Page 106 of The Villains of Winter

“What do you mean?” Elliott questioned.

“The sketches from five years ago. The stars were aligned to look like James, right?” Finch inquired, as though he’d always wanted to ask Elliott.

“Yes, but I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t mention it in front of him back then. I pretended not to know what it was.” Finch took a bite of the wild, bright strawberries. “This was really nice of you to invite me to the banquet.”

“No need to thank me at all,” Elliott said, feeling his cheeks warm. “About James, I…”

“He liked you. He was always watching you when you weren’t watching him. I knew you two would be friends. I felt you would…replace me, if that makes sense. I had to give you shit for it. You needed tougher skin to befriend someone like him.” Finch chuckled, his wheeze a bit thinned. “I don’t think it would’ve mattered what we, or anyone, had to say about it. James would’ve befriended you behind our backs, if he set his heart on it. I just…I’m glad you’ve stuck beside him. He needed someone to look out for him when I was sick and Knox left. Thanks for being with him.”

“James was the one who looked out for me.”

Finch squeezed his shoulder. “It was both of you. With how his mother and his grandfather died and how his father treated him afterward, I wanted to be there for him the way you were. I’m really thankful you were there when you were. That’s all I’m trying to say.”

Elliott felt his ears heat. “Honestly, I liked him, so it was easy. Everyone liked him.”

Finch snorted, reaching for the chalice. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s charming enough that no one minds it. That’s why.” Finch gazed wistfully in the distance, as if remembering the past. “We had all these big dreams of who we’d be when we were adults. His charm talked me out of a dark place.”

“A dark place?”

Elliott never heard the explanation. Finch had sipped the pomegranate sap of Elliott’s chalice. His eyes went wide.

Suddenly, Finch grasped his throat, as though he couldn’t breathe.

​​ CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

FINCH SOUNDED ASPHYXIATED. HE KNEW he sounded asphyxiated and weak.

He despised whenever he made a show of himself. He wasn’t anyone’s source of pity or entertainment.

Finch reached for his own chalice of wine, feeling his blood course faster, propulsively. He assumed he needed wine to flush out whatever bad seed he’d swallowed in the pomegranate or strawberry, even if he had to risk his medication mixed with alcohol. With a gasping breath, he tried to pass it off with a chuckle. “The strawberry…it’s…too sweet.”

“Is it?” Elliott said, and he tried one. “Do you want me to grab you some red grapes instead? The grapes are less sugary.”

Finch shook his head. The pomegranate extract had been the opposite of sweet–bitter, viscous, acrid on his tongue.

Don’t overreact in front of everyone. Everything was fine. Finch quickly swallowed the wine to force down the remnants still stuck in his teeth. No more wine for you. Try the extract one more time. Except, he choked on the wine meant for Elliott once more.

The wine was rancid.

The wine clotted in his chest somehow, he couldn’t explain it. It was as if someone spilled crude oil, congealed and thick, over his chest, and restricted his airway as his body imploded into raw panic.

He could only faintly hear Elliott over him, shouting and ordering someone to get help.

Finch collapsed to the ground but he shoved himself on his hands and knees because he’d hate himself if he made a scene in a fancy place and he had to be helped up to his feet. Stand up on your own.

Except, he couldn’t. His knees wouldn’t work.

His kneecaps weren’t responding.

His ankles wouldn’t support his weight.

Finch couldn’t stand it whenever the nurses had to assist him out of bed, or bathe him, but he reached out to Elliott for help. He didn’t have his respiratory machine.

These weren’t his normal coughing fits. Not even his most dire episodes of difficult respiration left him tearing at his eyes.

No, he wasn’t tearing up.