nana

Now, that is to say, quite the frightful exaggeration of his person. Reality is often disappointing. In place of an erection was a wrapped cushion of diminutive size.

Supple, and particularly soft.

His head laid on the backrest, eyes peeled to the ceiling. His chest rose and lowered tidally, and much like the sea, he tried to pacify those waves, pondering about nothing else but the sensation of your hand. Your fingers, precisely. Index and thumb molded over his clothed length, rubbing. Rubbing slowly. Kneading over the fabric.

Another wave of pleasure bristled from his belly, and upwards, blooming into pain. And even then, he was still supple. Softly formed to the touch.

“Ah, I see,” You hummed—your position was on the ground and between his knees.

“Do you?” He panted when the two fingers turned into three, gliding across his upper length and down, rounding the buldge towards his balls.

“Mhm,” You stretched out your fingers, placed your palm on his bulge, molding across the plump surface and squeezed, tight. He cried out, trembling in his seat as your fingers groped his floppy cock.

“Not hard, yet?” You asked airily, eyes twinkling with a certain mischief that poked his bristled nerves.

“If I were,” He gritted out, “I wouldn’t be tossing and turning like an invalid.”

“Ah, the invalid of what—not being able to get an erection?”You soothed him with gentle strokes of your palm, “Negative talk isn’t allowed. We don’t do that here.”

You squeezed him again as if he were mere cushion and he threw his head back.

“You’re quite wonderfully built, if you catch my meaning.”

Now, that is to say, quite the frightful exaggeration of his person. Reality is often disappointing. In place of an erection was a wrapped cushion of diminutive size.

Supple, and particularly soft.

His head laid on the backrest, eyes peeled to the ceiling. His chest rose and lowered tidally, and much like the sea, he tried to pacify those waves, pondering about nothing else but the sensation of your hand. Your fingers, precisely. Index and thumb molded over his clothed length, rubbing. Rubbing slowly. Kneading over the fabric.

Another wave of pleasure bristled from his belly, and upwards, blooming into pain. And even then, he was still supple. Softly formed to the touch.

“Ah, I see,” You hummed—your position was on the ground and between his knees.

“Do you?” He panted when the two fingers turned into three, gliding across his upper length and down, rounding the buldge towards his balls.

“Mhm,” You stretched out your fingers, placed your palm on his bulge, molding across the plump surface and squeezed, tight. He cried out, trembling in his seat as your fingers groped his floppy cock.

“Not hard, yet?” You asked airily, eyes twinkling with a certain mischief that poked his bristled nerves.

“If I were,” He gritted out, “I wouldn’t be tossing and turning like an invalid.”

“Ah, the invalid of what—not being able to get an erection?”You soothed him with gentle strokes of your palm, “Negative talk isn’t allowed. We don’t do that here.”

You squeezed him again as if he were mere cushion and he threw his head back.

“You’re quite wonderfully built, if you catch my meaning.”

You recounted a story, not exactly medical tattle—he was beneath that or so he thought— occurring occurred around two years back during your residency. Prior to this was The Negotiaion, all the hush hush aspects of his blood-fest plugged up nicely and sealed—never again emerging to witness the light of days.

“I thought I was going to be gutted,” Your eyes were saucer wide and your voice conspiratorial, cheeks stuffed with bread.

Higuruma had been raising the rim of the coffee mug to his lips when he stilled mid-way, and set it down carefully instead.

“I see,” His expression remained neutral, “And what warranted this sort of conjecture?”

“It’s nothing big. Just a minor misunderstanding I had,” You said, “A few years back I got a patient—” You paused, recalling the regulations mid-way and continued, “Let’s call her, Ranger.”

“Ranger.” He said flatly because apparently monikering patients with ridiculous titles is how one combats The Policies. He wasn’t comparing. Yours wasn’t the worst, but neither it was the best when, in Kusukabe’s case, he referred to them as inanimate objects during hearsay.

He should probably do something about that.

“Why not? She’s dressed all yellow too, like Yellow Ranger.” You went on, “Are you going to listen or?”

“I never said I wasn’t going to.”

“Yeah, but you just gave me that look.”

“What look.”

“The look that clearly says I’m big, I’m bad and I’m your boss and I am above insignificant tattle tales.”

He was giving you a look just not for the reason you mentioned. He took in a deep breath, adjusted in his seat and said, “I think it is wise that, if you are not adroit to the simplest level of deducing someone’s mind then you should bother not try at all.”

“Whatever you say, ChatGpt.”

His neck flushed, “I’m not—”

.

PEACE TALKS were made. Diplomatic relations renewed. You apologized for calling him ChatGpt, he accepted begrudgingly—went inside to the mart for brief recollection of his thoughts, which just meant buying coffee—and so went on the discussion.

You’ve been going on and on for hours, now—a Raconteur of the modern century, in green pastel crocks and arm warmers, unspooling every anecdote from its notch of yarn, thread by thread. Ambiguously, the thought of cutting it short hit him. His schedule wasn’t full—there were no meetings or patients to meets, so he didn’t.

“I was told to go in and find a certain Miss,” You began, pinching off puffs of bread, “which is all you have to know about her at the moment, and I found her in her room.”

“Where else would you have,” He rubbed his face, dreading whatever colossal blunder you’d make.

“I gave her the usuals,” You kneaded the bread with your index and thumb into tiny compact balls, “what we found in her blood test this morning—some other of this and some other of that. And I told her about how we’re going to have to treat her for pneumonia.”

You remembered that day—striding down the corridor, clipboard in hand, smiling primly at your new post as someone’s designated Nurse. 

“Her lungs showed a lot of,” You trailed off, vaguely screen-wiping the air with your hands, “activity if that would be the word I’m using.”

“Activity.” He repeated. Was that unfortunately the most medical accurate you can think of?

You popped one bread-ball into your mouth, “Just a bunch of white stuff clouding her lungs?”

He closed his eyes. Hemothorax, his mind supplied, accumulation of blood within the pleural cavity. Junior Nurse, everyone. Junior Nurse.He made a gesture for you to go on, “And then, I assume you have detected more abnormals in the scan later on.”

“Not really,” You said, a little abashed, “just that when I came back for my rounds—the bed was empty. I looked around. She wasn’t in the bathroom either,  or even in the storage closet. And I was like, wow, that can’t be right. It’s not like someone stole her mid daylight and wheeled her else where. So I went over I asked the nurse at the desk and she said, ‘Oh? Miss Ranger? She’s at the OR for kidney transplant’. And I find my attending walking right past that room to the one beside it. Turns out I got the wrong room.” 

He held back a smile. Compared to the other medical personnels, your blunder was as tame as a newborn baby lamb in the flock. The wolves do not concern themselves with these matters—death often did.

“It happens,” He stirred the coffee, watching the cream do a swirl around the brown gleam, “Who’s your attending?”

You sunk deeper into your chair, “Iori-San.”

Utahime Iori, Cardio Physician, who steams like incense and whose ashes burn when it crumbles. Best not to touch it when it does or you’ll get a blister.

“You’re one of the lucky few, I see,” He took a sip, frowned when it was too bitter, “That’s a relief.”

“I said it was minor.” You brought yourself up, a little defensive—even though it could have been way, way worse. Like, say, providing a fatal diagnosis to a weak-willed patient.

“Doctors would term their ‘minors’ very differently, nurse,” He said, reaching for the sugar packets, “Sometimes…” He trailed off, pausing for a moment to reminisce, “…minor meant haphazardly, and by mistake, injecting more than what’s required of insulin into one’s veins,  almost incapacitating your patient in front of her husband and two month old daughter.”

You expression dropped, horrified. “Oh, that’s. That’s…. Was the patient alright?”

He tore off the sugar packet and tapped it against the rim of the mug. The crystal granule sparkled under the light as it collected on the surface of the coffee in a snowful hillock. The edges melted gradually, nodule by nodule, sugar by sugar, into gloom and eventually sinking.

“She’s fine.” He said, stirring—clink of steel against porcelain.

“And the nurse?”

A tight smile drew across his lips.“Someone who’s thoroughly been briefed with. That’s all you have to know about him.”

“Yeah?” You grinned and nudged his shin playfully with your crocs, “Not even a bit?” 

He felt the touch and stilled, taken off kilter by the callousness of it. He swivelled up, locked you down with a stare. Nobody touched him that way, much less even a junior of your rank should.

Nudge. Nudge. You did it again, grinning even wider, more playful, more oblivious. “Not even a speck?”

He figured compiling a dossier on every account of your insolence would mean close to nothing. Not when you don’t even realize the source of such insolence yourself. It’s like throwing a rock into a pond and all it does it sinks to the ground.

“It’s policy.” He just says, pulling his feet back.

“But you’re totally okay with silencing me with food.”

The word made him flinch—not physically; it plucked one of the taut strings of his nerves.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” He said cautiously, ensuring you wouldn’t tread to other insolent grounds. You’re a promising nurse, and as promising as you are, he would hate to restrict your chances.

“Oh?” You leaned back, airily, “How would you?”

“I’d say our interaction,” He drew himself up more regally, more genteel—what a Head Of The Neurosurgeon would appear so, “my proposal, entirely, lays strictly on the grounds of…negotiative means.”

“Tomato, tomato,” You waved him off, “Negotiation as in bleeding from your nose and getting super embarrassed about it. Sure, that I can take.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed.”

You weren’t so easily deterred. “Yeah, but you were.”

“I was—”

His phone pinged. Frustrated, Higuruma held up one finger, giving you a look that clearly communicated ‘This. Later.’ You shrugged, ‘Whatever you say’. He took out his phone from his pocket and the message lit up the screen.

‘Good. Since that’s out of the way. Get your shiny shoes over here. We’ve got something on Prince Charming—something that would do us good.’ — N

“Work?” You tried to peer over the table on your toes at his phone.

He turned it away, one hand held up to block you far, “Confidential Documents. Work that doesn’t concern a Junior Nurse, of your standing.”

He says it like it’s some sort of derogative term scraping the buds on his tongue.

“Right,” You crossed your arms, “Of course. Big man problems for The Big guy.”

“Yours wouldn’t be any bigger.”

“Hey!”

He stood up, a slight perk of his lips upwards.

