Chapter fifteen – In His Arms

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"Citria? Citria? It's morning ... "

Michael's voice gently brings me out of my sleep, but before I can respond to him, or look up at him, a terrible sick feeling takes over me. Wonderful – I've caught whatever Michael had yesterday.

"M-Michael ... " I breathe weakly, "Are you feeling better?"

He nods, sitting on the bed by my side as I sit up, "I feel absolutely great. You don't look so good though. I knew you would catch the bug too," he gives me a look of extreme sympathy, mixed with guilt, "I'm sorry. You should've stayed away from me yesterday."

"No, no ... I'm fine, honest," I lie, attempting to get out of bed. A rush of dizziness consumes me, but I try not to let it show as I wobble towards my bedroom door, "So ... breakfast, Michael?" I change the subject.

I groan silently to myself from the awful way I'm feeling, as I look to Michael to get his answer.

"Cit, are you serious? You look like death, and you're worrying about me? No. You're going back to bed, and I'll make myself breakfast," he asserts politely, "C'mon, bed, Cit."

I shake my head firmly, "No, Michael. What do you want for breakfast?" I repeat, "Answer me ... come on ... " Why I'm getting so defensive is beyond me; in reality I just want a hug, and for him to tell me it'll be okay.

"Citria ... I'm not stupid. You look really sick. Bed," he instructs, but again, I stand where I am, disobeying him.

"I'm fine. Now let's go downstairs," I say, my voice limp-sounding. If I'm going to pass as healthy, I need to sound like I am. This is not helping me at all.

Because he's standing still, I lose my patience, grabbing his hand tightly and dragging him out the bedroom. Unfortunately, before we even reach the top step of the staircase, I feel my legs giving way from weakness, and I begin to collapse to the ground. Before I fall, though, Michael catches me in his arms.

"See, look at you; you're too weak to do anything," he sighs, "Don't make me say "bed" again, Citria, because you know I will, if I have to."

"Nope," I answer quickly, forcing myself out of Michael's arms and making my way downstairs, "Toast today, Michael?" Just saying the word "toast" makes me feel queasy. I couldn't imagine eating a single thing today without feeling as if I'll burst.

Once we're downstairs, and in the kitchen, I take out a couple slices of bread, placing them in the toaster, trying my hardest not to gag because of the fact I've lost my appetite so badly, yet I'm still having to handle food. I feel like my legs are going to give way again, but I can't collapse in front of Michael, otherwise he'll make me go back to bed. I can't have a sick day.

"Citria ... " Michael's tone becomes a little more threatening – as if he's warning me to rest just with my own name, "Bed."

"I'm not a dog Michael," I chuckle softly, "You can't just tell me to go to bed like one, you know." My legs start to tremble again, so I take a hold of the kitchen counter to keep me upright so I don't fall down.

I know how ridiculous it is of me to try and act completely fine, but at the end of the day, I'm not on my own any more. I have Michael to take care of; he's more important than me, and he needs me to ... well, kind of survive, in a way. If I were to have a sick day, he would have to do everything himself; that makes me feel guilty.

"Want any help with that?" he asks, taking a seat at the table, watching me cautiously, "Uh, 'cause I can help you and your little sick self, you know."

"Sick?" I scoff, swatting the air with the hand that isn't holding me up, "Ridiculous assumption there, Michael. Absolutely ridiculous."

"Right, okay," he sighs. I know that he knows I'm faking, but he's playing along falsely to make me happy. That's sweet of him, "Hm, yeah. Toast does sound like a good option today. So crisp and warm ... yep," he smirks.

He's saying this because he knows how sick I feel – so I'll make him stop speaking, which will make me admit I'm sick. He's smart, but I'm not falling for it.

"And the butter that seeps through the bread, and the jam – the strawberry jam, too. Doesn't that sound good, Citria?" he asks rhetorically.

I can't even answer him; if I open my mouth, I feel like vomit will come out rather than speech. I'm going to have to go upstairs and make an excuse or something.

"I'm just going to the bathroom—"

"Jammy, buttery toast," he interrupts once more.

That's it. It's over. I can feel something rising into my throat now, and I know there's no going back from that. Without replying, I dash out the room, heading straight for the bathroom. Once I've arrived there, I fall to my knees, grasp the toilet seat and throw up violently. That's given the game away now – I know it.

Before too long, Michael is up here with me, holding my hair back out my face. At least now he can tell me it'll be okay; maybe give me a hug – before, when we were both acting like I was fine, I didn't let him do that.

