Chapter 1 - Part 16

Friday, March 25, 2022

Louis' Villa

Pandanus Palms Retreat

Pandanus Island

9.20am. In bed, hungover, and regretting his choices...

There's an incessant pounding in Louis' head and a heavy pressure in his bladder. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his desert-like mouth as waves of nausea trigger a cold sweat to break out across his forehead.

"Fuck," Louis groans and scrubs his hand down his face, finding his skin gross and clammy. God. He feels like death.

The previous night comes back to him in disjointed memories. The cocktails, the shots, the beers, the wine with dinner. Good lord, this is why you're not supposed to mix drinks, he bemoans to himself. Not that the reminder is of any use now.

"I'm too old for this shit," he mutters into the quiet room.

His leg is still hanging off the side of the bed, foot planted on the floor, throbbing in time with his heartbeat and tingling with pins-and-needles due to the awkward angle which seems to have cut off the blood flow. He pulls it up with far more effort needing to be expended than is reasonable for a man in his early thirties, rolling onto his side and reaching his arms out into the empty space beside him the sheets are cool to the touch.

He's not fully in control of his faculties yet and his mind disappears into that place he tries so hard to keep off-limits. Harry had always been the one to manage their dusty mornings after a few too many drinks the night before, making them copious amounts of tea and a full English fry-up. He was never as badly affected as Louis, unfairly bright and sparkly in contradiction to Louis' less than stellar demeanour that would last until at least lunchtime or until his tea and food intake was enough to counter his nausea. Harry's patience had seemed to know no bounds, chuckling softly as he'd run Louis a warm bath and tolerate his grumblings, doting on him with foot massages and his favourite trash television shows before they'd head back to bed for an afternoon nap.

Louis lets his hand slide over the sheets into the place where Harry should be. But he's not here and never will be again, the bed painfully empty and absent his husband's warmth.

He doesn't want to think about it, not really, but he knows he has to at some point and his defences are down. As he lays in this enormous bed, alone, and feeling like utter crap, he sucks in a sharp breath and a sob escapes his dry lips. Louis furrows his brows as he fists the sheets in his hand, burrowing his face into the pillow, finding it wet with the tears he wasn't aware had started falling.