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Aiden had forgotten his jacket.
In his humble defense, it seemed as though temperatures had dropped into a sudden ice age once they'd stepped out of the salle, late after practice. Maybe it was further cosmic punishment, which had begun earlier that evening when he'd been placed on clean-up crew with Harvard.
Not that he didn't like spending time with his best friend— that wasn't the problem. The problem was when his best friend was sweaty and flushed with exercise and Aiden was— well, Aiden.
Thing is, he was not a particularly strong man on a good day, much less when already tired and wired out. It had taken a lot not to stare at Harvard's bare arms as they walked to and from the supply closet.
Anyhow, that was behind him now, unfortunately. At least, then, he'd been warmed by the constant flush of embarrassment flooding through him. Now he's just nervous little jitters, and shivers, as they begin the trek back to Castello.
Harvard shoots him a look, and Aiden loses count of how many steps they've still got to go. "You're cold."
"Am not."
He is.
Harvard rolls his eyes. "I don't get why you refuse to carry an extra layer around. It comes in handy!"
Aiden huffs, arms tightening around himself, and glares at the plants lining the walkway. "Because I'm not in the habit of doing more than I strictly need to."
He hears some rustling from Harvard, and soon feels something soft being pushed against his arm.
"Put this on."
Aiden turns to stare at the piece of cloth being offered to him. Harvard's hoodie. Harvard's purple, worn out, post-workout hoodie that he's owned for years.
"No."
"Aiden—"
"It's all sweaty. You're all sweaty." Why is he bringing attention to that? Oh god. "Germs. Disgusting, little germs."
Harvard gives him a deadpan look. "Either this, or you wake up with a cold tomorrow. Come on."
Aiden eyes him wearily. A cold would mean getting to play the sick card— no class, and Harvard would be so sweet about it. But it would also mean being sick. Aiden didn't really have to play up the dramatics when he was sick— it really was that unbearable for him.
He stares at his best friend, and Harvard raises an eyebrow. Aiden huffs and takes the hoodie off his hands.
He shrugs it on as fast as he can, without bothering to think about how his heart flutters. It's big on him, and warm, and he immediately feels better.
Half of it is the warmth, half of it is how Harvard's cologne clings to the collar.
He is incredibly capable of being normal about this.
Harvard takes up walking again, and sends him a smile. "Better?"
Aiden hums, quickening his pace to keep up. "Maybe."
The rest of the walk is spent in near-silence, but far from awkward.
Aiden wakes up sick the next day. He wonders what he's done to anger the universe so.
A lot, actually, probably, but it's not like he's broken more hearts than usual. Same old, same old. The routine had actually been a little alleviated, what, with Harvard dragging him to practice every other day.
Aiden pretends to hate it, but he likes that Harvard spends his extra attention on him. It's about as good of a chemical rush as, say, someone eye-fucking him across the room.
He stares at the ceiling. Okay, so, he's a little delirious with a fever. No matter.
He pokes Harvard's shoulder, where the covers are dragged down far enough to reveal an expanse of smooth skin. "Harv."
The mound shakes a little, and he's rewarded with a little sleepy sound.
"Harv."
Harvard shifts just enough to look over at him, rubbing his eyes. "Aiden? You're up?"
Aiden's voice comes out weak. His throat hurts. "Yeah."
Harvard blinks away the sleep until he's at least semi-awake. "The sun's not out, you sure— oh."
"Yeah."
Harvard raises a hand to his forehead, feeling for temperature, and Aiden swears he doesn't whimper. "Shit. You're warm."
He hisses as Harvard's takes his hand away. He doesn't want that touch to end. "I know."
Harvard gives him a soft smile. "Don't get mean."
Aiden burrows further into the covers as Harvard gets out from under his own. Judging by the light in the room, it's around the time he should be getting up anyway. "I'm not trying to."
"You're always cranky when you're sick."
Aiden squeezes his eyes shut and listens to the sounds of Harvard walking around. A thermometer is shoved at him— well, fuck, he's definitely got a fever— and then soft hands are brushing the hair back from his forehead, softly tucking strands behind his ears.
"I'll go see the nurse during lunch. You're skipping class, yeah?"
