#chris&celia

"I know it's not right to say, but...sometimes, I quite like you like this."

Celia's words come into Chris's ears as a soft croon, her hand stroking his overheated face and sweat soaked hair soothingly. He breathes out shakily, but despite the pain radiating up through his limbs, he finds himself smiling a little, her tone washing over him more than her words.

"Mama," he mumbles, weakly lifting a hand for her. "'m...'m..."

Celia shushes him, her hand trailing down to cup his cheek, her thumb rubbing over his feverish, pallid skin. "My poor darling," she continues, her voice sickeningly sweet. "You're so good for me when you're sick, aren't you?"

Chris hums lowly, tilting his face further into her palm. She doesn't get like this often—sweet and gentle, touching him like he's something to be loved. Normally she's more clinical, her touch impersonal as she checks his temperature, gives him his pills, helps him bathe...he relies on her for quite a bit, really, so it's not surprising she can't always indulge him in affection like this. Still though, it's nice when he gets it, these rare moments where she's more his mother than his nurse.

"You're so weak," she says, soft, like it's a compliment. "So helpless. You're so lucky to have such a loyal mum like me, who's willing to stick it out. Most women would consider you too high maintenance, but not me. I'm willing to sacrifice a lot for you, Chris, don't forget that."

He nods faintly, as best he can with his head feeling so heavy. She'd just given him his medicine, and that always drains him a bit—he doesn't think it's fair that the thing that's supposed to make him better makes him feel so damn tired, but Mama always assures him that that just means it's working. Sometimes, the things that make you feel better make you feel worse for a bit, something she's always quick to remind him of when he complains. He tries not to complain so much nowadays, though. She's only doing what's best for him.

"Anyway," Celia says, bringing him back to the present. "I have some things to do, so I'll be leaving you here for a bit. Can you get some rest for me while I'm gone?"

Chris whimpers before he can stop himself, opening his eyes sluggishly. He knows he's being selfish, but a part of him hates how often she leaves him alone, knowing how much he needs her. He reaches out for her weakly, trying to gently grab onto her arm or even the hem of her blouse, but she grabs his wrist before he can reach her, placing it back against his chest.

"Chris. Don't be difficult," she says, voice still sweet but with an edge of that harshness he so dreads to hear from her. "I'm doing this for you. I have to leave to pick up your new medication."

"I th-thought," he starts, words slurring as his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, "th-thought this was the new medi-medica—"

"It's one of them," Celia says, mercifully cutting him off before he can embarrass himself further. "But with your condition, well...we just need more than one course to make you well again. You're quite sick, you know."

He does know. He whines, but nods again, his head moving helplessly against his pillowcase. "'m s'rry," he mumbles, eyes growing wet with tears. "D-don' mean'ta make it so hard..."

"Oh, I know, I know," Celia soothes, pulling the blanket up to cover his chest. "That's why I need you to sleep for me now. We won't know if this dose is working until you get some rest and let it work, alright?"

Chris breathes out shakily, letting his eyes fall closed. "Mama?" he asks, voice tiny.

"Yes, dear?"

For a long moment, it feels like all he can do is breathe. Finally, he quietly asks, "D-don' wanna be difficul' still, b-but can you stay til..."

He trails off, taken aback by the hand in his hair. "Yes, Chris?" she prompts, soft voice tinged with irritation.

He wilts a little, and shame tinges his voice as he mumbles, "J-jus' til I fall 'sleep..."

Celia's quiet for a long moment, continuing to stroke his hair rhythmically. Eventually, though, she sighs, as though he's asked something truly exhausting of her. Maybe he has, he's not sure.

"Okay, darling," she says, sounding put upon about it. "Just this once. The chemist doesn't stay open all day, you know."

"I-I know," Chris mumbles, a few stray tears escaping. "'m s'rry, Mama."

Celia sighs heavily again, and Chris can see the way she shakes her head, even with his eyes closed. "I suppose you can't help it," she says, her nails digging slightly into his scalp as she continues to stroke his hair. "Being a bit...needy. It's only natural, since you're sick. Still, you really ought to not make it a habit."

"I won't," he whimpers, relaxing a little into the mattress regardless. "'m s'rry Mama."

"Sssshh."

Obediently, he falls quiet at her shushing, letting himself be soothed by her gentle petting. He doesn't deserve it—he doesn't deserve her, and all the things she does for him. She's really too good to him.

