With puffed cheeks, Misha glared at the white ceiling as if it was his worst enemy. A few seconds later, he huffed, then rolled out of bed. The moment his feet touched the icy floor, he couldn't help but grimace, looking around the small room for his slippers that he had discarded who knew where. Once he found them hiding under the plastic chair near the wall, he quickly retrieved them before putting them on.

Then, Misha swiftly straightened his back while tugging his clothes close to his body. Although he knew it was only his imagination, he still felt like there was an eerie breeze constantly blowing under his hospital gown, giving him the impression that he was b.u.t.t n.a.k.e.d. The feeling was even worse when he bent down, which made him feel like he was wriggling his small b.u.t.t for everyone to see.

In addition to being utterly ugly, the damn clothes always fell apart whenever he moved, and he had to battle with the cords to tie them into a bow as those were on his back. Was there anything more impractical than this? Did it look like he had hands growing on his back? How was he supposed to tie his gown without dislocating his shoulders!?

Moreover, even though the blue gown he was wearing was one for kids, it was still too big for Misha, and the wide collar always exposed one of his shoulders when it wasn't his collar bones, which made his mouth twitch every time. Was it too much to ask for clothes that covered his body correctly?

Of course, it was!

The boy sighed, pulling his collar up once again in a useless attempt to fix his appearance a little. 'I never thought I would have the chance to wear one of these ugly back-tying gowns again. Gosh, the one who created them was either a pervert or an idiot!' complained Misha in his heart, silently mourning the hospital gown that will be created in a few years. At least, those kimono-inspired clothes opened at the front, not the back, and thus, they considerably reduced the possibility of exposing one's rear.

Well, in any case, be it the old one or the future one, Misha still didn't want to wear any of them, not only because they were uncomfortable, but also because they almost always involved a trip to the hospital. Strangely enough, Misha wasn't fond of visiting the hospital – although, in his past life, he frequently came by to say hi after a fight a bit too rough.

Now that Misha thought about it, he had long forgotten the number of times a nurse had to stitch his wounds; some had been truly gruesome, and some had left deep, white scars on his skin – broken glasses, beers, and pool cues could be quite scary. Back in the day, Misha learned that, in a bar, they were the perfect weapons of opportunity.

'At least, back then, I was admitted to the hospital for a good reason. Now, I'm stuck there, but I'm not even sick! That freaking fever sure is troublesome,' silently sighed Misha, wondering if the doctors would let him go home one day. Those poor souls would never find out what was wrong with his body, no matter how many tests they made him go through, or how much they wracked their brain over his condition. Unless one of them traveled back in time and knew what consequences it implied, the result would always be the same: no virus, no disease, no lesions, no explanation.

But if his fever never went down, would Misha be stuck in this damned place forever? The simple thought sent shivers down his spine. He was admitted only a few days ago when his mother realized that the fever didn't show any signs of going down, and Misha already wanted to flee far away from the hospital. He was so bored that he was on the verge of losing his sanity! And his roommates sure didn't help him improve his mood!

And thus, Misha was pondering on what to do to convince his mother to bring him home when a gentle voice rang in his ears.

"Oh, sweetheart, where are you going?"

Misha turned his head, and his eyes met with the petite figure of his mother. Her blond hair was slightly disheveled, loosely tied at the crown of her neck, and the dark circles under her eyes reflected her restless sleep from the past few days. In one of her hands, there was a steaming coffee, and the sight of it made Misha frown. How many did his mother drink since this morning?

"I'm just going to the toilets," answered the boy, forcing a smile before slipping away into the washroom in front of him. Among the four beds in the room, his was the nearest to the toilets, and he only needed to take a few steps before reaching it.

Once inside, Misha heaved a sigh, rubbing his temples. Although his mother's worries and care made him feel loved, these past few days, it had been a bit too much. She seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown, never leaving his bedside until the nurse sent her home late at night before coming back early in the morning. The moment her son was out of her sight, she panicked, looking everywhere for him as if her life depended on it. She only left his side when she was so hungry that her stomach was trying to digest itself, or when her bladder threatened to explode if she didn't go to the toilets.

Even if Misha wasn't the brightest person in the world, he still could tell that his mother's reaction to his hospitalization was somewhat abnormal. He maybe had a constant fever for a whole week, but because the temperature of his body wasn't too high, it wasn't life-threatening; it was just enough to be bothersome. In his opinion, he was simply a special case that needed to be thoroughly examined, but not prioritized.

"Next time Masha comes to visit me, I need to ask her what's going on with mom," mumbled the boy to himself, worried about his mother's health that was deteriorating at a rate visible to the n.a.k.e.d eyes.

When Misha came out from the toilets, his mother was sitting on the plastic chair, nervously tapping on the coffee cup. The moment she saw him, she heaved a discreet sigh of relief. She patted the bed, telling him to come and sit. He shouldn't move around too much in his state.

Misha didn't make things difficult for her and trotted to the bed before climbing in it and sliding under the bedsheets. After a short while, he glanced at his mother, then asked, "How about telling me a story?" It wasn't the first time he made such a demand since his admission to the hospital. Every time there was a long silence between them, he would ask her this to distract her mind, and his mother would gladly comply.

Slowly, Misha closed his eyes, listening to his mother's gentle voice until he fell asleep.

When Mrs. Brown heard his faint and regular breathing, she closed her mouth, stroking her son's hair with tenderness.

Seeing her precious son lying on a hospital bed brought back memories of the day he was born.

Back then, she had fallen down the stairs from the second floor, and the shock made her give birth prem.a.t.u.r.ely. Because of this, her baby was between life and death for a few weeks, sleeping in an incubator for over a month. The sight of so many tubes providing solutions, nutrition, and oxygen to her son, who was so small that it made her heart ache, was burned into her mind. She could never forget the despair she had felt all those days, waiting for some good news.

Once her baby was out of danger, the doctor took her aside and explained that there was a chance her boy's growth would be affected by his prem.a.t.u.r.e birth. According to him, Misha would never grow tall, always smaller and thinner than his pairs, and he may also develop mental disabilities. It was something only time could tell, but she needed to pay attention to his health and his behavior early on so they could intervene as soon as possible.

Mrs. Brown bit her lips. Until now, the doctor's words were right. Her boy was so small and thin, and he also had slight development disabilities. When she looked at him, guilt swelled up in her c.h.e.s.t. If only she hadn't fallen, maybe his boy's conditions wouldn't be as severe as they were. Perhaps, he would not have to go through so many things. She knew the difficulties he experienced at school bothered him and that his classmates often mocked him based on his delicate appearance, and she felt like it was her fault.

Sighing, Mrs. Brown bent down, kissing the warm and sweaty forehead of her son as she whispered, "This time again, you will be fine. Yes, you will certainly be fine."

Author's note:

MC: I hate that freaking gown. How can girls wear skirts and dresses!?

ML: How about trying it? You will have a good idea then.

MC: F*ck no! You wear it!

ML: It wouldn't suit me, sorry.

MC: It wouldn't suit me either!!!

ML: ...

Author: ...

Masha: ...

MC: Go the hell, all of you! QAQ