“Enjoy your lunch, nurse. And, here —" He tossed something onto the table that slid across the surface, bumping your elbow. Then, with a few flicks of his cuffs, he strode away, his broad back to you.

“My debt is paid, for now,” He said over his shoulder, “Until the next month. Good day.”

You sat there, still as a mouse, processing what he had just thrown. His figure shrunk down to size as he crossed the street, coat swishing around his calf. In the mart, Sei waved at you. The two girls from before probably saw the entire thing. Card. Card? He threw a card? It was only then when he was gone you fully register a sleek black credit card embossed in gold—

—right before your nose.

Your eyes widened, “Holy…”

.

SUGURU GETO found himself in the emergency department. He poked his head through the doors of the lounge, eyes searching for nurse clad in pastel green crocs and arm warmers. After the tête-à-tête with Shoko, he thought about the points she brought up.

“Deal’s off if the moment I hear something funny going on.”

He couldn’t exactly blame her, now, could he? Shoko’s got bad rep with politicians. Naobito plucked the last string by forcing her hand. And in Geto’s case, getting into the elective race himself meant you’d have to say things you don’t mean-gather endorsements by spouting roundabout (utterly bullshit) ways of how you’d go through with simple issues, without pricking anyone’s skin.

There were levels of endorsements. The lower strata comprised of tight-knit groups molding separately into their own factions. Cardio with Ortho. Emergency with—whatever side they were on, which usually meant Nuetral.

The upper echelons had their spoon-fed proponents kowtowing constantly on their knees. They were all from the same egg: fragile, easily breakable with a punt, and once cracked, everything rotten spools out. Gathering them all in one basket and hurling them out to the trash is what he intended to do. Each network had smaller glass webbed networks, and within those smaller glass webbed networks laid smaller ones—like an ant colony, its tunnel diverging into a myriad of more tunnels.

With Shoko charmed, all there left was you.

He needed you in the clasp of his hands before anyone else could wrung you to another—Higuruma and Noaya’s side, no less. Your acumen with hospital politics weren’t exactly saavy, anyone with a good enough ‘heart’ and posturing is enough to crick your neck along. Enough to convince you, for all your shrewdness.

He doesn’t want that.

He stepped inside the lounge. Kusukabe was at the other far end of the room, meddling with the water dispenser with his back to him, supposedly making himself coffee.

“Morning.” He said.

“It’s the afternoon, kid.”

“Right. Of course. My mistake. Where’s nurse?” Geto approached the older man, reaching for a plastic cup as well.

“Better question is—“ Kusukabe turned around, scowling, “Will you or will you not provide an unlimited source of hot water if you become president? Tank ran out seconds ago and now I’ve got to take my Code Nine glacial.”

Geto considered it for a moment, sliding the cup below the nozzle. “President is a far stretch.”

“Well,” He scoffed, “you’re reaching, if that’s not stretching out a floss at its limit, then I don’t know what it is.”

“My position will thrive if I win.”

Getou clicked the button for cold water. It spurted from the nozzle, trickling into the cup, and then—suddenly—it thinned out, the mechanical apparatus inside chuttering to a stop. It barely filled the top. Two centimeters at best.

“See?” Kusukabe gestured, “I can’t depend on someone who depends on their circumstances.”

“It’s not like I can see the future forward,.” He muttered then peered over to the back of the water dispenser, “Is it broken?”

“Nah, just rickety. Give it a good tap and It’ll be up and running in no time. Here, move.” Kusukabe brought his fist back and collided his knuckles against the dispenser.

Geto blinked, raising his eyebrows. Some tap, it seemed. It worked like clockwork, though, since the dispenser chuttered for a moment before spewing out water into his cup. Lots and lots of water.

“You might wanna close that before it floods.” Kusukabe shook off his fist.

“Right,” Geto flicked off the lever, “Thanks.”

“Not a problem.”Kusukabe took a sip of his coffee, regarding him over the brim of his cup “So,” He smacked his lips, making his way to his desk, “The election.”

“Yes.”

“You’re running it.”

“I am.”

Kusukabe turned around, and leaned his hip against the table, “How do you plan on winning?”

“By votes,” Geto smiled warmly, as if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Sure, thing. Steel wall against plastic pipe—which wins?”

The man was the weather incarnate wrapped in blue scrubs and an outdated pager hooked over his breast pocket. He was the dark clouds that coil on a seemingly bright day. The wind that blew cold on summer’s step and the ice that melted during winter. And, much like the weather, you needed a forecast to denote his today’s agenda.

And today’s agenda seemed to be Geto.

He was momentarily thrown off by the question, “Is this a riddle?”

“Just a question.” He said airily.

“Then,” He gestured vaguely into the air, “Steel wall?”

“Nothing, ‘cause the wall dents and the pipe’ll break into two. Plastic is malleable, easily molded back into shape. The steel could be flattened out with whatever machinery could flatten things out.”

Geto rubbed his face, “I don’t follow, Kusukabe.”

“I think you perfectly do,” He returned the smile, “When I was of Junior standing, the most I could do was follow my Superior’s footsteps. Now that things are done in a different way—everyone’s not following somebody. Everyone’s got their own little agenda wrapped in plastic and molded into shape.”

“I assure you that,” He began slowly, “whatever you assume—”

“I don’t mean to assume anything,” He placed his coffee on the table, a little harsher than intended, “But if you’re going to be elected—and you’re going on the stand, then I should make my grievances known, should I? Or is that not allowed?”

“You are well within your rights to do so,” Geto said, “But if it’s the following that you’re concerned with. I am not on anyone’s palms, Kusukabe. I don’t follow anyone.”

“But almost everyone follows you,” He replied, “So, I’ll ask again. How are you going to win this? Becuase, from where I’m standing—you’ve got the whole hospital’s major half against you, the other few don’t give a damn, and you’re out here preaching about dismantling the entire structure of the hospital.”

“It’s the only way to get them out.” Geto reasoned, “We all know what they are, but everyone is too hesitant to do anything about them. Medical care—healthcare—isn’t about cohorts and cadres, this is a space where human lives are in doctor’s hands. Not office politics.”

Kusukabe perched the coffee on the edge of his table, “You don’t think I know that, kid?” His gaze was steady as he regarded Getou, “Nobody’s got balls like you and nobody has a job to lose. You know where you stand, so you stand on it. Don’t bring anyone else along. Because when it all falls apart the others—the lesser—they don’t have anyone behind them.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Silence settled for a moment. Geto remained quiet, gripping his cup as Kusukabe checked his watch.

His shift was starting.

“I don’t have anyone behind me,” Geto said quietly.

“Sure you don’t,” Kusukabe made his way to the door, “But your parents do.”

Soon, the glass doors shut, leaving Geto alone in the room to dwell with his thoughts. His body turned towards the window, eyes lost elsewhere over jagged outcrops of the city.

‘Your parents do.’

.

EVERYONE IGNORED, or maybe weren’t interested enough with, the spectacle of a Junior Nurse with her guts deep into the alcove of the ATM. They simply walked past, bustling about their day. Chatter was meaningless to you, it blurred as you stood before the machine, mouth agape. Your hands were gripping the sides of the screens, absolutely flabbergasted with what’s gracing your eyes. Am I dreaming? I can’t be, I’m standing on two feet.

157,564.00 yen.

You knew he was rich. He was The Neurosurgeon, come on. Put your weight into this, Nurse. Think! He’s the one that cracks skull open and rubs scalpels all over the pores. Brain doctors make good money, which was why you flunked your brain exams, precisely—you don’t make good money.

Money isn’t good for you.

But now?

“Oh, shit.”

What the hell were you going to do with all this money? Buy more food? Stock up on supplies for the apocalypse? Build a bunker? Oh, right. Rent. Bills. More bills. And more bills. You thunked your forehead against the screen, “Gosh, really.”

You very much want to be a little gnome, right now. A gnome with a lovely porcelain garden house with a cute bed, and a treasure trove of Higuruma’s credit card as gold. And there, you could live blissfully in peace.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?”

“Shoko!” You squeaked, trying to block the screen with your hands.

Futile, since—well—she’s half a foot taller and is currently looming behind you like a crane. The Senior Nurse stood there, this time the end of a lolly sticking out from the corner of her mouth. She had her coat on, hands in the pockets. And she seemed a little amused.

You were mortified.

“Good evening,” She said conversationally, and peered over easily because that’s what people do—just look over. “My, what’s this? Paycheck already came in?”

“Uh,” Your hands flew up, utterly panicking and in and stupid attempt clamp over the screen, “Uh, no. Maybe. I think.”

She raised her eyebrows, “You think.”

“I do that a lot. Yes.”

“Something tells me you should stop,” She pushed your hand aside and you don’t fight it, resigned to your fate. Then, she frowned when she fully registered the amount on the screen, “What’s this?”

Sweat beaded across your temple, you twiddled you thumb, voice small. “…Paycheck?”

“Your monthly wages are lower than mine. And, I’m pretty sure it’s not the end of the month yet. Beside, whose card is this—“ She held it up, “You’ve got a benefactor now?”

“Don’t say that out loud!” You hissed, eyes darting behind her shoulder, picking out if someone’s nosy enough.

Thankfully, nobody was. Just patients weeding around with their IV’s wheeling along. Nurses clumping near the water dispenser in deep discussions. Doctors on the lounge, laughing. You did not want to bump into Toge’s crew. Anyone but them. They’ve got plenty to say about you the last time you walked into a door when it was Code Blue.

“Why can’t I?” Shoko said mildly, knowing exactly what she’s going, “You don’t have card like this, I know that.”

“Yeah, but it’s— It’s not what it looks like!” You sputtered, trying to grab a hold of it but then again—Shoko was half a foot taller, and with her constantly abusing her lungs, somehow that made her more prone to remaining in the skies.

“Sure, looks exactly like it,” She turned the card over, “Not that I’m complaining. Just means you’re paying dinner every night now.”

You closed your eyes. Another pay for another say. You’ve got The Head hooked up under your sleeves and now your Senior Nurse is doing the same.

Oh, the irony.

“You can’t be serious.” You said.

