A Terrible Patient
“Isn’t he a terrible patient?” the Blue with the red hair and bright smile asked with a quizzical head tilt.
Yata blinked at him for a second, wondering what they’d been doing to Saruhiko or what he’d been doing to them, then just sighed and threw Saruhiko’s arm over his shoulder because his friend was only half-conscious and apparently willing to have his flu-ridden self dragged away from the computer and his desk.
Well, by Yata. The Blue was staring at him in wide-eyed awe. “Did you already remove his knives?”
“No! He’s sick.” Yata huffed. “I’m taking him home.”
It wasn’t the first time Yata had taken care of Saruhiko when he was sick.
It wasn’t the first time Scepter 4 had seen its newest member of Intelligence sniffling and sneezing his way through reports and monitor work late at night when everyone else at sense had already gone to bed. Lieutenant Awashima was probably only awake to keep an eye on him.
The first time Fushimi Saruhiko had gotten sick and kept working, his usual grumpiness turned downright threatening and his glassy-eyed glares remained utterly terrifying when someone suggested he drink some water or tea or, heaven forbid, go to bed and rest instead of hacking and coughing his way through a dozen tissue boxes.
Akiyama had the bravery to drop off cough drops and additional tissue boxes but Fushimi hadn’t said thank you once.
This time, Fushimi was worse off physically, shivering and sweating as he typed. He hadn’t been eating and Awashima doubted he wouldn’t have to redo the work when he was more conscious anyway. She sighed and went to order him to bed. She was his boss. She could do that.
The next day, she set a member of the sword squad at his door and an administrative assistant to taking food and water back and forth. When the assistant came to her with a terrified expression and knife holes in their uniform, she suggested they stop making excuses and submit the application for a new uniform.
Saruhiko didn’t give Yata any trouble at all. “You don’t have good ears,” he slurred in Yata’s ear. He was a lot taller than Yata, but Yata had never had trouble lugging his skinny, underfed friend around, and apparently, years growing up away from each other hadn’t changed that. “You never listen,” Saruhiko muttered.
“I know,” Yata said. “You can tell me about it later. When you’re in bed.”
It wasn’t entirely true, Yata didn’t think, but Saruhiko believed it and somewhere along the way when they were both still in Homura, he’d failed Saruhiko somehow. He set his mouth. But he wasn’t going to fail him this time.
Saruhiko thought he was dreaming. When that guy’s face reared at him out of nightmare, laughing at his monkey, Saruhiko croaked out a protest and the face dissolved. “Misaki?”
“Hey, sit up a bit.” Misaki was here, right here, helping him drink some water and bringing a bowl of porridge. “You got to eat something, huh?”
It was just like— It couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream. He lay back, content to dream it.
“Isn’t he a terrible patient?” Doumyouji asked Akiyama and Awashima with a consternated expression on his face, having once been the victim of Fushimi Saruhiko’s hostile response to potential caretakers.
But here was Yata chatting and smiling with Fushimi at the entrance to the dorms before Fushimi returned to work. There was an actual smile on Fushimi’s face.
Then Yata was whizzing off on his skateboard and Fushimi caught them staring, the smile turned to instant frown.
“Perhaps,” Awashima said, “you should mind your own business.”
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