Aiden cracks an eye open, tries to make himself look as miserable as possible. It doesn't take much effort; he can't even think about how unattractive he must look. "What do you think?"
Harvard smiles, warm and like the sun. The curtains are drawn back far enough to let a couple slivers of early-morning light in, but Harvard lights up the room and makes up for the sun, Aiden thinks. "Cranky. I told you, see?"
"'m sorry," Aiden pauses, head swimming, and against his better judgement, he adds; "You're asking stupid questions."
Harvard's smile cracks wider, and he tucks another strand of Aiden's hair behind his ear. Aiden wants to melt in the palm of his hand desperately. "Fine. Fair. Anything I can provide right now, or can you wait 'till I get the meds?"
A kiss, Aiden's mind supplies. He hums, and indulges the thought for just a moment. He thinks a kiss from Harvard Lee could fix the worst of his ailments— his very essence too, maybe. He bites down on the thought and swallows it again.
"I can wait."
Soft fingers graze his temple, and Aiden lets his eyes flutter shut. Harvard hums. "Okay. Call me if it gets too bad."
He says it like he won't be a ten minute walk from the dorms, and he says it with so much care that Aiden is afraid to answer in case his mangled, mean words break the magic that's wound in them. He simply nods, lets himself enjoy the touch of Harvard's hand on his cheek, and then holds back a helpless little sound as Harvard rises from the bed, padding across the floor.
The door clicks behind him, and Aiden is left alone in the semi-dark of their room. Time passes in weird ways, when sick. He can't be sure how much time goes by, minutes or hours, between every time he turns and turns against the mattress. He's sure he's wearing a hole into it. The sun has risen, finally, and it annoys him to no end as it shines right across his face from the sliver between the curtains, but he doesn't want to get up and pull the curtains closed, so he just groans and complains quietly about it.
He sighs and rolls over, trying to burrow and disappear into the sheets, when a lump presses against his cheek.
He huffs and sticks his hand under his pillow, searching, grasping at fabric. He pulls it out and squints at it.
Harvard's hoodie. Oh.
He must've never given it back last night, too tired to remember to. No matter, they shared clothes all the time. He'd just give it back once Harvard returned from classes.
Except.
He shivers. He's alone, and it's chilly in the room, with it being the middle of winter and all. He feels distinctly blue, and there's a heavy feeling at the back of his throat if he thinks too long about it.
He wants Harvard here. He wants him back, and he wants to be taken care of like only he can do. He wants Harvard's lips on his forehead checking his temperature and his nose to nuzzle the side of his face. He wants to not feel so completely and utterly alone.
The fabric is soft between his fingers, and heavy. Aiden holds it reverently for a moment or two.
It's probably a terrible idea, but the notion of not putting it on makes tears spring in his eyes. It's completely and utterly ridiculous. Oh, god. It'd be the closest thing to having him there, right beside him. It's the closest thing he'll get.
He sighs. Pathetic. He puts the damn thing on before he can second guess it.
It's warm, and big on him. The sleeves fall past his wrists, the bottom of it a little less than halfway down his thighs. Harvard fills it out better, he thinks, and then he thinks, oh, Harvard wears this all the time.
He pulls the collar halfway up his face and breathes in. It smells like him.
Oh, holy fucking shit. It smells like him.
Aiden curses himself and his stupid ideas and his stupid fuzzy head and his stupid dick for all jumping to conclusions about the situation at hand: one, that it is hot. Okay, fair. Two, that he is growing hard pretty rapidly, which, not great. And three— he needs to get off.
He squirms. Oh, fuck, he needs to get off.
This is, by all means, wrong. Aiden knows that. He also knows it is very pathetic, but, at this point, his dignity is pretty much out the window.
He doesn't get off on his own much, that's the truth. It's sort of the point of all the hookups— not having to be alone when confronting these fantasies. But even this is too much to show anyone else, and, besides, he doesn't need a second pair of hands for it.
He pulls his briefs down and for a moment considers every decision that has brought him here, and is then very quickly distracted by the drag of the fabric of Harvard's hoodie on his dick. He bites his lip and lays back against the cushions of his bed, nestled among sheets and pillows.
