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Camilla laughed as she stepped into the lake, her hair blown back in the cool autumn breeze that stuck to her skin. The water was cool and clear as it washed over her small, bare feet, and she glanced around to look at Richard, who was hemming and hawing on the shore. “Come on!” She called joyfully with a wave of her hand, and Richard gave her a small smile, before stepping in with her, his own shoes and socks discarded. The lake rock was cool under Camilla’s toes, but the longer she stood there, the smoothness of them became more apparent and almost uncomfortable, so she quickly began to walk, Richard at her side.
Camilla smiled at him, before waving out to Henry and Francis on the water, and then she turned back to Richard. Camilla liked Richard quite a bit, but, now that they were alone together, she was searching for meaningful things to say. She couldn’t, under any circumstances, mention the bacchanal, and the day was too pleasant to talk about class. But they were far too close for simply small talk, so Camilla started rambling on about the dog chewing up the landlord's carpet when she felt a prick of something in her foot. It didn't matter, and Camilla kept walking without so much as looking down.
“And so Charles says–oh, Richard what is it?” She asked as she turned to him, noticing the draw of his brows and the troubled expression on his face. Camilla followed his gaze down into the water by her feet. Thick red tendrils floated up through the water and swirled around Camilla, and more seeped out from beneath her feet. Camilla felt the pain then, and it was the kind of pain that demanded to be acknowledged and felt. Her shoulders shook, and her nose wrinkled, and she looked at Richard with a pained expression on her face.
“Jesus, what’d you do?” He asked, and Camilla flinched and reached towards him, trying not to fall. She felt awfully unsteady now, and she swallowed down the urge to cry. She didn’t want to speak, because she was terrified that if she did, she’d begin to cry, and god she didn’t want to cry.
“I don’t know, but I think I stepped on something sharp.” Her words were clipped and rigid, and she felt herself wobble and lift up her foot when Richard screamed for Francis and Henry. Camilla twisted around to see what had happened, but all she caught a glance of was a flash of green and crimson. Camilla drew further into herself at the sight, and distantly heard Francis, and hopefully Henry, splashing through the water and shouting. Camilla swallowed hard and turned to look at them, very quickly coming back to herself.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” She lied, though her voice was tight and her fingers dug sharply into Richard's shoulders. She could feel her own blood dripping between her toes, and she heard it plopping down into the lake water.
“Put your arm around my neck,” said Henry, and out of reflex, Camilla did what she was told, and he quickly scooped her up and held her close. He was warm against her, though his heart beat so loudly in her ears that she threw her head back. The muscles in her body ached and she let herself go limp in his arms, but she tensed again when she heard her own blood dripping onto him.
“Henry, put me down, I’m bleeding all over you,” Camilla demanded, and she blinked up at him with a scrunched nose when he didn’t comply. Usually, Henry listened to Camilla more than he listened to almost anyone else, save Julian. This, of course, baffled Bunny and often irritated Charles almost as much as it irritated Camilla when Henry didn’t listen to her. Instead of setting her down, he moved his hand to better support her head, and he held her as if she was something delicate and precious. Her arm was still thrown over his shoulders, and Camilla was still pressed against his chest, her cheek resting against his lapel. It wasn’t a startlingly private moment, but it still had an air of intimacy that Camilla didn’t want Charles to see. “Aren’t I too heavy for you?”
“Light as a feather,” Henry breathed out, an endearing smile spreading across his features, and Camilla had to suppress the urge to rise up and kiss him. She didn’t, of course, not when she could hear Charles yelling something at Francis just over the hill. Camilla settled against Henry's chest, his heartbeat loud in her ear as he carried her up the hill. The steadiness of his gait and the surety of his step made Camilla feel an odd sense of security despite the pain that lashed up her leg. She knew Henry would never let her fall, and he still held her gently when he set her on the grass when they reached the top of the hill.
Francis immediately sat down beside Camilla, his hand reaching out to hold her own trembling one, and he’d gone quite pale at the sight of her blood straining the downy grass. Charles breathed in and out heavily. “Camilla, are you dead?” He asked, his voice almost shrill with panic as he reached out to shake her, and Camilla flinched when she was jostled, and she saw Henry move closer to her almost protectively.
“Does it look like I’m dead, Charles?” She asked before giving Henry an almost pointed look. It seemed to soothe him if the slight loss of tension in his shoulders was any indication.
