Adventures in Babysitting [CLOSED]

[tofaceyesterday]

Who: Solid Snake, Miharu Rokujou
When: April 21st, afternoon (backdated)
Where: Outside Skye Medical Center, then around Sector 4.
Summary: Miharu's not taking care of himself and Snake's not gonna take it anymore.
Warnings: TBA

Comments

[torporheart]

Little hints ( or maybe very obvious hints? ) give it away. Even if Snake hadn't guessed from the moment eyes were set upon Miharu in person for the first time, he probably wasn't very surprised when the doctor started rattling off The Things Wrong. The days are still cool, but warmer in Siren's Port. Miharu had been waiting outside Club 24 dressed for something much colder. Turtle neck sweater( the one Yoite shared with him some time ago ) that comes down only a few inches from the knee, and sleeves that drape over tiny arms. The neck has to be folded down; it swallows him up. Nearly legendary black socks ( they wrinkle around his ankles; too loose ) and little brown loafers. He was shivering.

Are dizzy spells any wonder, now?

( Fifteen and the size of a fourth grader. )

Focus isn't a person's strong suit when they're in a physical state akin to Miharu's. Or, maybe it's that he's the space-off day-dreamy sort. Maybe this is why he's the space-off dead-pan gaze day-dreamy sort. The doctor wasn't even half listened to. Miharu had sat quietly the majority of the time. His answers mostly consisted of 'mms' and the occasional 'mnm'. Never an out right 'yes' or 'no'. No questions. 'How can I fix this?' He just didn't care. He doesn't care. Finding a bone in his body that cares? Good luck.

Not once partially piqued, until the word 'hospitalization' came about. Like hell. Like hell he was going to be kept in a hospital and not in the same place as Yoite. His mouth had to open then. He had to steer the conversation into compromising and promises he would undoubtedly break later. There's no appetite to fill; the list offered is meaningless.

Even now, Miharu shuffles with horrible posture less than a foot behind Snake. Trembling, trembling, trembling. Sometimes he staggers behind. Involuntarily becomes slow. When he catches himself, he purposefully marches to match pace with a wordless 'Don't ask if we need to sit down' air about him. Mostly, he slouches and shuffles and then, he's partly lifting up cream colored sweater to fish that list out of his pocket. He's inspecting it with a frown. There's probably dozens of things on there he won't even touch.

That grunt issues an empty glance. "Look," he says, with eyes descending back on the piece of paper, before he wags it at him. "They gave me a list. Don't make sounds. Do you have a quarter?"