Fic: Chicken Soup for the Possibly Gay International Pop Star Soul
Title: Chicken Soup for the Possibly Gay International Pop Star Soul
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating & Warnings: PG-13; fluff
Disclaimer: Pure fiction. No harm or profit intended.
A/N: All kinds of feedback appreciated! Thanks to katienyc and xcarex for the speedy betas. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs. A special thanks to a very sick flimsy who said the following to me:
Summary: Flimsy: You should write Harry and Louis and Louis is sick and Harry makes him chicken soup because I'm sure that's a thing that they do. So am I and so I did.
On AO3 or below!
If he’s really honest with himself, the bad feelings started two weeks ago in America. Just a funny little scratchy feeling, like if he could just clear his throat a little harder, it would be gone and he’d be fine again. But somehow no matter how deeply he hmm-hmmed, it was never quite hard enough.
Of course his body waits until he’s relaxing on vacation to break down completely. Every muscle in his body is saying no more hotel beds and his throat is a raw mess and he’s nearly delirious when he crawls, finally, into his own bed.
He wakes up--he thinks--with Harry’s lips pressed against his forehead. It’s also possible that he’s really actually delirious now and that in his fever state some sort of latent homosexual desire for his best friend is finally rearing its well-coiffed head.
He’s not entirely sure which it is, but when he closes his eyes again, Harry’s lips feel very real. And also soft and nice and so cool on his pounding head. Maybe burgeoning homosexuality after all, then?
Louis manages to croak out, “What are you--”
Harry removes his lips from Louis’ head but doesn’t lean back any farther. He was definitely really kissing his head, Louis decides. He can feel Harry’s breath tickling the small wet circle he’s left on his forehead when he says, “It’s how my mum always checked if we had a fever. The lips are much more sensitive than the back of the hand, you know.”
Louis shivers, thinking that the forehead is much more sensitive to the feel of lips than hands too.
“And you definitely do have one,” Harry continues. “I knew something was wrong.”
“How,” Louis breathes. He’d kept the bad feelings quiet from the other boys so as not to jinx any shows and when he finally got home late last night, Harry was already asleep, so he couldn’t have heard his near obsessive throat-clearing.
“I made bacon. You didn’t wake up. That’s literally never happened before, so I just knew,” Harry says.
Louis smile-sighs at this and Harry drops his lips back to Louis’ forehead, says, “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.”
Five minutes later Harry reappears, curls askew, balancing a pot of tea and a teacup with a saucer in one hand, a large glass of orange juice in the other, and a box of tissues stuffed under his left arm. He arranges everything on the nightstand, curls falling into his eyes as he fluffs the tissue box so one tissue stands precisely erect and ready to be plucked.
Louis feels a wave of affection wash over him watching Harry perfect the constellation of drinks and tissues so that everything is within easy reach. He’s pretty sure it’s affection, though it could be that the fever has spread to his chest, rendering everything tingly and warm. Or there could be a horrible parasite inside of him, worming its way into his heart and gnawing at it until it can no longer function properly, setting off a chain reaction whereby each organ slowly begins to shut down from a lack of properly oxygenated blood due to the now gaping hole the parasite has caused in his heart. Maybe he’s actually on his deathbed.
“You’re not on your deathbed,” Harry says.
Louis’ eyes fly to Harry’s in surprise. “I think I might be delirious,” he mutters.
“Now that,” Harry says, tousling Louis’ hair, “may very well be the case.”
Louis wants to run his own hands through Harry’s hair, push the curls off his forehead, but his arm feels like it weighs about three stone. He settles for whispering, “Fix your fringe,” before closing his eyes again. He knows when he opens his eyes, Harry’s hair will be perfect, so he doesn’t even bother.
When he finally does open his eyes again the entire apartment smells like chicken and there is this horrible clink, clink, clink sound echoing through his room and piercing his brain.
Now he’s certain he really is on his deathbed. And the only way for Harry to save him is to perform a very complex voodoo get-well ritual that involves slaughtering chickens right there in their apartment. He knew he never should’ve agreed to getting their fortunes read that one time; it’s a slippery slope from tarot cards to sacrificial animals. On the other hand, it’s actually quite sweet that Harry would basically sell his soul to dark magic just to save Louis. Maybe even a bit romantic if he really thinks about it. But how could Louis live knowing he was the cause of Harry’s eternal damnation?
Let me die, save your soul...and the chickens, Louis tries to croak, but his throat is like sandpaper and there’s no way Harry could hear the pathetic murmur that comes out of Louis’ mouth over the racket made by the killing of innocent birds.
He wishes he had some sort of buzzer or bell. A little service bell would be nice. He’d ring the bell and Harry would come into the room, looking fit in a tuxedo--with tails of course--the dapperest butler ever. “You rang?” he’d say in his most melodious voice, and actually this is starting to feel a little porny to Louis, so he stops his train of thought, musters up all his energy and calls, “Hazza?”
