"Why did you even ask me to dance?" I asked, softly.

Claude had fallen silent awhile ago, but didn't protest to my silent humming of the soundtracks from the Lion King, followed by Aladdin. His fingers rested gently on my waist, his cheek leaning against my hair as I pressed my own face into his neck. His skin was warm and emitted a woody aroma.

I could feel his lips moving against my head, stirring my hair, as he spoke. "I don't know."

"I thought you were supposed to know everything," I replied. There was a hint of a question in my words and I knew he heard it.

"No one knows everything," he reasoned.

"Bullshit," I countered. "You know about physics and Moby Dick and French an-"

"I still don't know everything," Claude argued, interrupting me. "I know everything I need to know. And for me that is everything."

"What makes up everything you know to you?" I asked. I asked because I wondered what it was that ignited the fireworks of his mind, that allowed the sparks to dance on his tongue and turn his word to molten lava that scorched the very air he breathed. I asked because I wanted to know what made him alive.

Claude was silent for a moment. I could practically hear his mind working from him, twisting and turning the rusty gears of his mind to slow generate a result. Then, "That's kind of a loaded question."

It took me a second to comprehend what he was implying before I couldn't help but laugh. "If there's too much in a question about your intelligence to answer, are you trying to say that you are just too smart to answer?"

"No," he said, quickly. "But . . . if you want to say that, I'm not going to deny it."

"You're an asshole," I told him, but now I was laughing. I leaned back from his grasp as I did so, and I found myself staring at his chuckling mouth. I blinked, looking back into his clear blue eyes. His hands were still at my waist.

That smile still sat on his lips. "Whatever, Bees. I just know you're jealous."

 Bees. I liked that.

"Me, jealous of you?" I questioned. "You must be on some crazy drugs if you think that could ever be true."

"And you must have had too much to drink to think that I've been actually doing drugs," he retorted.

"And you know that I have had too much to drink because yes," I replied.

Claude laughed. "Because yes is not quite scientific reasoning, but I'll accept it."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, why, thank you, Sir. Or should I say, my most gracious Lord?"

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"Now, I think we need to make a battle plan," I told Claude, gingerly removing his hands from his side before taking a step back to create more room between us.

He scowled, puzzled. "Battle plan?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "I'm thinking that you should order room service while I take a shower, because between my black attire and flu I'm starting to resemble the Black Death."

Claude was still frowning. "I don't know if I should be more concerned that you are willing to classify yourself by one of the most devastating illnesses of human history, or that you call eating and showering a battle plan."

I shrugged. "I'll give you a piece of advice my middle school teacher gave me: when you don't know the answer, circle C and move on."

My response did nothing to diminish the downward quirking of his mouth, so I just figured he was a lost cause and went to shower.

*

The intoxicating aroma clogged my nostrils as soon as I stepped out of the shower.

"Claude!" I shouted. "What is that smell?"

I could practically hear him smirking. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

I scowled. "Okay, James Bond, I don't know what you are playing at, but I take my food seriously. Maybe even too seriously."

"Well, then maybe you are just going to have to come out and see what it is for yourself," Claude insisted.

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, Casanova, I bet you wold love that."

"Well, yeah. That's why I suggested it," he deadpanned.

"Claude." I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose (he couldn't see it, but he could probably sense it through my tone). "The joke is that I'm naked. I'm suggesting that you would love it because I'm hot and would probably like seeing my naked body. Not that that's going to happen. Do I always need to explain my obviously hilarious jokes to you? Because, I have to say, it's exhausting."

Quickly, he started to excuse himself. "I-I d-didn't mean to sa-say I wanted to-"

Rolling my eyes (again, I noted), I started to get dressed. "I know what you meant. But thanks."

I took pride in knowing that he was probably blushing when he said, "Not to say that you're ugly or that no one wants to see you naked. I'm sure plenty of people do-"

"Claude. Shut up."

"Okay," he agreed, quickly.

I liked having this sort of power over him.

Swiftly, I dressed and wrapped my hair up in my towel, exiting the bathroom. What I found waiting me was surprising.

And cute.

Using a large white tablecloth, Claude had arranged a picnic-style meal. The tablecloth was spread across the floor, adorned with cups and plates. Claude kneeled over it, his back to me, adjusting the angle of the forks and knives. He had even used pillows as chairs, propped up against the bed (so we would be forced to sit quite close together. Which, considering I'm quite ill, was really quite generous of him). And to eat was-

"Claude, pinch me. Prove to me that this isn't a dream," I demanded.

At my words, he turned to face me, a smile growing on his lips. "You like it?"

"Are those grilled cheese sandwiches stuffed with Mac 'n' Cheese?" I asked, commanding an answer.

"Somehow, yes," Claude told me. "It's on the room service menu, believe it or not. And as soon as I read it, I knew you would want it."

