It's Getting Cold These Days [Larry Stylinson AU]

Nineteen

A/N: Delayed, yes, but only because of the unexpected word count (and exams). This chapter reaches well over 8 000 words, which is... It's by far the longest chapter of the fic. Beware of excessive mentions (and uses) of vomiting (delicately handled, we hope!), kisses, and the beginning of the end. Happy reading x

Harry didn't leave the bed for days. When she wasn't drooling on the flat's other tenants, Baby would perch on his stomach, eyes slits of lime in her black fur. Louis urged him to rest and ensured that blankets and tea were within reach at all times. Now and then, they went out for brief strolls around the building. Harry had never itched so badly.

They didn't talk about their families, despite Louis' promise. Harry didn't mind. Maybe they were topics of the past. The closest they got was when Anna's parents came over one afternoon and after they had left, Anna said that she had enough to go around when it came to good parents. They all signed up for a dose.

They looked a lot at Louis' albums. Other than working as a barber and a model, he had spent time in various repair shops up north, been an apprentice at a local fishmonger ("My first job—Mr Moss was the kindest employer, too bad the entire place smelled rotten.") and been a trainee at an art exhibit in the States. He had motored through Western Europe once and declined an invitation out to Ibiza when he reached the Spanish coast, instead taking a daytrip to the casinos in Monaco where he had met several tourists who had gambled away their money.

Harry couldn't grasp all these stories, even as the photographic evidence stared him in the face. Louis was only a year or two older and he had already accomplished so much, had already taken his share of the world.

While they looked, Louis kept talking about what ifs.

What if I'd gone with that fishing boat to Nova Scotia?

What if Zayn and I had never talked?

What if I'd never left Doncaster?

What if I'd never met you?

For Louis' birthday, Harry took his bandage off permanently. Anna and Zayn had taken turns assisting him when the time came to change it. Louis hadn't been allowed to see the marred skin below.

That evening, Louis pulled him close, reverent lips hovering over his skin, and asked him to take it off. Harry had sat up, wary of bruised limbs as Louis' mellow hands skimmed over his hips. And he unwrapped himself. The frayed bandage piled over their naked skin. Louis touched his face, wouldn't stop touching it, and Harry closed his eyes as he leaned into it, spine curving down as if gravity forced him. And Louis whispered to him.

"You're an angel," he said. "You're a god damn angel."

For Christmas Day, Niall brought over his guitar.

All gathered around the telly and listened as Niall recalled Irish folk songs and prompted a sing-along. Joints were passed around—Niall and Louis declined—and spoiled fruit cake was frowned upon. Someone hollered drunkenly outside.

While everyone watched the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer DVD Niall had brought with him, Harry sat with Baby in his lap on the balcony, smoking. Zayn came and went and then Niall joined him. Niall picked Baby up in his arms and she nearly fell asleep there, pawing his chest. Strings of drool spanned from her maw to the knit.

"So you're a thing now?" Niall said. "Properly?"

Harry nodded.

"How's your brother?"