A moment later, Harry sticks his head in the doorway and says, “You rang?”
Louis wonders if he predicted the future. Or if he never thought the entire thing about Harry the dapper butler before and this is one of those weird deja vu moments where he’s only just now imagining Harry kitted out in a tux. Or maybe he’s actually unknowingly the star of a really bad porno. He listens for really cheesy music for a moment, just to be sure.
“Um, Louis,” Harry says. “Did you want something?”
“What,” he begins, clears his throat to no avail. “What is that horrific noise?”
“Oh...the knife against the glass cutting board,” Harry says apologetically. “I can switch to the bamboo one if it’s bothering you?”
“The blood might stain the bamboo,” Louis whispers, shaking his head slightly.
“What?” Harry says and just like that his lips are on Louis’ head again. “You’re really burning up, Louis,” he says as he pulls back.
“No, stay,” Louis murmurs. Harry’s face hovers above his, brow furrowed in concern. “No, the way you were before. With the lips.” When he feels the cool pressure on his head again he sighs, closes his eyes, and says, “Please don’t sell your soul for me.”
“Ok, I promise,” Harry says against his skin.
The next time Louis opens his eyes, Harry is stretched out on the bed next to him, one hand on resting lightly on Louis’ stomach, the other scrolling through his iPhone. Thankfully the apartment is quiet, no clinking or bow-chicka-wow-wows. But it does still smell like chicken.
“It smells like chicken,” Louis says.
Harry looks up from his phone and says, “That’s because I’m roasting one.”
“Is that part of the ritual?” Louis asks.
“Yeah, I guess, you could say that. It’s how my mum always did it,” Harry says.
Louis gasps. “Anne’s a voodoo priestess. Of course. It all makes so much sense now.”
“What? Huh?”
“Your charms,” Louis says. “And how you learned to slaughter a chicken with just a knife and a glass cutting board.”
“Wha--Maybe we should call a doctor, Lou,” Harry says. Louis wonders if he’s going to kiss his forehead again for another temperature check. Harry continues, “You’re kind of talking like a madman right now.”
“You’re the madman,” Louis protests, feeling hot all over. “I know you want to save me because you can’t imagine life without me and because you love me--maybe as more than friends I’m thinking because sacrificing your own life for mine is really very romantic Harold--but honestly that’s no reason to kill a poor innocent animal in our own kitchen! Satanic rituals: that’s the mad part!”
Harry stares at him for a moment and then says, “Amazingly, you are simultaneously making absolutely no sense and absolutely perfect sense.”
“Which part makes sense?” Louis asks wearily, exhausted from the effort of having finally spewed his thoughts.
Harry looks like he’s considering his answer very seriously when a buzzer in the kitchen goes off. He smiles wanly and says, “Chicken’s ready. Now I’ve got to remove all the meat and boil the carcass. 4 hours. Part of the ritual...”
Louis isn’t sure how long he’s out for, but he wakes to the sight of Harry standing in his room holding a tray with a giant, steaming bowl on it. Louis’ mind starts to add a tuxedo, but then Louis decides he likes the rolled-up sleeves of Harry’s stretched and worn t-shirt, the way it hangs off him yet still somehow shows the body underneath. He tries to clear his mind, but it’s very confused and crowded in there, what with tuxedos, curls, chickens, and rolled-up sleeves.
“Hey,” Harry says, smiles.
“Hey,” Louis answers as Harry sets down the tray in front of him. He can practically see the scent of the soup curling up out of the bowl and into his nose. It’s the best-smelling soup he’s ever seen. “Did you make this?”
“From scratch,” Harry says. “Including the chicken stock. Sorry it took so long; usually my mum roasts the chicken the night before, but I figured if I was going to make you chicken soup, I had to do it right.”
“Oh,” Louis says. “But you did sacrifice the chicken first?” He feels less sure now and his voice lifts up almost hopefully at the end.
Harry breaks into a wide grin and shakes his head. “I assure you that when I bought the chicken it was dead, defeathered, etcetera. I can only assume it was killed in the normal chicken-killing way since I bought it at the normal regular grocery store.”
“But the chopping...” Louis trails off.
“Carrots, celery, onions...there’s a lot of things that go into the perfect get-well chicken soup, you fool,” Harry says ruffling Louis’ hair. “So eat it and get well, please.”
Louis takes a spoonful, breathes it in, realizes he hasn’t eaten in who knows how many hours. It’s delicious. The best he’s ever eaten. Louis’ brain feels slightly less fuzzy as he takes another spoonful. Another; clearer still.
“Guess I was pretty off-base there, huh?” Louis says sheepishly.
Harry runs a hand softly over his cheek, sighs, and says, “Mmm. Leave out the satanic ritual bit and you were spot-on, mate. Spot-on.”