His head still feels like cotton, and so he tells himself it's the only reason he's allowing himself to do this.
The first touch makes him shiver, fingers wrapping around himself delicately. It's too dry, uncomfortable and rough, and he needs all the comfort he can get, so he spits in his hand. His head swims, and he's sure his temperature spikes, too.
There had been a time— a short time— in which his pining had spilled over from the childish infatuation into the real, true, in-love kind, and with it, the realization that Harvard was hot. Simple as that, really, and it had caused Aiden a myriad of issues, of guilty nights ruminating over the rights and wrongs of being sixteen and getting off to your best friend.
Eventually he'd come to settle on that morality was relative and he could make anything out to be right, or wrong, with the right argument, at which point he'd decided masturbation was not the subject to have these reflections over, probably.
But it had taught him, for one, shame. And it had taught him how to be quiet, how to mold his fantasies to satisfy the specific feeling of lacking something that he'd be suffering from. For all his idiosyncrasies— of which, there were many, ask any one guy— around sex, he always fell back on the most simple of things.
He liked when Harvard took care of him.
He liked warm lips on his forehead. He liked not having to think, for once, about his own survival, he liked giving himself up to the hands of another. Not just any other, but Harvard. It was an important distinction. He knew Harvard wouldn't ever hurt him. He knew he could lay and let his mind quiet down without having to constantly seek a way to protect himself— most often, you know, from himself.
And he liked when Harvard checked up on him. He liked those hands on his back, on his shoulders, heavy and warm, matched by a bright smile asking You okay? And he liked being asked the question too, even when he rarely answered it honestly, because Harvard could take one look at him and know.
He presses against his slit and hisses, spreading the bead of precum he finds there. Pathetic, and lonely, and somehow inexperienced in giving himself pleasure. He's hard and wet and wound up and tired, and he somehow isn't sure what to do with all of it beyond hitching his hips into his palm.
He tries to think about anything else other than the scratch of the hoodie's fabric against the back of his hand, how it's big enough to cover the awful things he's doing— awful, because who does this, really— and to make his head float.
He barely thinks as he presses the collar against his nose, and inhales. He's sure it's some kinda rush of chemicals, but it feels downright heavenly. It's as close as he'll get to him. This might be all he ever gets.
Fuck it. He'll wash the hoodie when he's feeling better, and once he's come in it. On it. Oh, god.
Valiantly he tries to steer his thoughts away, however useless of an effort, as he lets his hand move a little faster, fist a little tighter. When's the last time someone's touched him like this? Time taken to focus just on pleasure and not vision come to life? Not a pretty image under someone's hands?
It's not that Aiden doesn't like it. He does. He likes to have that kind of power on people. That sort of impression. But it would be nice, he thinks, if someone were to take care of him like this, instead of him being required to perform in some way.
There's many things he would like, actually, as he lets his imagination stray.
He would like fingers in his mouth, or drifting across his chest, pinching, touching, racing down to his thighs. He'd like fingers over his cock and inside of him, slick and warm and filling him up. He'd like something more too, he'd like a toy, or a tongue, laying flat against the muscle, licking and then prodding and pushing its way inside. He'd like— he'd like someone inside of him, he'd like to be held down and fucked and made to come undone, and then he'd like to be sown back up together, piece by piece, hands in his hair and cupping his face and familiar lips pressing to his.
It's this last part that he never lets himself have.
He wants warm hands that he knows better than his own to hold his wrists down, and he wants to be pushed to his limits until he forgets what they even are, until he forgets he's even a person and not just a haze of pleasure. He wants to let himself relax that far and he wants to know he's safe with the person he does it with.
He wants to be taken care of. He wants Harvard.
He wants— gasping, he wants, "Harv—"
"Aiden?"
The world stills on its axis. Aiden is fairly sure of this because he dies. Like, thrown-off-the-face-of-the-planet dead.
Slowly, he opens his eyes, and blinks, once, twice, fingers rigid, half hidden, thank god, under the sweatshirt.
Which was Harvard's. Who was standing at the door, lit from behind by the hallway's light.
They stare at each other.
Aiden swallows. "You—"
"You were—"
Aiden wishes for swift death as Harvard eases the door closed behind him, as if dazed. He croaks out, honest, "Yeah."
