smdh | Someone holds me safe and warm

Someone holds me safe and warm

Who: One master and one sword
What: A reincarnated reunion
Warnings: Shit is going to hurt. Also injury and lung problems and fucked up people yo. tba.

***

It's one of those chance meetings, improbable and almost unreal, as if it belongs in a comedy with a varied and witty cast that can somehow make the Uncanny Valley implications not seem quite so bad. But though the cast really is in place and only waiting to speak their lines and lighten the mood, it's impossible to shake off the uncomfortable feeling of a disturbance in the fabric of the world. As if one of two parallel lines broke free of the shackles of mathematics, changing its course slightly, and now they will inevitably meet eventually, at the other side of the curvature of the universe if necessary.

Souji remembers it like this: He'd been training hard-

(Of course he'd been training hard. Just like everyone else at a prestigious dance academy is expected to do; harder, in fact, due to his disadvantages. The scarring on his lungs that would never go away, and no matter how much people told him that he'd been lucky, it feels like he's constantly branded as weak, frail, pitiable. When Sano refers easily to his 'busted lungs' and Heisuke hurriedly steps on his foot, it's the latter that Souji has to keep himself from glaring at.)

-He'd been training hard. He'd stayed behind in the studio after hours to repeat every single movement over and over again until he could feel his toes getting sticky from blood, and his breath had been running short for about half an hour already. He heard someone pushing the door open behind him, heard a testy, You're never going to be able to do that without breathing, and he'd opened his mouth to say that he was fine, just fine, when instead there was a harsh croak as the air ground to a halt in his throat. His legs turned unresponsive under him mid-jete, and he'd crashed to the floor, sliding until he hit the mirrored wall and saw his own face disappear behind a film of blood. He heard something between a gasp and a horrified groan, running footsteps, Souji? Souji! - then he heard nothing at all above the ringing, blood-scented darkness rising above his head.

He wakes up in the hospital. It's 3 am, and the only reason he isn't in pain is probably the pearly sheen of painkillers lingering over the world, which mutes the quality of every far-off sound, like someone sobbing in another room and the TV down the hall, which usually colors its walls faintly blue all night through. His head is bandaged, and so's one of his ankles as well as his left wrist. There's an oxygen meter taped to his toe. The call button is right by his hand, but he shoves it away from himself.

Then he looks up at the bed opposite of his, expecting to find an indistinct shape sleeping deeply, but he finds blue eyes staring intently back at him instead. He jerks away slightly, and somewhere behind the film of analgesics he can feel his head start up a low throbbing. Then he catches his breath, which comes shallow and tastes faintly of blood, and attempts a smile. "Hello."

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The idea of "fate" is debatable. It's a concept that changes throughout the ages, shifting with the sands of time, allowing itself to be touted and dismissed in accordance with the ages. But it never disappears. Not entirely. There are those who scoff and shun and declare life to be theirs for the making, but there are always, always believers.

Yamato is one of them. Even in this day and age, with a new life, a new future, a new fate, he believes. He's always been what they call "superstitious"--his head a little too far in the clouds to anyone that doesn't really know him.

So maybe something is resonating within him, something awakening that deep part of his soul that believes, so fully and faithfully. Maybe that's why he's kneeling on his bed instead of trying to sleep, watching the newcomer the same way he's been since they brought him in. Or maybe it's just that childlike curiosity of his, given something new and interesting after almost a year alone in this place.

His robe is a little too big, even for hospital gown standards. It hangs off him like a hand-me-down passed from father to son, exposing spidery blue veins and too-pale skin. There's an IV in his hand, and other tubes winding around him, disappearing beneath the blankets or into his gown. But even so, in the dim light of the hospital room, his eyes are alert and bright enough to glow.

"Hello," he replies, matching Souji's smile, almost like he's trying to play mirror. "I wasn't sure you were going to wake up before they took you somewhere else again. I'm glad you did, you're my first roommate in a long time."

After the first shock gradually grows as distant as the not-quite-pain, the tension in his chest actually eases a bit - or at least it feels a bit less acute - as relief replaces his initial reaction. He doesn't want to be alone; he just also doesn't want the nurses there, doesn't want them to fuss and prod and admonish and explain. He already understands all too well what had happened, and he doesn't need blunt instruments widening that particular wound any more.

