Ficlet: Liam/Louis, disorientated
Dec. 16th, 2018 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicalrocketshipsANONYMOUS ASKED 11 - Lilo, please!
11. disoriented
Originally posted here.
Louis wakes up to a headache the size of Doncaster, a lot of little fizzy star-like shapes at the edge of his vision, and a confusingly large stranger kneeling over him.
“Are you all right?” The confusingly large stranger asks him, putting his hand to Louis’ forehead like he’s a kid with a temperature.
“No,” Louis says. “Get off me.” He tries to push the guy away, but his head hurts if he moves, and anyway, he’s not entirely sure why he’s sitting on the ground in the middle of the night. It’s cold. The ground is cold.
“You hit your head,” the guy tells him. “You fell over. Can you remember your name?”
“Yes,” Louis says, grumpily. “And it’s 2014. Stop trying to take my temperature, I haven’t got the flu.”
He doesn’t quite remember how he got here, though.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” Louis says. “I’m fine.” He just can’t stand up, or move his head that much. His face feels wet. But he’s fine. “What happened?”
“Can’t you remember?”
“No,” Louis says again. “Urgh,” God, his head hurts. “Who even are you?”
“I’m Liam,” the confusingly large stranger tells him. “I saw you fall over. Then you didn’t get up. I’m going to call an ambulance. You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t,” Louis says, trying to bat his hand away. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve got a car,” Liam says, hesitantly. “I could drive you. I think you might have a concussion.”
“I didn’t fall over,” Louis says. “I never fall over. It’s Harry that falls over. He’s always falling over.”
“You fell over,” Liam says, and points at a broken paving slab. “Mostly you fell over that.”
“Right,” Louis says, and his forehead feels a little bit wet and sticky. Like blood. “I think I might be sick.”
Normally Louis likes being right, but this time he’s rather unhappy with the results. He throws up twice, and he’s dizzy and his head hurts alarmingly, and Louis doesn’t actually remember what day it is. He knows what year it is, but what use is a year? He needs to know what day it is.
“Tell me what day it is,” Louis says, sniffing and wiping his mouth with his hand. He’s alarmingly, desperately dizzy. He doesn’t mean to cry but it really, really hurts.
“I don’t want to give you the answers.” Liam says, and Louis is convinced at that moment that Liam is the worst person in the history of forever.
Liam rubs his hand down over Louis’ back, and waits with him for the ambulance to arrive.
*
Liam sits with him in the cubicle in casualty, and tells Louis all about this TV programme he watched last night about lizards.
Louis’ head hurts, and he’s thrown up five times now, and the gash on his forehead needs stitches. He’s going to have a scar.
“My beautiful face is ruined,” he complains, when Liam comes back from the toilet with a carton of Ribena and some wine gums, and the painkillers are beginning to kick in. “Nobody will ever fancy me again, and all because I fell over a paving slab.”
Liam blushes an unusual shade of pink. Louis would concentrate on it more, but he feels really quite terrible.
“I’m going to phone the council in the morning,” Liam says. “That paving slab was really dangerous. Would you like a wine gum?”
“Yes please,” Louis says, even though he wouldn’t. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
Liam flushes a darker shade of pink. Interesting. “I can go,” he says.
“No,” Louis says. “I mean. You can if you need to. But, like. It’s okay if you stay.”
“Right,” Liam says, and sits down awkwardly on the plastic chair by the side of Louis’ gurney.
Louis is quite exasperated, even though he’s got concussion and he’s cut his head open. It’s not even a good story; he just fell over and knocked himself out on the pavement. “You never did tell me what day it was.”
“Wednesday,” Liam says, carefully.
“Right,” Louis says, and tries not to feel quite so sick. He remembers Tuesday, if he thinks hard enough. And bits of Wednesday. Spaghetti hoops on toast for lunch, putting the radio on this morning, queuing in the post office after work. He closes his eyes, and concentrates on not moving a muscle. It all hurts less if he doesn’t move an inch. “Talk to me,” he says, and only part of it sounds like a plea. “Come on, Liam. My head’s fucking killing me. Tell me about you, my knight in shining armour, come on.”
“It’s just my Game of Thrones t-shirt,” Liam says.
“Liam,” Louis says. “Liam. Liam.”
"That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Liam says, softly.
“I will if I want to. I’ll say it a million times if I want to,” Louis says, and over the next few hours and days and weeks and months, when he refuses to let Liam walk out of his life, he does.