Harvard eyes him, then his face opens in some form of shock. "Is that my—"
Aiden briefly wonders if hell will draft up a new kind of punishment for him. "Oh, god."
"Aiden—"
He scrambles to hide himself and maybe, hopefully, just fucking explode so he doesn't have to explain what he'd just walked in on. He has no such luck, and words tumble from his mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't— I know—"
There's a hand on his knee suddenly, and Aiden pauses dramatically.
He blinks, eyes wide, at Harvard. The bed dips where he's taken a seat. There's no other point of contact than his hand, warm and heavy and on him.
"It's— it's fine."
Aiden looks at his hand, then at him, then at his hand, then back at him. He's spent years learning how to read all of Harvard's expressions, and yet has no inkling about what the look in his eyes means. "It… is?"
"Do you want— a hand?"
Aiden stares, dumbfounded. What? "What?"
"It's just," Harvard chews the inside of his cheeks, considering. He looks hesitant, which is unusual and foreign on his face. It makes Aiden's cheeks flush to have it all directed on him. "You seemed frustrated."
You seemed— he'd seen, he'd— "Um."
Okay, Aiden had been, but nice to know others could tell at a glance.
Harvard's eerie calm about the situation— because they had a situation now— breaks, his eyes going wide. "Sorry, that's not— I don't know why I—"
He goes to take his hand off Aiden's knee, and Aiden, against his better judgement, moves his clean hand to hold him there. Harvard stares at him, and he looks almost scared.
This could just be a fever dream. Like, it could. Had anyone ever had hallucinations due to a cold? Probably. He's definitely dreamt of this before, but never with such realism. Harvard is so warm and so close and he wants to touch him— he wants to help him get off— he wants to!
Harvard looks like he's about to hyperventilate. Aiden sympathizes.
He licks his lips, but his mouth feels dry. He should say no; he really, really should, for about a dozen different reasons. Because they're clearly not in their right minds; because Harvard doesn't even know what he's offering; because his heart is beating louder than all his thoughts, which makes it very hard to think clearly.
But Aiden is not a very strong man, even on the best of days. And this is far from the best of his days.
"Please."
Harvard makes a noise of want, one Aiden is fairly sure he won't ever stop replaying in his mind, and settles in between his legs.
His hand squeezes Aiden's knee once, which is a comfort to both of them; they're both shaking, flushing across their cheeks. It's ridiculous— he feels terrified and giddy at the same time. He's a mess, but he knows exactly one tender pair of hands, and he's not scared when they touch his thighs, calloused fingers against goosebumps.
Harvard slides his hand down, down, fingers barely brushing Aiden's skin. He shivers anyway, though it might be the fever, and when gentle fingers wrap around him, he gasps like a virgin. Aiden Kane, always hard to please, made to react at one single touch; there was a line of boys out there who'd like to laugh in his face at the notion.
Jesus fucking Christ. This is going to kill me.
Harvard is soft and slow. He'd appear inexperienced if Aiden didn't know better; he's just trying to make him feel comfortable, make sure everything he does is fine, that it all happens with ample warning. Aiden thinks he'd let him do anything. Everything. He'd be more than willing to take whatever Harvard was willing to give.
But he's also impatient. And he's been hard for a while, and he wants to get off, and he wants— he wants—
He slides his hands up Harvard's arms, whose lips are parted in awe, and grips the white shirt under his hands, tugging him forward.
Harvard comes, leg slipping between his own, eyes flicking down to his mouth. Aiden whispers, "I won't break."
Harvard watches him for a moment, unsure.
"Okay," he takes in a shaky breath. "I just don't know what you like."
What a ridiculous thing to say. "I like you. I like your hands. I'd like more of all that."
Harvard stares at him, brow furrowing, then starts again with a different pressure and speed. A little tighter, a little faster. Aiden stutters out a moan and does all he can to not buck into Harvard's hand. It's a failed effort, and it makes him burn up, but Harvard just makes a noise of encouragement.
Another hand comes up to his waist, to hold him steady, and he is struck by an overwhelming want in him; he wants to be held down, be pressed into the mattress, and he wants Harvard to kiss him. He wants all his senses overtaken. He wants painfully, and it's incredibly frustrating to want and not have the courage to ask.