He's not going to be able to dance until his foot heals. He's going to be lagging behind even more now. And worst of all, it's all his own fault.

Desperate for something to distract himself with, he takes in the scrawny creature perched like a bird ready for flight on the other bed, and he recognizes him. Not the face or the person - at least, he thinks he doesn't? - but his own reflection not too many years ago. The way the white squares of light seems to eat into your flesh and steal your warmth, the tubes creeping under your skin when you're not watching, the needles that turn up to sap your blood like insects, the hands that move you around to do this and that, leaving the scent of rubber like bruises all over. In the end you feel like you're a cancer in the smooth, clean body of the hospital, white blood cells with pale faces and blank eyes descending on you again and again, trying to fix you.

"I'm glad you're awake too." His voice doesn't sound right, and his throat hurts. There's been tubes down it earlier, to try to get more oxygen down into his feeble lungs, and the shape they left behind when they were yanked out again makes it hard to speak. "They must be pretty crowded right now, huh? They usually wouldn't put me with chronic-" And there his throat feels like it's ripping like soggy paper, and the dry and relentless cough can't quite fill up the empty space in the conversation, as offbeat and desultory as it sounds. He blinks, his tearing eyes fixed on the oxygen meter, fighting for breath before the red number drops too low and gives him away. No such luck, and the whine of it starts up just before he finally manages to pull some air down his lungs, but thankfully it's close enough to reach and he knows how to reset it. If he's lucky, the night nurses are tired - they usually are - and might not have noticed.

"I haven't been on this floor in ages," he manages to croak, not wanting the conversation to be left to falter to the floor. "It's B18, isn't it?"

Edited 2016-01-25 11:29 (UTC)

And through it all, Yamato watches. He doesn't yell for a nurse, he doesn't rush over to help, he doesn't ask if Souji's alright. He simply watches, long fingers curled over the edge of his bed, bangs unusually fluffy for a long-term hospital stay falling in his eyes. His hair is down, but it's a mess, making his face look even paler and thinner than it actually is. A bit like a ghost.

But he doesn't stare impassively. There's a curious fascination in his gaze, half-morbid and half-childlike. He stares with the intensity of someone looking through you, as if he can see past Souji's skin, his broken lungs, straight into his soul. It's only when Souji's able to speak again that he moves, carefully untangling himself from his latticework of tubes and cords. Grabbing some tissues from the little table beside his own bed, he scoots as close as his chains will let him, reaching out to try and dab at Souji's eyes. His arms aren't quite long enough, though, and he ends up dropping them on Souji's bed... but the thought was there nonetheless.

"Mmhmm." He doesn't scoot back right away. Instead he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, like he wants to crawl over and sit on Souji's bed.

(And he does, quite frankly. He misses Kashuu.)

"Was it a pulmonary edema?" He asks, the term rolling off his tongue with a familiarity that shouldn't sound so lighthearted. "Sometimes they use it for that, since people like me are up here anyway." All the equipment for removing fluid from places it shouldn't be, pumping oxygen back where it should be--they're easy to get to in a hurry up here. Yamato is far from the only person on this floor; his lack of a roommate has nothing to do with the general health of the populace.

"I'm not contagious, so please don't worry about that," he adds, worry creeping into his expression. "I won't get you sick." Don't be afraid of me. Don't push me away. Don't leave me alone in here again.

Souji watches the other young man scoot closer, catches the tissues before they reach his sheets, just as he effortlessly catches the intention. Maybe that ought to be a bit weird, but Souji has never been good at telling - because, like he'd heard Tatsu mutter once in a not necessarily mean-spirited way, he's got plenty of weird of his own to match. In fact, the gesture is so kind and yet so devoid of pity that it makes his heart clench slightly, and it's just as well that he has tissues to press against his eyes for a moment. Then he uses them to check for blood on his lips. Some spotting, but he can tell from the color that it's from his poor abused throat, not his lungs.

"It certainly felt like it," he admits with a small smile, dropping the napkins in the wastepaper basket under the desk next to his bed. Recently emptied, but he wrapping of a hypodermic needle is wedged underneath it. "But hitting my head meant I didn't have much time to really get a feel for it, you know?" Not that he doesn't know anyway, but he likes downplaying his damaged state as much as possible.