She smiled, dangerous because Shoko doesn’t smile and when she does it usually meant something terrible has happened and she needs something stronger than four fingers of whiskey to knock her out.

“I am,” She said simply, “If you keep the frown in I might extend the period. So,” She slung an arm over your shoulders and shook it, come on, you’ve got dinner to pay.”

You follow along, or more like carried off the floor, grumbling to yourself.

“And ring up that emo too, I think he’ll do good with a cup of beer.”

“Geto doesn’t drink beers.” You perked up.

Shoko smiled, “Call him anyway.” Then, she looked ahead, “I think he’ll appreciate it.”

Next on Episode Four, “Ping Pong.”

“I’m afraid this can’t go on,” Doctor Yohei’s voice was disapproving, loud in the meager room.

The kind that is gentle yet urgent to rouse.

Higuruma does not look up. Instead his eyes were fixed on the floor, the marbled tiles that gleamed a stark white under the overhead lights. It was hard to believe he was on the side—a doctor as prominent as he—never would have guessed to be on. With his shoes tuckered flat against the ground. With his face, same bland expression staring back, rippling by the reflection of overhead fan cutting through the air.

His throat felt thick. Even when he swallowed, the knot doesn’t go down, furled taut in his pipe. He swallowed again, and it seemed the antiseptic scent of the room flared the buds on his tongue instead. He could taste alcohol on the back of his throat.

It is one thing to squander his life’s choices to meaningless pursuits, and another where he cannot control it at all. Strings furled tightly on a rod and the carrot is the sky, bobbling along with each step. He keeps his head up, always does, striding forward without an ounce of any glance backwards.

“Can I manage?” He asked.

He knows he will. No matter the shade—no matter how mottled and bruised the horizon gets, the clouds will always still, and will be, within his sights. Because he kept his head up. Because he doesn’t look down.

Because he doesn’t look back.

Yohei doesn’t answer. He took off his glasses, kneaded the bridge of his nose with two, weathered fingers. Higuruma kept quiet as well, allowing the silence to increment.

The sleek black clock hung on the wall ticked. The long hand like a fist held outwards before the crowd. The short hand, an executioner’s dagger, spiraling quickly on the roundabout. And when it struck twelve—tick, tick, tick. The blade comes down. His head rolls.

Doctor Yohei’s expression crumpled. “That is not my place to say,” His voice echoed in the room, “Higuruma—it is your body’s.”

.

—After the Session with Doctor Akisa Yohei.

IT WAS EVENING, when the sun was gone, the moon was out and the clouds were barely visible across the sky that he found himself walking down the street.

The mart was empty when he arrived. GoGo Mart, to be exact. Its sign, that jutted out from the establishment was of a blatantly ripped-off Kamen Rider punching the air. Only in a different color scheme. Nestled snugly between a Wine shop and an Auto Repairs administration, it’s a mart he sought out for himself, located a few blocks down from the Hospital. Not known to many, and to many—known to some.

The difference between the two atmosphere was a whiplash. Outside was warm, not overly so but mild enough to draw dew on his face—and the moment the glass doors parted with a whir, cold rushed out and flared his face numb. The scent of sweet-baked popcorn, though, was pleasant.

“Hello!” A female voice chirped. Sei, the young cashier, waved with a hand, while the other was occupied with filling up a popcorn bucket, each subsequent fall denoted by a muted ‘tock’ on the container’s bottom. Not for a customer he reckoned. There wasn’t any but him. She’d seen him in all shapes and forms. With and without dignity.

Perhaps, today was one of those days.

He nodded back in greeting and went about his way. He usually came here to get his fill. The vending machines at the hospital didn’t sell the drinks he wanted. Strawberry milk were the sort. Not that they didn’t have strawberry milk, they do, and in quite abundance too—it was just a different brand that he wasn’t partial to.

The one he liked had sophisticated flavor. Creamy, rich in texture and had no fragrant sort of taste. Like you didn’t spray a zit of perfume into the bottle, cobble it up with strawberry essence, milk and what not then call it a day. He will not splurge his money on cash-grabs companies pandered towards kids.

With a basket slung over his elbow, he began hoarding the usuals. Cigarettes, three packs, check. He didn’t forget his taste—two Sapporo beer cans now rolled here and there in the basket, tinkering with every collision. He was idly walking down the lanes, surfing for liquorice, when he spotted the yogurt section.

The last lane.

Strawberry Milk.

Somebody else was crowding the rack. A fact he did not have the mind to pay much mind to. His shift was starting in a minute and he needed the essentials quick. So, he reached for it. And as his fingers closed around the carton—it simply didn’t. Instead, his hand engulfed someone else’s. A colder, smaller hand attached to a colorful peach arm warmer.

“Um,” The hand said.

Then, it wriggled, squeezing out of his grip with a pop before clamping back down onto the carton. He looked down. Two wide eyes, glaring; two downturned eyebrows on a pinched face, belonging to a young woman in pink scrubs, and strawberry printed arm warmers was staring back up. A basket was hooked over your elbow, inside were stuffed with the entire mart’s collection of sweets.

A stuffed panda poked out amidst the chocolate wraps.

“Sorry, sir,” Your tone was somewhat polite despite your hand tightening on the carton, “I’m gonna let you off on not seeing me but I’m ‘fraid got here, first.”

With all just a glance it was simple to surmise you were a staff from Tokyo Hospital. Resident, if not, of Junior handling. He caught your name on your ID, wrapped around your neck like a terribly tied bow, one loop hanging over your shoulder.

He stared for a bit more. Waiting to see, that if you’d look close enough eventually the blocks would fall into place and you’d recognize who he is. Which then begins the procession of ‘I’m sorry’s’, ‘didn’t mean to’s’ and ‘sirs’ . Nothing. You said nothing. Instead, you stared back and his silence was an incendiary to irk you more.

“Sir?” You said more firmly, “Did you hear me? Or should I become less formal and maybe you will?”

From your perspective, if in the case that you did not recognize him—a stranger, older man at best, walking up to the rack and getting all handsy with your hand, and then staring at you like you’re the culprit—he could see why you’d be so ruffled.

“Hey, Ojisan.” You bounced onto your toes, “ I know you heard me, and I know you’re trying to play dumb now. So whatever it is—cut it.”

He blinked. Then, reached for the carton. “I didn’t know public property could get owned.“

Your fingers curled around the carton tighter, ready to pounce. “It sure does when you came here first though.”

“Why, did you put a bet on it?”

“A bet?” Your lower lip jut out petulantly, “I’ll tell you what’s a bet. Coming up to me and snatching what another person already got in their hands—that’s shallow, you hear me? That’s not a fair play. So you better back off my milk, Ojisan, before it gets real, real murky.”

A cotton ball floating in the wind. That’s what you and your threats were. Especially when that buttom petulant lip was trembling with the force of not curling into a sniffle.

“Your shoe’s untied.” He said.

That threw you off completely. You looked down. Untied? You thought. Hey, I wear crocs. In that one moment of confusion, he snatched the carton and was gone. Just gone. You snapped out of it and cried, “Hey! That’s—that’s cheating, old man!”

It’s not like they had fair play in the first place. His pace quickened as he weaved through the shelves, purposely rounding other lanes to muddle his tracks. He lost you in the ice-cream section—last he spotted, you were peering over a chest-freezer, going ‘oooh lemons’.

With the last shuffle, he quickly head to the cashier and dunked all his things onto the counter. Sei was a quick worker. For all his time coming here, she never asked questions, never dawdled, and never cared for any particular situation he was in. She was a ‘it comes and it goes’ type of person. Meaning, if something comes, then it’ll go in time.

This something really needs to go.

She did her work quickly, tucking the cigarette packets into the plastic bag after scanning. The Sapporo Beer Cans, which rolled pathetically inside with a tink. And last but not least—The Strawberry Milk. Thrown into the bag.

Sei looked up, “Sir, what kind of—”

“Card.” He laid it flat on the counter, swiveling around, until his gaze landed on the camera monitor perched behind Sei. You were still stuck in the ice cream section, it seemed, upper body peering into the freezer, fingers waggling with what to pick. Sei quickly punched the buttons on the scanner. With a quick tap of his card, the cash went through with a ping.

“Thank you for buying at GoGo mart!” She chirped.

He grunted in response and snatched up the plastic bag. He gave one last look at the monitor—you were still guts deep into the freezer, good— and turned around walking through the parting doors. As the familiar warm air embraced his face, Karma hits.

His chest—his heart—clenched, hard. He grunted as a sharp twinge of pain shot throughout his sternum and with such a potent spasm his mind reeled. The lamppost above his head whirled around him like a halo, the ground tilting downwards, sloping upwards—becoming unsteady beneath his feet.

Another pain pulsed through his chest.

The plastic bag slipped over his fingers and dropped to the floor, beer cans lurching out like barrels, scaling the road and plunging into the darkness. The milk carton, meanwhile, ruptured, splattering milk all over the pavement. His pack of cigarettes were thrown somewhere—somewhere he couldn’t register. Only the throbbing pain in his chest. Too much. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain, flashes of white pulsed in his vision. He was stumbling but not quite falling over.

His hand reached out to hold onto something—

And his hand, trembling and sweaty, curled around warm, smaller ones.

“Ojisan…?” You were beside him, helping him upright, other hand on his torso, steadying him. “Hey, old man,” Your eyes searched his face, “You alright? Sei saw you lumbering around and—”Then, it widened. “You—your nose, oh! It’s bleeding!”

He numbly touched his upper lip and he was. Warm fluids dripping down his nostrils and trickling over his chin, slowly blotting his collar red, dark roses blooming across the starched fabric of his dresshirt.

“Sit down before you faint,” Your hands on his elbows, pushed him down gentle to sit. He initially resisted. He could do this himself, he’s not incapable, but he eventually had to comply when another twinge of pain shot throughout his chest, muddling his thoughts. His heartbeat pounded harshly against his ears like a drum. He took steady breaths to calm it down, settling on the pavement slowly with his legs outstretched.

“Lean forward,” You said as you guided him, hands on his shoulders, “Careful, so it doesn’t go down—”

“I know what to do.” He cut you off sharply, though the sharpness lost its edge when his voice whittled out nasally.

