; adjective; very small.

Louis' eyelashes extend over his rosy cheeks as he sleeps. His thin, pink lips are pressed together in a relaxed line as Harry watches him. His nose scrunches ever so slightly every time Harry's breath fans across it (Louis just looks so pretty and Harry has to lean in close to take in every detail).

(Okay, maybe Harry was softly blowing on his nose just to make him scrunch it up like the little bunny he is. But nobody has to know.)

When he finally woke up, it was to something, Harry's bear paw hands, moving in his hair. He makes a devastatingly cute noise, startling Harry from his game of Candy Crush, before pulling his warm duvet closer to his face. Harry's hand falls pathetically in front of the sleeping lad's face and he debates whether he should continue his previous action or stop all together.

He chooses the latter and begins to pay his undivided attention to his phone.

"Why'd you stop?"

The phone slips out of Harry's hands, landing on the rug as he looks up at Louis surprised. His eyes are droopy but just as bright as they were the last time Harry had seen them, only difference was that they were a little more grey today. Harry's eyes, though? They're bright and wide and green, reminding Louis of a forest he wouldn't mind getting lost in.

"Fuck, I mean frick, Louis. You scared the shit, crap, out of me," the taller lad runs his fingers through his hair.

Louis tries to giggle, he really does, but what starts out as innocent laughter turns into violent coughing that causes him to curl into his own body. He kinda forgot he was sick with some kind of deathly flu.

Harry's there though, one hand alternating between rubbing and patting his back while the other is pressing against his clammy forehead. His heart aches when he feels the heat rolling off it as Louis pushes his forehead into Harry's hand for comfort. Louis' hot enough to melt an iceberg (He's already successful in melting Harry's heart into a puddle of nothing that's currently dripping down into his lower abdomen.)

"Louis, you're really hot. Do you have a thermometer anywhere so I can take your temperature?"

He frowns when Harry moves back to look for the thermometer, "Kitchen cabinet. It's in a spesickfic basket," his giggle sounds more like a cough, "See what I did there?"

Harry probably laughs harder than he should've, "Oh! You're crazy, kid."

"I'm ill, not crazy."

"Sneeze ya later! I have to go find your thermometer... And think of sick puns."

Louis smiles foolishly, mirroring Harry's, before he lays back down. His curtains are successfully serving their purpose by keeping his room dim, with the exception of the nightlights on each side of his bed.

You'd thing after all these years of getting the Louis Plague all the time, he'd be used to the pain. Zayn had even taken up to calling him Typhoid Mary (He also had to explain to Louis who she was, to which Louis responded, "You're so rude.") But the inexplicable pain in Louis' tummy and chest was not something he'd ever get used to, even if it did happen at least twice a month.

It's funny, though, because every time it was around the fourteenth or fifteenth of the month and Louis wasn't sick already, he'd think he was finally cured. Then, on the sixteenth day, he'd wake up feeling like he was hit by a spaceship and left to float in space with no oxygen and immense pain. ("Deep breaths, Louis. You're overreacting.", "Zayn, tell me how I'm suppossed to breathe with no air.", "Stop quoting sad love songs, you sap.")

Sneezing hard enough to hurt his chest, Louis whines and wraps his arms around his tummy. Everything hurts, his chest and tummy and throat and nose, and he's cold but... Sweating? How does that even work? You're either hot or cold (Yes or you're no). No in between. He needs a cough sucker, but he lost them on his bed and he's pretty sure Joan, his shark stuffy, stole them.

The bed shifts and Harry lifts the covers from over Louis' head, causing him to shiver. He sits Louis' sick basket on the bed and sits down by his legs, thermometer in hand, "Louis love, how can you tell if a mummy has a cold?"

"I don't know. When it looks like it's sick?" He sits up and takes the thermometer, night shirt slipping off his shoulder as he slides the metal tip under his tongue.

The thermometer beeps three times and Harry rips it from between Louis' lips immediately. He curses when he reads the numbers on it and begins to rifle through the basket of medicines. Louis doesn't mean to roll his eyes, but he does, and lays back down. Harry didn't even answer the joke. He begins pulling on his blanket fruitlessly as Harry is sits on it, too focused on other things to help him. Louis tugs with extra strength one last time just in case and... His fingers slip.

Therefore, he ends up punching himself in the eye.

"Frick," he pouts and rubs his eye, giving up on grabbing his blanket. He groans and looks up at Harry, one eye squeezed shut, and is dismayed to find the older boy with his back turned to him. Harry was the cause of this, so he should tend to his wrongful doings.