11. disoriented
Originally posted here.
Louis wakes up to a headache the size of Doncaster, a lot of little fizzy star-like shapes at the edge of his vision, and a confusingly large stranger kneeling over him.
“Are you all right?” The confusingly large stranger asks him, putting his hand to Louis’ forehead like he’s a kid with a temperature.
“No,” Louis says. “Get off me.” He tries to push the guy away, but his head hurts if he moves, and anyway, he’s not entirely sure why he’s sitting on the ground in the middle of the night. It’s cold. The ground is cold.
“You hit your head,” the guy tells him. “You fell over. Can you remember your name?”
“Yes,” Louis says, grumpily. “And it’s 2014. Stop trying to take my temperature, I haven’t got the flu.”
He doesn’t quite remember how he got here, though.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” Louis says. “I’m fine.” He just can’t stand up, or move his head that much. His face feels wet. But he’s fine. “What happened?”
“Can’t you remember?”
“No,” Louis says again. “Urgh,” God, his head hurts. “Who even are you?”
“I’m Liam,” the confusingly large stranger tells him. “I saw you fall over. Then you didn’t get up. I’m going to call an ambulance. You’re bleeding.”
“Don’t,” Louis says, trying to bat his hand away. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve got a car,” Liam says, hesitantly. “I could drive you. I think you might have a concussion.”
“I didn’t fall over,” Louis says. “I never fall over. It’s Harry that falls over. He’s always falling over.”
“You fell over,” Liam says, and points at a broken paving slab. “Mostly you fell over that.”
“Right,” Louis says, and his forehead feels a little bit wet and sticky. Like blood. “I think I might be sick.”
Normally Louis likes being right, but this time he’s rather unhappy with the results. He throws up twice, and he’s dizzy and his head hurts alarmingly, and Louis doesn’t actually remember what day it is. He knows what year it is, but what use is a year? He needs to know what day it is.
“Tell me what day it is,” Louis says, sniffing and wiping his mouth with his hand. He’s alarmingly, desperately dizzy. He doesn’t mean to cry but it really, really hurts.
“I don’t want to give you the answers.” Liam says, and Louis is convinced at that moment that Liam is the worst person in the history of forever.
Liam rubs his hand down over Louis’ back, and waits with him for the ambulance to arrive.
*
Liam sits with him in the cubicle in casualty, and tells Louis all about this TV programme he watched last night about lizards.
Louis’ head hurts, and he’s thrown up five times now, and the gash on his forehead needs stitches. He’s going to have a scar.
“My beautiful face is ruined,” he complains, when Liam comes back from the toilet with a carton of Ribena and some wine gums, and the painkillers are beginning to kick in. “Nobody will ever fancy me again, and all because I fell over a paving slab.”
Liam blushes an unusual shade of pink. Louis would concentrate on it more, but he feels really quite terrible.
“I’m going to phone the council in the morning,” Liam says. “That paving slab was really dangerous. Would you like a wine gum?”
“Yes please,” Louis says, even though he wouldn’t. “Don’t you have a home to go to?”
Liam flushes a darker shade of pink. Interesting. “I can go,” he says.
“No,” Louis says. “I mean. You can if you need to. But, like. It’s okay if you stay.”
“Right,” Liam says, and sits down awkwardly on the plastic chair by the side of Louis’ gurney.
Louis is quite exasperated, even though he’s got concussion and he’s cut his head open. It’s not even a good story; he just fell over and knocked himself out on the pavement. “You never did tell me what day it was.”
“Wednesday,” Liam says, carefully.
“Right,” Louis says, and tries not to feel quite so sick. He remembers Tuesday, if he thinks hard enough. And bits of Wednesday. Spaghetti hoops on toast for lunch, putting the radio on this morning, queuing in the post office after work. He closes his eyes, and concentrates on not moving a muscle. It all hurts less if he doesn’t move an inch. “Talk to me,” he says, and only part of it sounds like a plea. “Come on, Liam. My head’s fucking killing me. Tell me about you, my knight in shining armour, come on.”
“It’s just my Game of Thrones t-shirt,” Liam says.
“Liam,” Louis says. “Liam. Liam.”
"That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Liam says, softly.
“I will if I want to. I’ll say it a million times if I want to,” Louis says, and over the next few hours and days and weeks and months, when he refuses to let Liam walk out of his life, he does.
