Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  That was what he should focus on, the work and keeping this job. It might lead to more work in this field, and he needed the experience if he was ever to go back to school. That was what was important, that and providing for Kate. Anything else was something that Arthur should leave to his dreams, because it wasn’t going to happen to him in real life. Nothing that amazing ever had, or not for long anyway.

  AS IF to prove him right, he felt weak and got a scratchy throat on the last weekend of his first month in Bertie’s house. The rain had been coming steadily down for two days, and he’d been working seven days in a row and biking back and forth across town until late the night before. It was only a matter of time until he got sick, he knew that, but he’d tried to stay home and rest last night, bundling up next to Kate to keep warm and drinking as much water as he could.

  It hadn’t mattered. He was still so weak the next morning it took him twice as long to ride to Bertie’s part of town, and when he got to Bertie’s house, he was shivering despite his efforts to make himself stop.

  He almost fell in the door and had a moment of relief that Bertie wasn’t there to see it, or to see him quickly stumble to the couch and put his laptop on his lap. He was fully prepared to work, whatever Bertie was going to say about it when he saw his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes.

  He should have stopped in for tea, but he realized his mistake too late when Bertie came out of the kitchen. The room was as warm as ever, but he couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Arthur? You’re late, is everything— Dear.” Bertie came to a halt, and Arthur frowned dizzily in his direction and saw the absolutely stunned expression on his face. Arthur was tired enough to want to laugh at it, but too tired to actually laugh.

  “I’m sick.” He stated the obvious, but only because he knew he looked awful and possibly a bit green. He hadn’t eaten much except for a piece of toast the day before. He shouldn’t be surprised that he looked awful. He only hoped he didn’t look too pitiful; if Bertie sent him home, he wasn’t sure he could make it back across town right now, not without a rest first. This house was so warm and Bertie’s couch was so soft, if he had to get up now, he might pass out—or cry. It was another horrifying thought he was too wrung out to react to. At least not until Bertie said something.

  “You look terrible.” Bertie let his hands fall to his sides for a moment. He was wearing that university sweatshirt again, the one that always looked worn and comfortable and that Arthur had vague fantasies about wearing someday. Arthur belatedly realized that he was still in his damp jacket and moved to shrug it off, and when he looked back up, Bertie was scowling at him.

  “Did you ride here on your bike?” he demanded. “In the rain, feeling like this? What did your sister think of that?”

  Arthur had known he was going to regret telling him more about Kate the other night during dinner. Bertie looked ready to call her and ask her himself, and probably would have if he had her number. He picked up Arthur’s jacket and then tossed it aside with a shudder when he saw how wet it was.

  “She wasn’t happy,” Arthur sighed. “But it’s okay, I can work on your notes.”

  “She wasn’t happy,” Bertie repeated with a snort. “Look at yourself, pet. Your sweatshirt is soaked too.” Arthur turned his head to look too fast and saw stars. He put a hand up as Bertie shot forward, but it didn’t hold him back. Warm hands landed on Arthur’s shoulders and tugged at his clothes.

  “It has to come off, Arthur,” Bertie insisted softly, which Arthur knew, but he shook his head and squirmed anyway. Even sick, the idea of Bertie undressing him was enough to make him burn. “Off,” Bertie said again but let go at the same time. Arthur shivered as Bertie moved away and then felt the sudden whoosh of air and heat as the logs in the fireplace caught fire.

  “Arthur.” He’d never heard Bertie’s voice so stern, so Arthur shut his eyes and pulled his sweatshirt off, shaking in just a damp white T-shirt until something heavy was thrown on top of him. He opened his eyes to the same blanket that Bertie covered him with before and pulled it closer without thinking. He let the laptop slide to the side.

  “Do you want to go home?” The rumbling, angry question drew Arthur’s attention back to Bertie, and for a second he thought he saw him as a dragon again, with a flicking, furious tail, but whatever expression was on his face made Bertie pause and his imaginary tail stop flicking. “It’s raining, Arthur,” he went on before Arthur could answer yes or no.

