The Pediatrician's Closet

Phlegm

He woke up with his throat hot, raw, and nearly swollen shut. His sinuses had decided to aspire to the impossible, that of a watery, weeping desert that hated the very thought of air. After checking that he had an impressive fever to match, he called in, something that the hospital and his clucking brood hated to deal with. That meant lots of calls, lots of pushing back appointments, and lots of angry parents. But it wasn't like a doctor could go in sick, let alone one to children.

Despite being beyond exhausted, the agony of his face and throat made sleep impossible. He tossed and turned before begrudgingly coming to the terms with the fact that he'd have to brave the common room in order to find something to drink to help along the meds. Having grown up in a house full of men had made him, along with his brothers, extremely reluctant to show any sort of weakness.

He took several breaks on his way down to the kitchen to fight off both dizziness and the urge to curl up on the floor and try to sleep again. Thinking of the knowledgeable twelve-year-old he must have gotten this from (the type of virus to get past his beast of an immune system had to be impressive indeed), he had to appreciate her ability to find any humor feeling like this. Old people sex indeed.

Ema found him sitting on the floor in front of the stove, a kitchen rag held to his nose since it hurt too much to sniff.

"Masaomi! What's wrong?"

He inwardly groaned. Out of all the people to find him. Screw it, he didn't need to get married. Dying here and now sounded great.

He quickly wiped and stuffed the rag away. "It's just a cold." He sounded like Batman. A chain-smoker Batman.

"It's got to be a little more than that to bring you down," she crouched down to put a hand on his forehead. "Wow, yeah. I don't think this is a cold."

Despite knowing he should, he didn't wave her hand away. Weakened as he was, he feared he might let out another unintended whine if she let go. But then, of course, she did pull away and he was lucky his vocal chords were too swollen to work at that pitch.

"I already took some medicine," he said thickly. "I'm a doctor. I'm fine."

"So you say. Are you trying to boil water?"

"Yeah."

"Um, you forgot to turn it on."

He groaned and dropped his throbbing, hateful skull back against the oven. What kind of tonsillitis gave you a sinus infection at the same time anyways? He'd have to look into this. Could be a new virus.

He felt her fingers again, this time across the curls on his head. She hadn't left. How much time had passed? Did he just fall asleep?

"Masaomi, your tea's done. Do you want it now or in your room?"

Well, it needed time to steep, and this floor was cold. But back in his room, she wouldn't be there with her cool fingers in his hair. Why hadn't she just let him sleep?

"Um...uh..."

Sensing the mire his thoughts had become, she patted down the hair she had been lightly combing through. "I'll take it to your room. Take your time."

She walked away. He rolled in her direction and found his feet. Once he had clung to the fridge for sufficiently long enough for his vision to clear, he shuffled his way up the stairs, letting his traitorous skull wag with each step. Or, at least, it felt like it did. God, why couldn't he just chop it off? Suck out his stupid tonsils? Because that was suicide. Gal, when had he become such a baby? Wait...had he always been a baby?

He nearly tripped over Ema standing next to his door. Would the humiliations never cease?

"I forgot it was locked," she said sheepishly.

He blinked at her until his brain processed what he was doing and opened the door unhindered.

"Oh..." she said.

Like he ever locked his door.

He had shuffled to his bed before remembering he had to take the tea from her, only to turn around and find Ema standing on his heavy, braided rug with the cup and saucer in her hands. For some reason, all he seemed to notice was that her pink socked feet look really cute against the dark navy and gray. And that there was an old set of boxers under her heel.

"I'll just...put it on the nightstand."

He hardly heard her. The boxers glared out at him. What was he, a teenager? Why the hell hadn't he picked up his dirty underwear from off the floor? Ugh, to have her see that.

"Masaomi?" A chink of china on wood. "You should lie down."

Why? It wasn't like he'd be able to sleep. He might as well clean up his room. All he needed now was for Ema to think him a slob as well as a pedophile.

"Masaomi?"

He had meant to fall back onto his bed when the dizziness and black dots returned while he had tried to bend down to swipe the offending trousers away. Instead, his heavy, feverish, infected head tipped him forward.

Warm softness caught him. Dimly, he wondered if he had just smeared snot on his pillow. Great. But at least air wasn't getting to his nose. Couldn't have that happen, perish the thought.

He leaned back. Softness beneath him. Softness above. Warmth. Gah, his eyes hurt. And now his dignity felt like crap. Underwear on the floor. Ema, he wasn't a slob. Not a teenager.

Cool, familiar fingers brushed through his hair.

"Don't worry about it. Just sleep. It will make it better."

Before he could wonder what she would think he had to worry about, her touch lulled him somewhere far away from his hurt.