Those thoughts carry him to sleep, a thank you and a declaration of love dying on his tongue. He plans only to say the former to her later, knowing she’ll appreciate his gratitude, but the latter will be kept to himself, like a secret. No use in saying that he loves her when she won't say it back, after all.

- -

The ocean out in front of him is vast and choppy, tossing his little ship around helplessly.

Chris's stomach churns with the movement of the sea, a steadily rising nausea coming over him like the waves he's currently sailing on. He's not sure how much of it is seasickness, and how much of it is sheer terror—terror he's struggling to keep under wraps, lest his crew see just how fucked they really are. The faceless men around him shoot him concerned glances with their smooth, eyeless visages, well aware of how dire their plight is, and though he knows this, Chris sends them attempts at reassuring nods anyway, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat.

"Captain," one of them says, sending a nervous glance to the waves in front of them. "The sea—"

He doesn't get to finish before a wave suddenly hits them, tall and unavoidable even if Chris had noticed it before it came. Chris feels himself getting swept away, and he shouts, calling for help he knows won't come. There's no one to help him. Anyone who could, anyone who would've cared enough to, is getting swept away with him, his crew getting carried away alongside him. Tears spring to Chris's eyes as he realizes he's failed them, and the pain in his stomach spikes, a cramp that would make him double over if he was still upright.

He doesn't get to dwell on that long, however, until he's plunging into the jarringly cold water surrounding them. A wail dies in his throat as his mouth fills with water, blocking any further sound from escaping him as he gags and splutters, attempting to clear his airways with each convulsion of his chest. Anything that he manages to cough up is quickly replaced, however, as the sea presses in all around him, the inescapable pressure making his chest tighten around the liquid slowly filling his lungs. Tears sting his eyes, but if any escape, he isn't able to tell as they're quickly lost to the saltwater carrying him.

Mama, he calls out in his mind, as though she'd be able to hear him—as though she'd be able to get to him out here. Still, a hopelessly hopeful part of him can't help but call for her, Mama, come save me!

He coughs again, but it's getting harder to breathe. He's going to die out here, he realizes. He's going to die alone and scared and without his Mama here to hold him and tell him he's going to be an angel in heaven if he dies here and—

—and suddenly there are hands pulling him from the water, warm and solid against his clammy skin. He feels himself get rolled onto his side, somehow on solid ground now, and this time when he coughs, water comes out. He sobs a little once his throat is clear, and then vomits, more water coming out of him, this time accompanied with sea gunk.

"There you go, my angel. Get it all out."

Is that...is that Mama? Chris whimpers, relieved to hear her voice—but how did she get out all the way out here?

"Sssshh," she soothes, her hand feeling real and alive in his hair. "You're alright. Just breathe."

Chris gasps, eyes fluttering open to see Celia hovering over him and a trail of vomit leading from his mouth, yellowish and liquidy from his consistently empty stomach. He whines loudly, and then convulses, another wave of bile pouring out of his mouth and spilling onto the pillow next to him.

"I know, love, I know," Celia croons, brushing back his hair and rubbing his shoulder. "Just let it out, and then we'll get you in the tub again, alright?"

Chris whimpers, but he can't really protest that plan—his pajamas feel a bit damp, and he can't tell what of it is sweat or...other, less desirable fluids. He lets his eyes fall shut and thinks of the sea from his dream again, the way the cold saltwater washed over him, and feels grateful to at least be on dry land as he coughs and sputters his way through his little nausea spell, unfortunately not that uncommon at this point in his life. He doesn't usually choke during them, though, and he can't help but whimper again as his stomach contracts and spews up more acid, the vomit stinging the sores already formed in the back of his throat as it comes up. All the while, Celia murmurs to him, soft words of reassurance as he retches, and he soaks up the affection as much as he can while he's in this state, never knowing when he's going to receive this softness again.

"Mama," he mumbles, once his stomach has finally settled enough for him to speak without bringing more of the sparse fluids in his abdomen up, "don' feel very good..."

"I know, my angel," Celia croons again, now reaching down to help guide him upright. "You'll feel better once we get you in the bath. Oh, and fortunately, I just brought back your new medication, and that'll have you feeling right as rain as well, won't it?"