  “I know.” He meant it to be sarcastic, but it came out on an exhale. Those big dark eyes turned to liquid again.

  “Oh, pet.” For a second, Arthur thought Bertie was going to cry and quickly sat up, but Bertie sat down next to him instead, so close Arthur shut his eyes again. Later, when he wasn’t sick, he was going to think about how close they were and cringe to think of what he looked like. At the moment, however, all he could think was how warm Bertie was and how close and what it might feel like to lean into him and fall asleep.

  He wanted to fall asleep on someone who looked like that? He must be sicker than he thought.

  “We really should try to work today.” Arthur wet his lips. “I mean, you should. There’s no reason you can’t work today. I can rest and then go home—”

  “As if I could concentrate with you so unwell.” The instant response made Arthur open his eyes to slant a look sideways. Bertie probably just wanted to get out of work. Arthur struggled to look as earnest as he could.

  “You’re teasing me, but I’m going to let it go. I think I’m too tired to frown,” he announced, not sure why, and Bertie’s eyes went wide. His hand, no the inside of his wrist, was suddenly pressed to Arthur’s forehead.

  “Arthur.” His voice shook. “It must be serious if you can’t frown at me.” He made a tut sound and pulled his wrist back, though how he would know if Arthur was too hot, Arthur couldn’t begin to guess, and when he asked, he got another worried look. It only lifted when Arthur heard himself trying to explain.

  “But you’re already so hot,” he mumbled but gave up when Bertie choked on a laugh and his name.

  “Arthur, do stop arguing, please. Just lie there and feel better. Really, there’s no need for this level of sacrifice on my account.”

  “But….” The pay… the food… Bertie… Arthur was already enjoying this job too much. He wasn’t doing nearly enough work to demonstrate how much. Another impatient sigh shut him up.

  “I’d ask when was the last time you rested, Arthur, but I have a feeling I won’t care for the answer.”

  For someone who wasn’t asking, he managed to make Arthur feel guilty anyway, as if he’d done something wrong when he hadn’t.

  “I have to make money.” He gritted his teeth and hoped the pounding starting behind his eyes wasn’t going to get worse. “And don’t say I can’t do that if I’m dead. I’m sick, I’m not going to die of a cold.”

  “Is it a cold? You don’t look well.” Bertie abruptly stood up. “Your little human nose and cheeks are red, the rest of you is so pale that I can see the blue of your veins. And those shadows….” He reached out, not quite running a dark fingertip under Arthur’s eye. He pulled back before Arthur could remember to and then he looked away. “I’m going to bring you tea and perhaps some medicine if I have any.”

  “I don’t need you to—” Arthur could frown after all, but only as he tried to chase down the distracting thought. “Medicine?”

  Bertie ignored his protest and misunderstood his question. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was imagining the gray smoke that Bertie exhaled, but even with his mouth dry and his nose and throat raw, he could feel the searing realness of it when he inhaled.

  “Try not to be a pain, Arthur, and let me do this, please.” It was a hoarse rumble, like the dragon voice that had first called Arthur into this house. Bertie’s eyes were intense, and after a second, Arthur gave up and looked down. It got him another sigh, but Bertie’s tone grew less fierce. “When was last time you let someone take care of
you?”

  “Years,” Arthur answered without thinking. “When my parents were alive.” He swallowed after it came out and glanced up again, unsurprised to see the shining light in Bertie’s eyes but captivated by it anyway. He was in no condition to fend off his feelings for his tenderhearted employer. He should never have come in today.

  The steady, soft-eyed stare held him still, made him try to control the faint tremors running through him as if he wasn’t warm enough even in this house with a blanket over him. He knew what would make him warmer and right as he pictured Bertie curling up with him, climbing over him, pushing closer, he saw Bertie’s lips fall open and that pink tongue dart out to taste the air.

  Arthur wondered if Bertie was having the same thought, but he must not have because he suddenly took a deep breath and seemed to push himself away and toward the kitchen.

