Chapter seventeen – Something Or Nothing

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A silence takes place between us as Michael continues to fiddle with my hair. It's really helping me to calm down, feeling the way he does it; thinking about mom really got me worked up. I know it's okay to cry for a lost loved one, but if I keep it all bottled up for too long, it'll all come back to haunt me at some point ... like it just did.

My eyes wander across the floor in the room, at all the paper and pens that are here, there and everywhere, before looking sideways (lying down, the ceiling is sideways to my eyes), to see the vase on the mantle. Every time I take the time to remember where it came from, it breaks my heart.

Michael then breaks the silence, "So ... when did your mother get you that?" he asks, referring to the vase. "It's a very pretty vase."

I clear my throat, as it feels a little congested from when I was crying, "She got me it last Christmas. That was ... about a month – less than that – before she left us. Every time I look at it, it just kind of breaks my heart all over again ... "

"It seems like a special vase though. The colours are really beautiful."

A tear rolls down my cheek, which Michael makes quick work of drying away with his thumb, "Yeah. The blue is there because that was Andre's favourite colour. The lilac colour was my colour; the baby pink was mom's ... and then dad liked the cream colour. Each of our favourite colours went into it, and they all match each other so good ... " I explain.

He gives a small smile, "All your favourite colours ... so it was specially made for you?" He looks up at the vase himself, taking in every little detail that is featured on it.

"Yeah, it was. It was made by the boss at the pottery place not far from here ... he was a good friend of mother's, so made it for her because she wanted to get me something for Christmas."

"The boss of the pottery place ... I think I know the pottery place; about a half hour from here – walking?" He cocks an eyebrow.

"That's the one. Man, I haven't been there for years. The last time I went was when I was ... I think, twelve, thirteen; one of my old friends Tanisha had a birthday party there, and we all made little pots of our own. It was a good day, and a lot of fun, I guess."

He chuckles a little, "Ah, I've been there too. I think the last time I went was ... when I was about twenty. It was mine and Eleanor's first anniversary together, and I needed to get her a present. That's where I got it from ... but it seemed to be a waste of money, now I think about it."

"Hmm," I give a slight look of sympathy. There's a strong urge inside of me to ask about Eleanor a little more, so I do, "What was your relationship like with her?"

He narrows his eyes, trying to think back to that time, "Well ... at the time, it was perfect. Like ... she was everything I ever wanted – smart, pretty, funny, adorable ... and she was great at cuddles. I remember during the winter, she would snuggle close to me on the sofa, and all we'd do was ... well, kiss. We would devote hours to just kissing one another; proving how much we cared for one another – or, how much I cared. She obviously didn't really care for me the way I cared for her."

"Aww," I sigh. Then, my curiosity gets the better of me, "Do you think you would still be with her, if she hadn't cheated?" I question.

He inhales deeply, "Ooh, that's difficult to say. At the time, she was my absolute world ... everything to me. But I guess she would've eventually gotten bored of me, or maybe she would have broken up with me once my Vitiligo developed more—"

He cuts himself off, widening his eyes and clasping his mouth shut, which only makes me curious as to what he was saying before he stopped talking.

"Once what developed, Michael?" I ask.

He furrows his eyebrows deeply, shaking his head firmly, "No, no ... nothing. Absolutely nothing at all, Citria. Why do you ask?"

I shake my head and chuckle in amusement, "Michael, you really need to brush up on your acting and lying skills." My eyes look up into his, as he looks down on me. I'm still in his lap, so eye contact is easier to achieve like this, "What developed?" I repeat.

A moment later, his eyes fill with tears. Then, I feel his hands start to shake slightly, which makes me feel nervous for some reason. Why is he getting so emotional over a question?

"Citria ... do you remember that photo you gave me, on the day we met?" he inquires, "You know, the family photo from my home?"

My mind takes a moment to process the question, and think back to that eventful day. Now I think of it, I do remember that, "Yeah ... what about that photo?"

"Do you remember the conversation we had, when you said I looked different because of the different skin colour?"

"Yes," I nod, "I remember that. You said it was you, even though the picture shows a dark-skinned man. I'm not being racist or anything ... I just ... it doesn't look like you."

"Racist?" He smiles faintly, tutting quietly, "Don't worry; I know you're not being racist. Anyway ... do you know where that photo is?" he asks.

"Yeah. By your bed, right?"

"Sure is. Would you go get it for me ... please?"

"Sure."

I get up out of my seat, before heading upstairs to find the photo. Once I've retrieved it from Michael's room, I return downstairs to him, handing him the photo.

"Now, look, see." He points at a man, the same man he showed me on the day we met, "That's me."

"You've told me that before," I remind him, sitting down by his side and examining the photo closely, "But I don't see how it's you, when you have olive skin."

"That's the thing," he frowns, "Most people don't see how it's me. That's why I want to explain it to you – so you can be one of the few people that does understand. Okay?"

"Okay." I nod my head to usher him on, "Then ... how has it happened, Michael?" My eyes look back at the photo, trying to work it out. This man's skin is a whole different colour, and his hair is shorter. I don't understand how it's possible.

