Chapter seven – Smile

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I wake up before Michael the following morning. Finding myself on the floor in the living room, I remember that I fell asleep downstairs because Michael did, too. I must have fallen off the sofa in my sleep without realising.

Michael is still sleeping, his curls spread out messily all around his head. They're dry from last night now, which is a good thing. I really hope he will improve today, having attempted suicide last night.

I'm not going to wake him, as I think he needs as much rest as possible right now. He was so tired yesterday after we got home from the fields.

I head sleepily into the kitchen, and start making breakfast for us both. I'll probably keep it simple today – toast and cereal, with orange juice, I think.

As I press down the toaster lever, I hum a nameless tune, and then I move around the kitchen, completing small tasks that I need to do. I pour juice into a jug, and place it on the table, before taking out the butter from the fridge, and a few items of cutlery from the drawer.

I take a glance out the back window, at the pathway from the back door to the garden gate. I don't have a back garden; only a front one, so it makes looking out the kitchen window a little less entertaining than looking out the living room one.

The toast pops up from the toaster, causing me to jump a little from the unexpectedness. I quickly compose myself, sauntering over to the toaster, taking out the freshly-made toast, and starting to butter it.

Once I've done that, and made another couple batches, I lay them on the table, before taking out the box of cereal from the cupboard. I place that on the table, too, but before I can do anything else, I hear a soft, croaky, weary-sounding voice.

"Morning Citria ... "

I whip my head around to see Michael, whose curls are even messier than before, his eyes half-lidded and slightly baggy-looking, and a pink mark on his right cheek from where he was leaning it against the sofa arm whilst he was sleeping.

"Morning, Michael. How are you feeling?"

He pads weakly over to the table, and I pull a chair out for him to sit on. He takes the seat, practically collapsing into it, and buries his head into his hands straight away.

"I tried to kill myself last night, Citria. I'm not feeling the best."

I remain silent, unsure on how to reply, and he picks up on this. However, when he next speaks, his voice takes on a deeper register, which takes me a little by surprise.

"I'm sorry. I'm just shaken up."

I heave a sigh, joining him at the table, "I get it. That's what I'm here for – to help you when you're shaken up."

I place my hand lightly on his lower arm, making him shudder again. This time, I decide to broach the subject with him.

"Why do you always shudder when I touch you?" I ask softly.

He finally lifts his head, still with a weak expression on his face, and looks distantly at me. He's struggling to even look at me without the view behind me distracting him.

"I-I don't know," he stutters. "It just happens."

"It's almost like you're scared of my touch. Are you scared of my touch, Michael?"

I pull my hand away, and he exhales loudly, shaking his head, "No, I'm not scared. Not at all."

I knit my eyebrows together, and give him a sympathetic look, whilst he averts his eyes back down to the table.

"You should eat, Michael," I change the subject.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head desperately, "No; I feel sick to my stomach. Eating won't help me at all."

"You feel sick?" I question rhetorically, "Well, I think eating something small might take that sick feeling away a little."

"N-No, thanks," he replies firmly, "I don't want anything."

I glance over at the toast and cereal I previously placed down on the table, "But I made toast and cereal for you. Please just try and eat something, at least."

"Please, Citra; I already feel like I could throw up at any second, as it is ... "

He leans his forehead against the table, covering it over with his arms – maybe to give him some darkness. He then mutters a muffled apology, along with, "I just don't want to risk it".

I nod, as if he can actually see me doing so, "Don't worry. But at least have some orange juice."

I take the jug of juice, and pour it into a glass. I head over to the freezer, taking out a couple ice cubes from the tray, then I drop them into the glass and slide it across the table to his place.

He lifts his head, reaching his trembling hand towards the glass. Taking a grasp on it, he thanks me quietly, before taking a sip from the glass.

Within milliseconds of his lips touching the glass, and making contact with the juice, he pulls away with a gasp, "Gosh, that's cold."

I can't help but chuckle lightly, "Yeah, sorry about that. Do you want me to take the ice cubes out?"

"No, no, it's okay. The coldness is actually refreshing. It's making me feel better to be honest."

I try to force away the large smile that is fighting to form on my face. I'm so glad that he's doing slightly better than yesterday, even if the moment won't necessarily last.

"So ... you'll try one slice of toast?" I suggest, but then he gives me an unsure look, "Okay, half a slice?"

He gives a faint smile, the first one I've seen since yesterday afternoon, "Okay. Just a little."

"Atta boy, Michael," I beam, buttering a slice of toast and breaking it into two. I hand him the biggest half purposely, "Now eat, Michael. You seriously need to get your strength up."

He takes an uncertain glance at the toast, before lifting it to his lips and taking a bite out of it, somewhat cautiously. He chews and swallows, knowing I'm watching him in a motherly way, to make sure he finishes it.

Once he's finished it, I clap playfully, "There you go. Don't you feel better now?"

"Hum ... " he hesitates, a small hint of embarrassment on his face. "Kind of, yes."

"See? Didn't I tell you?" I laugh quietly, "I tell you, it was just hunger."

He nods, with the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips. I know he's still hurting from yesterday, but I don't know if I should make him talk about it, or try and make him forget about it. Both would probably work ... but I just don't know what to say to him. Most of the conversation this morning has been me trying to make him forget.

"So, what would you like to do today?" I ask him.

"I-I don't feel like going out today, if that's okay," he answers, "I just want to stay inside."

"If you want to do that, then sure," I reply. I clear the breakfast things away after we've finished with them, and then I turn to look at Michael, "But if you change your mind, then that's okay."