The idea of putting anything else on his empty, ravaged stomach makes Chris feel lightheaded, mouth watering with the threat of more vomit. Still, he knows better than to argue, especially after the scare he must've given her. He wonders how she deals with it, the constant brushes with death his illnesses give him. She never seems outwardly afraid for him, though he knows she must be, given how much time and effort she puts into keeping him alive. If he had the energy to, he'd feel guilty for it, but right now, he barely has the energy to keep himself sitting, instead leaning heavily against his mother once she's got him upright.

"Mama," he groans, trembling as she starts to pull him to his feet, his legs unwilling to support him. "Mama, don' wanna be sick 'nymore...'m tired..."

"Sssshh, I know," Celia soothes, holding him around the waist as she guides him toward the bathroom, exercising a surprising amount of strength as she holds him upright almost entirely on her own. "Hopefully the pills help this time, but...oh, you've been my sick baby for so long, I just can't imagine you any other way..."

Chris whimpers, legs nearly collapsing beneath him. Baby. He doesn't get dubbed with that title often, but it always makes his chest warm, a weird fuzziness rushing over his head when she says it. He lifts his heavy, trembling arms, hoping to cling to her before they reach the bathroom, but before he can muster up enough strength for it, she's dropping him unceremoniously on the toilet, setting him aside as she preps his bath. A few stray tears escape his eyes at the loss of contact, and he curls around himself with a groan, clutching at his still aching stomach.

"Do try not to vomit again, Chris," Celia says, her voice not cold per se, but losing the warmth it had not even a minute ago. "But if you do, you know where the wastebasket is."

Chris whimpers, less at the nausea rolling over him and more at the clinical neutrality in her tone. Back to business as usual, he supposes. It had been a nice run of her rare gentleness, longer than she normally affords him, but he should've known that it was inevitably going to end. Still, despite his disappointment, he does his best to follow her instructions and not puke again—it's not too hard, even for as nauseous as he is. Anything he could've thrown up has already been expelled, so he just closes his eyes and against the dizziness washing over him, letting the sound of the tub filling keep him distracted. The warm water will feel good on his aches, he knows this from experience.

"Mama," he mumbles, once his mouth is no longer full of saliva, a threat of vomiting his body won't follow through with. "Mama, thank'ou..."

"Don't speak, Chris," Celia chides, not harsh, but not kind either. "Not until we're sure you won't be sick again."

"But 'm...I don' think 'm gonna..."

"Chris."

This time, there is harshness to the words. He's annoyed her again. He slams his mouth shut and whimpers, and then swallows back any other noises, feeling more than seeing her annoyed stare with his eyes still shut. He flinches slightly when he feels her come over—physical punishments aren't common, but he's never sure when he's aggravated her enough to draw one out of her—but she merely starts to help him out of his pajamas, wordlessly pulling the hem of his shirt up. Chris instinctively moves his arms up to help her, the movements routine by now, and in no time at all he's undressed and being guided into the tub.

He doesn't open his eyes again until he feels the water surrounding him, warm and clean and a sharp contrast to the cold salt water from his dream. The memory of it makes him shiver even in the heat surrounding him, and he pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around himself, keeping his eyes on the steam rising up around him rather than on his mother fluttering around him.

After what feels like a long silence, she speaks up again. "Chris. I do appreciate the gratitude."

Chris perks up a little at that, finally looking up at her with round eyes. "Really?"

"Of course," Celia murmurs, crouching down by the tub next to him. "It's rare that a boy understands the sacrifices his mother makes for him. But you...you've always been so obedient for me."

Tears well up in Chris's eyes at the praise, and his breath quickens, squeezing his eyes shut as she runs a damp washcloth over his shoulders. "You do so much for me," he mumbles, and before he can stop himself, before he can remember why it's a bad idea, he finds the words slipping out of his mouth, "I love you, Mama..."

Celia is quiet for a long, terrifying moment, no acknowledgement of the words he's just spoken. She doesn't even stop washing him, but that's a good sign—at least he didn't upset her too badly. Still, she must be a little upset with him given her silence, and the thought makes his stomach start to turn again unpleasantly.

"'m sorry," he mumbles, dropping his face into his knees. "'m sorry...sorry...s—"

"Quiet, now, Chris," Celia interrupts, cutting off his next apology. "Let's just get your bath finished so you can go back to bed, alright?"

