Spirit-Sensitive | BxB

9: izzy

Andrew Guzman would never, ever intentionally hurt Michael Cross— his only friend in the world— but somehow, it had happened, and he did not know what to do.

He found that he had trouble remembering the assault at all. He knew that he had shouted an awful lot (he felt that he should be forgiven for reacting strongly to being told that he was dead). His throat was still a bit sore from the argument. His head had started spinning, and everything had gone black, and then, the next thing he knew, Michael had thrown something at him, and there had been a brief but stinging pain as he'd snapped back to his senses to find that Michael had been injured.

Michael had retreated from the scene of Andrew's apartment after calling someone on his phone— his younger sister Isabelle, apparently— and gone back to his own home within the confines of the building. He hadn't spared a word for Andrew as he had grabbed a few items and crawled into his bed to wait. He had yet to properly explain anything.

If he was being honest, Andrew felt that he understood the reason for Michael's prolonged silence. On top of the pain he was in (it was obvious that he was hurting, even if Michael's pride made him attempt to mask it) and the fear that he felt for his own safety, Michael was, quite simply, angry. Angry and hurt. He hadn't expected Andrew to harm him. That much had been plainly visible in his eyes.

With that guilty thought gnawing at his stomach, Andrew sat cross-legged on the creaky wooden floorboards of Michael's apartment, right beside his bed, and waited for whatever backup they were waiting for together. Andrew was sure that he'd have some explaining to do. Even if he didn't actually understand what had happened.

He gulped as he observed the whole of his friend. The unease in his gut grew stronger. Michael looked like a different man this way— smaller, younger, and much more frail. He was pale (more so than usual) and his forehead was beaded with cold sweat. His closed eyes fluttered as he clutched the "infected" arm, wrapped in red string and what looked like rosary beads, to his heaving chest. He hadn't said a word in what felt like forever. Andrew knew that he was supposed to be patient, but he couldn't take the silence any longer.

"Michael? Did I... Did I really do that to you?"

His chest ached as the words left his lungs. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a foolish question, but Andrew really couldn't recall much. It felt like someone else's barely recollected nightmare. Michael's hand reflexively tightened around the affected limb.

"It's not as bad as it appears to be," he said. "Preventative care should stop it from becoming—"

"That doesn't answer my question!" Andrew slapped his hands against his own knees for emphasis. Michael seemed too tired to be startled. Andrew wanted to protest the fact that Michael had the audacity to insist he was okay, as if Andrew didn't have eyes and couldn't see him twitching and gritting his teeth in discomfort.

"...I'm only being cautious," Michael finished. "The injury could heal itself with home remedies, but I don't take chances with—" there was a barely noticeable pause as something dark flashed through his eyes, "with this particular ailment."

"You called it the chills," Andrew recalled aloud. He remembered that much. He couldn't decide if the name Michael had given his affliction was silly or terrifying. Maybe it was both. Either way, it wasn't any disease that Andrew had ever heard of. "What does that even mean?" I'm sorry, he didn't yet dare to say. I'm so sorry.

"It might not mean anything," Michael deadpanned. "It doesn't look severe. Spirits are strange things. If they get too angry or lose themselves, they can harm the living. Think of the chills as a spiritual infection."