Larry sick fics

Louis insomnia

The grit of the roof shingles feels like sandpaper under Louis's toes. It doesn't stop him from scratching the ball of his foot over it again and again, though, because the tingle it gives him is comforting and real and there, even as the rest of the world seemingly slips away.

The rough siding of the house digs into his lower back and his arse is starting to ache from how long he's been sitting on this sloped rooftop, but he doesn't mind. Out here, he can be awake without worrying. Out here, he can breathe without feeling trapped. Out here, he's not a burden.

The yard looks ominous, like a black pit waiting to swallow him up should he slip. Everything looks a bit scarier in the dark of night, including the inside of his head. The cool air helps, though, as do the soft sounds of nature in its utmost peace. Not that the gentle snores of a certain curly haired boy aren't lovely, but each breath reminds Louis that Harry is sleeping and Louis just isn't.

Maybe it shouldn't feel like as big of a deal as it does, because maybe it isn't. Millions of people have insomnia, or at least that's what Harry always tells him at 3am when he's fruitlessly trying to coax Louis back inside.

Millions of people have insomnia, and Louis is one of them, but that doesn't make it any easier to cope with. He lies awake with heavy eyelids and burning eyeballs and stares at the ceiling for hours at a time, a thick, insurmountable wall between him and sleep. That's exactly what it feels like, as well; he's here, and sleep is there, but there's a locked door between them and Louis has yet to find the key.

He lets his eyes fall closed but he feels like he's spinning, like he's whirling around so quickly it makes his stomach lurch. He pitches his head forward, thinking he's actually going to be sick, and snaps his eyes open. He's not sick, he never is, but this is what happens. He leans his head back against the siding and stares up at the starless sky, wishing the clouds weren't in the way so maybe he would transcend right up there among the ever wakeful stars, where he belongs.

Goosebumps prickle his arms and he pulls the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands, balling his fists in the fabric. It's not warm, not by any stretch of the imagination. It's hardly even early spring yet and it's the time of night when everything is vaguely and inexplicably wet. The cold does nothing tonight but remind Louis of the boy he left inside, the boy that's curled up under the blankets by himself right now, the boy that's probably going to come looking for him soon when he wakes up and Louis isn't there.

"What did I do," Louis asks the sky, picking his head up and dropping it back against the siding of the house. It's not a question, because there's not an answer, and he knows that. He didn't do anything, and that's exactly the problem, isn't it? If he could do something, he'd do just about anything to be sleeping right now, curled around his sweet, sweet boy.

As it is, the sky is turning pink, and the bottom of Louis's trackies are damp with that mysterious moisture. It's just another night he didn't get a wink of sleep, and Harry will whine and coo at him for hours once he's awake, but Louis doesn't know what to tell him. There's nothing he can do, just like there is nothing he did. It just is.

As the hazy pink of the sky starts to lighten, Louis counts the seconds until Harry will open the window. This is always when he blinks awake, when the dim light starts peeking through the curtain, and finds that Louis is gone. Louis prays that for once Harry will sleep through it, that for once Louis can be a burden on himself without being a burden on Harry as well.

As if on cue, the window slides open a second later. Harry's head pokes out, messy with slept on curls and sheet marks on his cheek, worry clear on his face. A year ago, Louis would have been startled. A year ago, Harry would've looked panicked.

"Louis," he rasps, voice sleep soft and so warm it calms the goosebumps on Louis's skin. "I miss you."

Louis lolls his head to look at him, smiling sleepily. Yeah, maybe he could get a wink or two, if Harry holds him extra tight. The sun'll be up soon anyway, burning in his already sore eyes. He should probably-

"Come inside."

Louis doesn't disobey that gentle order, never has and never will. He knows that Harry won't go back to sleep unless Louis is beside him and Louis hates the thought of Harry losing sleep over him, so with one more glance up at the now bubblegum sky, Louis picks himself up and climbs back in through the window.

Harry hugs him like he missed him, and Louis lets himself go lax in a way that he knows Harry knows means I missed you too. Harry helps him out of his dew-damp sweater and trackies and then pulls the sweater off his own body, dressing Louis in it like a child. Louis is immediately engulfed in warmth and comfort and Harry and it's nice, it's so nice, it makes his eyes droop even more.

Harry takes his hand and pulls him back to bed, peeling back the mussed up covers and pulling Louis into his chest. Louis nuzzles into the warm skin at the base of Harry's neck and curls his cold hands into the space between their stomachs, eyes wide open.

Harry smoothes a hand down the length of his spine, the warmth of his fingers relaxing Louis's tight muscles. "Close your eyes," Harry whispers, and he can't see Louis's face but he must know, because Harry always knows. Harry knows him better than anyone.

It takes a great deal of trust, and a greater deal of courage, for Louis to let his eyes flutter closed. He's spinning, twirling, falling, but Harry's arms are holding him tight.

"I've got you," Harry breathes. Harry has him, and Louis can feel it, and after a long few minutes and a bit more nonsensical whispering and humming in his ear, the wall between Louis and sleep starts to fade and he finally, finally drifts off.

He's not sleeping, not really, more just kind of dozing. He's still mostly conscious but blissfully unaware, breaths coming in tiny puffs through his mouth and his fists slowly uncurling against Harry's skin.

Harry's rhythmic breathing is comforting, and as Harry sleeps deeper, Louis calms. He's still not really sleeping, and he won't feel rested in the slightest when he opens his eyes, but for a few blessed moments he's escaped his own head.

He dozes on and off until the sun has fully risen, but he doesn't make any move to leave the bed again when sleep finally evades him for good. Harry's face is squished into his pillow in a way that should be unattractive; the drool dripping from his mouth should not make Louis smile, but alas, Louis is a lovesick fool.

Millions of people have insomnia, and Louis is one of them, but millions of people don't have Harry. Louis is the only one, and somehow, that's what makes it bearable.