A Cure For The Heart

Albion was not naïve to life in London. Born and raised in the city in question, he was well acquainted with the bustling streets, the old and rustic buildings, and the ever-present fog.

He was also familiar with how often it rained, which was why he invested in a good umbrella. It was a sleek, functional thing, large enough so that he could share it with his girlfriend, but small enough that he could wrap an arm around Catherine’s waist and listen to her talk about her day in her soft, sweet voice.

However, said umbrella was leaning against the wall in the nook he liked to haunt between classes. The reason he was mentally quibbling over a seemingly trivial detail like this, when he could have simply picked it up tomorrow (most of the other students overlooked that particular corner) was the sudden passing of rain that assaulted him and his girlfriend on their walk home. 

“Oh,” Catherine said in response to the first fat droplet that hit her nose. Within seconds, the single drop became many, and the pair ushered themselves underneath the awning of a shop as thunderclaps sounded in the distance. 

The rain stopped nearly as suddenly as it appeared, within minutes, the sun emerging from the passing clouds. And that should have been that, an insignificant moment in Albion’s life, if not for what happened afterwards.

Which brought him to this moment, staring a hole into the back of a middle-aged woman’s bleach-blonde haircut as she argued with the frazzled cashier about an expired coupon. Or she was trying to return an item purchased a year ago, or something. Normally, he was patient with this sort of thing, but this was an emergency, the wait time and the buzzing of the white LED hanging overhead magnitudes more irritating than normal.

Moreover, it gave Albion more time to ruminate about the events that occurred yesterday, and more time to marinate in the guilt and disgust he felt, and while such activities weren’t unusual for him, this too was distracting. So he took action.

“It’s pretty obvious that you’re not getting anywhere with this, so are you going to continue wasting everyone’s time?” He gestured to the growing line behind them with a flippant wave of his hand.

“Mind your own damned-” The woman puffed up, clearly about to lash back at him, but he leveled her with the most unimpressed stare he could muster. Todd told him once that it could freeze lava instantaneously.

Such a description was obvious hyperbole, but it got the job done. The woman left, after realizing that the situation had become two-versus-one. Her fingers were probably itching to write an epic-length complaint on Facebook based on this incident, condemning the younger generation.

Whatever.

“Hey, thanks man,” the cashier, a teenager, said. “That lady was a real-”

Albion turned his sub-zero gaze onto him, slamming his basket onto the counter.

“-ah.” He seemed to have gotten the message, and hastily bagged and rang up the items. Loot in hand, Albion left the store, hair billowing behind him as he dashed home. It was a nicer day than yesterday, still chilly but sunny and dry. Not that it mattered.

 Several passerby glared at him as he elbowed his way through clusters of people - but it was their own fault for taking up the entire width of the pavement. He couldn’t get home fast enough. At the entrance door of his loft, Albion took a moment to gather himself, so as to avoid waking Catherine up if she happened to be sleeping. 

This concern turned out to be for nothing, as she was sitting at their kitchen table, a shawl draped over her shoulders. She sipped absentmindedly at a mug of something hot and steaming. Her hair, which was normally pinned up with a white jasmine flower, tumbled loose down her back.

Through Albion’s rose-colored gaze, the messiness of her hair and the grease on her face, having just woken up, may as well have been nonexistent. She looked like a princess to him.

“Cathy,” he said, still out of breath from his sprint home.

“Al,” she said, smiling warmly at him, in that gorgeous way that made him feel like the only person in the world. “Welcome h-” her greeting was cut off by a hacking, full body cough. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth in order to muffle the sound.

Every shudder sent a dagger of guilt through Albion. Frowning, he dropped his back and rushed forward to rub small circles on her back until her coughs ceased. With his other hand, he picked up the cup (a honey lemon tea based on its fragrance) by the rim, its handle facing her. 

“Thanks,” Catherine said, grabbing the cup and taking another sip.

“I thought you were going to sleep when I left,” he said, the question implied.