After a moment's hesitation to check that he's not attached to anything else - it's never fun to find out by accident that you've been fitted with a urinary catheter - he cautiously gets a bit more upright and scoots a bit closer as well. As much as his foot will allow, since he can't bend his leg much like this. "And I know they wouldn't put me with anyone contagious. I've got a weakened immune system." Which is why he very often ends up with no roommate at all when things like this happens. And so he's left to while away the hours alone, because Mitsu has to work all the time, and the other people that Souji considers family aren't actually counted as such, and can only come during visiting hours.

This time, he doesn't hesitate, but simply reaches out and finds the other boy's spindly hand with his own unbroken one, giving it a small squeeze. "I'm not contagious either. I haven't been in years. So I guess we're both staying exactly as sick as we were before, huh?"

Yamato doesn't hesitate to return the touch. He clasps Souji's hand in both of his own, his grip painfully gentle. He's reaching farther than he probably should, the IV cord stretched just about as far as it will go, but there's no sign of pain on his face. Quite the opposite--he seems to come alive at the contact, and even the barest brush of skin has his eyes lighting up like fireworks. His hands are warm, but that's not really saying much in a place like this.

"I hope so," he says, quite seriously. But he doesn't seem inclined to explain what he means by that. Instead, he runs his thumbs over Souji's knuckles, mapping out the ridges of bone and the slopes between them. "Can you eat? I have some jelly left from lunch... I saved it in case you wanted something solid when you woke up."

It's probably melted into a liquid by now, but... it's been a long time since he had someone to save his food for.

"You can use my pillow if you want," he continues, his voice an odd mix of shy and eager. It's not pity, or overbearing concern. It's that intrinsic need to be helpful (to serve) inside him, desperate to be set free after so much time alone. Maybe it's Souji's existence waking up this part of him, or maybe this is something wholly Yamato. But either way, he looks like he'd be ready to walk to the moon and back if Souji asked him to. "May I ask your name?"

Souji has always been fond of casual touching, to the point where people sometimes find him kind of weird and uncomfortable, and he's had to watch himself very carefully because he never wants anyone to feel like that about him. So the ease of the touch warms him, makes him beam just as brightly back at Yamato in turn. His own touch is a bit cool, his circulation not the best in the wake of the narcosis, the pain killers, the stillness of rest. It's almost like he can feel warmth flow into himself now, tender, not invading but curiously exploring, and he welcomes it.

"That's... very nice of you." He runs his thumb along the lines of Yamato's palm, as if trying to figure out what's written there, to figure out the source of his warmth. "Sweet things are usually the only things I can eat when I'm nauseous, and I can't really swallow very well, so that was a pretty good idea, too."

He takes his own pillow instead, folding it up and shoving it under his knee, allowing himself a bit more leeway to bend it. He still winces when he has to shift his foot a bit, but it allows him to sit a bit closer, so he'll consider it worth it. It means he can gently scoot their hands back toward the other boy's lap, slacken that IV a little bit without for a moment denying him contact, closeness. Without denying himself, either. He would never have anticipated this, but something in him feels a sense of purpose stir now, and the notion of something being meant to happen twists the knife again, pinning down his life in no uncertain terms. He's never sure if he loves it or hates it, but at least like this, he feels safe and whole, and like there's something for him to look forward to. "I'm Souji," he replies softly. Then, with a small grimace, halfway between embarrassed and weary, he adds, "Okita."

There's nothing momentous or dramatic to mark this declaration. No lightning cracks in the distance, no bell tolls loud and clear. But it strikes a chord within Yamato nonetheless. Three syllables, two characters, something as simple as a name--and yet they burrow through his skin straight into his heart, like they've always belonged there.

Yamato is pliant and relaxed beneath his touch. If it tickles at all, he doesn't show it. He simply lets Souji explore his hands the same way he's searching Souji's face, eyes as distant as they are piercing.

"You're a dancer," he says. "I heard them talking about it when they brought you in."

It had been a grim conversation, doubtful estimates of Souji's recovery time. Yamato hadn't paid it much attention, and doesn't repeat it. He has no taste for those things.

"I always wanted to try dancing," he says instead, and smiles, almost shyly. "But no one would teach me, so I learned piano instead."

