Page 49

49

FEVER

D aylight marked the only morning Léon had ever woken in Henry’s arms. He felt no less elated than he had the night before.

Every word they’d spoken was etched on his heart for eternity, free and large and beating for Henry.

Henry slept on, the dear, beautiful man.

He slept on with dark lashes on pale cheeks, his hair thick and wild, his arms muscular and safe even in rest, his chest the perfect pillow.

But Léon wanted him again.

He wanted him awake and gazing into his eyes.

He wanted rasps of pleasure in his throat.

He wanted all the sweet things Henry said, and he wanted their new life to start right away.

He kissed his cheek, a little sheepishly, though he didn’t think for a second he’d get anything but adoration in return.

More, if he was lucky.

But Henry didn’t move.

So he kissed his cheek again, a little higher up, and dragged his hand from his abs to his neck.

He felt hot there. Clammy.

The notice of it made Léon push the quilt back.

Henry’s body shifted with the movement, but no sign of consciousness came.

“Henri?” Léon whispered.

He pressed the backs of his fingers to Henry’s forehead.

Too hot. Far too hot.

He was burning up.

Léon studied him now—the lips he loved, too red, the skin, too pale, the cheeks unnervingly flushed.

“Henri?”

He climbed onto his knees, stroking a hand down Henry’s unresponsive cheek.

A hand that turned frantic, tapping his face softly.

“Henri? Wake up.”

A small groan sounded in his throat, his head tilted, his lips parted.

“Ange…” A shimmer of a smile, then a frown as he tried to pull himself into the room.

His eyelashes fluttered a moment, then he drifted back to sleep.

“Are you all right?” asked Léon.

“You’re hot. You seem…”

“Hmm?”

“You feel feverish.”

“I’m fine,” Henry uttered hoarsely, still his overly optimistic self, even half asleep.

“I’m up.” He shifted his arms to rise, then let out a cry of pain, falling limply on the bed.

“What is it?” Léon moved a hand across his waist, searching him over.

“I’m okay…” A weak hand came up to stop Léon looking, but he’d already leaned across Henry and caught the edges of the growing infection on his arm.

Henry flinched back from the fingers Léon touched gently to blackening skin.

“What is this?” He clambered over him, dropping to the floor beside the bed to get a better look.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s nothing,” said Henry, taking a hand to his shoulder, but Léon could see he was scared to move it any closer than that.

He lifted Henry’s arm at the wrist, slowly, gently, and got about two inches before Henry cried out.

Léon stood, flinging himself away from Henry in a panic.

“Why didn’t you tell me? That looks…” He was back at his side, examining the bandage.

“It’s wet. Henri, this isn’t good.” The cool hand back on his scorching cheek.

“How bad is it?”

“It's just a small infection?—”

“A small infection?” Léon yelled.

“I put salt on it. And-and vinegar.”

“And did you think to see a doctor?”

“Yes, I thought to see a doctor. I’ve been a little busy being locked in prison and evading witch hunters, as it goes.”

“You’ve been busy fucking me!” Léon flung at him, eyes flaring with accusation.

“And I’d do it again,” Henry joked weakly. “I’d give both arms for another round with you.”

He reached for him, but Léon stepped away. “That’s not funny! You’re my… my partner now. You’re my lover. You’re… Henri, why would you do this?”

Henry forced his drooping eyes to open on Léon. “Calm down, Ange. Come here.”

He held his good arm out, but Léon wasn’t close to ready to calm down. Henry’s skin was turning black, and Léon had seen that before. He’d seen and smelled the rotting flesh of the living, that only grew worse day by day, that ravaged the body and the soul until its victims begged for death.

“Ange…” The weakness in his voice caught Léon at the throat. He climbed back into bed, curling into the nook of Henry’s arm. “I’m fine. It’s our first full day in Paris. How about we call a doctor now?”

“Yes, how about we do that, you idiot?” Léon snapped. Then he was sorry. He kissed Henry’s chest.

Henry’s arm closed around him, his lips falling on his hair. “I promise, it’s not as bad as all that. It hurts a little, but not as though I’m about to lose the arm.”

