you're cold and I burn (on hold)

he sees the light pouring in from the kitchen, which only confirms his earlier thoughts that Harry
hasn’t moved. Louis wonders how long he’ll st<strong>and</strong> there.
*****
He must’ve been knocked the fuck out, because when he wakes up his face is submerged in a
pool of drool <strong>and</strong> it’s crusted onto the side of his face, which is only extremely disgusting. He
does a quick stretch, listening to the pops of the bones in his back, his legs, arms <strong>and</strong> somewhere
he’s not quite sure of. He can hear the patter of rain against the glass of his window, the sun muted
behind grey storm clouds <strong>and</strong> he sort of just wants to lay here all day long <strong>and</strong> not move a single
muscle. But it’s only a matter of time before the caffeine headache rears it’s ugly self <strong>and</strong> Louis
needs a cup of coffee to prevent it. So, on that note, he throws his legs over the side of the bed,
rubbing the deep sleep from his eyes. Firstly, he needs to wash the dry spit from his face (<strong>and</strong>
eyelashes?) before he even steps foot from his bedroom, because no, he’s not walking around with
drool covered skin.
After his face is wiped of any excessive saliva, he drapes on his bathrobe, tying it tightly around
his waist. When he opens the door, it’s slow <strong>and</strong> quiet, <strong>and</strong> he’s peeking out from the small crack
to see if anyone is st<strong>and</strong>ing in the kitchen. It seems safe, so Louis steps out, making a beeline to
the coffee pot.
“Good morning.” A voice rasps, <strong>and</strong> Louis jumps at the sound, whirling around to see Harry
sitting on the couch. Anger isn’t his first emotion, or his second or his third. Actually, he’s sure he
got it all out last night, so his tone his lacking any spite when he finally speaks, “You really need
to quit scaring me, you know?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For scaring the wits out of me or for leaving me to die in the <strong>cold</strong>?” His words are more joking,
but there’s still a bit of a grudge in-between the letters.
“Both.” Is all he says.
“Look, I don’t feel like talking about it, okay? Let’s just.. move on.” Louis shakes his head,
turning on the coffee pot <strong>and</strong> automatically smelling the air for that familiar scent of hazelnut.
Harry seems more than okay with that answer, of course, running his h<strong>and</strong>s over his knees. He
must’ve slept in his boxers <strong>and</strong> his b<strong>and</strong> tee, because that’s all he’s wearing <strong>and</strong> his legs look even
more Bambi-like when they’re not covered in tight denim. He looks younger than usual, his face
swollen with sleep <strong>and</strong> half his hair matted to his head. “Do you always drink hazelnut coffee?”
“Yeah,” Louis nods, pulling out a mug <strong>and</strong> a spoon, sliding over the sugar dish, “It’s my favorite
kind, so.”
“I’ve never had it.”
“Well, the pot makes enough for about eight cups, so help yourself.” Louis offers, his voice a bit
bl<strong>and</strong> but he blames that on the fact that he’s not fully awake just yet. The steam from the coffee is
fogging his face, pouring fluidly into the mug.
“Okay.” Harry seems more than hesitant as he walks over, his eyes locked on Louis <strong>and</strong> his steps
slow, like Louis’ a ticking bomb <strong>and</strong> will go off if Harry moves to quickly. It makes Louis laugh,