“Sure you do,” You muttered under your breath, rummaging around your pockets for a napkin. The ID slung over your neck swayed along your convent’s. When there wasn’t any, you slid out one of your warmers, smearing the blood you had on your other palm on the fabric, and held it against his nose to absorb the bleeding.

It smelled like peaches.

He slowly, very very slowly, turned to you.

“Whatever works, works. What?” You said when he kept staring, “It doesn’t stink, okay? I wash it plenty. More than how much you probably wash that tie.”

When all of this is over, he reminded himself to speak to your superior. Yes, that’s right. He turned away, closing his eyes. Talk to her superior.

You both sat there, idle, for a while on the pavement. The lamppost above casted a gentle, orange spotlight over your figures. The rest was darkness, save from the mingling gradient of the fluorescent white lights from the Mart behind them.

If it comes, it goes.

When the bleeding considerably stopped, you pulled the sleeve away, your own hands bloody, “I’ll have to get this off me,” You looked over your shoulders to the mart, then back, “Oi, Oijisan,” You said firmly, “You know what to do right? Sit tight, don’t pick and prod, or that nose will come right off.”

He also reminded himself to discuss with your superiors about properly addressing elders in due time. For now. He only grunted in reply.

You got up onto your toes and strode back into the mart. He heard a ping, the glass doors closing and Sei’s usual chirped greeting. He could only imagine how ridiculous you look from the monitors, emerging all bloody, as if you were occupied with something less legal while browsing the shelves.

For measures, he kept an eye for officers. In case they stopped for a brief lounge, and with one look at Higuruma and your blood matted clothes, got the wrong idea. When you returned, you had two big water bottles in your arms, and clenched between your teeth—since you had not other hands—were a pack of tissues. Another plastic bag, smaller, slung over your elbows. The bigger one, with the sweets stuffed pandas galore, sat idly by the lamppost.

He only noticed it now.

Setting the plastic bag aside, you began cleaning him up. Washing his hands. Dabbing his face and nose with wet tissue to get the stain off. Even, blotting his dress-shirt with water to dilute the blood. A pool of water accumulated on the ledge of the pavement, dark red—and slight sparkly brown under the light.

“It won’t come off like this,” You said, when the pink on his skin wasn’t scrubbed away, “Needs alcohol or soap. You shower, right?”

He looked at you right into your eyes, “Takes out all the fun it it, doesn’t it.”

You rolled your eyes, “If you say so.”

When you were done cleaning your hands with the last water bottle, tucking the trash into a separate plastic bag—your ruined sleeve and everything, you sat beside him, legs stretched out.

“Man, that was something,” You groaned, shifting in your seat for a comfortable position, “Gave me quite a scare old man. Even if you’re a conniving carton burglar, I’m glad you’re alright, though. And this needs something—a celebration of sorts,” You rummaged into the small plastic bag beside you and pluck out two yellow popsicle packets. “Want one?”

When he turned towards you, the light of the mart shone behind your head, illuminating the little strands of your hair white. The packets crinkled under your hands as you wiggled it. “Sparkly Lemon!” The wrapper cried, a happy (though sadly drawn) lemon mascot crumpled along your wag.

“I don’t do charity cases.” He said, looking back at the road, but he was reaching out for it anyways. The popsicle packet was cold, quickly becoming damp under his palm. He tore off the tab.

“As if,” You scoffed, tearing off the wrapper on your own, “you’re beyond just a case. I gave you my strawberry carton so accept this one and write it off as two debts you’ll be owing me.”

“Public property can’t be owned,” He said, “The first one doesn’t count.”

“Fine, then mark the nosebleed,” You point him with your molten popsicle, “The warmers and the pops as three.”

“That’s a lot of debts.”

“It’s supposed to be four,” The popsicle crooked, circling him threateningly, “But I’m nice so, I don’t bite.”

He didn’t reply, biting into the ice cream. The sourness bit through his tongue and scaled down this throat with such an intensity that he squeezed his eyes for a moment, pulling the popsicle back to frown at it.

You turn to him, “Sour?”

He looked at you, eyes squinted with compensating tears, his brows pinched, “Is this supposed to be sparkly?”

A little giggle bubbled from your throat, “What do you think the crackly taste is? Those are exploding candies.”

“Exploding?” And just as he said it, there, on his tongue, it felt like he was microwaving popcorns—with the sizzling and crackling sensation on his buds. He flinched. Didn’t panic. Simply caught him off guard.

“Don’t spit it out.” You said, in time if he did—there wasn’t a bucket near.

He managed to swallow it down, “I wasn’t going to.”

“You’re puffing up your cheeks like you’re about to retch,” You said, “What’s that suppose to mean?”

Some where in the mart, he was sure Sei went about her day, sticking to her ‘If it comes, it goes’ motto, re-stocking shelves. As if two medical personnel engaging in a game of tag-and-go, followed by subsequent blood loss, and is now hunched over the pavement, gathering their bearings, is a perfectly common experience.

“It means I’m too old to know what any of this means.” He said, dragging his tongue around his mouth to dispel the taste.

You paused. Looked him up and down.

“You can’t be that ancient,” You remarked, another large bite into the ice cream with teeth.

He shuddered at the sight.

Indeed, he doesn’t. He looked average at best. Not in looks, obviously, he’s beyond average. Everyone is beyond average , in your opinion. You meant average as in old. As in he doesn’t look old.

Ojisan doesn’t seem to agree. Said, “I’m middle-aged.”

Oh, well. Couldn’t hurt to be wrong, sometimes.“Forty nine?” You offered while chewing, then topping it off with another bite. He didn’t seem too far off that age range, either.

He blinked for a moment or two. Then said, very flatly, “Thirty six, thank you.”

“You’re thirty six?”

“Is that so hard to believe.”

“I mean—” Then, something beeped. A tiny, high pitched ‘teet-a-too’, and you jolted, gasping, raising your hand to your face. Wrapped around your wrist was a watch, the screen pulsed, black and white. An alarm.

“Oh crud,” You took one last bite of your popsicle and tucked the stick into your pocket. Still seated on the ground (he surmised just walking over would have been easier) you lunged for the plastic bag idling by the lamppost, “my shit—shift,” You muttered.

“All I mentioned was my age.”

He raised his eyebrows, finishing off his ice cream on a more gradual pace, “Those are two remotely different terms.”

“Which are perfectly, perfectly reversible if you get my meaning.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “That’s not how it works.”

“Does, for me,” You grunted. Then, slinging the plastic bag over your elbow, you stood up, ID swaying. “Here, I’ll throw that stick for you.”

You snatched it from his hand without his confirmation, and tucked it into your pocket, “Sorry, about the scare. Hope your heart didn’t, like, I don’t know stopped because of the alarm.”

“I have a nosebleed, not a cardiac arrest.”

“Can’t be too careless,” You went on anyways, “I got my late night shift which, god, I totally forgot about that.”

“You’re a nurse.”

He already knew you were. Junior ER. Emergency department. Already punching numbers in his head—which superior to call, which to inform, which to assess. On one hand, you do need a little ‘talking’ to regarding this behavior of ‘address’ And, maybe a little freshening up of the Hospital roster—since his name came up ‘nil’ to your list of sirs. On the other, he might let you off on an easy note since (not to be dramatic) you saved his life, stopping him from bleeding from his nose on the pavement and all, and he never left debts stewing for long.

“A doctor in the years to come, just watch,” You puffed your chest out proudly, “It’s honest work.”

He felt a small smile coming up, “I’m sure it is.”

“Will you be okay though?”

Then, the smile vanished.

It wasn’t your informality that casted it off—the a sudden softness in your tone made him squirm. The easy manner which you did it. Like it was simple, like it was a second hand, a second sense to use, as rudimentary as your heart beating.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He turned, staring ahead at the road. Several cars passed in the form of circular, whizzing lights. Then, it was gone, liquefying into darkness.

“You had a blood fest all over the pavement,” You said, keeping up with that tone, “I don’t know what you’re going through but—” You paused a moment more, somehow knowing, “will you be really okay out here?”

‘Will you be okay?’

It was that day all over again. When he stood by the doorway of his home, two bags curled tightly into his fists. The streets were empty as it were when the clouds cooled into a whirl in the horizon, about to stir up a storm. A crumpled ball of paper floated past along the breeze, skidding across the pavement. The bus was running late. It should’ve been here since nine but the traffic was probably holding it up.

He had his back to her. To his mother. She was sitting by the stairs, saying that if he was her son, he wouldn’t leave to the city to be away. Wouldn’t leave to the city to study. Wouldn’t leave to the city to hunt his dreams. That if he loved her enough, he’d be stuck in this old, local town of nothing with nobody but parasites leeching off his hinds. The sky was gray, then. Bleak. The trees rustled too, but the leaves were dull, lifeless.

He didn’t like the color.

So, he left.

Higuruma looked up, dark eyes glinting under the light, “You have a lot of familiarity with someone you just met.”

“I’m used to it,” Your smile didn’t falter at his tone, “Besides, it’s my job. Thats what nurses are for, right?”

He supposed you had a point.

“I’ll be fine.” He said, eventually. It’s not proper, and work ethical of you to remain here while your tasks were starting to climb, “Go to your shift.”

You patted his shoulder, “You better check that out with the doctors. It’s good to know what’s going on in that body of yours. I reckoned it’s just the cold—out here is pretty warm and with the AC in the mart? Wouldn’t be surprised if you have a nosebleed.”

It wasn’t the cold.

“I will.” He said anyways because what else could he say?

“And don’t you leave the city,” You leaned down a finger curled out ominously, “Because I have my debts, and if you don’t pay them off I’ll come and find you.”

He nodded, or declared something like that—dipping his chin down with a grunt. “Of course.”

“See you around, old man!” You began trotting off into the distance, making little happy hops in the air, your crocs squeaking. You were waving goodbye over your shoulder, grinning wide, a sprite floating across the road. The metal knob of your ID flashed under the light, “Oh! And clean up your mess too! It’s bad to leave litter!”

He looked down to the empty waterbottles, the milk carton splattered on the road, and his beer cans idling somewhere in the darkness and he sighed. He had three debts owed. One, an arm warmer. Two, the Nosebleed. And, Three, one popsicles. Perhaps even a four—the strawberry Milk carton.