Not a bad hobby, by any means. He likes the piano well enough, and he's fond of music. But it doesn't quite click, the way he'd always thought dancing would. He's always had the urge, the need to move his body in certain, graceful ways--so of course he's been confined to a small bed in a lifeless room. Bloody fate.

Maybe it's a bit of a tactless thing to say, in this situation, but Souji can clearly see that there's no malice behind it. And the eagerness, the gentle joy, the way the other young man seems to be coming alive more and more... it's entirely too endearing for Souji to allow himself to be touchy about a small thing like that. Instead he nods, and there's even a hint of pride about his smile. "I am. They tell me I shouldn't, with these lungs and everything, but... I'm good at it. It's as if I'm made for it, I guess." It's not so much bragging as a statement of fact, because it's undeniable that it's always come effortlessly to him.

He'd tried other things too, but... he winces slightly, remembering his experimentation with fencing. If possible, he'd been even better at that, and that was the problem. He'd been too good, and people had ended up hurt. When he danced, he never had to hurt anyone - at least not anyone except himself. Dancing made him happy, he could lose himself in it, but it never triggered that part of him that seemed convinced that it was still caught up fighting a war. As if his unfortunate name is intended to be a curse on him.

"I've always admired people who can play music, though. Making something that beautiful must meant that you have something very beautiful inside, you know?" Which is why he's never tried personally. Whatever is inside him, people most likely wouldn't want to hear it. "What's your name, by the way?"

~~There's a reason for his username and this is it.~~

Yamato nods. "They told me that too." And with no mentor, no one's steps to follow, he'd had no reason to push. Instead, he plays like he would've danced--fast, passionate, almost frightening in his intensity. Broken nails and bloody, calloused fingers are not common in the piano world, but he'd worn his injuries like hard-won battle wounds.

His fingers are soft now, though. He hasn't been allowed to play in... well. Too long.

Still, his whole face lights up as Souji speaks. He looks like Souji's words are worth more than all the gold and jewels and healthy lungs in the world--and it's not just because of his tendency to latch on to others. It's true that he's been starved for proper companionship in any form. But this is something more. Something deeper. Something all too natural for strangers.

"I'm Yamato no Kami Yasusada," he says, and it's his turn to look embarrassed by his name. "They say I'm difficult to handle, but I hope we get along."

In the relative silence of the nighttime hospital, Souji's sudden laugh rings out too loud, a strange and almost jittery sound scuttling away over the shiny floor like someone with good news to share. It almost catches in his throat, but he manages to hold on at least a while longer. The other's name is already becoming part of the huge conspiracy of his life, albeit a bit more subtly than what's usual, but that's not why he laughs. He draws a playful spiral with a neatly filed nail on the back of Yamato's hand, and really, maybe he should also amuse him how natural it feels to hold him in his hand, but he's not one to overthink situations like that.

"I'm pretty hard to handle too, I've been told." There's an almost teasing little lilt to his voice, in honor of those who keep telling him so, and his eyes are bright in the flat, dim glow from the ceiling. "So maybe we're the same sort, right? Or at least similar. That shouldn't be too hard to handle." In fact he's already bracing himself for the scolding that will come during the daylight hours; Susumu's medschool student testiness that never really bites very deep, Sannan's mild reproach which does, Toshi's harshness that never quite manages to hold him together in the end, Isami bringing him candy to cover for his worry. Mitsu's kind words on every other subject, resignation folded in between every syllable.

It's a relief to have an ally of sorts while awaiting that sort of assault.

"Maybe I could teach you some dancing one day, and you could teach me to play? And you could play while I dance, too." A dream as insubstantial as mist, maybe completely impossible, but he'd always enjoyed playing pretend. Sometimes, it's almost as good as the real thing.

For a minute, it looks like Yamato is going to play along. He brightens up more, if that's even possible, Souji's laughter filling him up like a breath of much-needed air. The IV is probably a good thing, actually. He'd be halfway to curling up and resting his head in Souji's lap by now without it.

But just as quickly, the light dims, and his face falls. Yamato is superstitious, yes, but at the same time, he's strangely grounded. The fantastical things he believes, he believes as surely as gravity or the color of the noontime sky. Daydream fantasies aren't something he's used to dabbling in.

Still, his reply probably isn't what Souji is expecting.

