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“All of you do one more lap, then take a break,” Gojo shouts from the sideline. Normally, he’d make them each finish the set first, stopping time determined by their own pace, but it’s hot out and he can’t bring himself to be cruel.
Maki and Toge are at least two rounds ahead of Okkotsu, and Panda’s just sunbathing in the inner grassy section of the track, but even the quick ones are sluggish today. It might be best to move sparring indoors after this, lest they all give out and refuse to participate.
“Oh my god, you asshole,” Maki complains across the field as Toge cuts across to the innermost lane around the bend, barely passing her as they approach the common finish.
“Salmon roe,” he replies, looking over his shoulder to wink before crossing the line.
Maki’s just behind him, skidding as she switches directions, fire in her eyes.
“Panda,” she barks, raising her hand.
“Bonito flakes!” Toge takes off toward the bleachers.
“Sorry! I owe her for the Calpas–” He tosses her the training staff, which she gracefully catches, sliding into a sideways lunge as she turns again.
Even with a momentary pause, she still has the upper hand, barring cheating, catching up with him just before he can duck into the safety beneath the benches. Technically, they made a rule about those acting as a Continental: no dirty tricks allowed, but since when do sorcerers play fair?
“Cod roe! Salmon! Mustard leaf!” He pleads, but it’s no use. Maki’s already swiping his ankles and knocking him flat on his ass.
“Don’t kill each other," Gojo flatly warns over his shoulder. Any other day, Toge probably would’ve managed to jump and dodge, but eighty-five degree weather inhibits everyone. It’s good practice though, even if curses don’t accumulate much in the summer, there are ones that generate heat.
Amongst the quarrelling, the sound of panting swells, so he turns his attention back to the track, where Yuta’s finally made it to the finish line. You would’ve thought he just ran a marathon from the way he’s doubled over, hands braced on his knees.
“You good?” Gojo asks. The kid’s pale and swaying in place. He’s been telling them to keep hydrated, but Yuta’s not one for self-preservation.
“M’okay,” he rasps, stumbling sideways onto the grass.
“Yeah, right.” Gojo squints at him, brows coming together in suspicion. “Go sit down and drink some water.”
“Actually–” He swallows. “I- I don’t… I really don’t–...”
“Okay, yeah, come on–” He steps forward, reaching for his elbow.
“Idon’tfeelgood–” The kid chokes out in a breathless rush, just before his eyelids flutter and his knees give out.
“Woah– I gotcha.” Gojo catches him by the underarms, which should be sweaty, but they’re not. He gently lowers him to the ground, laying him flat on his back, then checks his pulse with two fingers.
“Is he okay?” Maki asks, already jogging over.
Panda and Toge are quick to follow.
“Go get him some water, multiple bottles if you can carry them,” he calmly instructs. “One of you go inside and grab a few ice packs too.”
“On it,” Maki and Panda yell, already dashing off, at the same time Toge says “salmon!”
“Naptime’s over, kiddo.” Gojo shakes him by the shoulder. His skin is dry and hot where it’s exposed, and his heart rate’s through the roof, but at least it’s strong. Though, that might also be bad. He’s a little rusty on first aid.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, selecting the personal number in Shoko’s contact rather than the professional one, which goes to a pager and is significantly less convenient.
“What do you want?” She huffs, pen clicking in the background. “I’m busy.”
“Too busy for a little field medicine?” He asks. “I’ve got a kid down out here.”
“You know there’s a protocol for how you’re supposed to call for medical on campus, right?” She scolds, but he hears her stand and push in her rolling chair anyway. “It’s easier when I don’t have to document your bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t have thought there was so much bureaucracy in saving lives.” He chuckles as Maki reappears with a case of plastic water bottles.
“Thank you,” he mouths, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder as he tears it open.
“I hate to do more paperwork than surgery, but a certain salaryman would be glad to know it’s about a seven to three ratio,” she says. “Is it heatstroke? I can copy paste an old note if it’s something easy like that.”