He exhales, almost bracing himself for the explanation he's about to give, "Well, a few years back – well, a little more than a few – I was diagnosed with this thing called Vitiligo. It's a skin disease, that kills the pigmentation in a person's skin. So ... I was born with dark skin. Then, I got Vitiligo, which has turned it a lighter colour, and made my skin blotchy. It's something that I cannot help, and ... when people see me, they wonder what the hell has happened to me, and ... " He looks down, a couple tears in his eyes, "And it hurts me, when they think I wanted this to happen. I know and love my race ... I mean, I'm black and I'm proud. Nothing will change that ... not ever."

It suddenly makes sense now. Not just why his skin colour changed, but also why – when we went inside his house after his family died – all his family were dark-skinned – or at least, the majority of them. I was kind of wondering how it was possible, but now it all makes sense.

"Oh ... " is all I manage to say, because then Michael interrupts me.

"So ... you can judge me now. I'm waiting ... " He frowns, drawing his legs up from the floor, and embracing them, before burying his head within them, "Go on ... "

My eyebrows knit together in pity, as I reach my arm up to touch his curls, "Why would I judge you, Michael? You're my best friend; no one judges their best friend like that." He unburies his head to look at me, so I assure him once more, "I won't ever judge you."

A faint smile tugs at his lips, probably because he feels reassured now, "You're the only friend that has ever said that to me ... " he states softly, "You have no idea how much that means to me ... "

Feeling that it's right, I lean forward and kiss his cheek, "Then all those other friends weren't true friends, Michael."

He pauses to consider my last words, "Well ... in that sense, I guess. But I still miss them, you know?" He shifts his gaze to the vase on the mantle, "Even if they didn't accept my disease, I still knew they kind of accepted ... me, as a person."

Feeling a little guilty from my previous words, I take his hand in mine, rubbing his knuckles gently, "I didn't mean it like that, Michael. I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, brushing it off, "No, I knew what you meant. Don't worry about it ... okay?"

I nod my head a little, "Okay."

Michael then looks down at the floor, at all the paper and pens, "Say ... do you want to try drawing the vase again?" he questions, "Maybe we could have a little competition."

"What kind of competition?" I raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Well ... we could each have two minutes to draw the vase, and after the time is up, we show one another. The best drawing wins. How 'bout that?" he proposes.

A smirk rises onto my face, "Sounds like a good idea. Let's do it." We both stand up from the sofa, before starting to pick up all the paper, all the pencils, and all the colours. Soon, we've split them equally, "Are we using colours or not?"

"It's up to you. If you think it'll make it look better, then go for it," he answers, "But you realise I'll be the best?" he jeers playfully, earning a laugh from me.

"Oh, it is on, Jackson!" I taunt, "Just realise that I shall reign victorious!" My hand reaches out to take a pencil, poising ready to begin drawing.

"Okay ... the time starts in three ... two ... one ... go!" Michael counts down, and we both begin to draw the vase.

"I'm going to win, you know," I assert repeatedly, to try and put him off his work.

"No no, it'll be me that wins," he retorts, obviously attempting the same thing as me.

Apart from our trash talk, all that can be heard in the room is our breathing, mingled with the scratching of our pencils against the paper we're using. I wonder who will win the draw-off we're having? ...

"And ... time is up!" Michael shouts, dropping his pencil triumphantly – almost cockily.

"And now, to witness my drawing win," I laugh, holding my paper close to my chest, "So, after three we show our drawings?"

He nods in clarification, "Exactly. Are you ready?" he asks. With a nod of my head, he smirks, "Okay. One ... two ... three!" We both turn our drawings around, and both of us gasp at the exact same time, "Cit, you're more of an artist than I first thought!"

"Michael, yours is like a photograph!" I compliment in awe, "My God ... mine is nothing on yours! You win!"

"No, no! You win!" he argues, "By miles!"

"That's where you're wrong, Mr Jackson. You win!"

"Not on my watch, Miss Espinosa. You win!"

"Okay, okay," I snicker, lowering my picture, as he does the same, "How about we call it a draw?" I suggest.

He gives a closed-mouth smile, nodding in agreement, "That sounds like a plan to me." He sets his drawing down on the coffee table, before putting his feet up next to his sketch, "So ... what now?" he questions.

"Gee, I don't know ... what time is it?" I answer.

He checks his watch, "It's 2:57; middle of the afternoon," he informs me, before rolling his sleeve down over the top of his watch, "So ... what do you want to do? I'll let you choose."

"Are you sure?" I ask, "Because you can choose what we do, if you like. I really don't mind at all, Michael; you're the guest, after all."

He giggles a little, shaking his head and raising his arms in surrender, "I've been the one choosing what we do since I arrived here. You choose for once, Citria." He glances at me, waiting for my answer, "Well? What are we doing, Miss Valentina-Espinosa?"