“Let’s get this over with.”

.

—Now.

YOU HAD NOT a single molecule of clue that he would pop out of the blue this way. You didn’t even know he worked here. The old man from yesterday. The one who was definitely thirty-six, who bled from his nose, who stole the last Strawberry Carton Milk.

Sure, from the suit he wore yesterday, white dress-shirt, tie and black trousers—you could easily write him off as a typical overworked salaryman. Got the look down from the spiky tops of his hair to his oxfords clad toes to a ‘t’. Never in your life would you imagine him, emerging from the curtains, as the ‘Head Neurosurgeon’ of all positions. Your gut dropped to the floor and the floors beyond it.

“Ojisan?” You said under your breath, in disbelief.

He seemed startled by your appearance as well—eyes a slight wide, brows pinched, like he wasn’t expecting you to be there. Kusukabe didn’t notice this strange détente you both were having. Chalked it up to nerves. You both are socially impotently inept, after all. Guns hiked up, spikes flared, the all great Mexican Standoff. And, even if he knew, frankly, he did not care enough.

The parents and Notaru greeted Higuruma with a bow, slightly confused by his appearance.

“This is the specialist I was talking about,” Kusukabe did them the favor of answering, “He’s a neurosurgeon. Good at diagnosing the human brain, and the little pests it dredges up.”

Higuruma felt that his introduction was perfectly fine without any additional remarks. Kusukabe remarks, especially. He closed his eyes, and opened it, “Good morning, sir, ma’am,” He nodded to the parents.

“He’ll be taking any questions you have,” Kusukabe went on, “and he’ll provide you any information you need about the brain. Now, if you’ll excuse me— Notaru, son, stop touching that leg it’ll come back with blood in no time—I have a situation that needs tending at code nine.”

Which in Tokyo Hospital speak, coined by Kusukabe himself, meant a coffee break in room zero zero nine. ‘Code’ was an addendum to invoke professionalism. Besides, it’s not like they’ll know. No patient is going to go through pages and pages of disciplinary code just to prove it’s authenticity.

Kusukabe bowed, offered a gruff goodbye— barely even a decipherable farewell to the wars—turned on his heel, and promptly left. You did too, a quick murmer under your breath, not particularly holding anyone’s gazes. You scurried after your superior and just as you reached the curtain, avoiding his body, a hand shot out and curled round your wrist.

His hand was cold. Large, too. Spanned over your entire hand like a blanket. His thumb pressed against your wrist bone. Your heart dropped a few more inches beyond the floor at hell’s gate. You’re certain you’ll have cardiac arrest by the time this session is over.

“I’m afraid I’ll need information regarding the patients as we go along,” Higuruma said, his voice low, unheard by the patients, who were occupied with a discussion themselves—presumably about the financial implication of a Neurosurgeon. He was not looking at you, and the whole hand-holding-thing was done behind a cabinet, also unseen.

“Senior Kusukabe knows more than I do, sir.” You avoid his gaze, staring at his shiny oxfords. They were black, stark against your pastel green crocs. The pointy part of his shoes turned to yours, an arrow locking its target.

He lowered his voice further, “Then what use are you for, as a nurse if you’re not so knowledgeable about your patients?”

Oh, god he’s going to gut you so bad the entire hospital will reek of your insides. Why’d you have to tattle off with that stupid mouth?Old man. Ojisan, seriously? You need, need, need to put a lock on that trap.

“I am…” You began lamely, “familiar with the terms, sir. Just the basics. I’m still—I’m still learning the ropes.”

“You’ll need to climb higher,” He said, not exactly mocking, not exactly amused but you couldn’t tell when his expression is as smooth as a rock’s cortical sheen, “How else will you become a doctor?”

Your neck burned from chagrin, a hot wave of flush scalding your forehead. You wanted to dig a hole so deep into the marbled tiles, revert to a mole, and live life as such, for the remainder of your pathetic life, eating earth worms and stuffing your cheeks with grubs.

You couldn’t even reply.

He took that opportunity to lean back, his tone more conversational, “What I need,” He leaned back, “Is you to stay and and perform as you were—a nurse who familiarized herself with the patients. Can you do that,”

“But my supervisor—”

“Your supervisor is busy.” He said. When you were still struggling, torn between two thoughts, he leaned down, bringing the clipboard up as if—from the other perspective of the patients—he was evaluating information on the seemingly, unassuming empty board. “And, I’m sure he’s glad to know you’re in capable hands. Unless,” His eyes were on yours, “you have certain oppositions to the task?”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head, “No, sir. I can perfectly carry this out. I’m capable—I really am.”

“Good,” Satisfied, he started walking towards the patients, “Remain with me until we are done,” then, over his shoulder, “We have much to talk about.”

You’re so getting fired.

.

AFTER HIGURUMA gave the basic run-downs, the symptoms of a concussion and the consequences of head trauma—despite it being a ‘mild’ case, the parents agreed on getting an MRI scan, as a precaution. Later, you both stepped out from the doors of the ICU. He was composed as usual. You emerged, askew, like you had a near-miss with a loaded dynamite, and instead of kicking it back you clasped it with two fists and froze, deer in the head lights—followed by a looney toons explosion.

“They’ll be in your care.” Looking ahead, he handed the documents over, “You’ll be responding to me, informing what issues the patients have and whatever qualms they need answering,”

You scrabbled to gather them into your arms, keeping up with his resplendently brisk pace as he walked towards the floor-to-ceiling window panel on the other side of the building.

“Remind me when the patients are prepared for the scan. I might be able to reschedule some meetings and make time for that,“ He said, “that is top priority. Do not forget.”

“Your, uh, contacts sir?” You asked.

“I’ll send them via email.”

How will you send anything if you haven’t given me your contacts first? You hold your tongue, though. Nodded. That’s fine. Totally fine. You have Shoko for that. Shoko after three packets of cigarettes, maybe.

“And keep up,” He added, not unkindly, “you’re falling behind.”

You definitely were, loping after him like a hare with a hobbling paw. His strides were knife-edged, cutting across the marbled tiles of the hospital. He was a paragon, akin to an unstoppable tractor amidst a wheat field that needed harvesting. Some medical personnel who were interested in the spectacle of the Head Neurosurgeon leashing along a junior nurse by his call and call, glanced up, whispering among themselves. You were mortified. What sort of history did he have to provoke this sort of response?

“I’ll do my best.” You managed.

“I hope your best means your highest performance,” He said, “In this line of work, average could get a civilian killed.”

“I—” You opened your mouth. Then, closed it. The words were stuck in your throat because hell, you hunted down the man who’s supposedly your boss’s boss in a mart for milk, who’s also the head of neurosurgeon, which you called old.

You were trembling. Trembling like the temperature in this room dropped to zero. You’re sure your teeth would chatter if your jaw wasn’t so strained. Where’s Kusukabe? Didn’t he wanted you stuck to him twenty four seven like gum he chewed and spat out? Guess this wasn’t the case when he’s on break.

Someone, someone come get me, right now.

Swiveling around, tour caught a familiar brunette from across the room. Only the back of her head, though. And she was a hair’s breadth away from turning into the hallway. Where she’ll be gone, leaving you here with this—whatever this man is. Shoko! Shoko! You tried telepathic yelling, bouncing on the toes of your crocs. Shoko! Sho-ko! As usual, practical reality stumps fantasy and the lady was gone.

Higuruma’s phone buzzed. He stopped walking suddenly and you ran smack into his back, face colliding with his spine with an ‘oof’. The document, thankfully, slipped from your grip a tad bit, and you caught it in time, hauling it back to your chest. He doesn’t budge and calmly took out his phone. The screen lit up with another message.

It was from Noaya. ‘Campaign is starting. The other side will try a smear expedition—don’t panic. Prince Charming’s a charmer when it comes to discreet hand greasing. He’ll know whatever sweets you’ve tucked away, in a short pretty time. So you better tell me now or reap the consequences later.’

His jaw ticked. From behind, you took a step back, shaking off the disorientation from ramming your skull into your superior’s back. Why’d he stop anyways? You look up. He was hunched over, the muscles of his neck tense.

He tapped the phone on his thigh for a moment, before turning on his heel to another direction completely, “You and I need to talk.”

“T—talk?” Your chest lurched. A series of rapid fire theorization, stirring up a storm. By the time you registered him leaving he was already rounding the corner, “Huh? Hey! Wait—” You caught yourself, “Wait, sir!”

.

GOGO MART teemed with students from the school near the hospital. Medical students. They were chattering and busting about as you both weaved through the crowd. It was nostalgic, reminded you of a time when you were still a student yourself, stocking up on energy drinks to prep up before a big exam.

“You and I need to talk…at a mart?” You quirked an eyebrow as you waddled after him.

“You said I owed you two debts.” He said eyes scanning the racks, “I might as well pay them while you’re here.” Then, he handed you a basket, “Get whatever you want.”

You blinked dumbly at him, “Huh?”

He stared back, “One minute starts now.”

You quickly got the memo and got to work, scaling the entire racks of the sweets section, being mindful of not hauling too much—since, well, there were students here and they probably need it more than you do. You got sweet bread. Fruitcake. Chocolate cake. Anything cakes. Got drinks. Milk cartons. Ice cream. Takoyaki. The entire shebang. Could last you a lifetime at home, if you’re careful.

By the time the basket was filled to the brim, and almost spilling over the edge, you thought you had gotten too much. He didn’t think so. He returned with a packet of arm warmers. The third debt. And tossed them into your basket. He looked at the contents and quirked a brow. “Is that all?”

As if that was the best you’ve done.

“What do you mean is that all,” You said incredulously, “did you want me to get the entire shop?”

He examined one packet of chocolate-sticks, turned it around. “If it’s neccessary.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m a man who pays my debt thrice over,” He put it back into the basket and turned around, “If that’s enough for you. Then get it to the counter.”

He was speaking too loudly, you realize. Way too loud. Because now, out of context, you can clearly see it from the others student’s eyes, who were definitely looking. Two young girls with a nose for the theatrics. One pigtail. Another, pony, licking their ice creams as they watched, shameless.

