The computer program

6. The neurosurgeon

The little bell chimed happily as I opened the door.

It was a beautiful sound, clear and welcoming in a way that made me think that no matter how many days someone spent here, they would never tire of the sound.

I smiled when I saw him behind the desk. He was wore olive cardigan that hung off one shoulder, his hair in a high ponytail, and he was assembling a bouquet of leaves. As he heard the bell, he looked up, and his face broke out into a beautiful smile, his teeth slightly crooked but very white, as if God had chosen his best teeth to create my brother's mouth but had just dropped them into his mouth like dices.

"Izuna!"

I went and hugged him.

"You look fantastic", I said.

"How the fuck did you make that bun?" he asked, pointing at my head where I had collected my hair in a high updo, some strands free to frame my hair.

"I did it without looking while cooking breakfast and it turned out pretty good so I pinned it down", I said.

"Looks fucking bridal. Now, what do you want?"

I frowned.

"Is it that obvious I'm here to ask you a favour?"

"Yes. And judging by how hesitant your energy is, I guess it has to do with that professor who, by the way, is way too old for you."

"He's not!" I exclaimed.

"He's my age!" Madara complained.

"So if you were one year older than me, I would only be allowed to date people my age?"

"Exactly!" Madara said, but I knew that part was a joke, and that he knew that I understood what he really meant. "Now, what do you want?" he repeated.

"Remember how you're actually a neurosurgeon?"

Madara had graduated med school at twenty-four, having started directly after high school. He'd started his specialist training immediately after graduating, and at thirty-two, he was a specialist in neurosurgery, which was a frightfully young age. One day, he'd lost one of his cancer patients, a young girl, on his operating table, and he'd just decided he didn't want to do it anymore. He'd taken a one-year-course to become a florist, and had run this shop for the past year. I had never seen him so happy, so I, personally, had never thought about the lost potential. I didn't, however, know how he felt about it himself. Did he miss being a neurosurgeon? Did he miss his old profession? Did he feel guilt? Unworthy?

I didn't know how he felt about ever operating again, be it now or further in the future. But I still had to ask him. And the more I explained about what I wanted him to do, the deeper the furrow in his brow grew.

"So... Will you do it?" I finally asked. 

I expected him to say no. In all honesty, I just waited for him to say no so I could move on and think of a plan B. But to my great surprise, he didn't.

"I'll do it", he said, crossing his arms.

"What, really?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Yes. But I don't like it. The only reason I do it is because I don't trust that professor of yours, and I know if I don't do it, someone else will, and I don't want to put you in that situation."

I decided to ignore this.

"Is there one tiny part of you that want the fame? I mean, this is huge."

"None", Madara said dead-pan, and one look at his facial expression made me immediately believe him. "I just want you safe. I don't even want that professor to mention me in his papers."