Work Text:
The man sitting to the right of Shang Qinghua had sneezed into the magazine intended for waiting patients and then put it back on the table. Had these people never heard of germs? And how can you show up in a public place with a cold without even a mask? Even his father never went out without a mask - they lived in Beijing, for heaven's sake, they knew the risks - and no one there wore one? What reckless people! If it had been up to him, he wouldn't even have left the apartment. He had a chapter to publish. He couldn't waste time. Unfortunately, the body was an even worse tyrant than his landlord, and Shang Qinghua had to go to the doctor. He certainly could not die before finishing his story. He was sure that certain ones - aka, Peerless Cucumber - would find a way to make necromancy a real thing, only to bring him back to life, yell at him and force him to rewrite it all over again. He didn't want to spend eternity like that! To begin with, he had to get away from that possible outbreak of plague. Or Ebola. These days, you can't be sure of anything.
Shang Qinghua climbed two places and rubbed two drops of Amuchina in his hands. Safety first.
To her left, the usual three aunts were talking to each other, complaining about lazy genres, husbands who spent their evenings in front of the TV, the cost of bread that had risen again and osteoarthritis that did not give breath. He also seemed to hear comments about a very nice new doctor, too bad for his personality, but he didn't pay much attention to it. His arm itched like hell.
Shang Qinghua sighed; the wait for Dr. Qingfang was terrible. It could even take hours before entering him. It was normal, after all it was a university clinic, Dr. Qingfang was also a teacher, and Shang Qinghua used to come there because it was cheaper. Of course, he also had to put up with the trainees, but that was fine as long as the doctor gave him his prescription and Shang Qinghua could go back to work.
"And you, dear?" asked one of the aunts, turning to him. "Why are you here today?"
Shang Qinghua stepped back a little further, because the last time that woman had pinched him on the cheek, he still felt the pain.
"Oh, it's... mhm... probably measles."
"Measles? At your age?" one of the women said, surprised. Before Shang Qinghua could say that it was not his fault that his mother had managed to prevent him from most childhood diseases, one of the old aunts said, "Measles? Measles can lead to pneumonia, and pneumonia is still one of the leading causes of death worldwide. Do you have tachycardia? That's the first symptom!"
"Really, I..."
"Oh, my God! Measles?! I'm pregnant!" shouted another woman who was at the back of the room and far away from Shang Qinghua.
"We have to get out," the woman's husband told her, taking her by the shoulders without too much ceremony.
Shang Qinghua would have meant that by now most of the people were vaccinated, so the measles was not so catastrophic, but in a couple of minutes, there was a general stampede, and the waiting room emptied.
Only Shang Qinghua and the rude man with the cold remained. The latter burped, and Shang Qinghua hid his face in his hands.
What a humiliation!
A nurse peeped out. She looked around in confusion when she saw only two patients, and then, with a shrug, deciding that she might as well enjoy a sluggish day, she called, "Mr Shang?"
"Here I am," he said, mentally thanking him for taking precedence over that guy. He thanked her with an imperceptible nod of his head and entered the study. He expected good old Dr. Qingfang – who was just a decade older than Shang Qinghua, but working closely with patients of all kinds and also having to manage a university hospital, he asked for a token called crow's feet and wrinkled neck – instead, sitting behind the desk, intent on reading on the computer, there was the most handsome man Shang Qinghua had ever seen: skin as white as porcelain, long and silky black hair gathered in a ponytail, blue eyes behind nerd glasses that on that serious face made him look like a famous scholar, and not an anonymous doctor, broad shoulders, and a very muscular chest that he was not ashamed to hide. That white shirt was tight, very tight, and with four buttons unbuttoned.
Shang Qinghua squinted because surely all this beauty hurt his corneas.
"Fuck me..." he found himself whispering.
It was his luck that the doctor looked up, striking him, "Are you Shang Qinghua?"
"Mhm... yes... and you are..."
"Mobei, I'm replacing Dr. Qingfang."
"Is he sick?"
It was the most logical thing to say, given how many sick people the man had to deal with. That was a reasonable guess! Dr. Mobei pursed, "No, he took a sabbatical year to take a break."
"I guess the work has tired him."
"No, colleagues, especially those who get poisoned to make a point. Three times."
Shang Qinghua's eyes widened. "Who would be poisoned to make a point?"
"An idiot," the doctor cut short, "Back to us. The doctor left me the records of all the patients who most often come to the clinic. Your folder is labelled Attention: Imaginary Sick."
Shang Qinghua grimaced, but found that the doctor's coldness didn't bother him at all. In fact, it even made it sexier. He decided to answer as he always did, "I'm not an imaginary patient. In my family, we all have a delicate constitution."
"One wouldn't think so, looking at you," the doctor replied.
"Is this a compliment?" Shang Qinghua blushed. How could he not do it, seeing who his doctor was?, But the man replied, "No, I see the facts. You have a good skin colour, your pupils are not excessively dilated, and there are no external signs of infections or flu symptoms."