“Someone is going to have to take the glass out of her foot,” Francis mentioned as he removed his hand from hers and aggressively pulled out a roll of bandages from his first aid kit. Charles scooted forward and placed her foot in his hand, and when Camilla felt the movement, she winced, not only from the pain but from the feeling of the alien piece of glass moving in her foot. Charles, thankfully, hadn’t noticed, but Henry had. The boy moved imperceptibly closer to Camilla, and she felt him tense beside her.
“Be careful,” Camilla hissed, the words slithering past her lips as Charles grabbed the shard of glass. She felt it move, and she felt it cut deeper into the tender flesh of her arch, and she let out a fragile grasp. She was afraid she’d cry, fuck, she didn’t want to cry. Her resolve would not crumble, she refused to let it, but it took all her effort to not cry out when Charles jerked back as if she’d burned him. She turned her harsh gaze to him, her eyes wide and anxious–why had he stopped? He had to pull it out, and she knew he hadn’t, she could still feel it in her foot. “Well, go on.”
“I can’t do it. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” Charles said, his voice heavy and anxious as he looked at her with big, almost tearful eyes. Camilla was sure he was about to be sick all over her, Francis, and even poor Richard, who was hanging back with an almost fearful look on his face, as if he’d stuck the glass in her foot himself. The entire sight filled Camilla with the sort of irritation that threatened to drown her–why were they all being so foolish, so useless? Francis had gotten the first aid kit, and Henry had carried her here, why couldn’t they do what they had to?
“It hurts anyway.” She replied tersely, a bit of her irritation bleeding into her tone, but Charles just shook his head and pat her hand again.
“Get out of the way.” Henry snapped at Charles, and Camilla saw both of them move quickly across the grass, and Henry took Charles’s place. Camilla felt his deft fingers trace gently over the arch of her foot as he carefully brought it onto his thigh, and then she felt him wrap his hand around the shard of glass. He lacked all of Charles’s nervousness, and quickly, but neatly, pulled the piece of glass out of her foot. Camilla felt its absence, and let out another little gasp when she saw it held up to the light. Henry’s cool blue gaze quickly locked onto hers, concern floating through it as he looked at her and spoke. “Consummatum est.”
Camilla watched Francis move to bandage her foot in a sort of pain-induced haze, and Henry took back his original place, though her head rested on his lap this time, and she supposed it was so she could see what Francis was doing. It hurt more now that it was out, it seemed, though Camilla still did not cry, or even flinch as Francis cleaned and wrapped her foot. “Good girl. Look at you, you didn’t even cry.”
“It didn’t hurt that much,” Camilla replied and cast her eyes to the sky because, oddly enough, watching the lazy puffball clouds seemed to soothe her. She liked watching them, up there, and it helped her focus on something other than the pain.
“Like hell it didn’t, you were really brave,” Francis responded, giving the top of her foot a good-natured pat when he was done bandaging it, and Camilla felt Henry lift her head up from the bottom, get up, and then gently set it down on the grass.
“She was brave.” He agreed, and Camilla thought that maybe, if she could bottle his words and his gentleness, she could live on just that.
-
Camilla could feel the blood dripping down the side of her head from where Charles had pulled her hair out at the root. The aforementioned curl lay on the floor near Camilla herself, and it gleamed faintly in the low light of the room. Charles had left a few moments ago, with a slam of the door louder than the sound of Camilla hitting the floor, and for those few moments, Camilla could only lay there, her eyes looking dully out into the living room, unshed tears lining the edges of her eyes.
Charles had done this. Charles has done this. She kept repeating those words to herself as she felt blood curl down the side of her face, and she kept repeating them until she felt as though she was strong enough to sit up, her back against the wall, the wood grain digging into the small of her back. Charles had done this–but what could she do? Bunny was dead, and Francis wouldn’t defend her from Charles. Francis could defend her from anyone but Charles, and Richard was practically useless.
That left Henry. God, she hadn’t wanted to call Henry. She knew he would help her but Charles..Charles hated Henry more than he hated anyone else. If Charles came back and thought Camilla had left with Henry, or that Henry had been there, Camilla had no idea what he’d do. But, she knew that Henry would be able to deal with it better than she would. He was bigger than Charles and smarter, and he was the only one who would drop anything to help her. And, if Camilla was being completely honest with herself, she wanted him there. She needed him there, she needed Henry more than anything or anyone.