“Bingo.” He cracks open two lids in one motion, then pours out the liquid all over the kid’s core, drenching his t-shirt. “It’s Okkotsu.”
“I would’ve bet on it.” She clicks her tongue. “I’ll be down in a few.”
She hangs up before he can think of anything witty to say, but he wasn’t trying too hard in the first place. Concern’s already taken over.
He slips his phone back in his pocket with one hand, while the other shakes Yuta again.
“Come on, let me see those puppy eyes,” he encourages, dousing him with another liter or so. They’re not refrigerated, but it’s better than nothing.
There’s a rushed “tuna tuna,” behind him, and a moment later, Toge’s sliding to his knees, dropping an armful of instant cold packs. He grabs Yuta’s knee worriedly, as Maki crouches behind his head, and Panda looms over him, casting a shadow.
“Give him some space.” Gojo waves them back, but they only scoot a couple of feet, maximum.
He pops the ice packs, one in each hand, then wedges them in his armpits, groin, behind his knees, against his neck, and one across his forehead.
“Panda.” He blips one of his credit cards from his wallet to between his fingers and holds it out. “Go buy a sports drink from the vending machine– The refrigerated one.”
He nods dutifully and takes off, just as Yuta stirs.
“Hey.” Gojo squeezes his shoulder. “You gotta wake up. You're scaring your friends.”
“Hm…?” He blinks, wincing at the sunlight. “Wh- What– Ohmygod–”
He sits up suddenly, a shiver running through him.
“Slow down–” Gojo grabs him by the shoulders before he can get any further. “You’re overheating, just lay–”
“I’m c-cold,” he whines, weakly trying to pull away. “My clothes– I n-need… I need dry clothes–”
“No, you need to cool off–”
“But–”
“Calm down,” Maki says from behind him. “You have heat stroke. You just passed out.”
“H-huh?” He looks over his shoulder, sudden horror casting a shadow over his expression as he whips his head back to also see Toge watching worriedly, and Panda approaching in the distance.
His gaze flicks back to Gojo and he opens his mouth, presumably to speak, but a gag rises instead, liquid splattering in his lap.
“Shit–” He grabs the kid’s far bicep, trying to urge him to lean over to the side, but he’s already retching again, thicker, mucousy remnants of breakfast running over his chin and down his neck, solid bits sticking.
“Okay, well–” Gojo wrinkles his nose and pats him on the back.
Panda’s the only one brave enough to approach now, handing over the Gatorade before he retreats a safe ten or so feet away like the others.
“S’rry…” Yuta sniffles, then convulses with another heave. The spurt of yellow bile that splashes into the mess already below is momentarily delayed, his body tense and waiting. It’s so sour it has him tearing up and gagging again right after.
Gojo can’t blame him, judging from the smell.
He claps him firmly between the shoulder blades, which sends him into a coughing fit. He unsuccessfully tries to subdue it, lips pressed together, and that only makes it worse, spraying aerosolized flecks of gastric contents a good distance in front of him.
“I feel s-sick,” he rasps between snivels and gasps. It’s unclear whether the wetness running down his cheeks is purely from the acid, or if there’s a shame component. Altered mental status is a symptom as well, if he remembers correctly.
“Yeah, I know.” Gojo cracks open another water. “Let’s rinse your mouth out.”
“I… I don’t r’lly like m’thwash…” He mumbles.
“It’s just water, kid.” He brings the plastic rim to his lips, tilting it back carefully so as to not inadvertently drown him.
He spits directly into his lap, displacing thicker bits of vomit that haven’t soaked into his pants, but given that he’s barely holding his head up, Gojo’s not going to chastise him for it.
“Yikes.” Typical professional heels have been replaced with old, torn up sneakers, poorly tied in a rush. “You really did mean heat stroke.”
“When have I ever pulled your leg?” He smiles, though his attention is still fixed on Yuta.
“Don’t even try.” She rolls her eyes, dropping to a crouch opposite him on the kid’s other side. She unzips her travel bag and retrieves equipment with practiced speed, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm and sticking a thermometer in his ear before anyone can blink.