Chris whimpers, nodding weakly. He'll probably be moved to the guest room while his sheets are being cleaned, but he doesn't mind too much. It's always nice to have a change of scenery, no matter how brief, though he often does find himself wishing for more sometimes. Maybe if he feels better tomorrow, and if he asks really nicely, he'll get to sit on the couch and watch a little telly. Maybe Mama will even sit with him, and show him one of her old movies. That would be nice. He won't get any of that if he doesn't get better, though, or if he's not good. So far, it feels like he's failing on both fronts.

He tries to push the thought out of his mind—the last thing his mother needs is for him to accidentally induce one of his crying fits—and the rest of the bath passes in a half aware haze, exhaustion taking over once again now that his stomach doesn't hurt so much. The warm water feels really nice, after all, and a few times, Chris nearly finds himself drifting off, though he does his best to fight off the urge, since Mama can't lift him out if he falls asleep. He's not keen on the idea of waking up to a cooled tub of water if she has to leave him in again, nor on the idea of said cooled water making him sicker. It's far too easy to set off his various illnesses, and Mama would be upset if he caused them to get worse by doing something stupid and easily avoidable like falling asleep where he's not supposed to.

He is a bit relieved when she finally pulls the drain, finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He trembles as the water rushes away, leaving him exposed to the cold air around him, but a towel is soon draped over him, soft and fluffy and protecting him against the chill that forever permeates the house. He whines a bit as he's guided up to his feet, but the way he's shushed quickly quiets him, and this time he wastes no time in latching onto his mother as best he can with sore, trembling arms, not wanting to miss his chance to cling to her while it's still acceptable to do so.

"Guest room, Mama?" he asks, voice quiet and a little shaky, matching the way his legs tremble beneath him.

"Yes, Christopher," Celia says, a note of something he can't quite identify in her voice. "Can't exactly have you sleeping in soiled sheets, can we?"

Chris shakes his head, whimpering at the thought. That'd be worse than sleeping in the bathtub, he's sure. The bathtub gets pretty cold, but at least it's clean.

"Exactly, my angel," Celia says in response to his displeased sounds, leading him in the direction of his new sleeping arrangements. "We wouldn't want to undo my hard work of getting you all clean by putting you back in your own mess, would we?"

Oh, he said part of that out loud, hadn't he? Chris flushes a bit at the realization, but he still shakes his head dutifully in response, breathing out shakily as his stomach starts to churn again. Movement always disrupts it when he's already been sick, so he's not going to worry too much about getting sick again unless he feels the saliva start to swarm his mouth or the bile tease at the back of his throat, the tell tale signs that he's going to retch. He knows them all intimately by now, even if the whims of the rest of his body still feel confusing and out of reach.

Thankfully, the trip to the guest room passes by in a half aware haze, most of Chris's focus on his sensitive, flipping stomach. It's a relief once he's sat down on the bed again, and he sighs as he flops onto his side on the mattress, soft and comfortable beneath him.

"Chris," Celia scolds after a long moment, and he looks up through his lashes to see her standing above him, bundle of clothes in arm.

"Sorry Mama," he mumbles, pushing himself upright again on trembling arms. "'m tired..."

"I know, dear, which is why I don't understand why you're making this so much harder on me," she huffs, coaxing a pang of guilt into his ravaged tummy. "I just need you to sit up for a bit longer, are you capable of doing that for me?"

Chris flushes in shame, and he nods shakily, biting his bottom lip nervously. "I can," he says softly. "Sorry, Mama."

Celia huffs, and Chris braces himself, wincing as she starts to guide his tender limbs into a fresh pair of pajamas. It's not like she's trying to cause him pain, of course. She's just trying to get the job done quickly. It's not her fault if it hurts a bit, if every little movement makes his sore limbs ache dully, so he does his best to let her work, trying not to fuss it. The warm water from his bath had helped a bit, but the pain never fully goes away, the aches from his illnesses a constant background noise he can never entirely block out.

It's a relief, then, when he's finally laid back down on the bed, guided by his mother's hand. There's the ghost of affection in the gentleness of the gesture, and it bleeds into the way she tucks him in as well. He soaks it up as best he can, letting out the smallest of whimpers as the blanket is pulled up to his chin.

"There you go," Celia hums, not quite warm, but Chris clings to the vestiges of it in her tone anyway. "Are you going to get some sleep for me, now?"