"Valentina is my mother's surname, not my own," I correct him jokily, "But uhm ... I'm not sure. Maybe we could go to the fields; spend a little time in the sun. Run around a little; get the blood going slightly. You up for it?"

He grins, nodding in complete certainty, "Yes, that sounds perfect! I found my aviator shades the other day; they were in my rucksack. They must have been in there before the reunion. I can finally put them to good use with the sun."

A small laugh escapes from my lips, "Ooh, very nice. C'mon, let's get ready to go now."

*  *  *

"Well, I must say, you do look rather cool in those shades," I compliment politely, but with a hint of jokiness in my tone.

We're in the fields, sitting on the grass. It's rather peaceful; the only noise we can hear is the gentle breeze hitting the trees, along with the light twittering of birds.

He chuckles softly, "Thanks, I guess. These shades mean a lot to me; they belonged to my father. He used to wear them all the time, until he was forced to wear glasses full-time. So ... he gave them to me, and I made a vow never to get rid of them or break them ... not ever," he explains.

A sympathetic smile forms on my face, "At least you have something to remember him by. Do you have anything of your mother's to remember her by?"

He hesitates a moment to think, but then he remembers, clicking his finger and looking at me, "Yeah, I do. Remember when you went inside my house, on the day we met, and you collected some of my things because I didn't want to enter the house myself?" He tries to refresh my memory, so I give a quick nod, "Well, one of the things you got out of there was a bottle of perfume. You probably thought it was mine or something, but ... it was mother's – her favourite scent. Whenever I smell it, I think of mother straight away. It's wonderful ... "

I raise a hand and rest it on my chest, finding it adorable that he has his mother's scent to remember her by, "Aww, that's so cute, Michael. I'm so glad I managed to get that for you."

He grins a little, before dropping the top half of his body down onto the floor, so he lies down. He looks up at me, patting the space next to him, "Lie next to me, c'mon," he says invitingly.

"Okay," I respond, lowering the rest of my body down to the ground, lying next to him, "So ... how's life?" I ask, wanting to create light small talk to fill the silence lingering around us.

"Uh ... could be worse, I guess. You?" he replies, catching on to the fact I want to make conversation.

"Yeah, good, yep." A thought then comes to my head, "Um, but ... are you feeling okay; considering what happened this morning?"

He furrows his eyebrows, then places one arm under his head, whilst the other shields his eyes from the sun, "Well ... I had that initial bad reaction to it. You wouldn't believe how awful it was hearing that recording this morning. It's scarred me for life ... " He sighs loudly, "But ... now, I'm trying not to think about it too much. I mean, it's not like I can get Astrix arrested, is it? He's dead ... "

He then rolls over, facing away from me, and a feeling of guilt washes over me for even broaching the subject. I stand up from my spot, before walking around to the other side of him, and collapsing to the floor so I face him.

"I'm sorry," I apologise.

"For?" he presses.

"For ... for bringing the subject up. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, but it looks like it backfired ... "

He shakes his head, giving me the most genuine smile he can muster, "I know. I know you want to make sure I'm okay; that's what friends do. Don't be sorry."

A small smile forms on my face, as I reach my hand over to his, taking it in mine. This action causes him to shiver again, which confuses me; I could've sworn he was past the stage of reacting that way when we come into physical contact. I won't broach the subject with him, though.

Michael looks up at the sky, and moments later, he points up at it, "See that cloud there? It looks like a love heart. How cute is that?" he chuckles quietly.

My eyes avert to where he's looking, to see the cloud he's referring to. He's right; it does look like a love heart.

"Maybe that's to symbolise you and Clover," I joke softly, laughing a little. Michael remains silent, so I turn my head to see his face is now serious. Gosh, how many times will I offend him or upset him today?

"Sorry ... " I apologise, "It was just a joke ... sort of."

"Sort of?" he repeats.

"Yeah ... I know there's something there," I elaborate, shifting positions on the grass to make myself more comfortable, "Something."

"For Clover?" he frowns.

A smirk plays on my lips, "Hell, yeah. You seem happier with her than you ever have with me. It's easy to tell that the chemistry is there between you both. Admit it, Michael. C'mon, admit it," I tease playfully.

He scowls, showing signs of anger, "No, Citria. No, there is no chemistry between us. She's my friend, but not a single thing more. Clear?" he explains.

A small laugh escapes my lips, "Ah, come on, Michael. When was the last time you acted that way with me, or father, or anyone? There's something!" I assert, tauntingly poking at his chest.

In a rage, he sits himself up, slapping my finger away, "No, Citria! There is no feeling between me and Clover! Nothing! I don't know where you got that idea from, but you need to let it go!" he hisses, standing himself up.

He storms out of the field, leaving me all alone, and I wonder how me and him possibly managed to get into such an argument. This is the first time we've had a disagreement, and to be honest, I feel kind of hurt. It wasn't meant to cause that ... it was just meant to be fun.

Looks like we have two completely different senses of humour.

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Sorry the ending was kind of abrupt. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, though! I'm currently in Portugal and I actually have internet! *Pops party popper* Yayyy! :3