Why wouldn’t they? An older man tugging along a young woman as you, offering to pay plenty—with the offer of the shop too. They probably think he’s some sort of man with too much money to spend, and too much free time with young ladies.

You shook that thought away.

Perish!

“Six thousand yen.” Sei smiled at the cashier, looking between the two.

“Card.” He pulled out a sleek black one.

The students from earlier, looking at you both, now looked even more. Staring, the entire cashier interaction now solidifying their theories that you, are indeed, someone’s pretty beneficiary. Which! Hello! Wasn’t the case! He’s paying my debt, you try telepathy again, giving them wide pleading eyes. Which told them more about your pathetic status than anything because you looked like you were dragged there against your will.

The transaction was done with a ping.

“Let’s go.” And, it didn’t help he was so demanding, indirectly justifying the girl’s theorization.

“Yes, sir.” You muttered, distraught.

There’s no point in clearing things up now. Word will definitely spread you’re someone’s sugar baby. Kusukabe will hear of it. Shoko will hear of it. Geto will hear of it. And when they do you’ll be chucked out of the hospital like confetti strings on a plastic bag, waiting for the next garbage truck to tow you away. Outside, Higuruma placed the bags onto the table under umbrella—positioned just beside the mart’s window.

“You must be hungry,” He said, “Eat.”

“It’s not a must,” You said, quickly untying the plastic bags, “It’s a need. Gosh I’m starving,” You plucked out a matcha coated chocolate ice cream, “I’ve been wanting to try this one actually. You want one?”

He sat down on the chair, pulled it close to the table, “No.”

“Not even this?” You pointed to a strawberry milk carton.

“No.”

You made a face, “Then what are we here for?”

He was quiet for a moment, staring at you. The look on his face was clear—as if he was weighing the odds against another, deciding which course of action was best to take.

“To discuss yesterday.”

.

“Most people don’t realize they have it. Symptoms are little, if not sparse,” Yohei said bringing out a plastic heart and placing it on the table, “Do you know what it is?”

“If I did,” Higuruma said, “I wouldn’t be here. And I would prefer you don’t beat around the bush—I am not partial to wasting time.”

Yohei smiled ruefully, “Of course.”

It was difficult to differentiate the two. That this is the same Hiromi who once stepped foot into Yohei’s clinic, clutching his mother’s fist before every check-up.

“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” Youhei began, “is a disease where the heart muscle becomes thickened,” He gestured to one side of the plastic heart, “It is also called hypertrophied. The thickened heart muscle makes it difficult to pump blood. But in a small number of people with it, it can cause serious symptoms.”

“How serious?” Higuruma cut in.

Yohei’s mouth worked for a moment, “It depends, Higuruma.”

“I need a definitive answer, not a speculation, doctor.”

“It can be fatal for some,” He eventually said, “shortness of breath, chest pain. Some patients have changes in the heart's electrical system. These changes can….” he trailed off, swallowing, “These changes can result in life-threatening irregular heartbeats…and sudden death.”

Higuruma’s jaw ticked, “And the solution?”

“Surgery.”

Higuruma stood up so quickly, the chair skidded back with a screech. He paced around the room, a hand over his mouth. “I don’t have time for surgery, Yohei,” He muttered, “I don’t have time. I’ll have to delay a year—and I don’t have a year to delay. The votings are coming up, and I need to be present for the evaluation.”

Not to mention, his candidacy will also be endorsed by the proportion of successful surgeries he carried out.

Yohei slowly rose, his voice low, “It’s not your place to decide. Won’t this sickness weigh you down? Make it difficult for you to work?”

“I can manage the symptoms.” He said coldly.

“Regardless,” Yohei strained, “the committee won’t allow a compromised doctor to participate, Higuruma. You and I both know you’re not eligible, it’s simply unlawful by the code of ethics. You’ll be removed—worse, expelled. Do you want that?”

“Then the committee,” He turned slowly towards the older man, his eyes dark, “Doesn’t need to know.”

.

“About yesterday?” You said, confused, tearing off the wrapper of your ice cream, “What, yesterday. Like when you bled your nose all over the pavement and owed me four debts?”

He closed his eyes, “Which I already paid.”

“Which you already paid,” You assented, “So, what about it?”

He paused for a beat, drumming his fingers in the surface of the table, still staring. “What do you make of it?”

You chomped down a large bite, “Everyone bleeds that’s totally normal.”

“Not in my case.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

He shifted in his seat, “I don’t think you understand,” Then he leaned forward, bringing his clasped fists on the table, “What I mean, is that you cannot speak word of this.”

He was a hair’s breadth away, nose to your nose, staring you down like a particularly peeved noir detective. Though, you can’t seem to wrap your head around why he’s so pressed about The Nosebleed.

You’re pretty sure that’s a normal diagnosis, unless if he started bleeding from his eyes—then, well, that’s a problem. A mortifying, cosmic horror problem and you need to sling him to the ER, asap. But this? A normal nosebleed? What could be so…

You pursed your lips for a moment, thinking hard. Tetris-blocking the gaps with large, pondering thoughts. Higuruma’s clasped hands curled tighter, awaiting the eventual result of your conjecture. Would you catch on? Would you not? If you did what would you—

“Oh my gosh are you…” Your eyes widened in realization, “No—don’t tell me. Don’t tell me,” You looked around quickly, then leans closer, almost lip to lip and whispered, delighted, “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed?”

Higuruma’s mind stalled. Thats it? Thats your conclusion? An ugly snort throttles out of your throat. You don’t know what prompted it, but the way he appeared off kilter provoked a slur of shameless giggles.

Your hand quickly clamped over your mouth—to, perhaps maintain some sense of dignity—as your shoulders shook, the whites of your teeth seen through the crevices of your fingers.

“Are you done?” He said blandly while you rolled down the aisles. Not literally. Though, he knew that if you could, you would, given the vigorous intensity of your guffawing-fit.

“Sorry, bad habit—” Another snort, then another, followed by a high-pitched giggle, “Okay,” You breathed, composing yourself, “okay, I’m good,” You took in another breath, “I’m cool, super cool. Cool,” and he was sure you’d relapsed again if he were to say something—which he didn’t, becuase he knew you would be in another stitch.

“I’m good,” You declared for the last time, breathy and wobbly as if you’d run a mile. Felt like it, too. Your sides—god, were they sore.

“You’re funny, old man.” You hoarsed, “I don’t know why, but you’re funny. Keep it up, and maybe you’ll make a fortune out of it.”

Higuruma felt the weight lifted from his shoulders. The air in his lungs exhaled, softening his posture. He makes fortune handling human brains, and apparently her needed to hush a junior nurse from speaking word of the blood fest episode he had.

“Whatever you think I think,” He began, “That’s up to you. But yesterday doesn’t need to end up on the hospital forum.”

“Fine Ojisan,” You sniffed, still high from the giggling, “I’ll keep your little secret. But—here’s a but.” You pointed at him with the melted popsicle, “you’re at my beck and call whenever I’m hungry.”

He closed his eyes, imagining his bank account, and the several red minuses that will eventually appear on the days to come. “That’s all?” He said. Perhaps, to shut you up, he’ll pander you for a while. Until he’s able to cinch the position

“Mhm,” You pressed the ice cream against your lips, “That’s all. Nothing ambitious. Just that your card needs to exercise once in an awhile.”

“Then we have a deal, don’t we?”

“No terms of conditions because I’m spontaneous,” You slurped a molten slew of ice cream, “Oh, and stop being mean to me at work. It’s not a good look for me and I’ll die from mortification. So, back off.”

“Of course,” He raised his hands, “I will keep that in mind. Though, I cannot guarantee I’ll keep it sweet to you during emergencies. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Obviously,” You drawled, “it’s work. I mean off-work, like when you’re being yourself, you know, and not a boss.” You pause, “Not the doctor.”

There it is again. That sudden softness in your voice that made him squirm. He looked away towards the street. “Eat your debt away,” He said quietly, “Your shift starts at twelve.”

That made you start, and you scarfing down the ice cream, “And you couldn’t be bothered to tell me earlier?”

“Just eat.”

Like the worm that slinks along the soil, digging for its little cove to grovel in. He wonders, when it rains, where will it go? Washed away by the waters, drifting further and further into the mound. Until it is smothered, until its pink flesh is no longer pink but tattled brown, clumped along with the clay and soil.

While you were chattering off on some story, about how you managed to slip away from your mom’s grip to party, he discreetly took out his phone from his pocket under the table. He pulled up messages and clicked Noaya.

“No,’ he typed back. ‘I don’t have any.’

Higuruma is not servile to the whims of God. He is not religious man.

But, god, he reckoned is servile to affliction.

Next on Episode Three, “Ping Pong.”

Now, every time he kissed your cheek—that soft, full swell of your cheek, god he could just eat you up—you smell like the very scent you’re craving.

“I’m home,” He said, kicking off his oxfords. He could make out the TV playing, the low chattering hum of whatever show you put on.

“Honey?” He called out again, heading towards the kitchen. The living room was right over, and the sofa—cushioned with several thick cream blankets for your comfort—was empty. Were you sleeping? He set his briefcase onto the counter and opened the fridge, one hand on top, the scanning the shelves.

“If you’re hungry I could make popcorn,” He said again.

No reply.

“Butter popcorn?” He tried.

Nothing.

It’s a force of habit to reach out for a can of beer. And he does, a split instinctual second that found his hands curling around a non-existent can. He let out a breath and pulled his hand away.

That was before he was married.

Before he met you, actually. Before he got his life together. Now, he’s got all three cinched up in a prim box with a little red bow. He’s got what he wanted and he’s never relapsing back to that sort of life where mornings greeted him in the form of cluttered cans on the ground, where he’d kick it around to pass through, where laundries are tossed into the corner of the room and where his face—unshaven and dull—stared back at him with every reason to blame. Those days, it felt like a chore. Left him wondering if the best way to go was the easiest way forth.

He closed the fridge.

On the surface pinned with a heart shaped magnet was a picture. Before he had a firm of his own, he was still a junior lawyer at a larger establishment. And there, it was the first time he met you. You were an assistant from another department, and his own was throwing a party for his promotion. You went to his office with the sole purpose of being smug, since—well—after all you won a case, and you couldn’t help yourself.

