Page 114 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
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.”