Pairing: Harry/Louis
Rating & Warnings: PG-13; fluff
Disclaimer: Pure fiction. No harm or profit intended.
A/N: All kinds of feedback appreciated! Thanks to katienyc and xcarex for the speedy betas. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs. A special thanks to a very sick flimsy who said the following to me:
Summary: Flimsy: You should write Harry and Louis and Louis is sick and Harry makes him chicken soup because I'm sure that's a thing that they do. So am I and so I did.
On AO3 or below!
If he’s really honest with himself, the bad feelings started two weeks ago in America. Just a funny little scratchy feeling, like if he could just clear his throat a little harder, it would be gone and he’d be fine again. But somehow no matter how deeply he hmm-hmmed, it was never quite hard enough.
Of course his body waits until he’s relaxing on vacation to break down completely. Every muscle in his body is saying no more hotel beds and his throat is a raw mess and he’s nearly delirious when he crawls, finally, into his own bed.
He wakes up--he thinks--with Harry’s lips pressed against his forehead. It’s also possible that he’s really actually delirious now and that in his fever state some sort of latent homosexual desire for his best friend is finally rearing its well-coiffed head.
He’s not entirely sure which it is, but when he closes his eyes again, Harry’s lips feel very real. And also soft and nice and so cool on his pounding head. Maybe burgeoning homosexuality after all, then?
Louis manages to croak out, “What are you--”
Harry removes his lips from Louis’ head but doesn’t lean back any farther. He was definitely really kissing his head, Louis decides. He can feel Harry’s breath tickling the small wet circle he’s left on his forehead when he says, “It’s how my mum always checked if we had a fever. The lips are much more sensitive than the back of the hand, you know.”
Louis shivers, thinking that the forehead is much more sensitive to the feel of lips than hands too.
“And you definitely do have one,” Harry continues. “I knew something was wrong.”
“How,” Louis breathes. He’d kept the bad feelings quiet from the other boys so as not to jinx any shows and when he finally got home late last night, Harry was already asleep, so he couldn’t have heard his near obsessive throat-clearing.
“I made bacon. You didn’t wake up. That’s literally never happened before, so I just knew,” Harry says.
Louis smile-sighs at this and Harry drops his lips back to Louis’ forehead, says, “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.”
Five minutes later Harry reappears, curls askew, balancing a pot of tea and a teacup with a saucer in one hand, a large glass of orange juice in the other, and a box of tissues stuffed under his left arm. He arranges everything on the nightstand, curls falling into his eyes as he fluffs the tissue box so one tissue stands precisely erect and ready to be plucked.
Louis feels a wave of affection wash over him watching Harry perfect the constellation of drinks and tissues so that everything is within easy reach. He’s pretty sure it’s affection, though it could be that the fever has spread to his chest, rendering everything tingly and warm. Or there could be a horrible parasite inside of him, worming its way into his heart and gnawing at it until it can no longer function properly, setting off a chain reaction whereby each organ slowly begins to shut down from a lack of properly oxygenated blood due to the now gaping hole the parasite has caused in his heart. Maybe he’s actually on his deathbed.
“You’re not on your deathbed,” Harry says.
Louis’ eyes fly to Harry’s in surprise. “I think I might be delirious,” he mutters.
“Now that,” Harry says, tousling Louis’ hair, “may very well be the case.”
Louis wants to run his own hands through Harry’s hair, push the curls off his forehead, but his arm feels like it weighs about three stone. He settles for whispering, “Fix your fringe,” before closing his eyes again. He knows when he opens his eyes, Harry’s hair will be perfect, so he doesn’t even bother.
When he finally does open his eyes again the entire apartment smells like chicken and there is this horrible clink, clink, clink sound echoing through his room and piercing his brain.
Now he’s certain he really is on his deathbed. And the only way for Harry to save him is to perform a very complex voodoo get-well ritual that involves slaughtering chickens right there in their apartment. He knew he never should’ve agreed to getting their fortunes read that one time; it’s a slippery slope from tarot cards to sacrificial animals. On the other hand, it’s actually quite sweet that Harry would basically sell his soul to dark magic just to save Louis. Maybe even a bit romantic if he really thinks about it. But how could Louis live knowing he was the cause of Harry’s eternal damnation?
Let me die, save your soul...and the chickens, Louis tries to croak, but his throat is like sandpaper and there’s no way Harry could hear the pathetic murmur that comes out of Louis’ mouth over the racket made by the killing of innocent birds.
He wishes he had some sort of buzzer or bell. A little service bell would be nice. He’d ring the bell and Harry would come into the room, looking fit in a tuxedo--with tails of course--the dapperest butler ever. “You rang?” he’d say in his most melodious voice, and actually this is starting to feel a little porny to Louis, so he stops his train of thought, musters up all his energy and calls, “Hazza?”
