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To keep all the memories safe and sound, to recall them when it is due, to transmit them and save other cells with his wide knowledge, these are his duties.
But sometimes it is just too much, and the bargain becomes tiring, stressful, and he, he was a Memory Cell who was born and taught to treasure what ancients conserved and passed on him.
Sometimes he does not feel a cell, he just feels an invisible demon that sits on his chest, laughing while his ribs hurt and the sheets and his t-shirt are drenched in cold sweat, the cotton sticking uncomfortably to his slim shoulders.
It is not surprising that he feels his hands trembling, nor it is the heavy lump stuck in his throat.
It is normality, even if it seems like - and he does not know how it is possible - the air is rarer and rarer, his headache stronger and stronger, more and more and always more, until it is too much to bear and tears suddenly spill out.
He feels like he is about to vomit, but a hand shyly sneaks out of the blue sheets and covers his chest, caressing his sternum with slender fingers he wants to kiss in silent thanks.
B Cell's body is warm and solid against his bony hip, and his hand is gentle, when he traces incoherent patterns on his hidden, hot skin.
It is kinda embarassing, mainly because he feels sweaty and gross and disgusting, but B Cell does not seem to care at all.
His index finger still brushes against his abdomen and his soft lips press a delicate kiss on his shoulder.
There is a hint of irritation in his voice - "go to sleep, Memo" - but Memory Cell knows he is just tired.
He can not blame him, the clock strikes two at morning, so he silently slips an arm around his shoulders, huffing a breathy laugh when he hears B Cell humming happily and snuggling against his side, and closes his eyes.
This time, there is no demon squeezing his chest.