Louis tried to get his attention again, sighing loudly as he attempts to pout (but that's hard to do when you rely on your mouth hanging open to breathe.) He sniffles, wiping his runny nose with the back of his hand as he waits for Harry to get a sense of sympathy and check on him. But again, the man assumes in the same position.

"Kick 'em, Louis. Just a little tap on his back, not enough to bruise but enough to avert his attention back to you," Cooper oinks into Louis' ear. It's not like Louis thought of the master plan all by himself and decided to just blame it on the mischievous piggy. Of course not. And it's not like Louis actually thought kicking Harry was an option.

...Though it would earn him Harry's attention.

No, Louis. Kicking people is not nice, Louis mentally scolds himself. Especially nice men with pretty eyes who tend to your sickness.

When Harry does finally turn around, several colorful pills are cupped in his hands and he's holding a water bottle, "The little pink ones should help your stomach, the green one will lower your fever, the blue ones are to lessen your symptoms, and the yellow ones are just in case this is an allergy induced sickness."

One by one, Harry places the pills on the tip of Louis' tongue and he swallows them with the water Harry gently pours into his mouth. Once he finishes the 9 pills ("Another one, Harry?", "Lou, it's only the third pill, calm down.", "Yeah, but one was too many in the first place. And you're not even feeding them to me in the right order!", "Geez, I'm sorry, Cranky McCranky Pants.", "How rude of you to call me such a nasty name, you... You... You Frog!", "Okay, Cranky. Just take the rest of the pills.", "Fine, Froggy.") Harry gives him a few spoon fulls of nasty liquid medicines (that say they taste like cherry but they definitely don't) just to make sure he'll be okay.

"Alrighty. I guess my work here is done. It's been fun playing Doctor with you, Lil' Munchkin," Harry wipes his hands on his pants nervously, smiling down at Louis.

Stay, stay, staystaystaystaystaystaystaystaystaystay, "You have to go?" Please stay.

"Unless you want me to stay, th--"

"Yes please! Please stay, Harry! We can watch movies and play board games and do puzzles and have tea parties! You can meet all my stuffies!" Louis grabs onto Harry's hand, yanking him closer with every activity that he lists. Harry decides against teasing him about the way his voice cracked with every word (It'd basically be teasing himself with how fond he was of it).

He, instead, huffs, chuckling softly as he takes his hand back from Louis and steps out of his shoes, "Okay, okay. I guess I'll stay."

The sick boy expresses his gratitude with a kiss to the back of Harry's arm, right above his elbow, before falling back onto his bed. Harry admittedly blushes and looks at Louis awkwardly. Louis stares back at him pointedly, patting the little space there is in front of him.

"Hop on in, Froggy. You can give me belly rubs while we cuddle."

An uncomfortable silence hung over the two as Harry slipped off his jacket and jeans per instructions given by Louis ("Please Harry! Jeans feel weird against my legs. This is a jeans off bed.").

Finally, Harry slides in bed beside Louis, in his "Ask to see my glow stick," boxers (To which, Louis said, "Ask to see my glow stick? You carry around a glow stick everywhere so people can see it, Froggy? What color is it? Can I see it?") (Harry secretly cursed Niall for convincing him to buy them) and banana socks. It's awkward, like all things between the two, as they lay stiff as boards in Louis' pink themed bedroom, side-by-side.

"Did you know that they don't consider Pluto a planet because it's too small? How ridiculous is that?"

"They do consider it a planet. Just... It's a dwarf planet."

Louis looked over at Harry incredulously, the medicine presumably already working its way into his system as he struggled to keep his eyes open, "What do you mean a dwarf planet? Just because it's smaller than the other humongous planets, I think Jupiter is on steroids, doesn't mean it's too small to be one of them."

Harry reached over, turning on his side as he did the same to Louis and pulled his back to his chest, "Louis, it's a planet. What could you possibly do to change the fact that it's too small?"

"I umm... I... I'll, um, complain to NASA. I want it to b-be a regular planet," the smaller boy stutters a response, his cheeks glowing red at the close proximity of Harry's body against his.

Once Harry's hands slid under his over sized nightshirt, he was a goner. The cold metal rings on Harry's fingers chilled his tummy but the huge, warm hands that they belonged to warmed the chill.

"You're a dwarf planet, Louis. My own little dwarf human."