The hospital corridors were quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of voices behind closed doors. Sea walked at his usual unhurried pace, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, heading toward the lounge for a short break.
That was when he noticed the child.
A small figure sat alone in the hallway, curled up on one of the stiff plastic chairs.
Light-colored hair fell messily over a worried face, hazel eyes locked onto the emergency ward doors. One foot tapped against the floor in restless, uneven beats. Hands clutched the hem of a hoodie, fingers twisting the fabric tight.
Sea slowed his steps.
No parent in sight. No other adult nearby.
He could have walked past. It wasn’t his business.
Instead, he stopped a few feet away. “You lost?”
No response. The child's gaze stayed glued to the doors.
Sea sighed. Alright. He crouched down, resting an elbow on his knee. “You waiting for someone?”
That got a reaction. A small flinch, like the child had forgotten anyone else was there. When finally turning to look at him, a tense expression remained. “…My twin. Got hurt.”
Sea’s eyes flicked toward the emergency doors. “Fracture?”
A small nod.
He had seen plenty of anxious family members before, but something about this kid struck him. Too still, too wound up—like sheer willpower was the only thing holding everything together.
“You here alone?” he asked.
“My mom’s at work,” the child muttered. “She’s coming, but—” A sharp tug on the hoodie sleeves. “It’s taking too long.”
Sea leaned back slightly, considering. “Well, I’m here now. I’ll wait with you.”
The child blinked at him, suspicious. “Why?”
Sea shrugged. “Why not?” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a lollipop, holding it out. “Hospital policy. If you’re on edge, you get one of these.”
The child hesitated, but after a moment, took it. The wrapper crinkled in small, fidgeting hands.
Sea settled onto the chair next to them, resting one ankle over his knee. “You know, if your twin has a fracture, they’re getting a cast.”
The child glanced up. “…Yeah?”
“Yeah. And a cast needs signatures. And drawings.” Sea tapped his fingers against the armrest. “You practiced your signature yet?”
A slight frown. “I don’t need to practice my name.”
“Oh? What about cool designs? Something fun?” He gestured vaguely. “Hearts, skulls, dinosaurs, whatever you like.”
The child’s fidgeting slowed.
Sea pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here.”
A few minutes later, he returned with a stack of paper and a handful of pens. He dropped them onto the seat between them. “Alright. Let’s get started.”
The child hesitated, but then—slowly—grabbed a pen.
And just like that, the worry in those hazel eyes lessened—just a little.
The moment Mukuro had gotten word that one of her children were hurt, she stopped what she was doing and would head straight to the hospital and even though she was absolutely speeding through the streets, Mukuro still had moments where she was stuck behind someone who was way too cautious on the street and every minute she spent in her car away from her kids, felt like an hour。
Mukuro couldn't honestly guess how much time passed between getting the news and arriving at the hospital, but she'd waste no time parking and rushing inside。 She informed the front desk who she was and rushed through any paperwork or information that was needed before getting told where she needed to go。
She would lose count at how many times Mukuro was told that she wasn't to run, but she didn't care, her heels clicking loudly on the flooring as she rushed to where her children were。 Turning the corner, Mukuro's footsteps would slow down considerably when she saw her son and a doctor sitting with a stack of paper between them, a soft smile would ease on her lips, happy to see that a doctor was taking time out of his day to help out her child。