Through it all, while you flaunted, hip jutting out, smirking and preening—he remembered not feeling irritated, but wondering how you’d feel if he just kissed you on that cute cheek. In a strange way, you lighted up his mornings. Made him realize the sun wasn’t an annoying blob of light that burns his eyes, and that the easiest way to go was being able to sleep, knowing the full swell of his heart is safe, drooling on the pillow, cushioned on the bed beside him.

Erase you, and he couldn’t imagine a life forward.

“Hiromi?” He heard your drowsy voice from behind.

Ah, you were sleeping.

He turned around, lips curving into a smile. You were utterly, against all odds, the most loveliest sight he’s ever seen—waddling towards him in shuffles barefoot, dressed in a thin satin nightgown that were pulled taut over the round swell of your belly. Your hair was a mess, sticking in different directions and on your cheek—presumably from a really, really deep nap. You were about to walk towards him when something clicked, and you crossed your arms, glaring.

“You’re late.” You said.

“And you’re petulant as usual.” He walked over, opening his arms, “Come here, bug. Papa bug misses you.”

“I don’t,” you turned away, still in that drowsy, sulky reverow, but you stepped into his arms anyways, eager to be enveloped in that warm blanket that was your husband. You laid your cheek on his chest, cozying up to his neck. He nosed your temple, inhaling the gentle scent of your, ahem, butter shampoo, pressing soft wet little kisses on the skin.

“I saw a bird the other day,” He murmured, amused, another kiss to your head, rocking you slightly into a little waltz. “The one I told you about yesterday. Remember? The one on the windowsill?”

He’s got so many stories he recounted to you, that you couldn’t count. This particular one, though, went like this: Higuruma was eating his lunch at the break room. And, normally, he’d leave the window open for air since the air conditioner was broken and the boss (himself) either have forgotten to fix it or— blast it, yeah, actually he forgot to fix it. He was in the middle of wrapping up his empty container, about to take his last bite of the smoked fish, when a pigeon landed on the sill. Stared up at him for a long moment with its beady eyes. Then, with one shameless peck, plucked his fish with its beak.

And flew.

“What happened?” You asked.

“Turned out, it came again this morning,” His hands landed on your waist.

“Oh? What did it do?.” You said, then you inhaled his collar, eager to smell the warm scent of your husband—

And you stop.

“It didn’t take my fish again,” He continued, oblivious.

Since the pregnancy, since he put a baby in your belly, your senses were heightened to the max. Reason? You don’t know, either. Guess it’s some super power only women have. Or, it’s probably just hormones with how sensitive your nose was, detecting certain scents and smells like a preying bloodhound.

Higuruma knew. He’s used to it. Used to bathe himself in non-scented soap just to appease your nose. Sometimes he didn’t even shower. Today, though, he doesn’t smell like Higuruma. It’s different. This scent is more fancy, like white opulent plumes coiling in the air. Like aromatic, budding flowers. Like vintage sweet wine.

Like—

Like Perfume.

When Higuruma noticed you were quiet, he pulls back, concerned. “What’s wrong, bug?”

You look back up, your eyes wide and watery, “You…you’re cheating on me.”

Every thought in his brain becomes blank. He’s too caught off guard to even realize what you mean, because you’re already (adorably) waddling away with sad, slow shuffled, sniffling towards the bedroom.

“You’re cheating on me,” You said again, voice thick, “I can smell her perfume on you.”

“Her—her perfume?” He said incredulously, dumbly walking after you, his hands in the air with constant surrender, “Baby, honey bug,” He tried, but you waddled away even quicker. He bit his cheek becuase you’re too cute like this, even when accusing him of infidelity, “darling. I would never—listen, I would never do the things you think I’d do—”

“I’d understand!” You wailed, snatching up a pillow and raising it, “I’m—I’m swollen, big, and—and with stupid hormones that’s always making me sobby and angry all the time. I’d understand if you want someone better than me!”

He cornered her against the couch, “That’s completely baseless, bug, I would never.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m your wife!” The pillow plumped against his chest.

“You’re right,” He said, “Because you’re my darling wife that I say this. Would I say this to some random man I’ve never met?”

“With that perfume on you,” You hiccuped, “who knows.”

He didn’t realize you were going through these things. How couldn’t he have not known? His gaze softened, as did his voice, “Hey now, put the pillow down and we can talk. Can’t negotiate with a broken bone, can I?”

“Until you tell me who that perfume belongs to,” Your voice was wobbly despite the firm time, “and we’ll talk.”

“Promise you won’t get mad if I tell you?”

“Why, is it a pretty girl?” You hiccuped.

“It’s my mom’s, honeybug,” He said, one step closer. You were so close he could draw you into a senseless hug.

“Really,” You said flatly, not convinced.

“You can call Shimizu and ask. She never lies. You know that.”

In fact, Shimizu tasked—basically anointed—herself to be Higuruma’s deterrent, determined to hamper as many women as possible who wanted to get close to the man and wife him up. You weren’t the jealous type, but hormones got you riled up sometimes. And in Shimizu’s case, she got heated up in your stead for the teeniest tiniest interaction with a woman.

“She’s busy, she can’t keep tabs all the time,” You shot back.

“Then check the cameras,” He said, “Its open twenty four seven and I fix it always, round the clock. The app is on my phone, you can open it.”

Your posture loosened, a little less hostile, “If she did go, what’s she doing there? I thought she’s in Kyoto. And no sudden movements.”

“She visited this morning,” He latched onto that hope filling his chest, “Quick one. Just wanted a rain check and the usual.”

“What usual?”

“If you’re eating well.”

“And?”

“And If I’m being an ass.”

Sounds about her, alright. When her son announced that he’ll wed you as his wife, she looked like the gods finally gave her reason to invest in Real Estate. Jokes aside, she’s a fussy mother and she’d make a really, really great grandma to your daughter. You love her to bits, which was why you’re willing to believe him now. Not believing him meant you didn’t believe she was truthful, coming.

“You are,” You sniffled, wiping your face with the back of your arm, “You are being an ass and I hate you.”

“Even when it gets worse, I’ll be here,” He said, opening his arms, “Now, there’s my bug. I’ll make you hate me less, if I could?”

He’s such a good husband you don’t know how you managed to cinch him. Always so devoted, so patient with you even when you couldn’t tell heads or tails. You went into his embrace, clutching one lapel of his suit jacket, your body shuddering against his. A mole burying into the warm soil.

“Hey,” He murmured, lips on the crown of your head, “It’s okay, it’s alright. I’m here. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Your voice was a small little sniffle against his shirt, “I picked a fight for no reason at all, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” He hugged you tighter, relishing the soft give of your body, “You feel heavy all the time, accommodating two heartbeats in your body. Least I could do is make sure you’re comfortable and safe.”

“But I—”

“It’s all done now, okay? Don’t fret.” He shushed you with a sweet kiss on the lips. Then, he pulled away, thumb stroking your cheek, “Popcorn?”

You were uncertain for a moment then nodded,“Mhm.”

“Figures.” He took your hand, “Come on.”

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Now, every time he kissed your cheek—that soft, full swell of your cheek, god he could just eat you up—you smell like the very scent you’re craving.

“I’m home,” He said, kicking off his oxfords. He could make out the TV playing, the low chattering hum of whatever show you put on.

“Honey?” He called out again, heading towards the kitchen. The living room was right over, and the sofa—cushioned with several thick cream blankets for your comfort—was empty. Were you sleeping? He set his briefcase onto the counter and opened the fridge, one hand on top, the scanning the shelves.

“If you’re hungry I could make popcorn,” He said again.

No reply.

“Butter popcorn?” He tried.

Nothing.

It’s a force of habit to reach out for a can of beer. And he does, a split instinctual second that found his hands curling around a non-existent can. He let out a breath and pulled his hand away.

That was before he was married.

Before he met you, actually. Before he got his life together. Now, he’s got all three cinched up in a prim box with a little red bow. He’s got what he wanted and he’s never relapsing back to that sort of life where mornings greeted him in the form of cluttered cans on the ground, where he’d kick it around to pass through, where laundries are tossed into the corner of the room and where his face—unshaven and dull—stared back at him with every reason to blame. Those days, it felt like a chore. Left him wondering if the best way to go was the easiest way forth.

He closed the fridge.

On the surface pinned with a heart shaped magnet was a picture. Before he had a firm of his own, he was still a junior lawyer at a larger establishment. And there, it was the first time he met you. You were an assistant from another department, and his own was throwing a party for his promotion. You went to his office with the sole purpose of being smug, since—well—after all you won a case, and you couldn’t help yourself.

Through it all, while you flaunted, hip jutting out, smirking and preening—he remembered not feeling irritated, but wondering how you’d feel if he just kissed you on that cute cheek. In a strange way, you lighted up his mornings. Made him realize the sun wasn’t an annoying blob of light that burns his eyes, and that the easiest way to go was being able to sleep, knowing the full swell of his heart is safe, drooling on the pillow, cushioned on the bed beside him.

Erase you, and he couldn’t imagine a life forward.

“Hiromi?” He heard your drowsy voice from behind.

Ah, you were sleeping.

He turned around, lips curving into a smile. You were utterly, against all odds, the most loveliest sight he’s ever seen—waddling towards him in shuffles barefoot, dressed in a thin satin nightgown that were pulled taut over the round swell of your belly. Your hair was a mess, sticking in different directions and on your cheek—presumably from a really, really deep nap. You were about to walk towards him when something clicked, and you crossed your arms, glaring.

“You’re late.” You said.

“And you’re petulant as usual.” He walked over, opening his arms, “Come here, bug. Papa bug misses you.”

“I don’t,” you turned away, still in that drowsy, sulky reverow, but you stepped into his arms anyways, eager to be enveloped in that warm blanket that was your husband. You laid your cheek on his chest, cozying up to his neck. He nosed your temple, inhaling the gentle scent of your, ahem, butter shampoo, pressing soft wet little kisses on the skin.

“I saw a bird the other day,” He murmured, amused, another kiss to your head, rocking you slightly into a little waltz. “The one I told you about yesterday. Remember? The one on the windowsill?”

