Harry Styles Imagines and Preferences

"Please?"

You growl in frustration as you glance at the clock again, a shock of panic running down your spine when you see the red numbers staring you down. You now have 14 minutes to get to class and you can't for the life of you find your notebook.

You could've sworn you'd just had it in your hands, preparing to put it in your bag after you'd brought some soup and juice and one last dose of medicine into the bedroom for Harry before you left, but now it's gone and you can't fathom where it's disappeared to.

"Harry!" You hurry into the bedroom, casting your eyes around for the familiar tattered blue cover and spiral spine. You're answered with a short bout of coughs coming from the lump of blankets on the bed.

"Yeah?" he croaks, and you instantly feel bad for bugging him when he's obviously trying to get some rest, but you can't get through this class without that notebook.

"Have you seen my notebook? The blue one I'm always doing homework in?" You search around the bed and on the dresser, whining when you come up with nothing. "Oh my God, where the hell is it- what was that?" You pop your head up instantly, eyes narrowing in Harry's direction where all you can see is a mess of brown hair and a pair of dark rimmed eyes that are looking far too innocent. "Harry...did I just hear a crinkle?"

"No," he answers immediately, but when he shifts around on the bed you hear it again, and with a swiftness that he's too sick to catch up with, you lift the blanket it and see your poor notebook being held hostage against his chest.

"Harry!"

"I don't want you to go," he bursts out, clutching your notebook tighter when you try to grab it from him. "How can you leave me when I'm like this?" He really knows how to guilt you, managing to look completely pitiful as he looks up at you with the worst puppy eyes you've ever seen. You sigh.

"This is a really important class. We have a test on Friday."

"I'll help you study." One clammy hand reaches out and wraps itself around your wrist, trying to tug you into bed with him. "Please stay home with me? Please? Please please please?" He has another coughing fit, the notebook sliding out of his grip as his body convulses with each seize of his lungs, and you see your opportunity to snatch it and go, but his wheezing breath and big hands curled into fists that rub his watering eyes grabs hold of you and won't let go.

"Just this once," you murmur, kicking off your shoes and undressing until you're comfortable enough to slide under the covers with him. His face lights up as much as it can, and he latches onto you with fervor.

"Thank you." You can't bring yourself to berate him for acting like a four year old, not when he curls up against you and rests his tired head on your chest, melting into you when you run your fingers through his hair. And maybe you'll fail your test on Friday, but you'll worry about that later.