He looks up dazedly, eyes glossing over her and instead settling on Gojo, who pats him on the back supportively as she works.
“Yeah, you’re boiling,” Shoko decides, pulling the devices off him even faster than she put them on.
“What a diagnosis, doc!” Gojo teases. “How could we have known–”
“Shut up.” She glares fiercely for a couple of seconds, then gets back to business: “I need to get an IV in him. Some air conditioning and Zofran would do a lot of good too.”
“Yeah, sounds right.” Gojo nods, squeezing his shoulder as his head lolls forward, weakness passing through his body again.
“Stay awake,” he murmurs, opening the Gatorade. “Here.”
Shoko takes over, wrapping her fingers around the bottle and bringing it to his lips.
“It’ll be easier to get him inside if he can keep some fluids and sugar down,” she says, pulling the drink away after the first sip.
He swishes and spits again, which is fair enough since that was the last instruction he was given, and Gojo’s impressed he even remembered that.
“You gotta drink,” he tells him as Shoko offers him some more.
“S’rry–” He decides to say mid-draught. He aspirates, of course, which sends him hacking, artificial blue spilling down his chin and spraying the grass in front of him, as well as Shoko’s sleeve.
“Thanks,” she mutters, passing Gojo gauze to wipe his face with. “This is why I didn’t want to be a pediatrician.”
“You’ll survive.” He takes the bottle back from her too. “Third time’s the charm...”
“... There you go. You got it.” Thankfully, he manages to get about a tablespoon in him, give or take.
“Do you think you’re gonna vomit again?” Shoko asks after a few seconds of tense stillness.
He ponders, faraway dizziness clouding his eyes, before he weakly shakes his head.
“M’okay…” He whispers. “Sorry…”
A fraction of his normal color is returning, which doesn’t sound like much, but with how pale he naturally is, it makes a noticeable difference.
“What do you think about standing up?” Gojo raises. “You’ll feel better if we can get you inside.”
He gulps thickly, nervousness visibly bubbling over, and he looks like he’s going to refuse, or maybe throw up, but then he glances at his friends, who are watching nervously from by the bleachers, and that gets a decisive nod out of him.
“Alright, up we go–” Gojo loops one arm around his back, as Shoko picks up her bag and hooks his elbow over her shoulders.
He’s light enough that he definitely doesn’t need two people to lift him, especially when one of those people can bench thrice his weight, but better safe than sorry, and both of them acting as a privacy shield is an added bonus.
“M’sorry–” Yuta says softly, hardly managing to drag his feet along.
“Don’t worry about it,” Gojo replies, redoubling his grip on him as he almost collapses again. They pause for a moment in case he faints, but he just manages to pull it together, breathing heavily and swallowing every couple of seconds.
“This happens to at least one of you every year,” Shoko adds. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
“S’embarrassing…” He sniffles. “They all saw…”
“They don’t care– Well, they do, but they’re just worried,” Gojo assures him, nudging his foot with his own to signal him to lift his leg as they reach the steps. “You’ll be back to normal tomorrow and Maki will kick your ass like usual.”
He hums in response, but doesn’t sound particularly comforted.
“You know,” he tries instead. “I’ve actually known her since she was a kid. I can tell you some stories to get back at her if she says anything.”
“She’d jus’ hit me harder…” Yuta mumbles.
“Yeah, probably,” he concurs. “You got any ideas, doc?”
“I’m Sweden,” she says. “And bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Boo, you’re no fun.” He sticks his tongue out at her over the kid’s shoulders.
She rolls her eyes.
“My head hurts…” Yuta interrupts hoarsely as they reach the top of the stairs.
“Yeah, that’s the dehydration getting to you,” Gojo tells him.
“We’re almost there,” Shoko supplies. “You’ll be fixed up in an hour. I’m good at what I do.”
“No need to brag–”
“Don’t–” She hisses, slipping out from Yuta’s arm and leaving him to hold him up all on his lonesome. She opens the door and holds it for them. “Let me reassure him in peace.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he acquiesces. “She’s right. You’ll be okay.”