Chickenpox
Monday.
Tadashi first notices a tiny red bump on Hiro's arm when he's brushing his teeth. It's a little inflamed around the periphery, but nothing to be too concerned about. Stupid mosquitos.
Tuesday.
Tadashi spots a second bump the following night on Hiro's ankle. Hiro complains that it itches a lot. Tadashi dabs on some ointment and covers it with a band-aid. Damn bugs. He'll have to use more repellent next time.
Wednesday.
Three more dots pop up. Two on Hiro's abdomen and one on his nose. Oh, no. These are not mosquito bites.
By the weekend, angry crimson blisters cover Hiro from head to toe. The doctor confirms what Tadashi already knows: chickenpox. Hiro could have gotten it from anywhere, the pediatrician tells him. He starts to worry, but she assures him that Hiro will be fine. It's much better that he get it young rather than when he's older. There isn't much Tadashi can do now except ensure Hiro gets plenty of rest. And doesn't scratch the wounds.
Hiro doesn't receive that memo. Or at least, he pays it no mind.
He squirms on the couch, digging his fingernails into every inch of his skin.
"No, no, no, Hiro," Tadashi says, panicked. He pulls Hiro's hands away. "No scratching. Remember what Dr. Kimura said?"
"But 'Dashi, it itches," he cries, on the verge of tears. His mouth contorts into a pained frown. He's miserable, and it breaks Tadashi's heart. He adopts a gentler tone and pets Hiro's hair.
"I know, buddy, but scratching will make the boo-boos worse. I'm going to put some medicine on, okay? It'll make it not so itchy."
Tadashi grabs the calamine lotion sitting on the coffee table and unscrews the cap. Turning it upside down, he dumps a healthy amount in his palm.
"It's cold," Hiro whines as Tadashi finishes rubbing it in into his cheeks.
"I know," Tadashi says again. "But it'll help. Can you lie back for me?"
Hiro sinks against the cushions, arms lax at his sides. Tadashi lifts the front of his pajama shirt and applies some to his chest and stomach. "There we go. That should make you feel better. Do you want to watch cartoons?"
"'Kay," Hiro answers. He sits up and takes a drink from the water bottle that Tadashi has given him.
Tadashi flips to the correct channel and places the remote in Hiro's lap. "Here, bud. In case you want to make it louder."
He's about to go to the kitchen when Hiro tugs on his sleeve. "'Dashi, watch TV with me. Pweaze?"
There's a sink piled high with dishes calling his name, but Tadashi can't say no. Especially when Hiro looks so sad and pitiful. "Okay."
Hiro smiles and snuggles under Tadashi's arm as he settles beside him.
A bunch of colorful blobs appear on the screen, singing and dancing. It's a bit repetitive, but it offers Hiro a much-needed distraction from his illness. Tadashi can't complain about that.
Five minutes in, he turns to ask Hiro what the show is called. He's fallen asleep. On one hand, Tadashi is glad because Hiro needs the rest. Yet, there's one problem.
The remote is just out of reach and he can't move without waking Hiro. He's trapped. Tadashi glances at the television. He bites back a groan, but tries to think positive. Maybe it won't be that bad...?
Wrong.