Aiden would always fall asleep quickly when lulled by the sound of that voice.
There was no story tonight, only silence, and Aiden wakeful through many silent hours of the night.
He had a suspicion Harvard was awake, too. The steady and reassuring noise of Harvard’s breathing was missing from the room.
Aiden was very aware of every sound—and every other sensation as well. The sound of sheets, rustling over Harvard as he shifted in the bed next to Aiden’s. His warmth next to Aiden’s, lying close in the night, when that body had been all over Aiden’s at this very door.
What total idiot suggested pushing our beds together? Aiden wondered, then had a vivid and terrible memory of making this suggestion on their first day of the semester.
That night, Aiden slept incredibly badly.
The next day, Aiden woke up with the certain knowledge there were some truths that could not be denied.
He reached out and touched Harvard’s shoulder. Harvard came awake almost at once, sitting up and leaning over Aiden with soft eyes and a softer voice.
“Hey, Aiden. You all right? You can’t be, if you’re awake.”
“I don’t wish to alarm or distress you,” Aiden said in a low but impressive tone. “But I am dying.”
“Okay, so it’s a bad cold.”
Harvard was a fool, but a beautiful fool with gentle hands, so Aiden allowed him to talk nonsense while he laid said hand carefully upon Aiden’s brow.
He frowned. “So, I think you’re running a fever.”
“I may be running a fever now,” Aiden said with dignity, “but I will soon be cold in my grave. Bury me with my best épée. Make sure my hair looks great and everyone weeps that someone so foxy was taken so young. Don’t let Nicholas Cox attend my funeral; he’ll only lower the tone, and removing him will leave space for more weeping suitors.”
Harvard didn’t seem to be paying attention to Aiden’s important instructions about his funeral. Instead he was rising, dressing, and preparing to abandon Aiden to his wretched, lonely death.
“I’ll tell the nurse,” Harvard told him. “You’ll feel better soon.”
When Aiden was little, he used to get sick constantly. It was a nuisance for his dad and the stepmoms, though they mostly made Aiden go to bed and stay there so he didn’t bother anybody with his whining. Except the time the sweet Brazilian singer, the one who had pretended she wanted to adopt him, sat at his bedside and sang to him. That was the only time anybody at home even faked concern.
Aiden used to beg to go to school, even when he was sick, because Harvard would be there, filled with tender concern and bearing juice boxes.
Once he grew up and started going to Kings Row, with Harvard there all the time and much less exposure to slamming doors and the screech of sports car wheels, Aiden got sick far less. He still did occasionally, around the time of important fencing matches or tests. It was always a swift thing, fever running high then vanishing in a day like steam in cold air. It only happened when Aiden was at his most stressed out. Harvard always took good care of him.
Maybe Aiden was stressed now.
Maybe Aiden was consumed by guilt. He should be. He was lying to his best friend in the entire world. He hadn’t exactly lied, he told himself, but he was aware his behavior wasn’t on the up-and-up.
If Harvard knew how Aiden felt about him, Harvard wouldn’t want to lead Aiden on. He would never have suggested the practice dating if he had all the information. Getting Harvard to agree to something by withholding vital knowledge from him felt uncomfortably like a lie.
Aiden didn’t want to act the way his dad did, lining up stepmother number nine while stepmother number eight waited at home. His dad always laughed and said, “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” He’d never wanted to be like that. What they didn’t know always did hurt them eventually.
He’d just wanted… a memory to live on. A few days to remember, when Harvard had been his and not Neil’s.
Now he was being punished by fate or his own treacherous immune system. Aiden coughed into the pillow. His mind felt fuzzy, thoughts trying to swim in pudding, all his feelings as oversensitive as the surface of his skin. He didn’t want to feel small or helpless ever again. He wanted to make a huge fuss so somebody would tell him it would be all right. He wanted Harvard back at once.
He went back to sleep, having confused dreams in which he was lost and searching, and occasionally was harassed to drink medicine.
He surfaced from fuzzy dreams and hot blankets when he felt relief, and knew it must be Harvard. There was a cold facecloth being dabbed on Aiden’s forehead and his flushed cheeks. Aiden made a soft welcoming sound and tilted his head so the cool droplets of water would run down his neck.
“Cease forcing vile concoctions upon me and accept the fact I am doomed.”
Harvard sighed. “The nurse was the one giving you cough syrup. She said you had a nasty cold, but you’d be right as rain in no time.”
Aiden cracked open one eye. “I did think you looked less attractive than usual,” he admitted.
Harvard hit him on the head with a pillow, which was simple brutality to an invalid.
“I’m gonna get you something to eat.”
“I can’t eat, I’m dying!” Aiden yelled as Harvard shut the door.
Harvard shouted back: “Try!”
Aiden didn’t know why Harvard wouldn’t just have the decency to accept that Aiden was fated to perish, and hold a nice vigil at his deathbed and not let go of his hand until Aiden passed.
Harvard returned with chicken soup he’d coaxed from one of the dining hall ladies, caramel waffles in a little packet, and tea with honey in it. Then he sat beside Aiden and cajoled him to sit up, half leaning against the pillows, and half leaning against Harvard’s chest. Harvard held a glass to Aiden’s lips, and the water soothed the hot ache of Aiden’s throat. Then Harvard bullied Aiden into eating soup.
Aiden complained, but Harvard was patient. Aiden was privately incredulous that Harvard actually believed that he needed lessons in how to be a good boyfriend.
Harvard was a dating savant: He was a natural. There was no way to teach him anything, and Harvard would soon realize that himself.
He was so good at this, it was sickening, and now Aiden was literally sick.
Harvard also brought gossip, which was deeply interesting and a welcome distraction.
“Apparently…,” Harvard said once he’d taken away the dishes and come back, climbing onto the bed and sitting cross-legged in the dip just beside Aiden’s bed, where they often sat knee to knee when telling each other the news of the day. “And I heard this from Roy, who heard it from a Bon, who heard it right from Eugene’s mouth—a group of masked boys in Kings Row uniforms broke into the Kingstone Bank and stole all the money and the safety deposit boxes. One of the students in school currently has four dozen gold bars in a safe under their bed. Everybody’s on high alert!”
This information was so compelling, Aiden almost forgot he was dying so tragically young and attractive. He eased himself up on his pillows.
“Go back outside!” commanded Aiden. “Find Eugene! He’s our teammate; he should have brought this gossip directly to us! Discover who these thieves might be!”