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“I’m fine,” Harvard says, half-mumbling into bed-sheets, in his typical, level tone. Aiden notices it’s more strained than usual. “I’ll just sleep it off.”
Oh. He’s sick.
Harvard, blessed with all the important things in life - a friendly, outgoing manner, clear skin, a wicked sense of humour when someone could coax it out of him - also had the immune system of a horse, if the old idiom was anything to abide by. Aiden can count on one hand the number of times Harvard has been sick in all the time they’d known each other which, being more than half their lives, was a long time; he was seemingly impervious to seasonal colds and the like, never coming down with as much as a sore throat.
Aiden has no idea what to do. Despite the grace he assumes on the piste, in everyday life he’s clumsy-handed, all thumbs and no tact for this sort of situation. He can bring someone down with just a few words, strike at their vulnerable points and confidently gamble on the fact that he’s hitting the bullseye. It’s much more difficult, requires more refined skill to be kind and caring and all of the things Aiden Kane knows he is not.
He thinks back to the countless times Harvard has done it for him: the back of his hand, cool and firm, on Aiden’s forehead, steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup, soft-voiced conversations to keep him entertained as whatever infection tried to sap the life out of him.
Okay, he thinks. I can try.
“Get some rest,” he tells Harvard, keeping his voice low but, he hopes, still carrying across a sincerity he reserves for Harvard and Harvard only. “I’ll be back.”
***
Fifteen minutes or so later, Aiden walks back into their dorm room, a tray in his arms. In it - a mug of tea, a jar of honey and a spoon, a face towel soaked in cold water. He sets it down on the bedside table.
First, he places the compress on Harvard’s forehead. Harvard responds with an appreciative expression, and something prickles in Aiden’s chest. It’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant; quite the opposite, in fact. Then, he stirs a spoonful of honey into the mug, steaming.
“You know, I feel really bad.” Aiden opens his mouth to respond, but Harvard starts speaking again before he can get a word in. “I know, I know, you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t, but I do.” He offers Aiden a wan smile. “It’s Saturday! You should be out, having fun, not stuck here with me.”
Aiden rolls his eyes. “Well, the freshmen are annoying, and Kally and Tanner would make me study, so I guess this was the least of all evils,” he jokes.
Harvard laughs, then bursts out into a coughing fit.
“This is what we do, Harv,” Aiden said, gentle but insistent, tenderly. He hands him the mug of tea. “We take care of each other. Let me.”
(Harvard acquiesces, melting into the pillows and blankets. Aiden kisses him softly.)
(The next day, they’re both sick. Fuck.)