ALL CREDIT TO:
@phantasmcgoria on twitter
@tomlintokes on tumblr
http://archiveofourown.org/works/2624576?view_adult=true (link to ff online)
It starts with the headaches.
Which isn't so unusual, really — they're on break, technically, but it's still weeks on end of being shuttled from one place to another with interviewers gabbing in their ears, repeating the same goddamned questions over and over and fucking over and it's so exhausting Louis thinks he might explode if one more person asks how his relationship is going.
Fine, he answers. Great, even. It really is. Just not with Eleanor.
They don't need to know that, though.
And they don't, but they still keep asking, and three weeks into promo Louis truly feels like his head is going to explode, like his brain is pulsing right against his skull. It's horrible and no matter how many cigarettes he smokes or pain pills and glasses of water and tea he swallows it doesn't let up; the pain subsides some but never truly goes away.
It's frustrating, but not alarming. Not yet.
Home, Louis thinks. Home. He just can't wait to get home, where he can kick off his jeans and curl up under the covers and close his eyes and sleep for an hour or maybe ten until his brain is fully rested and not feeling like it's about to bust through his skull. But for now he's trapped in the back of a car with Harry and a driver who apparently doesn't understand that silence is golden.
If he were in a better mood, Louis might just engage him in conversation, talking excitedly and laughing at his poor excuses for jokes but right now he's just not in the mood, and Harry notices. Of course he does. Harry notices everything.
"Your head again, hm?" Harry mumbles, lips pressed to Louis' temple. Louis just nods weakly, making a soft whining noise and cuddling into Harry's side. His head is still throbbing, but with his face buried in Harry's stupid, expensive leather jacket, it's a little better because all he can smell is Harry, all warm and familiar and home. God, he can't wait to get home.
They arrive at their flat just as Louis has started dozing. Harry thanks the driver, quick and polite - always so professional, he is - before looping a hand over Louis' shoulder and tugging him towards the door, urging him to be quick. Nobody knows where this flat is, but there's always been the chance of someone catching sight of them and following them home. Their drivers are usually good about making sure they aren't followed, looping around the neighborhood until any hangers-on are hopelessly confused, but Harry likes to be sure, anyway.
Louis toes off his shoes as soon as he's through the front door, making a beeline for the couch and burying his face in a terribly tacky and uncomfortable decorative pillow. He feels the couch dip slightly under Harry's weight as he sits down next to him, warm hand on his back, smoothing down his shirt and Louis feels all the tension leave his body, turning to give Harry a grateful smile.
Harry grins back, all dimples and teeth, patting his lap invitingly and Louis loves him so much he could die as he crawls over and rests his head in Harry's warm lap. Harry's hands are on him before he's even gotten settled, fingers stroking through his hair and scratching his scalp lightly. Louis hums appreciatively, nuzzling into Harry's hand.
"Good, boo?" Harry asks gently, fingers pressing lightly on his temple and Louis manages a soft uh-huh before he drifts off, wrapped up in Harry's touch and scent and it almost scares him to think he'll never be as happy as he is when he's in Harry's arms.
When he wakes up, the sky outside the window is dark, his head is still in Harry's lap, The Notebook is playing on the television, and he has to puke.