"I would love that," he says sincerely. "But I'm not allowed to leave this room, except for tests." He doesn't stop there, though. He looks at Souji with imploring eyes, begging as earnestly as a hungry puppy. "When you get better, will you come back and dance for me? Please? I want to watch you dance."

Not if, when. No hesitation, no false hope and cheer. Yamato believes Souji will heal, body and soul, one hundred percent. He believes it just as surely as anything else--like it's a fact, simple and undeniable. Souji will heal, and dance, and maybe even come back to pay him a visit.

It's only the last that he isn't sure of. And that's because it's the one he wants most to be true.

Souji's smile doesn't exactly dim at Yamato's much more prosaic answer, but it does grow a bit softer. He recognizes the sensation, because it lies at the very core of his being, and it's the impulse to protect, to aid, to nurture. This strange odd bird in this white cage, his wings cut and replaced by IVs and sterile sheets, is someone Souji wants to make happy. He doesn't know why, and he suspects he really ought to be more alarmed by what the other young man is saying, but all he can feel is a strange kind of tenderness and... is it kinship? Is that what he's feeling? As if the two of them really are the same.

In any case he nods firmly, and he edges over his bandaged hand as well, to rest on top of Yamato's in a gesture of certainty, of promise. "When I get better-" And he believes it too, will keep believing it until the day when his lungs finally cannot hold anymore, when he's imprisoned within the red letters on the oxygen meter for good. He'll keep getting up and dancing, again and again, until that day. "-I promise I'll come visit you, okay? Being alone in a hospital is..." Terrifying. Painful. Cold. "...boring."

He hesitates slightly, but he's always been the kind of person to push his slim white fingers into cracks, widening them with steady determination and gentle words, as if nothing is so solid he won't try to break through. "Why can't you leave at all?"

Edited 2016-01-31 00:26 (UTC)

The tension that had crept into Yamato's shoulders slips out again, just as quickly and subtly as it had come. He's not being rejected, or abandoned. He isn't being pushed away. He'll be left behind sooner or later, but that's alright. That's his lot in life, he knows, and he's used to it.

"Thank you, Okita-kun," he says, and his tone is so reverent, it's like Souji's given him a precious gift. Maybe in some ways, he has.

The question doesn't get an immediate answer, but Yamato doesn't pull away, either. He doesn't stiffen up or shift uncomfortably. Souji is more than welcome to pick him apart and examine the pieces--and maybe Yamato shouldn't be so quick to trust, but he can't help himself. And there's no one here to stop him, not anymore.

"I hurt some people," he answers eventually. He speaks softly, distantly, caught up in memory. "They were cruel to someone I love, so I hurt them. The nurses are afraid I might do it again, so I have to stay in here."

He doesn't mention the toll it had taken on his own body. The way he'd collapsed, choking on fluid and blood, rasping and spitting like a rabid cat. Not because he wants to hide it, but simply because it doesn't matter. He'd been defending Kashuu, and the nurses are right to think he'd do it again. He's dying anyway, why not use what little strength he has to protect those precious to him?

Again, maybe this ought to be a cause for worry, something that rightly should make Souji pull away before it's too late, not get tangled up with this broken being, caught between scalpels and discarded needles. Maybe it's something that would repulse someone else, or scare them, or simply feel nothing at all, as if it had been wiped away with a sterile cloth, leaving only evaporating alcohol and coldness behind.

Instead, he feels relieved. He even feels a small portion of entirely inappropriate happiness, as something Yamato says rings so very true within him, it's just not possible not to allow himself just a little bit of joy. They're probably both irreparably messed up, that's what it is, and maybe they'll only help destroy each other a little faster together. Alone they are dangerous, but they're mostly weird and lonely little things, more tragic than anything else. Together, they might just make up all the components for something much more destructive.

But Souji doesn't care. Destruction is in his lungs; he breathes it every day, and sometimes each breath sounds like a shortening fuse.

His whole hand squeezes Yamato's harder, not afraid at all to break their transient frailty beneath the life that is slowly coming back to his fingers. "Sometimes- Sometimes, when something bad happens to people I love, it's as if..." He shakes his head, momentarily mute as he tries to find the words. "It's like a monster waking up. The world just becomes really simple and... I know how to put everything right." He breathes out sharply, and then has to spend a little while fighting back another coughing fit. Still, his eyes are unnaturally bright when he opens them again. "I don't like hurting people. But sometimes, you have to. Sometimes there's no other choice. And I can't see what's so wrong about that - I can't feel sorry about it."

