Forever and a Half || Michael Jackson

Chapter fifteen – In His Arms

~~

"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."