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Anthony swayed, leaning against the doorjamb for support. He'd awoken with an unaccountable weakness in his legs and a shiver running beneath his skin, and his attempts to seek breakfast were already presenting difficulties.
“Still deep in your cups, I see,” said Simon, tone playful and eyebrow artfully raised, as he bustled about their shared sitting room. “You must have indulged far more than I realised last night. I commend you.”
A soft groan rolling in his throat, Anthony pushed away from the doorframe and stumbled towards one of the seats. “I indulged no more than usual, I assure you,” he croaked, after collapsing into it and recovering a breath, limbs creaking as much as the chair beneath him.
“So, a commendable amount,” teased Simon, haphazardly thrusting a notebook into a small bag.
Inhaling through a shiver, Anthony tugged his dressing gown further around his body. “Pass me an apple, would you, Basset?” he said, glancing at the forlorn fruitbowl they kept beside the rather better-stocked selection of alcohol.
Simon snorted. “What you need,” he said, reaching instead for the brandy, “is a hair of the dog.” He poured a measure into a glass and held it up, mischief twitching in the corners of his mouth.
Anthony sighed, shaking his head – a mistake, as the world continued shaking for some time after – and muttered, “I would rather the apple.” A quiver had lodged itself in his stomach and he hardly felt hungry, but he yearned for something to settle him and food seemed a safer bet than liquid fire.
“Suit yourself,” said Simon, and downed the brandy. But he plucked an apple from the pile and strode over, holding it out.
Hand shaking as he reached for the offered fruit, Anthony murmured his thanks. Their fingers brushed as he closed his grip around the polished green apple, and another shiver rippled through him.
Simon narrowed his eyes, forehead creasing for a moment, before he returned to his bustling. “I assume you will not be attending this morning's lecture,” he said lightly, but there was something deliberate about his tone.
“You assume correctly,” Anthony said, and bit into the apple. Its sweet, crisp flesh felt ashy on his tongue, an ache dawning in his jaw as he chewed. Swallowing hardly improved matters – it scraped down his throat, lodging itself in his uneasy stomach.
“Fear not,” Simon said, flicking through a dog-eared volume before shoving that into his bag also. “If the professor asks, I shall inform him you are prostrated by the whims of Bacchus. I'm sure he will understand.”
Anthony laughed, the sound unexpectedly rough in his throat. “I'm sure he will,” he murmured, letting his arm fall into his lap, fingers loose upon the apple.
That frown flashed across Simon's forehead again. “You tire of your meal already?” he said, carting his bag across to the table nearest Anthony, something restless in his pose as he rifled through the contents. “I maintain the brandy was the superior breakfast.”
Inhaling slowly, Anthony let his head loll back against the chair. “I find I have little appetite this morning.”
Simon paused, dark eyes intense as they surveyed him. Then he slowly reached out and pressed a palm to Anthony's forehead. “Damn it, Bridgerton, you're cold as a lake in winter.”
“I told you it was not the drink,” muttered Anthony, though he could summon no spark of triumph. The thick fog creeping through his body absorbed all his heart could muster.
“Mmm,” Simon hummed, the note sharp with concern. His eyes fell on the apple as he straightened up. “Do you intend to finish that?”
Anthony licked his lips, stomach trembling. “No,” he said simply, and spared any further effort.
The frown took full residence of Simon's forehead. “Then you should return to bed,” he advised, gently slipping the fruit from his hand and setting it next to his bag. “You will be far warmer there.”
Veins thrumming with ice, Anthony tilted his head to stare at the door to his bedroom. “It is only a little chill,” he said, remembering the sway in his legs, now dangling limply from the chair.
“Then you shall only need a little help to make the journey,” Simon said, voice turning sharp, though there was a warmth to that fierceness.
Swallowing, Anthony looked back at him. The air between them grew thick and heavy, crackling as if lightning were about to strike.
“Come,” said Simon, softer, arms reaching for him. “The blankets will remedy that chill.”
Anthony inhaled slowly, considering the value of further refusals. If he agreed, he would lose face. But if he remained... Well, his condition seemed likely to worsen, and while he was loath to admit that to himself, he had far less desire to display it to his friend.
