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Camilla’s fingers tapped against the back cover of Wuthering Heights, and she tried to ignore Charles’s pinpoint stare. “It’s a Greek class, Milly, why’re you reading Bronte?” He had asked when he saw her pull it from her bag, and Camilla had nearly rolled her eyes at him. Camilla quickly scanned over each page, but every so often she would glance at the clock. Charles had demanded that they be early for their first day of class, and it seemed like he wanted to make a good impression on not only their professor but the other students. Camilla tried to ignore the shake of the table as he bounced his leg and the way he kept looking anxiously at the beaten cover of her book. He looked at it like it was something lowbrow or something that would sully their good name.
Camilla didn’t care. The books they saw her reading didn’t matter to her, and her beloved Bronte was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, so Camilla continued to leaf through the familiar pages while Charles continued to lose his mind. Camilla looked up when the door creaked open, and she expected to see their professor but was instead met with a round, cheery face half obscured by a mop of blond hair. It was a boy who could only have been a few years older than her, and behind him was his much taller, darker companion. The other student practically bounded into the room but hesitated when he saw Camilla and Charles. “This is Julian Morrow’s room, right?” He said, eyeing Camilla and her book.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Camilla asked, blinking up at the boy as she placed her book on her knee and smoothed the bookmark. The boy beamed at her again and extended his hand to her to shake.
“Alright then, very good! Edmund Corcoran’s the name, but you can call me Bunny! What’re yours?” He asked as Camilla lightly shook his hand, but he looked at Charles as he said it. Camilla felt irritation grow hot in the pit of her stomach, but she didn’t say anything as Charles answered. Instead, she looked to the boy who stood idly in the doorway, a pristine copy of the Iliad tucked under one arm.
“And who’re you?” Charles asked the tall stranger, who seemed a bit startled by Charles’s loud, easily excited tone of voice. He blinked at Charles once, then twice, before responding in a low, soft-spoken voice.
“Henry Winter.”
“He’s my roommate!” Bunny piped up loudly from where he’d taken a seat beside Charles, and Henry’s shoulders loosened, and he seemed to grow more accustomed to the noise as Bunny dropped his heavy bag onto the floor. Henry stalked into the room, and Camilla watched his eyes dart over the table. There were only two seats left, save for the one at the head of the table that Camilla assumed was for their professor, and he slowly chose the seat beside Camilla herself.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Camilla said politely, her voice soft as she extended a hand to him to shake. He looked at it for a moment, before gently, but firmly, shaking it. His skin was dry against hers, and Camilla realized he smelled faintly of cigarettes. He took his seat beside her, and despite his large size, he was quite graceful and precise. She wondered if he would say anything as he dropped her hand, but instead, his gaze was drawn to the well-loved cover of her book.
His eyes scanned it for a moment, reading the cover before he glanced back up at Camilla over the top of his round glasses. For the first time, but not the last, Camilla realized that he had quite lovely eyes. They were, perhaps, one of the truest shades of blue she had ever seen, and they had an intelligent quality to them that she had never seen before.
“Do you like Bronte?” He asked, his voice quiet and chilled, but not unkind. Merely inquisitive, Camilla could feel Charles watching with bated breath.
“I love Bronte.”
-
Camilla sat neatly in the hospital chair, with her feet tucked under it, and one leg folded neatly over the other. She didn’t move, except to occasionally smooth an invisible crease in the front of her sweater and to occasionally smoke a cigarette from the packet of Lucky Strikes that had made a home in the breast pocket of her coat. She had not glanced at the clock, nor had she picked up the book that Francis had brought with him.
Francis hadn’t touched it either, but, unlike Camilla, with her cold expression and forward-locked gaze, Francis had been pacing. He bounced his leg when he sat, tapped his fingers, and occasionally had to breathe into a paper bag. He had not stopped moving in all the hours they had been there, and Camilla was certain it had been hours, and it was beginning to wear on Camilla. “Could you stop that?” She finally said, her voice impassive and chilled.
Francis turned to look at her, eyes wide and almost wild behind his glasses, and his hair tangled from the many hands that had run through it. “Don’t you care?” Francis asked, and his words cut through the layers of deadly calm Camilla had buried herself under. She turned to look at him, and something splintered in her stare.
“Of course I care. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here.” Camilla’s words were clipped and terse, and she felt something rise up in her chest and dig into the back of her throat. She was suddenly struck with the urge to shriek at Francis, the doctors, and at all of them. Even Henry–she wanted to storm into that damn operating room and shake him back to life. It was only then that Camilla looked at the clock if only so she could stop looking at Francis.
They had been in that hospital for twelve hours. That was–that was good, wasn’t it? Usually, people died instantly, didn’t they? Maybe something had gone terribly right, and maybe Henry would live. For a brief, blinding moment, Camilla felt something akin to hope flutter weakly in her chest, a butterfly escaping its chrysalis only to be trapped by her ribs. She looked back at Francis, and he gave her a weak, watery smile back.
“Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. I know you care, Camilla, I’m sorry,” he prattled, his cold hand reaching out to wrap around hers, and Camilla didn’t know if he was trying to reassure her, or reassure himself. “That was an awful thing for me to say, wasn’t it?”
“It’s alright,” Camilla told him, and she detested how small her voice sounded, how fragile. Francis nodded at her and gently patted the back of her hand again before pulling away, and Camilla didn’t realize how much she’d needed his touch before it was gone. Francis was her best friend, and god, she hadn’t realized how badly she’d missed him until then. Wordlessly, Camilla reached out, and wrapped her own slender fingers around his, before going back to staring dead ahead.
They sat like that, in silence, for another forty minutes until a too-tall doctor in a white coat came out to speak to them. Camilla’s eyes latched onto his immediately, and she gently nudged a half-asleep Francis with her foot until he blinked himself awake. They both stared at the doctor with rapt, terrible gazes until he spoke. “Richard Papen is stable and is no longer being operated on. It was close, but we expect he’ll make a full recovery. Your friend is very lucky.” A wane smile spread across Francis’s face, and hope beat its fragile wings even faster in Camilla’s chest. She could feel it fighting against its confines, ready for freedom. “However, I’m very sorry to tell you that Henry Winter died three minutes ago on the table. I'm sorry for your loss, but there was nothing we could do.”
The butterfly in Camilla’s chest stopped flying, and for a dreadful moment, everything else stopped too. A furrow appeared between Camilla’s brows in the place where not even a day ago and the living, breathing boy had placed a kiss. Camilla’s jaw clenched, and Francis’s face fell. “Thank you,” she said curtly, and then immediately stood up. Francis moved to follow her, but he wasn’t fast enough to keep up with her as she walked out of the hospital and straight into his car. The top had been put up ages ago, and Camilla slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.
She needed a minute. She just needed a minute, but as she heard the door to the driver's side–Francis, she assumed, though she did turn to look–open and shut, she couldn’t keep it in any longer. She couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t even try, and when Francis put an arm around her shoulder, Camilla began to wail. Camilla shrieked and screamed, and cried, and all Francis could do was hold onto her so she wouldn’t float away.