So Camilla hobbled to the phone, immediately picked it up, and almost frantically dialed his number. She let it ring for two, awful moments before she put it back up, and dialed again. Her heart beat loudly in her chest, almost louder than the telephone, and for a brief, horrible moment, she was afraid he wouldn’t pick up. “Camilla?” He picked up after three rings.
Camilla slid down the wall, clutching the phone like a lifeline, and let out a brief, shuddering breath. “Henry?” She asked, as if she didn’t immediately recognize his voice, as if she could ever forget what he sounded like, as if any other night she didn’t revel in the way he said her name.
“Camilla? What is it?”
“Charles he–I–I need you to come get me, please. I wouldn’t ask so late at night if it wasn’t..if it wasn’t important.” It was then that Camilla began to cry in earnest, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and she felt her chin wobble. Camilla couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, but she also couldn’t remember the last time Charles had thrown her against the wall, and she was fairly certain she was concussed. Charles never hit her, not since they were children. Not even when he was so drunk he thought she was Francis, he’d never, ever hit her. If she’d been told that her brother would throw her to the ground and rip out her hair, she would’ve thought that whoever told her that was out of their mind.
Henry hangs up quickly, and Camilla doesn’t know how long she stays sitting pressed up against that wall, her hands curled around the telephone. She can’t see the clock, but the ticking of it hangs heavily in the back of her head and it reverberates through her skull. The blood on the side of her face turns tacky and dries, and even though she knows she should wipe it up, she doesn’t. She just stares at the door, her eyes dull and fluttering, and she waits.
Henry comes through it soon enough, ducking beneath the frame and looking around the dimly lit room with concerned eyes. Camilla does not get up to greet him, nor does she say anything, she just lets go of her iron-clad grip on the phone. The sound of it clacking against the wall seemed to draw Henry’s attention to Camilla on the floor, and she saw his eyes widen when he saw the golden, dimly shining lock of honey blonde hair layer by the floor, and then the blood that had long since dried to her cheek.
He moved to her, quick as an asp, and got to his knees in front of her. His deft fingers reached up to tilt her face so he could see what her brother had done. Camilla shuddered when he touched her, the feeling of skin on skin making her own crawl. She felt like there were ants crawling across her face and under her skin, and they pulsed morbidly as they scuttled through her bloodstream, their antennas scratching against her skin. “You came.” Camilla rasped, looking up at him through her lashes, her voice fragile, but oddly calm.
“You called,” Henry replied, his thumb brushed over the blood crusted to her cheek, his eyes alight with concern behind his glasses. Camilla gives him a weak, bleary smile at him in return as he smooths back her hair. “Can you walk?”
“Haven’t tried.” She answered earnestly, her voice soft and shaky, and then, wordlessly, Henry cupped one of his large hands behind Camilla’s head, his long fingers brushing against the base of her neck, while his other arm hooked beneath her knees. Slowly, carefully, Henry picked her up like one would a small, injured child. Camilla felt herself tremble, and he ran his fingers through her hair again. Camilla felt her head droop against his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat in her ear soothed her. She shut her eyes, and heard him pull open the door, and light swam behind her eyelids, forming swirling, cruel patterns. She scrunched her nose, and the feeling of her eyebrows drawing together made her head pound.
Everything felt too bright, even though her eyes were shut, and her skull felt far too small for her brain. She whimpered when she felt them going down the stairs, the up-and-down motion making her head pound. Henry seemed to notice this, if the slowing of his pace was any indication. Camilla was grateful for this, and she blearily thought to tell him so. Slowly, she felt his pace even out, and she felt soft, spring air brush against her flushed cheeks. It cooled her somewhat, and made the blood itch less.
They didn’t stay out in the night air for long though, and when Camilla blinked open her eyes, she was met with the sight of Henry’s car. Slowly, Camilla glanced up at Henry, and his usually stoic, set features seemed to clash with whatever emotion was flashing behind his eyes. He didn’t know how to open the door and hold her, Camilla realized quickly, and almost as soon as she realized it, she extended a pale, thin hand to pull the door open.
It opened with a click, and Henry shot her a concerned, grateful look before setting her gently in the passenger's side. There were a thousand things Camilla wanted to say, but she didn’t. She just watched him get into the driver's seat and turn the key. She buckled her own seatbelt, and when they started to drive, Camilla knew he drove differently. His turns were softer, and he was more hesitant to slam on the brakes, and when he did do anything abruptly, he looked to her, almost as if he was afraid he’d hurt her.
“Camilla?” He asked, his voice as calm as ever, but it had an edge to it now. It was almost sharper, and colder in a way she’d never heard before.