Groaning softly, he sat up and let Simon pry him from the chair. Limbs aching, he clung to the man, resting against the solid weight of his body. Simon's arms were firm and strong, pulling him close, keeping him upright as they staggered towards his bed.
Another shiver skittered down Anthony's spine. They had hugged before, of course – celebrating a spectacular win at the gaming tables, or singing heartily as they caroused – but this touch was so deliberate, so insistent, and his trembling muscles were so weak...
Simon helped peel his dressing gown away before steering him back into bed, the crumpled blankets all ready to receive him, flung back just as he'd left them. Anthony sighed as he sank into the mattress, joints creaking as they settled, and tried not to think too hard on the way Simon tugged the blankets up around him.
“There,” said Simon, idly smoothing the edge of the blanket down, perched on the edge of the bed.
“Thank you,” murmured Anthony, but the quiet syllables were more fragile than intended.
Simon studied him, dark eyes lingering, then turned his attention across the room. “Shall I light a fire in the grate?”
“What with?” asked Anthony. The hearth contained only ash, cold as his skin, and he'd blown his candle out before sleep.
“No fire, then,” said Simon, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
“I'm sure I shall be fine without it,” Anthony declared, wriggling further under the blankets. The thick material trapped in every scrap of warmth, reflecting it back at him – but his body had precious little to be reflected.
A ghost of that frown passed across Simon's forehead, his mouth twitching.
“You should go,” Anthony said, choosing a casual tone even as his stomach swirled. “You will be late for the lecture.”
“You know I disapprove of these morning lectures,” Simon said lightly, leaning back a little. “In my opinion, they should not be scheduled any time before midday.”
“An opinion I share,” Anthony said, finding a sliver of a smile, burying the tremor in his chest. “But the professor does not.”
“I should like to say he is alone in that. But alas, our friend Hanford wakes with the lark,” said Simon, mirroring that smile, expanding it, “and takes excellent notes.”
Anthony loosed a short laugh, throat twingeing in its wake. “You will take any excuse.”
“Indeed I will,” said Simon, smiling yet, though there was an uneasiness as those eyes lingered on him. “Though today's excuse is far too honourable for my taste.”
Anthony gazed up at him, that shiver rattling through again. “Anyone who saw you now might think you weren't a rake at all.”
“Oh, but I am,” teased Simon, but there was something ominous about it, something melancholy behind the fierce humour. “And I shall prove it many times in future.”
Shifting against the pillow, Anthony smiled, taking refuge in their playful words. “Not very soon, if you intend to sit and watch me sleep.”
Simon laughed, sharp and hearty. “Will you sleep then?”
“I hardly need it,” he protested, though he kept his voice soft and airy, as much as his raw throat allowed. “And I am no spectator sport.”
“Indeed,” rumbled Simon, though his smile softened to concern. Before Anthony could protest again, he leaned forward and laid a hand on his forehead once more. “Any referee would disqualify you for the good of your health. You are still cold as ice.”
Anthony swallowed, skin tingling under Simon's touch. “I shall be fine. I am safely ensconced in my bed now, as you see.”
Frowning, Simon leaned back. “You need something to warm you.”
Anthony glanced around the room – utterly lacking any source of heat – then shrugged, his shoulders protesting the movement. “I will be fine.”
Simon paused, that frown growing heavy, lines creasing deep above his handsome face. His eyes roved over Anthony, over the form of his body beneath the blankets, some thought whirring in those dark depths.
Then he began to tug off his jacket.
“Basset?” croaked Anthony, eyes widening.
“You need something to warm you,” repeated Simon, calm and even, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Basset, I –” choked Anthony, stomach clenching hard.
“What else do you suggest?” asked Simon, as though it were obvious, yet did not quite meet Anthony's gaze before he dragged his shirt over his head.
“Basset, you don't need –” whispered Anthony, a spark of heat flaring through his chill, the ember igniting as he laid eyes on that bare skin. He'd seen the man shirtless before – and savoured it then, that same guilty fire roiling in his gut – but neither boxing nor casually wandering their set bore the same weight of intention as this.
Shirt crumpled in his lap, Simon halted. He studied Anthony, gaze inscrutable, the moment stretching between them. The air crackled with that same energy as before, the silence heavy and thick. Though they did little to warm him, Anthony found himself glad of the barrier the blankets provided, the distance between him and Simon far too short.