  “Pull your blanket closer, Arthur, for my sake if not yours,” he shouted from behind the swinging doors, and only once they stopped swinging did Arthur let his shoulders sag.

  Okay, he was more exhausted than he’d thought, and sicker too, too sick to deal with the concern in Bertie’s voice. He should go home, where he wouldn’t embarrass himself. If only he could make himself move.

  He pulled the blanket closer, up to his chin, and sighed at how pathetic he must look, though Bertie said nothing one way or the other as he hurried out of the kitchen and went up the stairs.

  Arthur stared at the fire, at the fire he didn’t remember Bertie starting with any kind of match or lighter, and thought about heat and smoke until his eyes closed. The kettle whistling from the kitchen started him awake, and he reached for his computer without thinking and waited for it start up before he pulled up the file he’d labeled with numbers so Bertie wouldn’t accidentally find it. Then he stared at it.

  Facts About Dragons

  1. They have existed since before the first written human records in almost every human culture.

  2. They “came out” around the turn of the last century when the other magical Beings started to emerge from hiding both during and after the First World War, though many did not come into public view until the mass exodus of Beings from the countries torn by war and strife during the Second World War. This includes Russia, China, Northern Africa, the islands of the Pacific, and most of Europe.

  3. Like fairies they are said to possess powerful magic.

  The numbers after three had been added recently.

  4. They like to flirt. (Possibly unique to Dr. Jones.)

  5. They often give their children powerful names.

  6. They can, and will, intermingle with humans, up to and including sex, marriage, and children.

  He skimmed over his notes about possible new list entries at the bottom and quickly typed in three, his fingers flying over the keyboard so Bertie wouldn’t catch him.

  7. They often have a “type” when it comes to human lovers (“bold of purpose, fair of face, pure of heart”… pure of body as well?—see: legends of maidens sent as sacrifice)

  8. Like werewolves and other weres, they can shift form at will.

  9. Might breathe fire.

  He closed the file, his face still flushed from thinking of how Bertie had described him the other day.

  Bertie came back downstairs only to go into the kitchen. He came back out minutes later with a cup of tea and a saucer with a spoon on it. He set that on the table and then pulled a bottle of bright orange syrup out of his sweatshirt pocket and shoved it at Arthur.

  Arthur took it to squint at the label but accepted the spoon when it was also shoved at him. The taste was horrible, but cold and flu medicines always tasted like that. He twisted up to put them both back on the table and to get some tea to take the taste out of his mouth, and Bertie made a noise.

  “Your T-shirt is damp too, Arthur. I can….” For a moment it was as if Bertie couldn’t finish his own thought. “I can get you something to wear if you take it off. If you like.”

  Arthur’s eyes flew up. Either dragons couldn’t be embarrassed or they couldn’t blush, not that Arthur had seen, but whichever it was, Bertie looked warm and uncomfortable for a moment, as if he wished he could blush.

  “Not that I will object if you choose to remain shirtless.” Bertie looked back at him, and Arthur looked down at the blanket covering up the wet cotton clinging to his pale, skinny chest. He licked his mouth and wrinkled his nose at the lingering medicinal taste.

  “You can get sick?” He changed the subject clumsily but didn’t care. “With human diseases, I mean. I thought dragons were like fairies….”

  “Fairies probably could get sick if they didn’t regenerate so fast. Someday a disease is going to catch up with their overactive immune systems and it won’t be pretty.” Bertie took a moment to look pensive, and Arthur thought about wriggling free of his T-shirt and what Bertie’s possible reaction would be. He didn’t seem the type to worship from afar like the courtly love poems he liked to tease Arthur about, but then again, Arthur wasn’t the type that was worshipped.

  “You’re saying fairies aren’t really disease proof.”

  “I’m saying they are as resistant as one could ever hope to be. Like with demons, viruses and bacteria simply don’t stand a chance against their unique physiology, which sees and responds to changes faster than viruses can evolve. Dragons, like most Beings who can shift, are also capable of rapid physical changes and response, but most of us spend our time as dragons, and dragons can catch one or two things from humans or other animals, though influenza is the only one I’d consider serious. The flu can pass to almost anything, Arthur. It’s quite a nasty bug.”