Harvard seems to see this in his face, somewhere, and so worry creases his face and his hand slows down. Aiden hisses and tightens his hold, then slides his hands up until he can cup his jaw. Harvard comes closer without him having to ask, and it shoots a thrill down his spine.
He whispers, because he's worried the words will break with any more force, "Don't stop."
"Tell me— tell me what you need," he can feel the swallow under his fingers, and he wants to press down just a little, "Please."
Would he be this polite if we fucked too?
Aiden tries to keep his mind on track. He describes how he likes it— a crude and ridiculous thing, frankly, but Harvard listens attentively, and then puts it all into action. Twists his hand as he's told, presses a finger to the slit and gathers the wetness there onto his fingertips, tightens his grip and probably leaves marks on Aiden's hips.
Maybe that one's wishful thinking.
Aiden's head is swimming, bliss and pleasure and fatigue all mixing in his mind. He sinks into the touch and into the warmth all around him; he breathes and he doesn't have to imagine it anymore, Harvard is there, and he's taking care of him, like he's done dozens of times before. He's being taken care of in the best hands he knows and he's covered in the boy he loves in every way— hands and breath and cloth.
He hitches breaths all but in Harvard's mouth, so close they're almost melting into each other. Aiden wouldn't mind it.
Then Harvard says, right there, in a manner that's like a kiss to his feverish skin, in all but action, "Come for me?"
Maybe it's the tone of it, the way he's gentle and firm in the ways he is when he has to be— to coax Aiden to do what he wants. Or maybe it's because Aiden hadn't realized how close he'd been, too caught up in the fantasy come to life to focus singlehandedly on the tight coiling in his gut, and thus hadn't seen it coming, hadn't felt himself on the edge, until suddenly being made aware of it.
He comes half into Harvard's palm, half on his sweater, sighing into the space between them.
Harvard doesn't stop moving until he's, embarrassingly, whimpering at his touch, oversensitive and squirming away from his hand. He doesn't want to get away, not really, and so still cries at the loss of Harvard's hand— which might, actually, be the most mortifying thing he's ever done.
There's too strong a mix of endorphins and pain in his head to worry about it.
Harvard carefully lays down next to him. He's a dream; laying in bed, flushed, with his pupils big, and his slacks tented—
A clean hand comes to his forehead to test his temperature. Harvard makes a face. "Little cooler, at least."
Aiden swallows, then butts his head against his palm. "You're hard."
Harvard's hand comes down to cup his cheek. Aiden leans into the touch. He feels delirious. He's still not entirely sure he's making up the whole thing in his head. "I'm fine."
"But you're—"
"Really. Really, I don't— not now," he watches Harvard swallow carefully, notes how wide his pupils are. "Maybe when you're feeling better. If you— if you really want."
"I do want." Aiden licks his lips. "Kiss me."
Harvard makes another face, this more of a grimace. Probably because, well, the illness. "Aiden—"
"I do want it. It's not the fucking fever. I want you to kiss me. Please," softer, he sighs, "Please."
Harvard seems to crumble at that, incapable of ever denying him— and Aiden knows they'll have to have a conversation come morning, but what's to tell him this isn't all a sickness-induced fever dream? Who's to say he won't wake up and realize it'd just been another cruel fantasy from his love-addled brain?
Though, Harvard's hands on his face feel incredibly real.
Harvard's lips are soft on his own— tentative, gentle, testing the waters. Aiden wants to eat him alive, but allows the softness for both their sakes. Harvard's right— he wants to be at his best for it; he wants to commit every second of Harvard under his hands to memory, and right now he can't even keep his head straight.
But kissing. Kissing he can do.
He's not sure how long it goes on for, and he's not sure why panic doesn't surge in his chest— it should, after all. He's wanted this for long, imagined it for longer than he's even allowed himself to want it— he should be terrified of fucking it up. He is, somewhere deep in his chest, but it feels natural to let himself be led through it. He floats between dream and reality, unsure of what is imagination and what is real, tangible, as he sighs into his best friend's mouth and gets a soft curve of the lips in return. He wants to do this forever, and he probably could— his body is just uncooperative.
