The winter chill had finally caught up with him.

When he stirred, Mrs Baker tended to him. She tucked him in tightly and lit the coal fire. Her fingers smoothed back his hair, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth to cool his skin. She hummed softly at Samuel's mumbles, soothing him and the lingering chill in the room. Each move she made was precise, her expression calm. Edward was certain she would have made a fine nurse had life allowed it. Her patience, her gentle nature — she possessed the hands of a healer.

Her warmth comforted Edward — and reminded him of how little he could do. He knelt by the sofa, pulling anxiously at the scarf in his hands. The fire crackled, casting a warm glow across the room, lighting his ginger curls — small sparks of colour in a muted space. Edward edged closer. Seeing Samuel look so weak made him wish desperately that he could do something, anything.

"What happened?" Edward asked quietly, afraid a louder voice would betray the knot forming in his stomach.

Harold leaned against the doorframe, chewing at his thumb as his gaze moved between Edward and Mrs Baker. "No idea, mate. We were going down for evening supper when he started complaining." Harold shook his head. "Hot, cold, dizzy — near missed his footing on the stairs."

It was impossible not to recall how Samuel pushed the limits of his good health. Running across a frozen pitch in thin shorts, braving treacherous wind and rain, grinning through sleet. Edward winced at the nights Samuel insisted he was "perfectly warm" while half drunk and coatless. This cold, it was predictable and unsurprising. 

Yet Edward couldn't calm the worry gnawing inside.

"Should he see a doctor? He wouldn't let me take him," Harold said, voice lower than usual. His concern was blatantly clear. It was a reality for the higher class to summon a doctor at the first sight of illness. For Edward, his mother's home remedies had always been the only option.

"Nonsense. Plenty of rest and fluids — he'll be right as rain." Edward's mother said. Her assurance eased the aching in his chest, if only slightly. The comforting smell of tomato soup drifted into the room as she pushed open the living room door. Samuel's nose twitched. Harold's stomach rumbled. "I'll fetch you some dinner before you head back."

Harold began to protest, but Edward cut in. "He'll be all right," he soothed. His tone was a comfort to himself more than anyone. "Best get home before it turns any colder."

When the door shut behind Harold, Edward moved closer to the sofa. His hand brushed Samuel's as he adjusted the blanket. The familiar citrus scent washed over him — warm, sweet and unmistakably Samuel. It welcomed him, pulling him in until he found himself leaning close. Without thinking, he tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind Samuel's ear. His skin burned under Edward's fingertips.

Samuel's lips parted, but no sound came. His chest rose and fell heavily. Edward watched the rhythm and found his own breath matching. Something tugged at him — a longing he was struggling to understand, but trying to.

...

Sleep overtook him without warning.

A gentle voice woke him, with soft whispers that tickled his ears.

"Ed... Edward..."

He blinked, disoriented. The room had turned dark. Lamps blown out and a dimming fire. Moonlight shone onto Samuel, his eyes sparkling under the silver glow.

Edward had never seen anyone look so—

"Christ—Sorry," he blurted, wiping the sleep from his face as heat crept up his neck. He realised Samuel's arm lay where his head had once rested. Mortifying. "Didn't mean to drop off."

"Don't be," Samuel whispered, voice weak but warm, London vowels soft and smooth. "You looked quite peaceful."

It unsettled him how easily he'd drifted off. Edward wasn't pushed to the point of exhaustion, yet he slept effortlessly. No tossing, no restless thoughts. Just quiet.

"You want—" His voice cracked. "Soup?"

Samuel shook his head, parting his lips to speak — only to erupt into a harsh cough. Edward jumped to his feet, stumbling to the kitchen. He kicked his father's boots, smacked his shin against a chair, swore under his breath.

Laughter echoed behind him between chest-deep coughs. Samuel glowed when Edward returned with his face flustered and copper hair a mess.

Samuel placed a hand over Edward's trembling one, rubbing slow circles over his knuckles. "You're very attentive."

"Hard not to be with two older brothers," Edward said, his voice low. 

George had always caught chills in the cooler months. Always refusing scarves because they were "itchy as sin" before inevitably burning with a fever. He'd complain endlessly, asking for soup and blankets. Precious and human memories untouched by war that he couldn't bring himself to share. Remembering ordinary moments — not the war, not the loss.

Just George. His brother.

A sound of discomfort snapped him back. Samuel shifted, grimacing, and Edward lifted a hand to his forehead — he was scorching. Before he could pull away for a cloth, Samuel leaned into the touch. His eyes struggled to stay open.

"That's... really nice," he murmured.

And Edward stayed still, not daring to move. His hand against warm skin, heart pounding, breath caught between worry and something dangerous. Their closeness filled the air with warmth despite the winter pressing against the window.

"Samuel?" 

A hummed response.

"Wouldn't you prefer to see a doctor? Why come here?"

Samuel exhaled slowly. "I like it here. I haven't felt this comfortable in ages." His gaze flicked to Edward's. "I apologise for burdening your family, especially your mother."

The words startled Edward like a slap. "You're not a burden! Lord, no." His voice rose, then softened into a whisper. "Your being here — it meant something to her. She was glad you came."

A quiet hung between them.

"And so was I," he said, almost breathless. "You're always welcome."

...

Edward combed his fingers gently through blonde locks, letting the hair fall through his fingers. He rubbed small circles onto Samuel's forehead. The motion soothed his breathing, easing the tension in his shoulders.

"Samuel," he murmured. "Why aren't you visiting home this Christmas?"

The question felt dangerous. A vulnerable question, breaking through unopened doors. A pause stretched between them. But Samuel didn't flinch, shuffling himself closer.

"There's no particular... reason," he said, looking into Edward's eyes. "It's far."

Edward waited.

"Home hasn't been what it was. Winter was tough, but that summer—" Samuel paused, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he spoke. "It was unbearable." He closed his eyes, exhaustion weighing him down as he exhaled. His hot breath warmed Edward's hand. "Everything is a little... uncomfortable."

Edward's hand stilled. There wasn't much said about Samuel's home life. It was never a possibility that he considered, something being wrong at home.

"I think my mother... found something. Something she wasn't supposed to see." 

Samuel swallowed hard and his voice dropped to a fragile murmur. Heavy breaths followed. His eyes remained closed even as Edward's hand moved towards his ears.

"I'm surprised she hasn't sent me away. Tried to put me right." 

The shakiness of his voice worried Edward. He felt a pain in his stomach and reached for Samuel's hand. He squeezed it tightly — grounding him, listening to him, stroking the cold tips of his fingers. He wanted for nothing more than those eyes to open. To know what he was thinking. 

Because no part of Samuel Carrington needed fixing.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

Edward peered over at the closed door — they were safe and alone. He nodded his head, listening to his tired voice. A hesitation hung thick in the room before Samuel spoke.

"There was... a boy. My mother's friend's son." Edward's heart lurched. Possible scenarios surged through his head. "We kissed. A few times."

Samuel turned away, curling into a ball, bracing himself for Edward's judgement.

"I think she knows that I... really liked him."

"A boy you liked?" Edward murmured softly. Words failed him.

Samuel hummed in confirmation, barely audible. Sleep pulled at him before Edward could ask more. 

Leaving Edward with immature and bitter thoughts. He could only mutter a shy whisper:

"Did you ever give him an orange rose?"