Honeyed Pasture and the gulls gave me my singing voice

aha! a contradiction, sore as the wounds on the patient’s shoulder. there is no healing without rest. blithely oblivious to the rumbling resentment, tadashi points his nose towards the evidence with the tact of a child who’s never seen disability. “i’m a medic.” aiding his cause, his eyes gleam with mischief. there’s no lying to him this time.

“but i won’t pry,” he adds, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “i’ve been traveling and haven’t found a single herb. all i can offer is advice.” how sad—his profession, rendered useless without supply.

frustrating, frustrating. tadashi turns, pacing. what are his options? if he knew shelter he’d take his patient there; alas, he’s rested unceremoniously in whatever semblance of a dry patch he can find, and hardly bothered to keep track. all he knows is that he’s turned inland, none too keen on staying by the coastline as the waves swell day by day. (traces of seafoam scent on his patient’s fur go unnoticed, if present at all; without remedy tadashi has no excuse to plunge his nose into inkstained shoulders.) it’d do him good to mentally map the landscape, yet the opportunity refuses to present itself. the nerve of this weather.

but ah, yes. travel. if he cannot solve his own woes he can lend an ear to his patient’s.

“where’re you headed?” tadashi asks, swinging his head back with a curious tilt. “if it’s too far, you’ll crash whether you like it or not.”