He pulls away to cough his lungs out.
Harvard's hands remain on him, rubbing his back in comfort. It's loving and Aiden wants that touch on him all the time; at practice, in between classes, at night, when they fall asleep with their beds touching. For a brief moment, the pounding in his head clears, and he thinks he might get all of that— and then the pain and doubt cloud it all back up.
He sits up and leans back against Harvard's chest, who wraps him up in his arms, envelops him in warmth and the smell of his cologne. They'd done this a million times before— when small and afraid and in need of familiar touch. Aiden sighs at the feeling.
Harvard shakes him gently. "I got you cough medicine."
"Okay," Aiden's voice comes out rough.
"I need to—"
"Stay here," he picks at Harvard's shirt, feeling drowsy and heavy-limbed. "Just for a bit."
He can feel Harvard's grimace at the thought of laying on dirty sheets in dirty clothes for however long, but he acquiesces. Because, again, Aiden can always get what he wants. And he gets it now, dozing off against Harvard's chest, in their unmade bed.
In his head, he begs and begs, with his hands cradled against his chest, for it to not be a dream by the time he wakes up.
It was not, as it turns out, a fever-induced dream. Neither were the germs though.
So Harvard, definitely, also has a fever.
Aiden's sits up to check his temperature, and it reads higher than it should, definitely. Right? Right. He was not a very good nurse, really, but he could read a thermometer.
His own head's still hurting.
Harvard mumbles from under him. "Bad?"
"I think," he sets a comforting hand on Harvard's shoulder as he reaches over to the nightstand. It's become a base of operations; empty cups of warm chamomile, a box of cough medicine, one for the fevers, and used tissues litter the dark wood. "We're both staying in bed today."
"But, Coach—"
"She'll understand," or Aiden hoped so, anyway.
Harvard huffed, but it held little fight. He wasn't one to get sick often, which made Aiden a little guilty, because this was definitely his fault.
Well. Harvard could've just not kissed him. Or done any of the rest of it— but he especially could've just not kissed him. The hand had been given, the ordeal had concluded, and he'd chosen to anyway.
Harvard had kissed him!
The thought makes him dizzy, so he lays back down, eye to eye with the subject in question. He's sure to freak out about all of it soon; he allows himself, like, another day or so of being miserably sick, and hopelessly hopeful before allowing the crash to happen.
Harvard blinks at him, dark eyes piercing. Aiden swallows carefully. "Should we…"
"When my head's not exploding," a hand comes up to his wrist, then presses into his palm, intertwining their fingers. He watches the edges of a smile appear on Harvard's lips, half lost among the sheets. "Do we want to freak out about it?"
Aiden bites the inside of his cheek. There's terrible words at the back of his throat, and they've been there for a very long time. He musters all the courage he has, and says, "No. I want this."
Harvard's eyes go wide. "This—"
"I want you."
Aiden's too quick to respond, too eager, too needy. He wishes for the floor to open up and swallow him whole, but he stands (lays?) his ground, and grips the pillow under his head tightly.
Harvard just half leans, half drags his hand up, to press a kiss against his knuckles. It's intimate and not sexy at all because he sneezes right afterwards, and it makes Aiden blush anyway.
"Okay. Okay, we can talk about it," he sniffles. "When we're— not disgusting."
Aiden moves closer. He's welcomed easily, arm coming over his shoulder. "Yeah."
"And I want you too," Harvard's words come slow and slurred, like he's falling back asleep. "Just, to be clear, so you don't freak out. Will you?"
Aiden swallows. Okay. Okay! "I'm trying not to."
Harvard hums for a moment. "You should keep the sweater."
The sweater. The wretched thing had been swiftly thrown into the wash bin. "Hm?"
"It looks better on you, anyway," Harvard's eyes flutter closed. "It's gonna be a boyfriend thing. Does that help?"
Aiden flushed to the tip of his ears, as Harvard's arm tightened around him. He's delirious. You're also delirious. None of this will make any sense come tomorrow.
He swallows and burrows closer. It does help to hear those words. "Yeah."
They spend the rest of the day in and out of fever dreams, but never farther than a bedspread from each other.