Growing up, Oswin was very ill. Living on the streets for a month had clearly taken its toll. He was starving and dehydrated and so incredibly tired so that, on one overcast Wednesday, when he found a deserted alleyway set back from the road, Oswin sat down and contemplated never getting up again.

That’s when he met Selander.

Oswin’s memory of that day was admittedly fuzzy. He could recall shouts and rough hands tugging at his jumper. And then a soft, kind voice encouraging him to stand. Oswin didn’t. In fact he passed out. But he woke in a warm bed, lit by honeyed candlelight, with his saviour, Selander pressing a cold flannel to Oswin’s temple.

Months passed in this way, Oswin struck down by illness and Selander his diligent nurse. The two struck an immediate bond, with Selander eager to read stories or narrate his adventures to the market and Oswin content to snuggle under the covers and listen.

One day, Oswin asked Selander why he bothered caring for an invalid.

“I’m such a burden,” he croaked, his voice whittled down to almost nothing, “you shouldn’t have to look after me.”

Selander had looked positively scandalised. “But you’re my friend,” he said, adding, with a smile, “besides, who else would listen to my stories?”

Oswin chuckled softly. “I do so against my will. I’m bedridden, remember?”

“Not for much longer,” Selander promised.

“You’re not a doctor.”

“But I am an optimist.”

Oswin laughed, this time so hard his ribs ached.

Looking back, Oswin supposed that was the start of it. The start of his… feelings.

As Oswin recovered, he attempted to repay Selander for all that he’d done to help him. Oswin cooked, which was a new skill and one he turned out to be terrible at. So he tried knitting, with much more success, gifting Selander hats and mittens and scarves so that the other boy appeared rather round every time he journeyed to the surface. And Oswin stayed awake every night until Selander came home.

Such was their life for a few years. Oswin was living warm and cared for and generally comfortable, until one day that saw Selander scribbling notes in the margins of a chemistry textbook and Oswin with his feet in Selander’s lap. The clack of Oswin’s knitting needles and the occasional rustle of Selander’s pages were the only sounds in the room.

Then Oswin raised his gaze to Selander for a moment and was struck by the way the candlelight brought out the auburn notes in Selander’s hair. Then his gaze dropped to Selander’s striking cheekbones and then the soft curve of his lips and Oswin knew he was staring but couldn’t seem to stop himself and it was too late anyway because now Selander had seen him.

“T-tea?” Oswin leapt from his seat as if scalded.

“Oh. Um. Yes, thank you,” Selander said politely, returning to his textbook, hopefully oblivious to the thoughts racing through Oswin’s head.

He was being ridiculous, he knew that. To have feelings for Selander were understandable, given that he’d nursed Oswin back to health, but quite impossible.

“Quite impossible,” Oswin told himself sternly, and busied himself with making tea.