“Yes, Henry?” Camilla replied, her eyes fluttering closed as he drove, and her head lolling to rest on her shoulder. Her head felt heavy, as if it was full of cotton, or as if it was both too big for her neck but too small for her mind. She tried to keep her eyes open, but they felt leaden, and she let them close again.
“Stay awake.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft, but also quietly commanding, and Camilla cracked an eye open just to look at him, just so she could drink in the way he looked when he said it. She never heard him speak to anyone but her in that voice, and Camilla felt that, in its own way, that voice of his belonged to her. Camilla saw Henry’s eyes dart between her and the road, but they were wider than usual, and when he glanced at her and saw her open eye, he smiled at her, soft and lovely. Camilla smiled back.
“I’ll try.”
“We’re going to my apartment first, it’s too late to make other arrangements,” Henry said calmly, seemingly soothed by her open eye and makeshift smile, but Camilla felt dread building in her chest. It wouldn’t be the first place Charles would look, but it would be close. But he’d been drunk when he’d left home, and he’d be even drunker when he came back, so that might buy the both of them some time to make other arrangements. Camilla’s thoughts churned so roughly she thought she might be sick.
“Henry?” She asked, her voice small in the way that she loathed, and Henry turned to look at her, the shine from the lamppost reflecting off his glasses and, to Camilla’s irritation, his eyes impossible to read.
“What is it? Am I going too fast?”
“No, no, you’re alright. Just…” Camilla struggled to put her request into words for a minute, the exhaustion and stress made her thoughts run slower, and her tongue heavier, and Camilla felt like she was wading through waist-high mud just to get the words out. “Talk to me. About anything. About Latin, or Greek, or even in Greek, or about Rome, just talk.” He looked at her for a moment, before casting his eyes back to the road.
For the rest of the drive, Henry talked to her about Persephone and Hades in a soothing, but interested tone and all Camilla had to do was listen.
-
Camilla and Henry arrived at Henry’s apartment just as the sky turned its ripest shade of midnight blue, and when the clouds no longer covered the moon, and when Camilla pulled herself out of the car on legs as shaky as a newborn fawns, it made her hair glow white, like a messy halo around her head. She didn’t let Henry scoop her up again, and instead gently shook her head when he tried and told him she was alright in a hushed little voice. He seemed to fret for a moment, unsatisfied with her answer, before gently wrapping his large hand around her much smaller one and leading her to the door. Camilla was silently grateful for that hand because without it she was afraid she’d simply float away. She felt like a girl made of helium with feather bones, and without him, she might just drift off into the starry night.
But her hand was firmly in his, and she used it as a crutch, and when he opened the door she still held onto him. Henry looked back at her and ran his thumb across the smooth back of her hand before letting go. “Wait here,” he said in a soft, almost warm voice before he left her in the living room. Camilla immediately leaned against the back of his sofa, and she tried to ground herself by focusing on the feeling of fine fabric beneath her fingertips. Seconds stretched into minutes, and soon Henry was back, a large, shapeless sweater, a painkiller, and a wet washcloth in his hands.
She looked at the sweater and then back at him, and then back at the shirt she was wearing. Oh, she thought faintly as she studied the collar of her shirt, my shirt is ruined. Rust-colored, half-dried blood clung to the white lace color of her shirt, and it made her shirt cling to her skin and itch. She hadn’t even thought to think about it, but it struck a chord deep in Camilla’s chest. Charles had bought her this shirt, and he’d loved it, and then she ruined it. Camilla wobbled where she stood, and then she took two, teetering steps, and sat down on the arm of Henry’s sofa.
Henry quickly got down on his knees in front of her, between her long legs. When standing, Henry was nearly a foot taller than Camilla, and his couch wasn’t very high off the ground, so if he were to lean forward, he would be able to bump his head against her breastbone, or if he leaned upwards, the top of his head would brush against the hollow of her throat, or perhaps her chin.
“I can–”
“I want to take care of you.” He informed her before she could get her sentence out, and he said it as if it were any other thing, as if he was giving a weather broadcast, or commenting on a piece of literature, but the look in his eye didn’t line up with his tone. He looked at her as if he’d had a revelation and Camilla realized that he looked at her the same way he’d looked at Dionysus at the bacchanal. It made her heart dance in her chest and blood flush to her cheeks. “Will you let me?”
