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Ritsu sits in the waiting room of the ER, his boss a bit too close in the chair beside him. He didn’t understand why Masamune was being so nice all of a sudden— he was the one who put him in here in the first place. Yes, if he hadn’t spoken to Ritsu with his endless affection, he wouldn’t have gotten distracted and there wouldn’t have been a slip...
Masamune buries into his side. He seemed exhausted, and perhaps the worrying wasn’t making it any better.
Ritsu's eyes close. Maybe… he was putting too much blame on the man. It was hell week and Ritsu’s attentiveness had been ground down to nothing as well. It was odd how the most tiring and most dangerous periods lined up perfectly. Exacto knives are a lot sharper than you would think.
The brunette takes his hand back to his lap; Masamune must have fallen asleep, his grip had gone loose. His finger is firmly bandaged, but Ritsu can feel the blood still coming.
Masamune’s hand comes back to life, pulling him close again. Screw him, he hated stitches.
“Onodera-san?”
“O-no-de-ra-sa-n―?”
Ritsu slowly opens his eyes, met with a nurse waving her hands in front of his face. “...hm?” Masamune is spread across his lap, dead asleep. There are people watching him. “The doctor can see you now, sir.”
He looks around, looks at the man in his lap, looks at the nurse, clearly overworked. He bites his tongue, swallows. Red in the face. “I’m sorry.” He flicks at the curve in Masamune’s hairline until he rouses to cover the area. “Move.”
“Oh…” He lifts his head and returns back to his own seat. His spine crunches. “Do you want me to come-”
“I’m fine.” Ritsu gets up and lets the nurse lead him down the corridors. Who was he kidding? He was afraid as all hell. He was just a kid the last time he got stitches, a kickball injury. No. Some kid tripped him on the field, spat in his hair. It felt the same. It felt the same in the lobby. How they were looking at him, at Masamune. The sway that the nurse held in her hips as she walked.
He hated stitches.
She leads him into an examination room, leaves him there. He looks around for a moment before lifting himself onto the bench. The parchment paper crinkles and folds. He wipes his nose with his sleeve.
The door opens to an aged man with a clipboard. His face was cold. “Hello,” he states.
Ritsu nods.
He adjusts his thin-wired glasses, their thick lenses. “Onodera… Ritsu. I’ll check your vitals. Did a nurse already check your vitals?”
“I- Um, yes, when I got here.”
“Right…” he pauses, flipping a page, “Ah, here they are… Looks…” there’s a tense silence, “...splendid.”
“...Yes.” He places his hands in his lap.
The doctor clicks his tongue, “Yes. It says… you’re in here for a cut, right?”
“...Yes, I accidentally sliced my finger.”
“Accidentally?”
“Yes, accidentally.”
“Right.” He eyes him, his face distorted from the frames.
Ritsu blinks, “I think I might need stitches.”
“Yes… I’ll get the kit. Sit tight.” He exits the room in a hurry. Whatever impression he left, it lingered in the air like must.
Ritsu closes his eyes again, holds his breath. Sweat builds on the nape of his neck. He hated situations like this, people like this. Let him have a mangled finger, it didn’t matter. Let him sleep.
He returns, carrying a silver platter of instruments and sutures like he were a waiter. “Hello,” he states again.
“Hello,” Ritsu states back. This was how the nightcrawlers worked in the other fields, he supposed. They were similar, yet Ritsu felt in the right. He didn’t have the scalpel in his hand, perhaps that’s why.
“Now…” He plops the tray beside Ritsu on the bench, “Let me see this thing.”
Ritsu reveals the affected hand. There was a syringe on the tray, there were needles. He felt sick.
The doctor grasps a pair of surgical scissors and slides them below the bandaging in one swoop. It takes Ritsu breath away. He was a fist lurching centimeters away from his nose. Flinching during kickball. They are cut, a new exposure is felt. The blood continues to run steadily, It drips on the doctor’s cold, uncovered hands. “Now that’s not right.” He rushes to the sink, soaps his hands, rinses, soaps again. Ritsu bleeds onto the false tiling.
“Yes, that should have stitches. It should. It’s quite deep,” he blabbers, rinsing his hands again. This man was in the lobby, speaking to a patient, Ritsu remembers now. He glared at him then. This soap is scrubbed over his wrists. Why?
“I’m not dirty, sir.” His mouth moves for itself, he cannot control it. The finger bleeds. “I’m not.”
The twitchiness of the doctor’s movements stop. He rinses placidly. He does not respond. “I ought to make four stitches.” The surgical gloves snap. A wet cloth is swiped over in quickly, dismissively. He arrives by his side, readying the syringe. “Just a bit of numbing.” The liquid drips, he sticks it in beside the wound. Unsanitary. It felt unsanitary in the most sterile of ways. Ritsu squirms, biting his lip. Shots hurt in the first place, but he was tender now. But soon, it’s gone.
He removes the needle and begins to ready the other, slipping the black thread through the thin eye. The man performed everything with a certain tension, he wanted to create suspense. He wanted to make him scared.
Ritsu can’t look away when the needle scoops up his skin and connects it back together. The thread moves slowly but without precision. The doctor’s tongue clicks.
The sutures take shape, wrapping the cut in little ribbons; it was a gift. The bleeding has lessened. Ritsu releases his breath, loosening his grip on the parchment. It is wrapped, once again, in eggshell dressing.
The gloves leave first. The doctor’s long, wrinkled fingers are exposed, wiped against his coat. “Looks fine. I’ll prescribe you some pain medication. One moment.” He leaves in a hurry with his tray.
Ritsu listens to the buzz of the fluorescent lights above. He crosses his legs, wipes his nose. And then his eyes. And then he tries to wipe away his memories, the past minutes. They stick like flypaper. It’s no use.