It’s January 1st, the first morning of the new year, and Harry can’t imagine being more hungover than he currently is, right now, in this moment. His head is pounding, the Denver sun too bright even through the closed shades in the living room, and Louis will not stop fucking whining that he needs coffee, needs a sweatshirt, needs to unpeel his contacts from his eyeballs, needs something to throw up into.
“Lou, baby, for the love of God, shut the hell up,” Harry groans from his position behind the kitchen counter, wincing as the refrigerator door slams behind him.
“No, it’s your fault I feel so shitty. You forced me to drink.”