  Arthur opened and closed his mouth. “I just have a cold.”

  “You’re still shivering, pet,” he was told as a rebuttal. Arthur shook; there was little else he could do. “And yet you insist upon working.” Bertie gestured down at the laptop. “What do you plan on doing?” His tone was a mix of irritation and something warmer.

  Arthur stared at the computer screen, which seemed to be getting less clear. “I could take notes. Or edit.”

  “Edit?” Disbelief was all over Bertie’s face, but he huffed a second later. “Very well.” He slid gracefully around the couch and out of sight, and when Arthur didn’t hear the swinging doors, he assumed he’d gone into his study. He reached under the blanket and yanked his T-shirt up and off.

  He draped it over the arm of the couch and tried not to make any noises about the feel of the velvet on his bare, chilled skin or to think about what Bertie’s clothes might feel or smell like, or how warm they would be if he asked for them. He had a feeling Bertie might literally give him the shirt off his back.

  “Here you are, you mulish dear, two chapters for you to—” Bertie stopped, as Arthur had kind of thought he might, by the end of the couch to stare at Arthur’s T-shirt. Something inside of Bertie rumbled like thunder. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was a laugh, but somehow he didn’t think so, not when Bertie inhaled before finally swinging his gaze over to Arthur. “You dreadful tease,” he announced slowly and Arthur realized, right as the medication hit his empty stomach and his vision started to swim, that Bertie’s hand was clenched tight on a sheaf of papers. He shoved them at Arthur.

  “Take these, Arthur, and give me your thoughts. I’m going to the kitchen for a minute. To get myself some bloody tea,” he added under his breath as he pushed the swinging doors out of his way.

  Arthur scanned through the pages of typed words, his heart beating a little faster and out of rhythm, though that could have been due to the medication. He couldn’t tell what part of the book they were supposed to be in; possibly neither could Bertie. They looked like background, a history of Wales and a discussion of dragon artifacts from the same era.

  “The dragons there were writing regularly long before the people of this area were,” Arthur commented out loud, not really asking, and Bertie grunted as he came back into the room. He had a tray and put it on the table, then topped off Arthur�
��s tea and insisted Arthur drink it down before he took the cup back.

  “Yes. It’s unfortunate that they were fond of flowery imagery. It makes it difficult to follow their exact meanings at times. And of course, etching symbols onto metal doesn’t really give them a chance to tell a complete story. Are your jeans wet as well?”

  “I… yes.” Arthur kicked off his shoes, shifting as he shivered and sweated at the same time. He blamed the tea. Bertie took the laptop from him and closed it before setting that aside too. Arthur thought about wriggling out of his jeans and then wondered if that was the cold medicine or his own fantasies taking over.

  “Arthur, there is no way you are leaving this house any time in the near future,” Bertie rasped, just to make Arthur want to moan. He gave up and leaned back and to the side, falling against the cushion and hiding his face in his T-shirt. His shoulders and part of his back were visible but he didn’t care.

  “You don’t have to sound so pleased about it,” he mumbled but turned onto his side when the papers still in his hand crinkled.

  “How little you know of dragons, Arthur.” Bertie’s response was oddly slow. Arthur dared a glance up, but Bertie turned at the same time to go over and use a poker to stab the logs in the fireplace. “You may put your feet up too, if lying down to read is easier for you. I shall read with you.” He slid around the many stacks of books and picked one, at random as far as Arthur could tell.

  It hardly counted as working. Arthur scowled, but he was so tired that his bones seemed to ache, and there was a headache behind his eyes and it was definitely getting worse. He sighed.

  “Okay,” he agreed, settling in to try to read sideways, only to jump when Bertie sat down at the other end of the couch, hotter than hot even through the blanket over Arthur’s cold feet. “You’ll get sick too!” Arthur objected, though it wasn’t what he meant to say at all. The area around his knee was patted as if Arthur was slow in the head.