Chapter Text
Ellwood didn’t get up with the rest of the boys in the morning; but as it was a Sunday, they didn’t think anything of it. Pritchard grumbled that it was jolly unfair Ellwood was missing the service when the rest of them had to go. Roseveare blew him a kiss from the doorway, and West thumped him on the shoulder as he passed by. And that was all. They trooped off, heading to breakfast and then to church, and then to while away the rest of the morning carousing in the snow.
Gaunt had dressed with the rest of them, though he’d stayed quiet while they ribbed Ellwood. He'd waited, lingering by the window, until they’d gone. Then, when Pritchard finally went out and the door snicked shut behind him, he finally crossed the room and sank down onto the edge of Ellwood’s mattress. Holding his breath, blushing without knowing why he was blushing, Gaunt settled his hand on top of the blanketed lump that was Ellwood’s head.
“Feeling alright, Elly?” he asked. There were a few dark curls poking out from underneath Ellwood’s blanket. Gaunt resisted the urge to smooth them down, and cleared his throat instead. “I can bring you something from breakfast, if you want.”
“Go away.”
The voice that emerged from beneath the covers was hoarse and miserable; it didn’t sound anything like Ellwood at all. Gaunt felt a sudden spike of alarm. He would have ignored it, ordinarily -- grimaced at himself for being such a mother hen, and patted Ellwood on the shoulder, like West, before heading out to church with the rest of them. But none of the other boys were here now -- there was no one but Ellwood to see him fret. Blushing but determined, Gaunt tugged the blanket down, off of Ellwood’s face. “You sound awful,” Gaunt said. Ellwood cracked his left eye open and glared at him balefully.
“I’m dying,” he rasped. He tried to pull the blanket back up again. Gaunt held it in place and frowned at him. “Go away.”
“You can’t be sick,” Gaunt said. He tried to lay the back of his hand over Ellwood’s forehead. Ellwood batted him off. “You were fine when we played cards last night.”
“S’probably your fault I'm sick, then,” Ellwood sniped. Beneath the gravelly rasp of his voice, he sounded exhausted. His ordinarily handsome face was haggard, and his forehead was beaded with sweat; his eyes were red, too, with dark circles underneath. He gave up on trying to burrow back under the covers and sank back onto the pillow instead, squinting through the thin morning sunlight as though it hurt his eyes. Gaunt reached for his forehead again, and again Ellwood batted him off. This time, though, Gaunt managed to catch Ellwood’s wrist. He held on doggedly, even when Ellwood pulled a face and tried to tug away from him.
"Let go."
"No."
"Gaunto." And then, when that didn't work: "Henry."
Gaunt flushed pink. “You’re all clammy,” he said, hiding his consternation behind a gruff voice as he finally let go. Ellwood sighed.
“I know. I told you. I’m dying.”
“Your pulse feels alright, though.”
“Well. Thank goodness for that, Nurse Florence." Ellwood rolled over onto the half of the bed where Gaunt sat, until he was curled up on his side with his face buried against Gaunt’s thigh. Gaunt felt a bloom of warmth take hold in his chest. Mother hen, he told himself sternly. But even as he thought it, he let his hand drop down. He stroked his fingers gently through Ellwood’s unruly curls.
Ellwood’s hair was very soft. It had been more than a year since the last time Gaunt had touched it. He rubbed a strand between his fingers, then let go and dug the pads of his fingertips into Ellwood’s scalp instead, massaging gently. Ellwood sighed again. “I feel awful,” he confessed in a quiet voice. He’d pressed his face into the gap between Gaunt’s leg and the mattress. His breath was warm and damp against Gaunt’s thigh. His words came out muffled. “My throat’s on fire, and everything hurts, and I want to sleep but I can’t, and…” He went on grousing for a while. Gaunt continued to pet him gently.
“I’m not much of a nurse,” Gaunt said, when Ellwood trailed off at last. He kept his voice pitched low. There was no one to hear them, and no one to see how his hand lingered a little too long, tucking a strand of dark hair behind Ellwood’s ear. But something about the moment felt intimate, all the same. If he could have kept all the rest of the world out, Gaunt thought -- not just the other boys, but the voices in the yard, and the white drifts of snow outside, and time itself, hurrying on too fast -- he would have, and never looked back. He let his hand fall back to his side. “But I’ll stay with you, if you want.”
“Don’t be stupid, Gaunt. Go to breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You are.” Without looking, Ellwood reached out his hand and poked at Gaunt’s stomach. He missed and smacked Gaunt’s ribs instead. Gaunt smiled.
“I’m not,” he insisted.
“Well. You’ll miss church, then.”
“I don’t mind.”
“They’ll write you up.”
“I don’t mind,” Gaunt repeated, softer this time. He waited for Ellwood to answer: but for once, Ellwood was silent. Gaunt gave him a moment longer. Then, when Ellwood still didn’t say anything, he reached up, and began to fumble with this tie.
He had dressed for church before sinking onto the edge of Ellwood's bed, and it took him a few minutes to strip back down to his shirt and trousers again. He left his jacket and collar in a pile on the floor -- dropped his cufflinks and tie onto Ellwood’s night table -- then hesitated a moment, looking down at Ellwood himself. Ellwood was still curled on his side under the blanket; his face was pressed into the pillow, and he had ducked his head enough that Gaunt couldn’t see his eyes. At last, blushing a little, Gaunt sat down on top of the blankets at the edge of the bed. Before he could say anything, Ellwood spoke.
“Might as well come under the covers,” Ellwood said. His voice was just as hoarse and faint as before; it was only Gaunt himself, surely, who imagined a new, tremulous note underneath the words. “You’re not much use as a hot water bottle all the way over there.”
With a warmth in his cheeks that he didn’t dare examine too closely, Gaunt hastened to obey. He waited long enough for Ellwood to shimmy over onto the far side of the mattress. Then he slipped under the blanket and into the space Ellwood had made for him. He wrapped his arm around Ellwood’s ribs and tugged him back until they were lying curled together, Ellwood’s face nestled against Gaunt’s shoulder, their arms tucked close, pressed as near as they could be on the narrow bed.
Though it had been his own idea to share the bed, Ellwood seemed to regret it almost at once; he didn’t pull away, but he was stiff as a board in Gaunt’s arms, and silent. “Is this alright?” Gaunt asked at last, uncertain. A full minute passed, excruciatingly long. And then, slowly, Ellwood nodded.
“Are you fine?” he whispered in answer. Underneath the gravelly hoarseness of his voice, he sounded very small. Gaunt smiled, and hoped that his heart wasn’t beating as wildly as it felt.
“I'm fine,” he said. When Ellwood didn’t say anything, Gaunt cleared his throat, and added, softly, “You go back to sleep, Elly.”
Ellwood was tense for another long, awful moment. And then, all at once, his misery seemed to get the better of him, and he melted into Gaunt’s embrace. He pulled Gaunt’s arm tighter around him and sighed as he nestled against Gaunt’s chest. “Thirty minutes,” he murmured, sounding drowsy already. He nosed against Gaunt’s shoulder before settling back into bed. “Thirty minutes, and then we’re both getting up.”
Very lightly -- so lightly that, he hoped, Ellwood wouldn’t even feel it -- Gaunt bent down, and pressed a kiss to Ellwood’s curls.
“Thirty minutes,” he agreed, and closed his eyes.