A Boy and His Dragon (15 page)

6. They can, and wil , 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 wel ?—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.

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“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.” A Boy and His Dragon

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“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.

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“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 A Boy and His Dragon

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all. The area around his knee was patted as if Arthur was slow in the head.

“Someone of my lineage?” Bertie scoffed while staring intently at his book. “Don’t be ridiculous. And I can read that scowl, Arthur. You are thinking that those are famous last words.”

“I was, actually.” Arthur’s face felt weird, as if he was smiling and not scowling. He tried to fix that and couldn’t seem to. His feet were so very warm.

“There are some gestures, Arthur, that will never be considered over the top, and this is one of them.” Bertie was still studying his book, idly flipping pages without reading anything.

Those words sounded familiar. Arthur tried to focus through the haze of heat and achy bones and his swimming thoughts, but he couldn’t quite place them.

“You drugged me,” he accused sleepily, and Bertie gave a small laugh.

“That’s hardly a secret.” He patted Arthur again, creating new kinds of shivers. “Just read, pet. Read and rest.” He seemed to notice Arthur’s tremors. “Are you cold?”

“With you on me? No.” It was Arthur’s turn to laugh. Bertie shot him a startled glance. “I read that Neruda.” Arthur’s tongue couldn’t quite keep up with him. “I think you used the wrong line for dragons. You should have said….” He concentrated. “
As if you
were on fire from within/the moon lives in the lining of your skin
.” He met eyes like melting volcanic rock and thought he might burst into flames. “I would have said that. It… it made me think of you.” Bertie’s lips were parted as he caught his breath, but he seemed to have no interest in any scents in the air. He was staring at Arthur and kept staring until Arthur’s stomach flipped and his heart pounded in that irregular, drugged rhythm. Arthur dropped his head back down to the arm of the couch.

“Chilean love poems seem an odd choice for someone interested in courtly love,” Bertie commented after a long pause, so long that Arthur had tried to read again and gave up when his eyelids could not seem to stay open.

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“I thought so too,” Arthur whispered back, not sure how much time had passed since either of them had spoken, and exhaled when Bertie let him kick out and bury his feet deeper underneath him.

Then he shut his eyes and kept them closed.

He was in a low mound of pillows, all of warm and soft velvet, and a hot voice was bidding him to wake up. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake, or even where he really was, until he opened his eyes and saw Bertie leaning over him and realized he was still lying on the couch and that he must have fallen asleep.

He’d pushed the blanket off at some point, too, because Bertie dropped it back over him and pushed him gently down when he tried to sit up.

“I don’t think you’ll be riding anywhere today, Arthur, much less across town in the rain.” He put Arthur’s cell phone on the cushion next to his face and it took Arthur much too long to realize that it was so he could call his sister or anyone else he needed to in order to let them know where he was. He wished dizzily that he could remember Bertie’s hand in his pants, as it must have been to get his phone. Then he tried to sit up again but stopped, not at a push but at Bertie’s low, coaxing voice.

“Won’t you stay just a little longer?” he asked, rough and hungry, and Arthur shivered into the blanket and didn’t move.

IT WAS Bertie’s own fault that he got sick too. Two days after Arthur finally went home—driven home in the luxury car that, of course, Bertie owned—he came back into work drained from the bike ride over but feeling better, only to find Bertie on the couch in his study, snuffling into three blankets.

He must have needed them because the house was colder than it usually was. No fire was going, and Bertie must have forgotten to turn the heat up, if the heat could even be turned up. Arthur was starting to think the heat was coming directly from Bertie, not that he’d asked yet.

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“I told you not to come in until you were well,” Bertie immediately barked at him and used the remote to turn off the TV as if Arthur hadn’t already seen him entranced by some kind of cheesy procedural show about the FBI.

Arthur’s nose was red and his throat was still scratchy, but the lack of smoke scent around Bertie was a worry, not a relief, so he didn’t say anything about his choice in shows.

“I’m not arguing with you,” Arthur told him. He didn’t feel up to arguing anyway. “Do you want me to get you some tea?”

“You pearl,” Bertie said, which Arthur took to mean
yes,
please
and nodded before heading slowly to the kitchen. He looked through the fridge while the water was boiling, but Bertie hadn’t had any more groceries delivered recently. So he sighed and looked through take-out menus until he found a place that made soup. He placed an order for later and then dug around until he found the tray Bertie had used for him and put the tea and teacups together in a way he thought looked right.

He’d never served tea before, but right or wrong, no explanation or apology was necessary. Bertie’s eyes just turned to him with a grateful sort of hope, and he exhaled noisily over his tea as he drank, not seeming to notice its scalding temperature. Arthur thought about his notes on dragons again, but didn’t feel like going for his laptop just yet. He studied Bertie instead.

He wouldn’t have said Bertie was sick, not just from looking at him, though the gleaming beneath his skin seemed more obvious, as if his skin was getting lighter, and his eyes didn’t exactly focus on Arthur the way they usually did.

“I told you not to come in until you were completely well.” Focused or not, Bertie apparently could see that Arthur was still weak.

“Lucky for you I did.” Arthur tossed his head. “I ordered you some soup for later.”

“Oh, Arthur.” Bertie beamed at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t imagine anything better than Arthur spending more of his money without waiting for permission first, and then abruptly turned R. Cooper

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an alarming shade of white, his black hair and nails standing out starkly. “Soup?” His tone said he might throw up.

Arthur hurried forward, but Bertie dropped back to the couch without vomiting, leaving his cup and saucer on the floor.

“Is it worse for dragons?” Arthur hadn’t thought of that, but an immune system not used to getting hit by every malevolent virus out there might not react well to the ones that finally got past its defenses.

He reached out carefully, so carefully, to run his fingertips over Bertie’s forehead. Fine, fine hair tickled his fingertips, feeling almost like feathers, as Arthur had imagined. But he stopped and pulled his hand back when Bertie grinned.