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As long as she didn’t move away.
The fever didn’t break for days. He couldn’t tell, looking back, if it got any worse than that night where he had to be iced. He thought it might have done, for many of those days were lost to a burning darkness. He struggled to breathe, his skin felt like it was being flayed, nightmares plagued him awake or asleep. At one point, he imagined Jules was singing to him, but that definitely had to be a fever-addled delirium.
He remembered being utterly mortified when Jules offered to help him get onto a chamberpot, and him ordering her to fetch some male mortal servant to assist him instead. He’d never really been ashamed in front of her before. She’d seen him naked, seen him covered in vomit after a night of drinking, seen him at his absolute worst, and yet now, suddenly, he couldn’t bear the indignity of letting her help him take a piss.
All the rest he was fine with. There was even a part, during his better, more lucid moments, when he quite enjoyed letting her bathe him. The healer seemed to have finally made him a concoction that felt like it did something, though it made his head feel woozy and his tongue slippery.
At one point, he remembered Jules leaning over him, hair unbound, and he tugged at the ends of it. He used to pull her braids when they were children, because he liked the colour, although he recalled how much she hated that.
He hoped he was gentler now.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Your hair is pretty,” he remarked. “Like a flame, in the right light. I’ve always hated how much I liked it.”
“You’re delirious.”
“Yes, I am. But I still both hate and like it. Much like I’ve always liked and hated you. You’re very attractive, you know. It’s most annoying.”
“Ohspirits,” she cursed. “I can’t work out if you need more of the sleeping draught or less…”
“Maybe I just need more ofyou,fair Juliana—”
“More,” she said swiftly, pressing something to his lips. “Definitely more.”
Despite moments of reprieve, most of the time he felt too wretched to enjoy anything. Hours and days were lost to a haze of darkness, a damp fog, searing pain and a coughing made him feel like his lungs were trying to burst out his chest.
“Make it stop,” he whispered at one point. “Please.”
“I can’t,” Jules said, with an odd crackle to her voice.
“How do mortals deal with this?” he groaned.
Jules raised a compress to his skin. Everything still felt like fire, inescapable and smothering. “Most mortals don’t get as sick as this,” she said under her breath.
“What was that?” He’d been listening to her complain about his complaining for days. He hadn’t even a suggestion that what he was experiencing was out of the ordinary, or worth his wretchedness.
“I just mean… well… um…I’venever been this sick before, but I also don’t have many mortal friends, or, um, any, so…”
“So…”
“You’ve got it bad, Hawthorn. You’re allowed to feel rotten.”
For some reason that he couldn’t explain, that thought helped him. “So, what you’re saying is… I can do something better than you?”
“No one is saying that.”
“I am enduring something that you have never—”
“Right, you’re clearly feeling better.” She placed down the compress and moved to walk away.
Hawthorn reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I am not,” he said, wishing he could lie, wishing that he had even just a fraction of strength not to utter what he was about to. “Or I won’t, if you stop. I feel… when you’re nearby—even though you have the foulest bedside manner—it… it helps. Stay. If… if you don’t mind.”
Jules blew a loose strand of hair from her face and rolled her eyes. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”
“You have to hand it to me. Practically on death’s door and I’m still managing to charm you.”
Jules rolled him roughly onto his side and resumed her dosing, practically soaking him. He couldn’t recall why he’d wanted this.
