He hears Sylvie’s footsteps sidling away, dragging wet shoe soles squeakily across the floor until the sound fades out and all Michael can hear is the clacking of his own teeth. When she comes back, she’s ditched the towel and replaced it with a jumper; one that’s old and worn but still thick, the wool’s clashing colours and patterns making Michael blink a bit. There’s another bundle of fabric in her hands, and she holds it out to him wordlessly. The second he opens his mouth, the usual “it’s fine” just on the tip of his tongue, she silences him with a look. “You’re shivering. I don’t want to hear you bitching about how it’s my fault you got pneumonia, okay?” She’s trying hard to keep her voice steady, Michael can tell. He tries not to smile, presses his lips together to act like he’s been properly scolded, and pulls the wool over his head. It’s soft and a bit musty, the colours more muted than the ones that adorn Sylvie’s, and the sleeves are noticeably too short. Still, it’s warm, and if Sylvie’s trying then so should he.
Fight Club, thatblondebitch