He’s got so many stories he recounted to you, that you couldn’t count. This particular one, though, went like this: Higuruma was eating his lunch at the break room. And, normally, he’d leave the window open for air since the air conditioner was broken and the boss (himself) either have forgotten to fix it or— blast it, yeah, actually he forgot to fix it. He was in the middle of wrapping up his empty container, about to take his last bite of the smoked fish, when a pigeon landed on the sill. Stared up at him for a long moment with its beady eyes. Then, with one shameless peck, plucked his fish with its beak.

And flew.

“What happened?” You asked.

“Turned out, it came again this morning,” His hands landed on your waist.

“Oh? What did it do?.” You said, then you inhaled his collar, eager to smell the warm scent of your husband—

And you stop.

“It didn’t take my fish again,” He continued, oblivious.

Since the pregnancy, since he put a baby in your belly, your senses were heightened to the max. Reason? You don’t know, either. Guess it’s some super power only women have. Or, it’s probably just hormones with how sensitive your nose was, detecting certain scents and smells like a preying bloodhound.

Higuruma knew. He’s used to it. Used to bathe himself in non-scented soap just to appease your nose. Sometimes he didn’t even shower. Today, though, he doesn’t smell like Higuruma. It’s different. This scent is more fancy, like white opulent plumes coiling in the air. Like aromatic, budding flowers. Like vintage sweet wine.

Like—

Like Perfume.

When Higuruma noticed you were quiet, he pulls back, concerned. “What’s wrong, bug?”

You look back up, your eyes wide and watery, “You…you’re cheating on me.”

Every thought in his brain becomes blank. He’s too caught off guard to even realize what you mean, because you’re already (adorably) waddling away with sad, slow shuffled, sniffling towards the bedroom.

“You’re cheating on me,” You said again, voice thick, “I can smell her perfume on you.”

“Her—her perfume?” He said incredulously, dumbly walking after you, his hands in the air with constant surrender, “Baby, honey bug,” He tried, but you waddled away even quicker. He bit his cheek becuase you’re too cute like this, even when accusing him of infidelity, “darling. I would never—listen, I would never do the things you think I’d do—”

“I’d understand!” You wailed, snatching up a pillow and raising it, “I’m—I’m swollen, big, and—and with stupid hormones that’s always making me sobby and angry all the time. I’d understand if you want someone better than me!”

He cornered her against the couch, “That’s completely baseless, bug, I would never.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m your wife!” The pillow plumped against his chest.

“You’re right,” He said, “Because you’re my darling wife that I say this. Would I say this to some random man I’ve never met?”

“With that perfume on you,” You hiccuped, “who knows.”

He didn’t realize you were going through these things. How couldn’t he have not known? His gaze softened, as did his voice, “Hey now, put the pillow down and we can talk. Can’t negotiate with a broken bone, can I?”

“Until you tell me who that perfume belongs to,” Your voice was wobbly despite the firm time, “and we’ll talk.”

“Promise you won’t get mad if I tell you?”

“Why, is it a pretty girl?” You hiccuped.

“It’s my mom’s, honeybug,” He said, one step closer. You were so close he could draw you into a senseless hug.

“Really,” You said flatly, not convinced.

“You can call Shimizu and ask. She never lies. You know that.”

In fact, Shimizu tasked—basically anointed—herself to be Higuruma’s deterrent, determined to hamper as many women as possible who wanted to get close to the man and wife him up. You weren’t the jealous type, but hormones got you riled up sometimes. And in Shimizu’s case, she got heated up in your stead for the teeniest tiniest interaction with a woman.

“She’s busy, she can’t keep tabs all the time,” You shot back.

“Then check the cameras,” He said, “Its open twenty four seven and I fix it always, round the clock. The app is on my phone, you can open it.”

Your posture loosened, a little less hostile, “If she did go, what’s she doing there? I thought she’s in Kyoto. And no sudden movements.”

“She visited this morning,” He latched onto that hope filling his chest, “Quick one. Just wanted a rain check and the usual.”

“What usual?”

“If you’re eating well.”

“And?”

“And If I’m being an ass.”

Sounds about her, alright. When her son announced that he’ll wed you as his wife, she looked like the gods finally gave her reason to invest in Real Estate. Jokes aside, she’s a fussy mother and she’d make a really, really great grandma to your daughter. You love her to bits, which was why you’re willing to believe him now. Not believing him meant you didn’t believe she was truthful, coming.

“You are,” You sniffled, wiping your face with the back of your arm, “You are being an ass and I hate you.”

“Even when it gets worse, I’ll be here,” He said, opening his arms, “Now, there’s my bug. I’ll make you hate me less, if I could?”

He’s such a good husband you don’t know how you managed to cinch him. Always so devoted, so patient with you even when you couldn’t tell heads or tails. You went into his embrace, clutching one lapel of his suit jacket, your body shuddering against his. A mole burying into the warm soil.

“Hey,” He murmured, lips on the crown of your head, “It’s okay, it’s alright. I’m here. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” Your voice was a small little sniffle against his shirt, “I picked a fight for no reason at all, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” He hugged you tighter, relishing the soft give of your body, “You feel heavy all the time, accommodating two heartbeats in your body. Least I could do is make sure you’re comfortable and safe.”

“But I—”

“It’s all done now, okay? Don’t fret.” He shushed you with a sweet kiss on the lips. Then, he pulled away, thumb stroking your cheek, “Popcorn?”

You were uncertain for a moment then nodded,“Mhm.”

“Figures.” He took your hand, “Come on.”

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His eyes cracked open. He’s woken up to a hundred mornings, and on today, one of these mornings—that’s not new. Pushing the duvet aside, he swung his legs over the bed, feet flat on the cold floorboards. He blindly swept his heel across the floor for his boxers. It flew there somewhere last night when your fingers were as slick as a slinky, tugging it down and tossing it aside. He kept telling himself he’d remind you to be more tidy, and as often as he told himself he’d tell you of that fact, he easily caved to your whims, never—in fact—reminding you of that fact.

He found the boxer wedged under the cabinet. Black with stripes you found utterly amusing. Ah, the places he’d find them. Hooking the waistband with his toe, he flicked his ankle up and snatched it with his hands. He quickly became decent, shoving his feet through the holes and headed towards the kitchen where you were.

He first smelled bacon. Then, he smelled you. Your strange butter fragranted soap he had to buy in bulks or else you’d stir up a storm with the normally used lavender scented bottles. Hormones does wonder to the human mind—changing soaps are one of them, apparently.

Swollenly pregnant, you stood before the stove on your toes, stirring bacon in the pan. You’re absolutely and utterly lovely, dressed in only his dress-shirt that gaped open revealing the swells of your breasts underneath, the hems brushing against your thighs with every pitter patter of your bare feet on the floorboards. You were also struggling to close the stove.

He sighed. Walked over and flicked off the switches with ease. The heat quickly disappeared. You blinked, then looked up.

“Good morning,” He said mildly, crossing his arms.

His brows were pinched, though, not very mildly. There was one thing you could do when he’s like this. You whirled towards your husband, lower lip jutting out, the spatula in your hand drooping dolefully along with your eyebrows “My feet hurts…”

Guilt-tripping.

“I can see that,” His eyes fell down to your very much swollen sausage legs, “I wonder why. How long have you’ve been up.”

You don’t meet his eyes, hands lowering in front of your belly as you twiddled the knob of the spatula, “A while ago.”

“How long was awhile ago?”

“Not sure,” You trailed off, turning towards the window where the sky is a pretty bright blue, “I can’t really remember…”

He was undeterred, though, “How long?” He reiterated.

“Five minutes…?” You offered.

He stared that sort of stare you knew he’d wrung out a confession eventually, and he did, because you caved in, throwing your hands up.

“Alright, fine!” You cried, “An hour ago, happy? I was here an hour ago, waddling here and there. Got nothing done. Burnt the bacon and maybe the stove.”

“The stove is fine. But one hour ago?” He repeated incredulously, “Honey, do you know how long that is for a pregnant woman to stand?”

“I don’t know!” You sniffled, jabbing a finger to his chest, voice adorably wobbly as if he’d accuse you of the most potent crime, “ I was figuring out how to balance two pots and pans with a stomach like this. And it’s really, really hard okay? I tried my best. I’ve been so stressed these past few minutes, so hungry I could eat a horse, so don’t you go around judging me becuase I—!”

“Mama,” He put both hands on your shoulders—mama, becuase that’s your name now, apparently— and he said calmly, “You could have woken me up.”

“I was hungry,” You blinked the tears away, still petulant, “Starving. Do you know how annoying that is? Heavy, hungry, always needing to piss.”

“I’m here for a reason.”

“Let you help me piss?” You cried, “I have dignity too!”

You’re walking around butt-naked with nothing but his dress-shirt on becuase your maternity dresses were still too small to accommodate your stomach. So, yeah, they’re well past dignity now.

“Let’s not go there” He said, slowly, or else you’ll start wearing clothes and his daily morning view of your swole body is gone, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

You looked to the floor, frowning, angry at the harmless floor, “You came home late yesterday.” You muttered, kicking the rug, “And you snored. Like a truck. A stupid truck with no fumes after whatever,” You frowned even more, feeling the heat in your cheeks, “After what we did. And I didn’t want to wake you up because you were sleeping like an uncracked tomb.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Honey, I’m not going to die with a few hours of sleep.”

“Don’t be stupid we both know that’s a lie,” You shot back, the spatula finding its way, very threateningly to his neck. The cold bowled-metal pressed against his throat.

“Doctor says it’s bad with less sleep.” You said.

“And doctor says,” He bent down, hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you into his arms, “it’s bad for pregnant women to walk around making bacons.”

You shrieked.

“Hey!” You pounded his chest, “I can walk you bug!”

“This bug his getting you back to bed,” He grunted, wading his way across the hallways to their bedroom, “And this bug is tucking you to bed. And himself as well. Stay still.”

You huffed a hot puff of air against his neck. He sighed, since you obviously did it to steer him off with your morning breath. Eventually you stopped struggling, melted into his arms and wrapped your arms around his neck, sulking,“…Can you fry me some bacon then?”

He felt himself smiling, “With pickles?”

“Sour, sweet pickles.” You said, “Three jars.”