“Oh… I tried, but my throat was hurting…sorry,” Catherine replied, looking balefully upwards at him.

He frowned. “What are you apologizing for? I should be the one who’s sorry…” 

And there they were, the feelings of Self Loathing™ bubbling up again. But his feelings didn’t matter right now, not when he could be helping Catherine.

“Here,” he said, picking the bag from the ground and upending it onto the counter. “These should help you feel better.

“Thank you for getting them for me,” she said, grasping a packet of strawberry lozenges with delight.

“Are you hungry? I’ll make soup.” 

She unwrapped a pink candy and popped it into her mouth. “Would it be alright if I watched you cook?”

His first instinct was to refuse, and exile her to bed, but he realized that Catherine probably wanted company more than she wanted to actually watch him. Being sick alone was miserable, after all. And Albion could relate; just talking with Catherine for a few moments caused his stress and anxiety to evaporate.

“Alright,” he said, looking for an elastic to tie his hair back with. “But if you start feeling worse, you have to go back to bed to rest. Please.”

She smiled. “Okay, I will.”

They settled into a peaceful calm. Albion chopped vegetables and hummed a melody he had been considering for a new song as the soup stock simmered on the stove. While he swore that Catherine hadn’t moved from her seat, she had somehow conjured a sketchbook to her hands.

She considered him, the occasional sniffle punctuating the rhythmic chopping of his knife.

“Thank you for staying with me today,” Catherine said, her pencil moving methodically even through the haze of a cold. 

“Of course,” he said. “After what I did…”

The scritch-scratch of her pencil stopped. Albion looked up from his handiwork. He saw Catherine staring at him in puzzlement, her head tilted to one side and stray strands of hair falling to frame her face.

“What do you mean by that? What did you do, Al?”

His shoulders stiffened. 

“Well…” he explained it to her. His forgetting of the umbrella, so that they had to hide under the store awning until the rainstorm passed. And right afterwards, the car that came speeding through the street by them, drenching Catherine in frigid water from head to toe. And then Catherine waking up with a blazing hot fever the next morning.

A rational part of him understood that it was more the prick of a driver’s fault, and whoever Catherine happened to catch the bug from originally. But the irrational, wildly protective part of him was also angry at himself for forgetting the umbrella in the first place, and triggering the chain of events in the first place.

It sounded ridiculous when he said it out loud, but it didn’t change the way he felt.

“Albion…” As Albion continued to explain, Catherine got up from her seat in order to stand close to him. “I-it’s not your fault at all. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he replied, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“Besides that, can’t be sure if I would have gotten sick anyway. And I’m sure you would take care of me regardless. I really appreciate that.”

The normally shy girl’s gaze was steadfast as she took his hand.

“S-so don’t feel sad, please. I know you can’t control it, b-but…”

Her hands were so warm against his. It was like magic, the way Catherine could calm the storm in his heart. 

Like magnetic attraction, he felt himself being drawn to her. His hand cupped her cheek and he leaned over her, bringing his face close.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her sketchbook laid flat on the table. On its spread pages, there were several objects: a stalk of celery, a strawberry lozenge laying on an open wrapper, a porcelain mug. He saw himself, standing at attention with a knife in hand, the expression on his face impossibly gentle.

It always surprised Albion, seeing a physical representation of how Catherine saw him, care and detail put into every line on the page.

Truly, Albion felt like the luckiest bloke in the world. 

“U-uh-! Y-you shouldn’t,” Catherine said, her face growing flush in the lovely way that it often did. “I’d hate for you to get sick t-too.”

He ran his thumb over her lower lip.

“But I really want to,” he muttered, voice low. “Can’t I?” 

She was tense under his hand, eyes averted from his gaze, her skin hot to the touch. Slowly, bashfully, she gave a single nod.

How cute. Endearingly, addictively cute.

Albion leaned over, kissed his girlfriend, and all was right with the world.