Once I've brought everything up, I lift my head, wiping my mouth, looking up at Michael forlornly.

"See?" he breathes, "You're not fine. Now you're going to bed, whether I have to drag you there myself or not. I'll be looking after you today – no arguments. Are we clear?"

"Mich—"

"I said, are we clear?" he repeats more seriously, this time. The seriousness in his tone is enough to convince me not to disobey him, so I nod in agreement, "Good. Now, I'll get the bucket from my room, wash it, and let you use it today. I'll be making myself breakfast, too. And, finally, I will not be going to see the police until tomorrow, when you're better again."

Oh, yes. I told Michael about the whole police thing yesterday night. He knows there's a recording they want him to hear, and he's very curious as to what it's about.

"No Michael, you gotta go to—"

"Ah-bah-bah-bah! No, Cit. You are the priority today, okay? Now, for the sixty-millionth time, bed."

Giving up, I sigh in defeat, before Michael helps me up from the floor and guides me to my room. Like I did yesterday, he tucks me into bed, before leaving my room to get the bucket from his. After a few moments, he returns, gently setting the bucket down at the side of the bed.

"Now, you get some rest. I'll be coming to check on you in a little while," he tells me, sitting down on the bed next to me. His hand gently reaches out towards my head, then his fingers run through my hair soothingly, "Get well soon, best friend."

A small smile forms on my face, at the notion that I'm his best friend. Granted, he has no other friends apart from Clover, but it still makes my heart feel incredibly happy when he calls me that. It makes me feel like I'm really not alone ... which was the way I felt during the seven months leading to our first meeting.

The same smile that's playing on my lips also creeps onto his. There's a lamp in the room, which is giving off a glow that makes Michael's eyes sparkle. It's really quite remarkable. However, no other words are spoken; instead, Michael bends down and kisses my forehead lightly, making me feel one hundred times better than I did before.

Complete silence lingering around us, he stands up from the bed, walking slowly towards the bedroom door, and exiting through it. Maybe I should get some rest, so that I'll be better for tomorrow. I know one thing for sure – this sickness isn't going to be letting up any time soon – not at all.

*  *  *

It's now close to dinner time, and I've not been too bad – at least, not how Michael was yesterday. Whilst he threw up six times, I've only thrown up three, so I'm luckier than him, in a sense. I can't help but wonder whether Michael has made dinner for himself or not, seeing as I haven't been able to. I could really eat something myself, now, despite the queasy feeling lingering in my stomach, still.

The bedroom door suddenly opens, earning all my attention. Michael's head peeps around the door, a timid expression plastered on his face.

"Citria? How are you feeling?" he questions, "Feeling any better?"

"Better than this morning ... but still not one hundred percent," I answer honestly, "Have you been okay today? I mean ... you've been okay looking after yourself?" I reiterate.

He nods his head, entering the room fully, before sitting on the bed next to me like he did this morning, "Of course I have; I'm not an invalid," he jokes, "I've been worried about you today. You're used to seeing me so low, but seeing you the same really hurts me inside. I can't wait for you to be better again."

A strange feeling fills my stomach – not a sickly feeling, but rather a happy, overwhelming feeling; he really does care for me, and that makes me so grateful. Michael is just the kind of person I've been needing in my life.

"It's nice to know you care about me, Michael," I smile genuinely, "It really is ... "

"Of course I care for you. Why wouldn't I? You've done everything for me these past couple weeks; you're my best friend; you're the only one who understands me, now. You know how much that means to me?" he answers sincerely.

A mellow smile tugs at my lips, threatening to take over my whole face and tint my cheeks a soft pink shade, "I only do it because you need it. The best friend thing is an added bonus," I chuckle lightly, causing him to snicker quietly along with me.

"Now, come on. Do you think you're ready to come downstairs and get something little to eat?" he changes the subject rather suddenly.

"Hmm ... " I take a moment to think, "Maybe; I'll try it. what were you thinking?"

"I'll have whatever you want to have; honestly, I don't mind at all what you want to have. Yesterday you ate the same as me, just to please me – today I'll do it for you," he proposes playfully.

A tiny laugh passes my lips, "Gee ... I don't know. I guess ... just ... cheese on toast like yesterday? Maybe I'll manage to keep it down, unlike you," I tease slightly, causing his cheeks to flush from embarrassment.

"You said it was how quickly I ate, not what I ate. I couldn't help throwing up after dinner yesterday," he defends himself shyly.

I shake my head in amusement, slowly getting myself out of bed, "Sure, sure. Anyway, I'm really hungry. Can we go downstairs?" I give him my best pout, "Pwease?"