Chris breathes out shakily, but he nods, his exhaustion and his mother's pointed stare giving him no other choices. "Yes Mama," he breathes, curling up childishly in the sheets. "Um...wait..."

Celia pauses on her way to the door, turning on her heel and looking at Chris with an uncomfortably neutral expression. "Yes, my angel?"

Chris breathes out, fighting the urge to suck at the edge of his blanket, a nervous habit his mother heavily disapproves of. "What if I have another nightmare?" he asks, voice quiet. "O-or I get sick 'n almost choke again?"

"You're not a child Chris, you can handle another nightmare," Celia says sternly, before her voice and face soften just slightly. "But you don't have to worry about choking again. I'll always be here to protect you, to save you. You know that."

Chris nods, feeling oddly cold under the layers of blankets. He wishes his mother would come closer, take him in her arms like he's a kid again and hold him to her chest, but he knows it's a big ask. It's as she's said, he's too old for that kind of thing—he's just turned fourteen, and Mama's made a point to let him know that because he's not a child anymore, he's too old for her to let him curl up in her lap just because he's not feeling well. Not that she held him much when he was younger, of course—she was too busy trying to take care of him, checking his vitals and bringing him water and tea and running to the chemist for his medicine. Still, sometimes, when he was really sick, she used to pull him close, let him lay his head against her shoulder as she held him and rocked him. It hurts to think that he's not going to get those occasional bouts of affection anymore, but he supposes that since he has been sick for so long, he should be able to handle the stress of it on his own now.

Still, he tries not to pout as he cuddles the blanket closer, trying to imagine it as a pair of arms embracing him. "I know Mama," he murmurs, the words a ghost of a breath on his lips. "A-and thank you…you really do so much f'r me..."

"Yes, I do, don't I?" Celia hums, sounding almost pleased—Chris can almost believe she's pleased with him, though he knows it's likely not the case. "And I have more I must do for you. Can you do something for me in turn?"

Chris nods, already knowing what she's going to ask. "Yes Mama," he mumbles in answer, letting his eyes droop closed. "I'll get some sleep f'r you..."

"Good, my angel," Celia says, and he can hear the light switch click as she shrouds him in darkness. "I'll be back for another round of medication later. I would give it to you now, but I have to sort your new pills with the others before I know what to give you...besides, I don't think the painkillers from this morning have quite left your system yet, anyway..."

Chris isn't so sure about that, given the way his aches have only sharpened since his bath. Still, he knows better than to argue with her, especially about his medication. She knows far more than he does about the kind of treatment he needs—Mama knows best, just like she always tells him.

"Okay, Mama," he breathes, clinging to the softness of his pillow. "Thank you. Thank you for takin' care 'f my medicine, Mama."

"Of course, my angel," Celia says, voice so quiet it's barely audible. "Sleep now. I'll be back to take care of you later, like always."

"Like always," Chris repeats faintly, a weird feeling squirming in his chest and tummy at the words. He thinks it's love, maybe, wriggling around, disallowed from escaping him through his throat and tongue—he's certainly not repeating that mistake again so soon.

"Yes, dear," Celia says, still so quiet, yet effectively breaking him out of his thoughts regardless. "Sleep well."

Chris nods, suppressing a whimper as the door clicks shut behind her, a quiet announcement that she's left him alone in the dark room. He curls in tighter on himself, feeling himself tremble slightly. Despite how exhausted he is, sleep suddenly feels far away, the dull ache in his body overwhelming in the darkness of the room. He almost wishes for something to do—a book to read, a show to watch, even something childish like toys to play with would be a welcome distraction. But he knows better than to ask for them, and that it's better if he merely focuses on resting, even if his mind is racing a million miles a minute and making it hard to drift off again.

It feels like ages until his body finally catches up with the situation, his heart rate slowing enough for him to lay under the covers without fidgeting around restlessly. He knows it probably won't be long until his mother wakes him up again for his medicine, given how long he laid there awake, but she asked him to rest for her. He's determined to fulfill that request, even if it's only for a pitifully brief amount of time.

He tries not to feel like a complete failure as he finally nods off again, hoping that the unease won't bring the nightmares back around. Despite his mother's words, he doesn't think that he is equipped to handle another one, and he really doesn't want to disappoint her again. The last thing he ever wants to do is disappoint her, even if it feels harder and harder not to, the older and sicker he gets.