Yamato is used to being "that strange kid"; indeed, the weird and lonely thing that each group is bound to have. Kanesada was always helpless without Horikawa, he remembers, and Kashuu had been a mess of half-buried insecurities all on his own. But Yamato has always, always been the odd one. In school, when he could switch so easily between the soft-spoken, polite boy in 2-A and the wild, merciless combatant on the playground. (He'd been banned from sports early on.) In that first patchwork collection of chronically sick things, when he'd asked them with total seriousness, "Will you love me?". (Maybe that's why they'd been so shocked when he turned on them, after they said those things about Kashuu.)

He's the strange one, and because of that, he's never expected anyone to understand. So when Souji begins to speak, he snaps his attention back, eyes going wide.

Could it be? Is he hearing this right? Could this stranger really, truly be putting into words what he's felt so strongly his entire life?

(Has fate finally decided to be kind, or is he simply being taunted once again?

--No, it doesn't matter. If this single, perfect moment is all he gets, he'll take it. He's spent too long alone not to.)

"Yes. Yes!" He's whispering, but his voice holds clear excitement, the corners of his mouth pulling up. "Just like that, it feels just like that. I didn't think-- no one's ever understood that before. But when it comes to protecting them, I... it's like my blood starts boiling. Sometimes I feel like someone else completely."

"Like someone else," Souji repeats softly, trying to keep his breathing steady. "Yes. When I was younger, I really thought I had some kind of demon inside me, you know? I tried to keep it inside, I didn't want anyone to see, because I didn't want people to hate me and be afraid of me... I didn't want to end up alone. It's still scary, sometimes." Mostly because of the way people look at him afterwards, with eyes that are either like mirrors or like walls. He still doesn't want to be hated or feared, but now he at least knows that he'll never be alone.

It seems like maybe Yamato wasn't so lucky.

"But the thing is... at least this way, I know for certain that there'll be something I can do to help, if anyone ever threatens anything that's mine. It can be a good thing, as long as I only use it when I need it." He'll still stay away from fencing and anything that allows him to do damage when it's completely unwarranted, because there's still no excuse for that. It just means risking being taken away from the people close to him too early, and he wants to make every single second with them count. And without a word having been said specifically on the matter, his heart already aches for the desperate longing which opens like an abyss beyond the other boy's gaze. They're just the same, and yet so very different. And Souji... Souji needs to help him, somehow. He needs to make things better, he's sure of it.

"I never thought I'd meet anyone else like me either. It's a pretty lonely feeling, right? People accepting you even if they don't always understand is good, friends should do that, but... I think longing for understanding is a natural thing, you know?"

As Souji speaks, Yamato lifts their clasped hands to his face, to his dry, pale lips--but then he's turning his head, brushing his cheek against the tangle of their fingers. His skin is smooth, softer than it probably should be after months of dark, lonely stillness. The hospital lights, he remembers Kashuu complaining, are anything but flattering, and he knows what he must look like. Some half-dead wisp of a spirit, haunting hospital rooms and aching for companionship; is this to be a cliche fairy tale, or a horrific tragedy, only to be whispered in the dark?

Either one, Yamato thinks, would be preferable to being forgotten. To being alone.

He hums in content affirmation--"anything that's mine", what a perfect way of putting it. Because they are his, aren't they? His precious people, they belong to him. Is it his fault, then, that he's lost them? Should he have taken better care of them? What if, what if, and oh, he'd thought he'd run the gamut of guilty sorrows already. What a nice surprise.

"I always thought new friends would be nice," he comments, almost dreamily. "I thought maybe we could join together, and take care of each other, and get stronger together... but that didn't happen." For a lot of reasons, but he doesn't want to seem like he's complaining. Far from it. "That was okay, though. I didn't mind being different, as long as others were with me. They only ever wanted to take care of me, isn't that funny?"

Yamato certainly seems to think it is. His eyes are closed, but he's smiling, like he's watching a scene play out behind his eyelids. "Ne, Okita-kun, will you let me take care of you?"

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Someone holds me safe and warm

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