He licks his top lip timidly, before touching his nose lightly with his fingers, "O-Okay."

"Alright," I head back over to the table and sit in the spot I was previously sat at, "But we can't just sit and do nothing. Is there anything you want to do inside the house?"

"Um ... " He pauses to think of a possibility. He parts his lips to speak, but then pushes them together again, changing his mind. He remains closed-mouth for a few seconds more, until an idea comes to him, "I could teach you how to make lasagna. Remember, you said we could exchange tips on cooking?"

I'm actually so happy that he's suggesting something like this. It'll give him a chance to take control for once – I've been the one to take charge these past forty-eight hours. It also intrigues me; he was so low a few minutes back, but now he's trying to give me a cooking lesson? His mood changes quickly.

"Uh ... sure!" I respond a little too enthusiastically.

I won't stop him from doing this; it'll help take his mind off of everyday life, and painful thoughts. I'm going to try and keep this up for as long as possible.

"Okay. Do you have all the ingredients for it?"

That's a point. Do I?

"I'm not sure," I reply, heading over to the cupboard. "What kind of things do you need for lasagna?"

"Well," Michael stands up, and averts his eyes upwards as he thinks of what is needed, "For a start, pasta sheets." He counts on his fingers, touching his thumb, "Sauce." He taps his forefinger as he counts, "Mincemeat." He touches his middle finger, "Uh... olive oil, and cheese. I recommend Mozzarella."

"Right," I reply, checking through the cupboard, "I have the sauce, olive oil and cheese. But not the other stuff."

"Hmm ... " Michael knits his eyebrows together in thought.

"Grocery shopping," I suggest.

He then looks directly at me, and his eyes widen nervously, "No, no ... I don't want to go out. Please, we can do something else ... "

"I can go alone if you like?"

I regret offering that. If he's alone, he could do something that we might both regret – my house has knives, rope, medication ... I don't want to leave him in this house alone.

"I don't trust myself," he answers simply.

Now I know that he has had the same thought as me. I walk his way, so I'm exactly opposite him, and I look up at him, "Then you have a choice. Come with me, or we can do something else."

"Something else," he replies. "I'm not ready to go outside yet."

"I know, Michael ... " I start. "But you realise that at one point, we will have to go and get food to eat. You'll have to go outside at one time or another."

He shifts his gaze onto me, and I feel a strange feeling rush through my body. His eyes are really something, their deep, enigmatic shade of brown. It's almost intimidating, but in the most gentle, harmless way possible.

"I know," he mutters. "Just not today."

I begin to walk away, towards the kitchen sink so I can wash the pots, but before I've even taken a step, I feel Michael grasp my arm, before pulling me back to look at him.

"Uh ... this may just be the most irrelevant thing I've said in the time I've known you, but ... "

I look up at him, genuinely interested in what he's about to say. He touches his nose again, before clearing his throat and returning the gaze more intensely than previously.

"Y-Your eyes are really beautiful."

At those words, my heart stops beating for a moment, and a strange feeling – that same feeling as before – overwhelms me. I try to stop a huge smile forming on my face, but it's hard – very hard.

"Uh ... " I feel my throat dry up a little, so I swallow and take a deep breath, "Thank you. Yours are, too."

"Th-Thank you," he murmurs.

And then, I see a small smile start to form on his face – the first proper smile I've seen from him since yesterday. I return the smile, so he feels more comfortable, until – without warning – he pulls me into his arms, and hugs me tightly.

Whether this is a hug in appreciation, or just because he simply needs a hug, is beyond me. Maybe, just maybe, it's a bit of both.

I inhale deeply, catching the sweet scent of his deodorant. He must have gone and sprayed it a little before he came into the kitchen this morning.

Part of me never, ever wants this embrace to end, because it just feels so good. Michael gives amazing hugs, factoring out the way he tenses up a little, but I think he just does that because he's grown insecure about the world around him, now.

Unfortunately, my wish isn't granted, as Michael pulls away from me. I exhale, a smile forming on my face, yet before I can speak, Michael does.

"I'm so happy you're my friend," he says gratefully.

"I'm going to be your friend for—"

"Forever and a half," he interrupts me, a more large smile creeping onto his face.

This is the smile I've been waiting to see. This smile is his most genuine, happy smile, the smile that tells me that – even if only for a few seconds – he's happy. It makes it seem as if he never attempted suicide yesterday.

"Yeah," I beam. "Forever and a half. You got it, Michael."

He takes his bottom lip into his mouth, and nods at the same time. He heads slowly to the living room, and I follow him, until he comes to a stop. Then, he sort of peers through the window, at the front garden, before turning around to look at me.

"Y'know ... I think, maybe, we could go into the front garden and just, I don't know ... relax a little. I'm okay to go that far out of the house," he says softly.

"O-Oh," I hesitate. "Sure, if that's what you want to do."

"Yeah, it is," he replies.

We then walk towards the front door, and I unlock it before opening it, letting him out first, then me. We choose a spot on the grass, and sit down.

My front garden is rather large, since all there is in front of my garden is the countryside, and a few pavements. It's full of flowers, and has a tree in the right third. That's the tree that I saw Michael sitting under, yesterday.

"So ... you just want to sit and talk?" I ask.

"Yes ... although that's all we've really done since we met."

"Well, what else are we meant to do?" I chuckle.

"Hmm, I guess you're right. We could just watch the world go by," he replies.

"Sure," I smile up at him.

He returns the smile, and I prop myself up with my hands. Michael does the same, but when he places his hand on top of mine, it's then that I feel a shiver run down my spine.

~~

So, what's going to happen next? I guess we shall see. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!