"But I have an external sign of an infection! Look!" Shang Qinghua lifted his sleeve, showing the red bump that had formed on his arm, which was now also a little yellowish.
Dr. Mobei rolled his eyes, but went around the desk and then leaned against it, directly in front of Shang Qinghua. The latter felt his nose tingle when a sweet smell of pine-mint-smelling aftershave reached his nostrils. The smell was also so manly.
"Let's take a look," the doctor ordered, wearing latex gloves.
He held out his arm to him and felt a shiver go down from the spot where the doctor grabbed him. He wasn't imagining how else the sexy doctor could touch him, maybe right on the couch a little further on, nor was he imagining how to write that scene in Proud Immortal Demon Way. What's the matter, even demons had the right to try the doctor's game at least once.
Dr. Mobei carefully observed the red spot that stood out sharply on the patient's pale skin. He prodded the swollen part with his finger and made a couple of disgruntled noises.
"Is it serious?" he asked, feeling a couple of drops of sweat slip from his forehead. He didn't think that being touched by such a handsome man could make him so nervous. "Is it measles? But I can't have measles, I don't have time to be sick, I have deliveries to meet, the rent this month has increased..."
"It's an insect bite," the doctor said, interrupting him, "It's not a poisonous insect. It's just a mosquito."
"Oh..."
"However, since you probably live in poor hygienic conditions, the bite has become slightly infected, which is why pus is coming out. I prescribe you a cream to..."
"Poor hygienic conditions?" he interrupted, feeling unreasonably offended, "I clean my apartment at least once a day! I disinfect, I mop, no germ can enter..."
"Of course you're one of those weirdos," he heard him comment, but Shang Qinghua continued, "I always throw the noodle cartons in the appropriate containers, I keep the oven clean, I check the expiration date at every meal..."
"What does that mean?"
Shang Qinghua blinked, "What?"
"You said you check the expiration date at every meal. Does that mean you never eat anything that isn't packaged food?"
Shang Qinghua chuckled, "Doctor, I don't have time. Noodles are a quick and healthy food. There are also vegetables."
"Do you only eat those?"
"When it happens..."
The doctor's gaze became more threatening, so much so that Shang Qinghua began to tremble, "Does that mean you don't even eat regularly?"
"Ah, but I'm a writer, sometimes it just happens to me to... uhm... forget to eat. These things happen, you know?"
"No, these things don't happen. Doctor Qingfang forgot to add to the file it's an idiot without any instinct of self-preservation."
"Hey, I..."
"We have to do some analysis," Dr. Mobei said, "We have to see what deficits you suffer from, we have to start making a meal plan that you will have to follow..."
"But I don't have time!" the poor writer complained. A meal plan required concentration, money to go shopping, and a lot of things he didn't have. He couldn't just get off and go shopping. With what money then? Everything went either to rent or... to other things (there was no need to think about porn, not while the wet dream of his teenage self was right in front of him.)
"You'll find it," the doctor said inflexibly, "I can't believe a hypochondriac is so nonchalant about just that."
"I'm not a hypochondriac..."
Almost as if at a signal, his stomach decided at that moment to remember that it had been almost twenty-eight hours since he had eaten, and the sound he made almost made him sound like Aladdin's cave of wonders when it opened.
Shang Qinghua wanted to dig a grave and sink into it. The doctor frowned, "How long have you not eaten?"
"Oh, a few hours..."
"Exactly how many?"
"Mhm..."
He saw him run a hand over his face. Then, the man stood up, and called the assistant, "Ning Yingying, how many patients are there?"
"There's no one left, doctor," the pretty nurse looked out into the study, "Mr. Zhang said he had to go to his niece's dance recital, and he left a little while ago."
Had the guy with the cold gone to a dance recital? Where were there dozens of children? It will be a catastrophe! They will all get sick! And bye bye holidays for stressed parental powers.
Dr. Mobei, however, did not see the catastrophe as Shang Qinghua did. He said, "Good. For today, we are done. You, come with me."
"Me?" Shang Qinghua pointed to himself, surprised.
"Yes, you. I'll take you to eat, then we'll do some analysis."
"Ah, but if it's because of the noise before, it's not necessary, I'm not so hungry..."
The doctor gave him a scowl that froze him on the spot, "You may be on the verge of malnutrition, for all we know, with the risk of weakened immune defenses, muscle wasting and increased risk of infectious complications and mortality. Do you want this?"
Shang Qinghua didn't want that at all. He had come to the clinic precisely to avoid this.
However, he swallowed, "But I don't think I have enough money to... you know... eating out."
"I'll offer."
"Huh? But..."
"Come," he saw him take off his gloves and drag him out by one arm with little grace. Shang Qinghua was convinced that this was a very strange way to have a date with someone – not that it was, it would have been unprofessional! – but wisely decided not to complain.
It will be just a meal and then some analysis. It certainly won't change his life.
(The Shang Qinghua of the future will look back on this day and laugh. Oh, how much he'll laugh.)