“Basset,” he whispered, almost pleading. Fog filled his thumping skull, a shiver had possessed his bones, and the offer was too – too –
“Viscount Bridgerton,” murmured Simon, dark eyes softening, ringed with sadness. “When did someone last take care of you?”
Anthony swallowed, half at the question, half at the title. Since the day he became Viscount, he had not... could not...
“I am no child, Basset,” he insisted, though the words rang hollow on his heavy tongue.
“No,” Simon said, his words a gentle agony. “You are my friend.”
Breath shuddering in his chest, Anthony stared up at him. His muscles throbbed with miles unwalked, a chill whispered in his veins, and all his bones had turned to lead. Oh, he ached to agree – he ached to refuse. “Simon,” he croaked, the name cracking in his throat.
“Anthony,” murmured Simon, hand curling over the corner of the blankets, just resting there.
Thoughts wispy as the morning mist, Anthony shivered with indecision. He was a viscount now, sworn to protect his family, and that duty pulled down like an anchor – but he was the only Bridgerton here, and he was so tired, so very tired...
As Anthony inhaled slowly, Simon straightened up. Lips curving to a sharp smile, Simon arched his eyebrows – an expression Anthony swore was the very echo of Lady Danbury's face. “Come, Bridgerton, did you not scrape me from the gutter after I tangled with those fellows from Trinity? Let me return the favour. Or will you hold me to my folly?”
Anthony gazed up at him, aching at the playful tone, at those warm arms reaching for him.
He swallowed and nodded.
Simon's smile bloomed to a grin, bright with mischief and conspiracy, the faintest edge of fondness to his eyes. He flung back the blankets and wriggled under, pressing in close, curling his strong arms around Anthony as he tugged him into that bare chest, against the warm flesh.
Shivering, Anthony surrendered to it, letting his best friend settle them in that embrace. As Simon tucked his head into the crook of his neck, Anthony savoured the pleasant heat of that intimate touch – though a guilty tremor rippled in his gut.
“Better?” murmured Simon, that resonant voice rumbling near his ear.
Anthony inhaled slowly, refusing to look up at him. “You are certainly warmer than my sheets.”
Simon chuckled, the vibration rippling through his chest, into Anthony's body. “Many have said my presence improved their beds.”
A laugh sprang from Anthony's mouth, short and sharp, no more bidden than the blush which claimed his cheeks. The man did not mean – Well, of course he meant – But this was not that, this was no seduction. This was simply a friend granting succour to the sick.
Anthony swallowed. Even if he might wish otherwise.
Simon slipped his arms further around Anthony, wrapping him tighter. He laid one hand on Anthony's chest, over his sternum. “You seem no warmer at all.”
Blush still ripe upon his cheeks, Anthony measured the guilty fire in his gut. “I assure you, I am so.”
“And I assure you,” murmured Simon, soft enough to ache, “this would progress faster were you not wearing your own shirt.”
Eyes widening, Anthony inhaled a shaky breath. “Simon Basset, you intend to strip me naked,” he said, feigning accusation, because a jest was preferable to acknowledging – to admitting that he wanted –
“Most certainly,” teased Simon, playful tone rumbling, hands already tugging at the loose fabric of Anthony's shirt.
Anthony thought there was a strange edge to the man's voice, but his head was full of wool, so he must be mistaken, must be imagining it. He opened his mouth to protest – but what reason did he have, beyond the fact it would be too sweet, that his guilty heart was longing? And he could not admit – but his tired tongue was too lax to lie –
Surrender heavy as his limbs, Anthony wriggled out of his shirt – though Simon performed most of the work, tugging the fabric up and away before dropping it onto the floor. And then they pressed together, skin to skin, and Anthony shivered as Simon's warm flesh met his cold sweat.
Simon sighed, not a soft sound, but sharp and worried. “Bridgerton, you are cold as ice. And to think you almost refused me,” he said, and a tease bloomed in his tone again, but his hands were careful as he pulled Anthony back to his chest, arranging him close.
“But none has ever refused you,” murmured Anthony, urging his tongue to playfulness also, but that muscle ached with the same exhaustion that filled the rest of him, and so perhaps, perhaps what resulted was a little too...