"You may be my soul mate," I insisted, taking my seat.

Claude laughed and took his seat next to me. Our arms were brushing against each other, but at least I wasn't close enough to breathe on his food (for him, I would take a sadistic sort of joy out of making him (or others) ill). "You have too much of an attachment to food."

"Well, fun fact: I sort of need food to survive," I told him, grabbing the sandwich from my plate. The bread had been perfectly grilled so it was lightly golden, the cheese thick and creamy, intertwined between smile-shaped noodles.

"Wow, I never would've guessed," Claude replied, sarcastically.

I didn't have time to respond because I was putting food into my mouth. I moaned at the taste.

"This tastes like Diabetes," Claude muttered around a mouthful of food.

"I can feel my arteries clogging," I agreed.

"This is a beautiful experience," Claude commented.

"The pinnacle of living," I added.

"I would say Christmas dinner is the pinnacle of living," he argued.

"Just food in general."

A small smile had appeared across Claude's cheeks. "Every year for Christmas, my mom makes this traditional French cake. It's called la Buche de Noel. My mom isn't really much of a cook, but she always seems to forget that fact on Christmas. She wakes up early in the morning and just starts cooking. Making the dough. Rolling it. Cooking it. By the time the rest of us woke up . . . the aroma has clouded the house. All chocolate and sweet and pure Christmas, you know?"

He was looking at me eagerly, as if he was waiting for a response, but I didn't want to tell him I didn't know.

After a moment of silence, Claude's eyes fell away from my own, to the Mac 'n' Cheese grilled cheese sandwich still resting in his hands. His voice was softer when he spoke. "Anyways, it's, uh, this spongy chocolate cake shaped like a log. It's supposed to look like a Yule log. I guessed I should've mentioned that earlier . . . yeah."

I silently cursed myself for not just nodding and saying yes, Claude. He didn't expect me to know, he was just wanted me to. I bit my lip, ignoring my sandwich for a moment. "Ugh. That literally sounds so good. Why did you have to tell me about it? I want one so much."

Now a tight smile had returned to his lips. "I don't think Mac 'n' Cheese grilled cheese sandwiches will taste good with la buche de Noel."

 "Challenge accepted," I retorted, smiling back at him.

"Does your family have any sort of Christmas traditions?" He asked. "That is, assuming that you celebrate Christmas. I realized I hadn't asked and I must sound like such an ignorant as-"

"I do," I confirmed, but I silently appreciated that he had realized that it was a mistake not to ask. "Don't worry about it."

His smile turned appreciative. "So do you, you know, have any sort of Christmas traditions with your family?"

I bit my lip. "Not really. I mean, Paul's a Buddhist, so he just participates in all the festivities because he knows Aiko likes it. And they're both vegans, but they give it up on Christmas, because they both know that I would just die if I didn't eat turkey and that I would probably die if I ate a whole turkey by myself. So there's that, if that counts as a tradition."

"That sounds fun," Claude said.

I shrugged. "It's just Christmas."

"Do you call your parents by their first names?" Claude asked. "Or are Paul and Aiko your siblings?"

"Um . . ."

Just before I could really begin to think up what I was going to tell him about Paul and Aiko, I felt it. It felt like a metal weight had been chained to my throat, dragging down and bouncing around between the walls of my stomach, it felt like . . .

I jumped to my feet, stumbling to get to the bathroom.

"Bea?" Claude demanded, concern tainting his voice. "Are you okay?"

I reached the toilet and buckled to my knees. I barely had time to lift the lid before it bubbled past my lip, the acidity burning my innards like I had taken a shot of vodka.

"Bea, what are y- oh, Bees."

The sickly sweet smell of vomit hit my nose and I retched again. Abruptly, something soft landed on my back. and I flinched forward, my head smashing into the toilet.

"Careful, Bees," Claude warned, softly. It was his hands touching me. One pushed forward and I felt his fingers brushing against my forehead, kneading the skin gently. I couldn't help but lean into his touch as he quickly pulled my hair back. "Just let it out. It's okay. You're going to be okay."

The tears were starting to sting my eyes, but I didn't know why I was crying. I didn't want him to see that I was crying. But it was like he just knew. Claude's hands were so gentle, rubbing my shoulders and stroking my hair, murmuring the softest words of encouragement.

"Thank you," I muttered, again and again. "Thank you."

"Shh, Bees, it's going to be okay," he said again and again in response.

*

Hey Reader!

Notice: Sorry I'm a butt face and my updates have been so irregular. I've just had a couple really crazy months that have really absorbed all of my atention. But I am determined to finish this story as quickly as I can and hopefully my updating schedule will become better. On a brighter note . . . any thoughts on the story so far? I have heard such little feedback and I'd love to hear more. It literally makes my world so much when people comment.

Love Your Favorite Liar <3