“You will,” said Léon. “Or it will get into your blood, and you’ll die slowly. I’ve seen it. It’s not a good death, Henri.”

“We’ll call on Guillotin,” he soothed. “I’ll get up.”

He tried again, gritting his teeth against the pain that did in fact feel like he was about to lose the arm, but that would never have stopped him from attempting to convince Léon he was fine. It was the full-room swoon that took him this time, flinging him back to the bed when he tried to stand. “I’m fine.”

Léon’s hands were on his chest, pushing him back into bed. Léon pulled the sheet up by instinct, trying to help, then flung it back, remembering his fever. “Tell me where to go.”

“The address is…” He looked at the desk. “There’s a letter from him. The return address is on it.”

Léon scooped up the huge pile of correspondence Henry had managed to amass in the space of one afternoon, throwing the lot down next to him. “Tell me where. I’ll be back within the hour.”

Shaking fingers sorted through them. “I’m sure I’m just tired. We’ve slightly overdone it the last few days, is all.” He found the letter. “He’s at twenty-one Rue de la Comédie.”

Léon snatched it, then strode to a mess of clothes on the floor to get dressed. He picked them up, then stopped. “Henri?”

Henry looked across to see Léon quiet, his eyes teary and pleading. He held out an arm which Léon dived into, his body trembling in his hold when he whispered, “Please don’t die.”

“I won’t. Léon?—”

“If I bury you here, I think I will die with you. I think my heart will remain here, and I’ll be dead always. Walking dead for the rest of my life. I can’t take it.”

Henry touched his forehead to Léon’s. “I would never leave you. We’ve been through so much—and it’s all been for this. This is our happy ending. You can’t imagine I would let one stray bullet keep us apart.”

“Bullets kill a lot of people.”

“Not me. I’m a survivor. Just like you are. And you’re worth living for. You’re all the world to me. I want you to know that. I love you.”

“I’ve just found you,” Léon whispered. “You said you would save me. You promised this was it. Paris, you said.”

Léon’s tears dropped hot onto Henry’s shoulder. Henry held him close, trying to quieten him. “Léon, listen to my voice. Do I sound so ill?”

“Yes,” Léon muttered.

Henry chuckled. “I’m really okay. Go get Guillotin, and I bet by the time you come back, I’ll have slept it off.”

Léon gave an unwilling nod, then kissed Henry’s good shoulder. He climbed back out of the bed, and despite the chance of worrying him even more, Henry had to remind him, “Just don’t tell Catherine. You know what she’s like.”

The return glance came accusatory, but Léon lowered his head in acknowledgement. However bad this might have been, Catherine exploding the house would be worse.

Henry watched him until the door clicked safely closed between them. Then he flung his head back against the headboard, letting out a shaking breath, tears stinging his eyes. The pain had grown unbearable. He wanted to cry like a little boy. But he let only one tear fall before he pushed it all back down.

A doctor like Guillotin, a home visit… It would not come cheap. Henry knew their food stores were next to dire. And as the sickness raged inside him, Henry knew it was only about to get worse.

All the things he’d promised Léon, all the love and trust in Léon’s eyes, his beautiful words from the night before… Was this to be how he repaid him? An unpayable debt, destitute in a city he didn’t know, and with a partner who, on their very first day together in Paris, had proved himself utterly useless?

No. Never.

Clenching his teeth, he snatched his quill and paper from the bedside table, and instead of getting the sleep his body screamed for, he set to work on his article.

The curtains remained drawn, though he barely needed light; the letters he laid down crept and crawled away from his dizzied sight. He wrote by memory of the shapes rather than by seeing. The lines he shot off were well-loved, well-tried, oft-repeated in his head. It was all the passion of years building up to that grand revolution that he spilled onto the page, and sick to near fainting, he wrote on and on.

He scribbled until his fingers ached, desperate to get the words out. He had so much to say, because not only was he trying to build a new Paris—he was trying to build a future for Léon, for Catherine, for all of them. And it felt so close in his fevered imagination. So close he could almost touch it.

There was no money beyond what the article would bring them, but if it sold, if he got more work…

At that moment, his words seemed, in every way, their salvation.