Simon laughed, booming yet a little hollow. “You may imagine so,” he said, half teasing, half earnest, “but there is one who has not indulged me.”
Anthony swallowed, shifting against him. “More fool her,” he mumbled, chest trembling. “I can now attest you are an excellent bedfellow. Exceptionally warm.”
“Yes,” chuckled Simon, curling his arms tighter around him. “Exactly the words that shall convince them.”
“If they do not,” said Anthony, arching into that embrace, “then they are unworthy of you.”
Simon hummed a low note, almost dismissive, almost bitter, and then fell silent.
Anthony shivered in his arms, soaking up that warmth. The man really was exceptionally warm. His limbs still ached, his thoughts remained foggy, but that chill in his veins was slowly melting. It was strange and new, to be pressed against his best friend thus, but despite the discomfort in his tired bones he could not bring himself to resent it.
Yet as they lay there, the moment grew heavy. Anthony shuddered beneath its weight. At that signal, Simon reached up to rest one hand in Anthony's hair, fingers stroking over him. Anthony swallowed, chest tightening. There was a fondness to it, a tenderness to that touch, and a new ache sang inside him. But his tongue was heavy in his mouth, and the air was thick, that same lightning crackling – only now there was no space between them, no space at all.
Heart thumping like an omen, Anthony slowly tilted his head up, meeting Simon's lingering gaze. Dark and intense, those eyes bored into him, sending a frisson rippling through him.
“Basset,” Anthony croaked, arching into him.
Simon slipped his hand from Anthony's hair, across his cheek, curling under Anthony's chin. “Anthony,” he murmured, voice rumbling low.
The moment stretched, air crackling, a bowstring pulling taut – until it snapped and they moved as one, Anthony nudging his chin up as Simon dipped his head down, pressing their lips together.
Despite the ice in his bones, despite the chill in his blood, despite the cold in his muscles, heat flared through Anthony. He moaned into the kiss, clinging tight, savouring the warm touch of lips –
Simon wrenched backwards. “I apologise,” he croaked, voice rumbling low, eyes impenetrably dark. “That was a mistake.”
Anthony's heart dropped into his stomach, settling amongst his shame. “A mistake?” he muttered, eloquence reduced to repetition, his fog-filled mind empty of any better argument.
“Surely you understand the word,” hissed Simon, eyes narrowing, brows sharp.
A shiver rolled through Anthony's chest, all Simon's warmth now torn away, the inches aching like a mile. For a moment he had thought – and the man's lips had been so soft, sweet as any nightly dream – but now there was such scorn in his best friend's eyes, cold as the chill in his bones, and –
And he had seen that look before. Though his thoughts had turned to dust, his foolish heart would always know his friend.
“Basset, I know your sharp tongue well,” Anthony said, urging his own tongue to obey, desperation thrumming in his veins. “You aim to hurt because you're hurting. How did I offend you?”
Horror crept into Simon's face. “You did not. The offence was mine.”
Anthony swallowed, trembling on the precipice, grasping before the moment slipped through his fingers. “That kiss was no offence,” he murmured, reaching out to brush cold fingers on that warm chest.
“Anthony...” Simon inhaled slowly, ribs rising beneath his touch. “You are sick. Even a rake should not take advantage of a friend. If you were in your right mind...”
A hoarse laugh bubbled from Anthony's throat. “Is that your only objection? Deuce take it, Simon, my objection is you did not kiss me sooner.”
Simon raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his lips. “Are you sure your chill has not become a fever?”
“Not yet,” said Anthony, shifting closer, aware his cheeks were flushing further.
Simon laughed softly, more tender than he had ever heard. “I still refuse to take advantage,” he teased, but he slipped his arms around him again.
Anthony swallowed, settling in his embrace, savouring that warmth. “Then kiss me when I have recovered, and I shall prove my point.”
A breath sighing from his lungs, Simon pressed his lips to Anthony's temple. “That does require you to recover.”
“That shall not be a problem,” Anthony swore, curling into his arms, “now that I have you to warm me.”
Simon chuckled, achingly fond. “I knew my strategy was correct.”
Anthony declined to argue – instead revelling in the touch of skin, his best friend's warmth banishing both his shivers and all the guilt that once trembled in his gut.