Skips A Beat ::Wattys2016::

Chapter 2

I let myself into Michael's house using the key that's always placed over the door. Karen and Daryl work today, so they've been gone for a while. I'm Michael's ride to school. I have been taking him to school for a while now. I usually take his car and we go together. I look around the house for him, but I can't find him. I check the kitchen, nothing. The laundry room, nothing. Where is he?

"Michael?" I call for him. That's when I hear it. The familiar sputtering sound. I run to the bathroom, opening the door. He's leaning against the sink heavily, his legs shaking. He takes a deep breath before coughing into the sink. A stream of bubbly pink leaves his mouth. "Awh, Mikey." I whisper, rubbing his back.

Normally, if someone is spitting up blood, you would panic because it's not really what should happen. But I know the reason behind it. When someone has Cardiomyopathy, especially Restrictive, the heart is trying so desperately to beat normally it pumps blood into the lungs. It's not a bunch of it, but eventually you will cough it up. Trust me, I've spent a lot of time looking up every little possibility with this disease. Michael coughs roughly, a darker shade of red in his mouth now. He looks up at me with scared eyes. A single tear runs down his pale cheek.

"It's okay, kitten. You're okay." I swipe my thumb across his cheek. He nods, turning his head to cough again. He coughs a few more times, leaning into me as the wave of hacking passes. I grab under his bum, lifting him onto the counter. I take a wad of toilet paper, wiping his mouth. I smile at him, and for once, he doesn't return it. "How ya holdin' up?" He shakes his head. "Not good, huh?" He shakes his head again. I grab his hand, helping him down from the counter. We walk back to his room.

I always liked his room. It's very him. He has pictures of bands like Green Day, Nirvana, and All Time Low pinned to his wall. A few pictures of guitars that he wants line themselves across the far wall. A poster signed by Oliver Sykes, pictures of kittens (yes, he's very punk rock), pictures of me, of us. Basically if he likes it, he puts it on his wall. Especially so he has something to look at for the days where he's stuck in bed. Today looks like one of those days for him. He crawls onto his bed, laying on his back. I can see the pulse in his stomach through his shirt.

"You did too much yesterday." I comment. He groans. "Well, you did. You walked in gym, you tried to run up the stairs at my house, tried to walk home fast. You got yourself worked up. You did too much yesterday."

"It's not too much for other people." He whines. I shake my head at him.

"Michael, you aren't other people. You have to-."

"Take it easy. I know." He snaps.

"Well, you do. It's okay to do stuff, but not so much all at once. It's not good for you."

"Jesus, are you my boyfriend or my doctor?" He sasses.

"I'm your boyfriend who doesn't want you to get hurt." I say, and he rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever, but I can take care of myself thank you very much."

"Obviously not." I mutter.

"Obviously not?"

"Obviously not. If you could take care of yourself, you wouldn't be coughing blood and having...bad...having bad days like this all the time." I say, stuttering over admitting that he's been having bad days. He rolls his eyes again. His stupid green eyes that hold endless emotions.

"I can take care of myself."

"Right." I mock.

"Such a jerk." He huffs, biting his lip before rolling away from me. Great. So now he's mad. Even though he literally has no reason to be mad, he is, because that's what Michael Gordon Clifford does.