You woke with a sickening lurch in your stomach, a familiar dread rising with it. Before thought could fully form, you ripped the covers off and bolted for the shared bathroom. The light flickered on, illuminating the porcelain altar. You barely registered the metallic tang of bile as the last remnants of dinner emptied into the bowl. Harry was beside you in an instant, sleep-blurred vision sharpening with alarm. He knelt, his hand a steady warmth against the small of your back as another wave of nausea crested.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered, his voice rough with concern. You finished, then slumped against the cool tile of the wall, exhaustion and discomfort twisting into quiet sobs.
“Here, sweetheart,” Harry said, offering a glass of water. Your hands trembled as you accepted it, and he pressed a cool cloth to your forehead. The relief was immediate, a small oasis of calm in the storm.
“Come on, let’s go back to bed… I’ll grab a bucket.” He eased you upright, his arm a firm support around your waist. Shaky legs followed him back to the bed. He tucked you in, then crawled in beside you, his hand tracing slow circles on your stomach until, finally, exhaustion claimed you both.
---
Liam woke to the muffled sounds of your distress, a sickening rhythm of retching echoing from the bathroom. He found you hunched over the toilet, your face pale, a disturbing trace of blood marring your lips. Protective instincts flared. He scooped you up, ignoring your protests, and the chilling realization that you were throwing up blood. He draped one of his sweaters over your head and carried you to the passenger seat of his car, the drive a blur of anxious worry. You were too weak to even lift your head, your tears silent and desperate. He reached across the console, gripping your hand firmly but gently.
At the hospital, he carried you inside, thankfully unnoticed by the few other patients. The doctor’s diagnosis – irritated stomach lining from spoiled meat, a small tear causing the blood – was a relief, but the prescribed bed rest felt like an eternity. Liam carried you back home, cradling your fragile body. For the rest of the night, he anticipated your every need, a silent sentinel against the fever’s relentless assault. You knew, watching him tend to you, that you were safe, that he would see you through.
---
The rain was a soft drumming against the windowpane, mirroring the sluggish ache beginning to bloom in your chest. You and Niall had planned a lazy day, but the creeping illness had other plans. You stood in the kitchen, reaching for mugs for tea, and a wave of nausea crashed over you, dizzying and sharp.
“Niall!” you called, bracing a hand against the counter.
“Yeah?” he replied, his voice echoing from the living room.
“I need you, please!” Your voice cracked with exhaustion, and Niall was in the kitchen in seconds. He took one look at your face and lifted you into his arms.
“I-I don’t feel good,” you whispered, the words barely audible.
“I can see that,” he said, a flicker of concern in his eyes as he carried you to the couch. He returned moments later with tea and a cold cloth, pressing it to your forehead. You sipped the tea, wincing at the slight sting in your throat. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling a warm blanket around you both. You snuggled closer, letting the heat of his body chase away the chill. He pressed play on the movie you'd been wanting to see, and even through the haze of sickness, Niall managed to make the misery a little more bearable.
---
When the flu finally hit its worst, Zayn was at the studio. You hesitated to call, not wanting to disrupt his work. By the time he returned, you were on the couch, a bucket clutched in your hands, emptying your stomach for the third time. Zayn’s smile faded as he saw you, and he rushed to your side, gently lifting your hair away from your face.
“Oh, hi Zayn,” you choked out, another wave of nausea gripping you.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you replied, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.
“Oh, boo! You should have called me! I wouldn’t have minded at all!” He took your face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing your cheeks. You managed a weak smile as you coughed.
“To be honest, I feel like shit,” you whispered.
“No kidding.” He helped you up and guided you to the bedroom, laying you down and then lying down beside you, bucket at the ready. For the rest of the evening, he held you close, watching movies until exhaustion finally pulled you under, cradled in the strength of his arms.
---
Louis woke to find you missing from the bed. Confusion morphed into alarm as he found you asleep, leaning over the toilet, your face pale, the air thick with the sour smell of sickness. He sighed, a wave of sympathy washing over him. He brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead, and you jolted awake, recognizing his touch.
“Oh, sorry Lou,” you mumbled quietly.
“Hey sweetie. Not feeling good?” You shook your head weakly.
“Aww, it’s gonna be okay. Come on, let’s go back to bed.” He eased you upright, guiding you back to the bathroom to flush your dinner and then back to the comfort of the bed. He pressed you against his chest, kissing your feverish forehead.
“Go to sleep, and tomorrow, you and I are having a relaxing day, okay?” You nodded, your cold hands clutching his warm chest. And true to his word, the next day, Louis was your servant, tending to your needs with a gentle devotion that chased away the last vestiges of the illness, leaving only the warm glow of his love.