Work Text:
MARCH: MICHAEL
I'm watching her again.
Tori.
I know that sounds creepy, and I don't mean it to, I swear, but I can't take my eyes off her. There's just something about her. I've never felt this way about anyone before. And I don't mean that in the typical dramatic teenage way I hear the girls at Higgs prattle on about their latest conquest from Truham. I mean it in the way that this feeling – the way she intrigues me, the admiration and respect I have for her, the way she scares me a little – is completely alien to me. I've liked people before. I've found people attractive before. But Tori… Tori is a whole new phenomenon and I'm fascinated by her.
Would I like to kiss her? Indubitably.
Am I going to? Probably not.
Not yet, anyway.
I get the feeling she wouldn't like that very much. But I like her. A lot. It's just… different.
My lips twitch into a little smile as I watch her with Charlie at the other side of the Springs' dining-kitchen, both cautiously placing blobs of beige food onto shiny paper plates. Someone – probably Mr. Spring – has turned the table and set it against the back wall, where someone – probably Mrs. Spring – has laid out a buffet of party food. A banner proclaiming, “Happy 40th birthday!” has pride of place on the wall above the table.
Tori hates parties. I've only known her for three months, but it didn't take me very long to figure that out. She begged me – albeit in her own, nonchalant Tori way – to come to her mum's party so that she wouldn't be alone, “once Nick and Charlie make their inevitable escape.”
Whatever that means.
I watch as Tori rolls her eyes and Charlie laughs, and Tori's mouth twitches into an approximation of a smile. She doesn't smile much, I've noticed. Charlie seems to be the only person who can get close to making that happen.
She loves him so much.
I know this because she's told me. Since that night – that awful night in January when Charlie hurt himself and I rushed her home to him, she's opened up to me, just a smidge. She's a hard nut to crack is Victoria Spring, keeping herself cocooned in layer upon layer of sarcasm, dark humour and cynicism, but little by little, she's told me things.
She's told me about realising Charlie wasn't eating properly, and the pit of dread in her stomach when she opened his laptop and found a webpage about eating disorders staring back at her.
She's told me about the first time she found him bleeding in the bathroom, and how she helped him clean and dress his cuts.
She’s told me how he made her promise not to tell their parents; how he swore it wouldn't happen again.
She's told me how much she loves her little brother, and how she'd do absolutely anything for him.
She hasn't told me everything, but she's told me enough.
Enough that I know how much Charlie's eating disorder has hurt her, too. She's suffering, right along with him.
It makes my heart ache.
“Is Charlie going to die?”
I startle at the little voice coming from somewhere near my elbow, and look down to locate its owner. There's a mop of curly dark hair about level with my waist, which seems like a logical source of the question. I crouch down and find myself looking into the biggest brown eyes I've ever seen in my life.
“Hi, there,” I say softly. “I'm Michael. What's your name?”
The boy tilts his head curiously to the side. “I'm Oliver,” he says in his little voice. “But you can call me Olly.”
Olly… Ah, the little cousin. Okie dokie.
I extend a hand. “Hi, Olly. It's very nice to meet you.”
Olly takes my hand in his tiny one and shakes it confidently. “Nice to meet you, too.”
I smile at him, and he smiles gappily back, before his forehead twists into a little frown. “So, is Charlie going to die?” he asks.
I nod solemnly. “Death comes for us all eventually, little buddy.”
Olly's dark eyes go wide and his little bottom lip trembles, and I realise belatedly that my usual direct honesty possibly wasn't particularly appropriate here.
Oh bother, I've scared him.
“Er, I mean, only when we're really, really old, though,” I blabber, cursing my complete inability to filter a thought before it pops out of my mouth. “Charlie's not old.”
“He was poorly though,” Olly presses, his little face etched with worry. “In hospital. My mummy told me so. And my nanny went to hospital, and then she died.”
His wide, mahogany eyes peer into mine, and my heart hurts a little bit more as I realise the breadth of the ripple effect of Charlie's illness.
So many people affected.
His parents, his sister, his boyfriend.
I glance over at Nick now, standing by the French doors with Julio chatting animatedly at him. Nick is nodding and smiling in all the right places, but his gaze is on Charlie, watching anxiously as he nibbles his way through his picky plate.
Always watching.
I think about the others in Charlie's life who are watching and worrying.
His friends, his cousins, maybe even his teachers.
Everyone who loves him, actually.
Fuck.
Anorexia is brutal.
It doesn't just affect the patient, but everyone around them, too.
I take a deep breath and return my attention to Olly. “People can go to hospital for lots of different reasons,” I tell him. “Charlie went to get better.”
“Is he getting better?” Olly looks so hopeful, and it makes my heart crack a little more.
My gaze travels back across the kitchen to where Charlie and Tori are still standing near the table. He’s slowly and methodically chewing one of his beige blobs – a sausage roll, maybe? – and he's almost finished what he'd dished himself up. Tori glances down at the gold paper plate and smiles. A real smile, this time.
Suddenly, a warmth blooms in my chest and I feel full of pride for this boy I barely know. I look back at Olly, beaming.
“You know what, kiddo?” I say. “I think he's really trying to turn things around. I think he is getting better.”
Olly returns my grin. “You wanna play Mario Kart?” he asks, my answer clearly sufficient enough reassurance for his seven-year-old curiosity.
I wonder at the resilience of children for just a moment, and then nod.
“Absolutely.”