A moment later, Harry sticks his head in the doorway and says, “You rang?”
Louis wonders if he predicted the future. Or if he never thought the entire thing about Harry the dapper butler before and this is one of those weird deja vu moments where he’s only just now imagining Harry kitted out in a tux. Or maybe he’s actually unknowingly the star of a really bad porno. He listens for really cheesy music for a moment, just to be sure.
“Um, Louis,” Harry says. “Did you want something?”
“What,” he begins, clears his throat to no avail. “What is that horrific noise?”
“Oh...the knife against the glass cutting board,” Harry says apologetically. “I can switch to the bamboo one if it’s bothering you?”
“The blood might stain the bamboo,” Louis whispers, shaking his head slightly.
“What?” Harry says and just like that his lips are on Louis’ head again. “You’re really burning up, Louis,” he says as he pulls back.
“No, stay,” Louis murmurs. Harry’s face hovers above his, brow furrowed in concern. “No, the way you were before. With the lips.” When he feels the cool pressure on his head again he sighs, closes his eyes, and says, “Please don’t sell your soul for me.”
“Ok, I promise,” Harry says against his skin.
The next time Louis opens his eyes, Harry is stretched out on the bed next to him, one hand on resting lightly on Louis’ stomach, the other scrolling through his iPhone. Thankfully the apartment is quiet, no clinking or bow-chicka-wow-wows. But it does still smell like chicken.
“It smells like chicken,” Louis says.
Harry looks up from his phone and says, “That’s because I’m roasting one.”
“Is that part of the ritual?” Louis asks.
“Yeah, I guess, you could say that. It’s how my mum always did it,” Harry says.
Louis gasps. “Anne’s a voodoo priestess. Of course. It all makes so much sense now.”
“What? Huh?”
“Your charms,” Louis says. “And how you learned to slaughter a chicken with just a knife and a glass cutting board.”
“Wha--Maybe we should call a doctor, Lou,” Harry says. Louis wonders if he’s going to kiss his forehead again for another temperature check. Harry continues, “You’re kind of talking like a madman right now.”
“You’re the madman,” Louis protests, feeling hot all over. “I know you want to save me because you can’t imagine life without me and because you love me--maybe as more than friends I’m thinking because sacrificing your own life for mine is really very romantic Harold--but honestly that’s no reason to kill a poor innocent animal in our own kitchen! Satanic rituals: that’s the mad part!”
Harry stares at him for a moment and then says, “Amazingly, you are simultaneously making absolutely no sense and absolutely perfect sense.”
“Which part makes sense?” Louis asks wearily, exhausted from the effort of having finally spewed his thoughts.
Harry looks like he’s considering his answer very seriously when a buzzer in the kitchen goes off. He smiles wanly and says, “Chicken’s ready. Now I’ve got to remove all the meat and boil the carcass. 4 hours. Part of the ritual...”
Louis isn’t sure how long he’s out for, but he wakes to the sight of Harry standing in his room holding a tray with a giant, steaming bowl on it. Louis’ mind starts to add a tuxedo, but then Louis decides he likes the rolled-up sleeves of Harry’s stretched and worn t-shirt, the way it hangs off him yet still somehow shows the body underneath. He tries to clear his mind, but it’s very confused and crowded in there, what with tuxedos, curls, chickens, and rolled-up sleeves.
“Hey,” Harry says, smiles.
“Hey,” Louis answers as Harry sets down the tray in front of him. He can practically see the scent of the soup curling up out of the bowl and into his nose. It’s the best-smelling soup he’s ever seen. “Did you make this?”
“From scratch,” Harry says. “Including the chicken stock. Sorry it took so long; usually my mum roasts the chicken the night before, but I figured if I was going to make you chicken soup, I had to do it right.”
“Oh,” Louis says. “But you did sacrifice the chicken first?” He feels less sure now and his voice lifts up almost hopefully at the end.
Harry breaks into a wide grin and shakes his head. “I assure you that when I bought the chicken it was dead, defeathered, etcetera. I can only assume it was killed in the normal chicken-killing way since I bought it at the normal regular grocery store.”
“But the chopping...” Louis trails off.
“Carrots, celery, onions...there’s a lot of things that go into the perfect get-well chicken soup, you fool,” Harry says ruffling Louis’ hair. “So eat it and get well, please.”
Louis takes a spoonful, breathes it in, realizes he hasn’t eaten in who knows how many hours. It’s delicious. The best he’s ever eaten. Louis’ brain feels slightly less fuzzy as he takes another spoonful. Another; clearer still.
“Guess I was pretty off-base there, huh?” Louis says sheepishly.
Harry runs a hand softly over his cheek, sighs, and says, “Mmm. Leave out the satanic ritual bit and you were spot-on, mate. Spot-on.”