Camilla nodded, and, slowly, Henry reached up with the washcloth and began to carefully wipe the blood from her face. Camilla leaned into his touch, just slightly, and for the briefest of moments, she thought she saw a flush on Henry’s cheeks before she glanced away. It didn’t take long for him to get the blood off of her. The painkiller had already begun to set in, though, and Camilla felt significantly better by the time he handed her the sweater.
“Turn around,” she said, her voice light, teasing even, but Henry didn’t move from where he had settled between her legs, and Camilla knew he wouldn’t, so she simply lifted her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. They’d kissed before, even done more, but he’d never seen her so exposed. Not just shirtless, but all of the walls between them had fallen too, and Camilla almost expected him to shy away.
He didn’t, in fact, he did almost the opposite. He seemed to take her in, every inch of her, and he reveled in it. He looked up at her with the face of a man who was kneeling before a divine creature, and not just a girl. Slowly, he leaned forward to brush his lips against a bruise just below the band of her bra, and she tilted her head down to look at him, an almost adoring look on her face. Camilla almost regretted pulling his sweater over her head.
The sweater was a gray, shapeless thing that practically drowned Camilla. The sleeves hung past her wrists, and she thought that when she stood up the hem would hang low on her thigh. It was soft though, warm, and smelled like old books and chamomile. It smelled like Henry. It made her feel safe–all of him made her feel safe. The weight of him between her legs, the warmth of his sweater, and the way he looked at her made her feel safe, and that made her feel tired. The painkiller had begun to make her drowsy, and when Camilla ran her fingers through Henry’s dark hair, she yawned.
Henry leaned into her touch, almost like a needy cat, but went still when her fingers ghosted over his scar, but he didn’t pull away. Her fingers worked their way downwards, slowly tracing over his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw before her thumb rested on his lips. They were warm beneath her thumb, and, without thinking, Camilla moved her thumb, leaned down, and kissed him sweetly. When she pulled back, he blinked at her, owlish and almost shocked, but delighted in his own way, and without saying a word, he rose up and pressed a light kiss to her lips before settling down again.
“It’s late, you should get to bed,” Henry said softly, and Camilla nodded to him before they both stood up. Now that Henry was properly in the moonlight, Camilla could see the boyish flush that spread across his fine features before he turned around to lead her to his room. They moved in tandem, but in silence as Camilla slid out of her pants and beneath the covers. She had been right–the sweater had covered most of her thighs. When Henry moved to leave, Camilla was struck with a realization–this bed was far too big for one person.
“Wait,” Camilla said suddenly, her hand reaching out and wrapping around his wrist. Henry stopped short and turned to look at her. “Stay.”
Henry looked at her in a way Camilla couldn’t read, and for a moment she was afraid that she had overstepped and ruined the delicate, lovely thing between them. For a moment they just stared at each other in the dim lamplight. “Alright,” Henry finally said before he set his lantern down on the bedside table, and Camilla watched as Henry moved around getting ready for bed. It was an oddly domestic sight and it was filled with little quirks and rituals of its own, and it revealed little things about Henry that nobody, not even Camilla had seen before. Things like the scattering of moles across his back and shoulder blades, and a long scar across his lower back, or the way he seemed torn between which pair of pajama pants to wear for a moment as if it was something that required thought at all. Eventually, when he was ready, he took off his glasses and blew out the light.
For the moments she could see it clearly, Camilla oddly adored Henry’s face without his glasses. He looked softer, younger even, and Camilla didn't think that the others had ever seen him in such a way before. She doubted that they would ever love it like she did, or that they would drink in his mussed hair, his gentle eyes or the strong slope of his bare shoulders. She hadn’t gotten enough of it, so when he slid into bed beside her, Camilla slid closer, her bare knees brushing against the cloth of his pants, and her fingers gently running over the sharp lines of his face again, memorizing it, as if she’d never see him again.
“Henry?”
“Yes?”
“You’re beautiful,” Camilla told him softly, and she heard him let out a little laugh and she felt that laugh brush past her face. She could see the outline of his grin, even in the dark, and she felt his shoulders move when he laughed.
“Not as beautiful as you,” He whispered back to her in Greek, and she felt one of his arms wrap around her, and pull her closer, and for a moment, Camilla thought he would kiss her. He didn’t, but, somehow this felt more intimate than that. Henry held her like she would disappear if he let her go, like someone would steal her away in the night if she wasn’t so close. Somehow, knowing he was there and the quiet beat of his heart made Camilla feel impossibly safer, and she fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.