The room is bright.
How very uncharacteristic for him.
The sheets are white.
Pale.
The room smells sanitized.
Overly so. Nothing about the tiny, box-like recovery room suits it's patient.
But then, few things do.
Tobi looks at his hands, clasped in his lap. He is here because he is a good boy and visiting your unconscious, injured mentor, however futile and unproductive, is something good boys do.
The chair is stiff.
Not comfortable.
He is stiff.
Good boys don't fidget when paying their respects.
Tobi reclasps his hands and returns his gaze to the bed whose image is ruined by its sleeper. One of the Venus flytrap-like leaves is almost touching his knees. He has always wanted to poke one, just to know what it feels like: hard, squishy, smooth, rough. But such elementary pursuits are not appropriate for a good boy. Tobi scoots back in the hard chair ever so slightly. He glances at the clock. A good boy does not leave too early or tarry too long: he knows exactly when to leave.
Thirty minutes is long enough. Short enough.
Tobi stands and walks to the window. It is only two steps. A good boy always paces himself. He carefully extracts the daffodil from the vase. Despite his good intentions, a drop falls from the stem to the tiled floor. A good boy would have mopped it up.
But Tobi is not always a good boy.
He puts the shriveled flower in an empty trashcan. He knows it is empty because he removes the trash every day.
And it is always empty.
A good boy would have made a mental note to take out the trash when he left.
But Tobi does not think he will today.
He carefully slides a new daffodil into the vase because eh is a good boy and good boys always bring flowers when they visit a patient.
But Tobi hopes this is the last one.
He steps over to the bed. Two steps. He smoothes the blankets, even though he knows they are not wrinkled. He knows they are not wrinkled because he smoothes them everyday.
And they are never wrinkled.
Tobi looks at his hands. Good boys tend to do this when they don't know what else to do. But good boys do not give up hope, even if their visits are futile and unproductive. And he knows the next one will be because all of them have been.
But Tobi hopes this is the last one.
He puts a hand on the sleeper's forehead. It is not hot. It is not cold. Then he quickly runs a finger down the Venus flytrap. It is smooth and alive.
Alive.
He looks to make sure no one saw this, that he is not always a good boy.
"Get better, Zetsu-sama," Tobi whispers, because he is a good boy and acknowledging the person he is visiting, no matter how unaware and incapable of hearing him, is something good boys do. And Tobi, not because he is a good boy, knows that plants only grow when you talk to them.