He giggles like a child, standing up to give me a little freedom to stand up myself, "Sure, come on. Let's get you fed."

*  *  *

Now, it's around 8:45pm. Although I'm not completely feeling better, I'm almost there. I know for a fact that a good night's sleep will fix me up entirely for tomorrow. That way, I'll be able to go with Michael to the police, so we can hear the recording together. Part of me feels like I'll need to be there with him, because he isn't going to react well to finding out who killed his entire family.

I would be lying to say that I'm wide awake right now. In fact, it's quite the opposite; I'm fighting to keep my eyes open. Normally, it's Michael that gets that way, but today, it's me. We're currently downstairs watching TV, so I can't exactly ruin his time because I want to sleep. He's been caring for me all day, after all, so he deserves this time.

Each time my eyes close, it takes me a good few seconds to realise, before they snap open again. After this pattern repeats several times in a row, I hear Michael's voice break the silence between us.

"Citria's sleepy ... " he coos, his voice taking on a tune.

"I'm not," I lie, "I've been watching the TV for the past half hour." My eyes avert to the picture on the TV, and I see – surprise, surprise – another home video show. Michael really seems to like these programmes, "Ha, look. That dude fell into the snow face-first."

His eyes flit between me and the television screen, and he realises I'm correct, "Congratulations; you can state the obvious at a grade one level. What's your next trick?" he taunts.

I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue, "Whatever. At least it proves I was watching, and that I wasn't sleepy like you suggested a minute ago!"

"Hmm," he rubs his chin with his hand, "Okay. Tell me what programme was on before this one, then," he challenges.

My eyes widen, at the realisation that I have no idea what was on. How am I supposed to get out of this one?

"Why do you ask?" I quiz, trying desperately to change the subject.

He chuckles, "Because I want to know how much attention you were paying whilst you were fighting your sleep," he responds slyly.

"I think you'll find I was paying lots of attention, so ... you were watching ... uh ... you were watching TV!" I reply smartly – or at least, I find it smart.

Michael doesn't find it as smart, "I could have told you that myself, Sherlock. What TV programme was it?" he repeats.

I sigh in defeat, "No idea ... "

He bites his lip, shaking his head, "Ah, I knew it. Now then ... I think someone had better go to bed – again."

I use all the energy I have to decline his offer this time. "No, no Michael. You're watching TV, and I'm going to be down here watching it with you. No arguments." I fold my arms and give a serious expression, which causes him to laugh.

"Nawh, don't start with the folded arms and silly pout. You're tired and you know it. You've been sick all day, so it's completely natural that you're not feeling so alert. You'll be fine by morning. Now, go to bed."

I lie myself across the sofa, resting my head against my arms and shifting my gaze to the television, "Make me." A silence finally fills the air, making me assume that he's letting the subject slip.

I continue to watch the screen, but I begin to feel more sleepy with each passing second. My eyes start to close once again, but I snap them back open before Michael can see. But then, my eyes close again, and this time, I don't protest – letting them stay closed.

Before even a minute has passed by, the television is switched off, and a sudden feeling of being light-weighted makes my eyes open again, only for me to find myself in Michael's arms – he's carrying me.

"When I say "bed", I normally mean "bed". Just that little heads up for you," he says to me, no louder than a whisper.

Soon, we're back in my room, and I'm in my bed. Why does this feel like déjà vu? Oh yeah; I've been in this place all day ...

Once I'm tucked in again, Michael looks down at me, his eyes full of warmth and care, "You really need to get a good night's sleep now. It'll be morning before you know it, and then you'll be okay again," he assures me, his voice a mutter.

I look up at him tiredly, "I know. Then we can go hear the recording together," I add to his previous words, resulting in him nodding in agreement.

"For sure. And I'll need you to hold my hand through that, you know."

The more my eyes fight to stay open, the quieter my voice becomes, "Of course I'll be there for you Michael ... "

He nods once more, standing himself up to leave the room. A sudden urge in me pulls his sleeve, making him turn around to face me.

"What's the matter, Citria?"

"Stay with me," I beg hopelessly.

He keeps his eyes locked on mine, slowly lowering himself down onto the bed again, "Okay." Once he's sat down, he lifts my head from the pillow, and rests it on his lap. His fingers run through my hair like this morning, comforting me endlessly.

"Goodnight," he whispers to me.

"Goodnight," I answer.

I feel him start to rock me gently, as I fall into a deep sleep ... in Michael's arms.

My very best friend's arms ...

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The ending was rather cute to me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!