A Touch of Cinnamon ✓

s e v e n | hangovers and hangouts

—«̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶̶ ̶«̶ ̶̶̶ ̶　　 ̶»̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶̶ ̶»̶ ̶̶̶

HS

The next time Harry wakes up, he's in the same position he fell asleep in the previous night: face down on the pillow, on his stomach, legs sprawled across the top of his blanket, one arm on top of his pillow next to him, the other underneath it propping his head up, and a trail of drool down his chin from the corner of his mouth. 

He groans, the sunlight streaming through the slats on the blinds, and it just so happens to be shining right across his face. He lifts one arm and rubs at his eyes, lifting his head up to peer around him, his eyes narrowed to keep as much light out of them as possible.

He sluggishly drags himself out of bed, practically a rag doll, before making his way into the bathroom to brush his teeth and do anything else he needs to do.

And he decides he needs a shower, because his skin feels sticky from all of the sweat left over from the night before. He feels filthy. He turns the water on and steps into it, his hoarse, scratchy voice coming out with a string of swears when an ice cold stream comes into contact with his bare skin.

He eases back into it, a little wary of the water because of how cold it was at first, but once it warms up in general, and he warms up to it, he's stepping under it fully and getting clean.

It doesn't take long, but it takes longer than usual because of how slow he's moving thanks to being so hungover.

As he's turning the water off, the creaking noise the knob makes causes him to flinch, the sound seeming much harsher and much louder than it probably would be if he were sober.

He haphazardly dries himself off and pads back across the hall into his room, grabbing the first pair of boxers he finds in his dresser and pulling them on. He discards his towel on his bed, barely toweling his hair off, and heads into the kitchen for some painkillers and food.

He finds Liam sitting at the island, eating a fry-up, "For you too," Liam whispers, the both of them avoiding loud noises at the moment.

"Thank you," Harry whispers back before taking a dose of painkillers and sitting down to eat his plate of food.

By the time they're both done, they've each had quite a bit of water to drink and their stomachs are no longer empty, so they're beginning to feel better.

"What do you remember from last night?" Harry asks quietly, but not whispering.

"I remember dancing, I remember...I remember you were, like, looking for me or something? Then I remember we were heading outside and I remember the cold air felt nice. I remember asking you how drunk you were, I remember getting home, and I remember laying in bed. You?" Liam asks just as quietly, neither of them willing to speak any louder than they have to.

"I remember dancing - vaguely. I barely remember looking for you, but I remember thinking that there was something I wanted myself to remember or realize or something, but I don't know what it was or is. I don't even know if I remember it. I remember...I remember you asking if I was drunk, and I remember getting home," Harry answers, gently placing their dirty plates into the sink as quietly as he can.

"You were dancing something else last night, Haz, I remember that. We were, like, all over each other. You sure you don't fancy me?" Liam asks teasingly, making Harry stick his tongue out at his best mate.

"Not at all, you aren't my type," Harry refutes and Liam chuckles slightly before his head starts to hurt again, moving his hand to cradle it.

"Well what is your type then? Blond? Blue eyes? Irish?" Liam asks pointedly.