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The school infirmary is empty of students, and he's missing math for this, so Ryouta tells himself that things could be worse. They could be better, too, but he stopped holding out for better the winter he turned ten and Shuu decided he was old enough to know about the recovery rates for acquired autoimmune disorders.
When Shuu looks up from his desk, he looks mildly curious to see him, but not surprised.
"Hi Dad," Ryouta says, weakly. "I'm not feeling great."
Their routine is ingrained enough at this point that Shuu doesn't even need to tell him to get on the bed.
"I started feeling off during gym," Ryouta says, once Shuu has his clipboard ready. He must have a novel worth of medical notes on Ryouta at this point: his illnesses, symptoms, weight fluctuations, body temperature, all of it. You'd think it would get boring, but Shuu never seems to lose interest. "Dizzy, and – my throat is sort of tight?"
"Allergic reaction, possibly. What did you have for lunch?"
"Just soba. But I've had soba loads of times."
Scratch, scratch goes the pencil. "It's not unusual for the body to develop increased sensitivity with age. Ryuuji had a buckwheat allergy, you know."
Shuu delivers this tidbit dryly, as if Ryouta's biological father was a daily topic of conversation between them instead of a hazy, barely-remembered enigma that has haunted Ryouta's imagination for the better part of his life. Before he can think better of it, he's asking, "Really?"
"Quite. Not that it stopped him from ordering soba whenever we went out. Arm, please."
Ryouta extends his arm for Shuu to affix a blood pressure cuff.
"Did you go out often?"
"Hm? On nights when our research went late. Once or twice a week, typically." The cuff tightens, until it's cinched with reassuring snugness around Ryouta's upper arm.
Ryouta can't remember Ryuuji ever eating dinner with him and mom at home – can't remember much about him at all, really. His clearest memory is of his mom's inconsolable sobbing at the funeral. Ryuuji had been a verboten topic in the household the following year, and then before Ryouta could ask about him, his mom had gone too.
Normally he avoids the topic around Shuu – it seems kind of tactless, all like 'tell me about my real dad' – but since Shuu brought Ryuuji up himself, maybe he wants to talk about him. So Ryouta lets himself ask, "Do you miss him?"
"Of course. Lift up your shirt." Shuu says.
Ryouta shivers at the cold touch of the stethoscope on his bare skin. Hiyoko would have some choice things to say if she could see him now; Shuu is her latest nominee for #1 staff heartthrob.
"Don't get me wrong, he kind of scares me," she'd confided to Ryouta just last week. "But that just adds to the allure, don't you think? 'Scene: You're called into the nurse's office for a very special private examination ...'"
Ryouta wrinkled his nose. "I have enough private examinations in my life already, thanks."
She sighed. "Don't remind me. You're so lucky you get to go home with him every day."
"Hiyoko! He's my dad."
That's right. He's his dad. His kind of intimidating, scary smart, steady-handed, smooth-voiced – nope, nope, stop that thought.
"Inhale, then hold the breath."
Grateful for the distraction, Ryouta inhales. He pictures Shuu's notes later: 'Subject grew flushed, as his heartbeat accelerated. Precise cause to be determined.'
Stupid Hiyoko. The worst part is, it's all too easy to imagine Shuu conducting a private examination with the same dispassionate affect he brings to everything else. 'Now, unbutton your trousers,' he'd say, dry as anything, maintaining unnerving eye contact as Ryouta's fingers shook on his --
"Don't tense up."
"Sorry." Ryouta swallows.
It feels like forever before Shuu says, "Good. And out."
After he's measured Ryouta's resting heart rate and blood pressure, taken a blood sample and given him an antihistamine that almost immediately starts to make him feel drowsy, Ryouta crawls into one of the infirmary beds. He's halfway to nodding off when Shuu asks, "You seem distracted today. Is something on your mind?"
"Nope. Nothing."
Shuu looks at him for a moment more, expression unreadable, but doesn't press any further.
"You can get back to your work, if you want," Ryouta says, yawning.
"This is my work," Shuu says, and to Ryouta's ears the way he says it sounds proud; fond, almost.
He means nursing, Ryouta reminds himself, but it still sparks a funny sort of warmth in his chest, and he feels almost flustered as he drifts off to sleep.