I know I haven't been posting much stories coz...life and work. When I have time again, I will try to get around and finish my other stories.
For posterity, I am posting something I found in my old folders...Apparently I wrote this a year ago and forgot to publish it here. I was, and still am, such a fan of this pairing! And I frankly can't get enough of them. :) Enjoy!
One Day
"No one really knows why they are alive until they know what they'd die for." – Martin Luther King, Jr.
It was a surprisingly slow day. Granted that this was the third store that he had checked up on which was relatively common in itself; the only difference today was that Henmi was accompanying him. The subordinate wanted to discuss some figures that he had been poring over the past few days in preparation for the 3 o'clock audit, and since it was approaching lunchtime, Yokozawa agreed to meet him outside the said bookstore. As soon as he had come out, Henmi launched onto a discussion, obviously nervous and preoccupied with one of the projects that he had personally pitched. A smug smile spread appreciatively across the man's features; in spite of his general teasing, Henmi was proving to be a quick learner, passionate about his job. It even reminded him slightly of Onodeira, albeit a less irritating version; in spite of his prejudice against Takano's lover, he had an inkling that the two of them would have been companionable—even friends perhaps—had it not been for the past. Of course, this wasn't something that he would ever divulge to anyone, let alone Takano.
Life, these days, was uncommonly good to him. His job was going smoothly, albeit with minor hijinks, and his personal life was in cringe-worthy bloom. A year ago, he would not have imagined that he would be saddled with a family. The package deal consisting of his lover and adorable daughter would always be one of those things that he will always be thankful for in his life. They were his now, as much as he was theirs. And it all started one stormy night nine months ago…who would have thought that his personal heartbreak would lead him to this salvation?
His cellphone beeped and his thin mouth twisted to a genuine smile. It seemed that Kirishima also had no rushed appointments today; the older man had sent him a cheerful message (the 'Darling~' heading made him gag) regarding reservation plans in a nearby Chinese restaurant with Hiyori. Yokozawa sighed appreciatively as he fired up a quick reply; in spite of his workaholic nature, even he knew that these relaxed moments should not be taken for granted. As the days went by, he was getting more and more accustomed to this life he was leading…so much that he was even seriously considering his lover's offer for him to move in with them. It wouldn't be so hard, too…he was basically spending more time at the Kirishima household far more than in his empty apartment. He didn't have much stuff, too…moving in would be easy.
The problem now would be how to "break" it all to Hiyori which, though worrisome, has constantly been pointed out by Kirishima as not a impassable hurdle. Yokozawa mentally sighed at this; he certainly hoped it would be.
In retrospect, it was probably the fantastic ideas, the generally affable mood combined with the sunny yet refreshingly cool weather that distracted him. Perhaps it was the comfortable chatter of Henmi about work, and the prospect of spending an uninterrupted evening with the Kirishimas. Regardless of the reason, he had been too caught up in the pleasures of the moment, and had been taken completely off guard when a man shoved past him in a dash, causing him to fall painfully and embarrassedly onto his backside.
"—the fuck!" Yokozawa growled as he recovered from the fall, his subordinate frantically hovering over him.
"Yokozawa-san—?"
Yokozawa interrupted Henmi's concern with an oath, noting that his briefcase was nowhere in sight.
"Shit!" Unmindful of the twinge in his back, he jumped up, and ran after the not-so distant figure of the assailant pushing people out of the way his precious briefcase in tow.
"Stop—asshole!" he shouted though he knew in the back of his mind that this would only spur the robber onwards. There was hardly any money in that bag—just a couple of bills and change, and yesterday's train pass—but the files in there were irreplaceable. A month's worth of work was crammed in there, most of them the several documents and contracts—and though he wasn't foolish enough not to just lug the originals around—definitely, he had back-up of the other papers at his office—it would still take some time to assemble all those together. Time that he did not have, given he would need those files in the afternoon audit.
Not to mention that a certain ring given to him by Hiyori months back was in one of the pockets…
"Fuck!" he shouted, this last thought pumped his legs in further pursuit. Vaguely, he could hear Henmi's shouting a good distance behind him but he did not stop. His lungs were bursting, his muscles aching from this exercise. But he had to reach that man, even if he died trying.
Thinking back, he never realized he would be testing the irony in these words.
Yokozawa followed the man into an alley, dodging the trash cans kicked craftily in his way to waylay him. He was gaining on the man, too…
Just a few more feet….
He gritted his teeth and bodily launched himself onto the thief, breath whooshing out of him as his entire weight crushed the man against stone. The youthful thief—barely into his 20's in Yokozawa's estimate—was obviously surprised but not deterred that he was caught. They grappled on the ground for the briefcase, surprising Yokozawa further with the smaller man's strength.
"Let—go!" The thief managed to roll under him and punch him squarely in the face. He made a grab for the briefcase but Yokozawa lunged again, head butting the young man—truly, his panic had left him out of smooth moves.
What happened next was a quick blur.
Just as his fingers curled onto the handle, Yokozawa heard a growl and turned, just in time to feel a sharp pain dig deep into his shoulder. In shock, Yokozawa staggered up and back, eyes wide at the sudden fear in his assailant's face. Still clutching at his briefcase, Yokozawa numbingly looked down at the black hilt pressed on the crook of his shoulder; the blade nowhere in sight. Yokozawa frowned, and touched it with his free hand, realizing that blood—his very own—was blossoming onto his dress suit, staining through the fabric of his torn suit. Slowly, the truth of the situation sunk in his brain as his fingers were coated with slippery red.
I've been stabbed.
"You little—" But the young man was gone, not bothering to claim either briefcase or even the knife still plunged deeply into his left shoulder. Left alone, adrenaline fled him and Yokozawa was overcome with extreme fatigue. The numbness in his shoulder was replaced by an exquisite pain that spread like fire to his chest and left arm. He slumped dizzily onto the nearest wall, a sudden pounding in his head. He tried to fight off the dimness in his vision, the sudden nausea. Basic first aid courses floated in his mind, and he knew that pulling out the knife would only aggravate the bleeding, or even worsen the injury. With shaky fingers, he took out a handkerchief, wound it carefully around the hilt and pressed in an attempt to stem the bleeding.
I need to stand up, get help, he thought weakly. Hospital.
A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from his throat. Wasn't it ironic that, just a few hours before, he had been enjoying his work, enjoying the sun, with the bubbly Henmi beside him?
…I still have that afternoon audit…Henmi would have to stand in for him on that one…
Wasn't it strange that only a few minutes before, he had been thinking of a laidback evening with the Kirishimas? Wasn't it funny that this all happened while he toying with the idea of living with them?
I'm going to die.
He thought of his parents who had just gone off for a vacation overseas. They would be devastated by the news—their only son dying in some nameless alley. He thought of Hiyori crying over his bloody corpse. And Kirishima…
Kirishima…an unwanted tear squeezed past his lids. God, he's going to kill me.
Yokozawa shook his head to fight off the haze of fear that caught in his throat.
I refuse to die.
"YOKOZAWA-SAN!" Blearily, Henmi's panicked face swam into view.
"Hen…mi…" he muttered. Why was speaking so difficult? Why was breathing so hard? Punctured lung, probably, he thought distractedly again as he approximated the angle of the knife blade. He gulped against his very dry throat. "Just…in time, eh."
"You've—you've been stabbed!" His hands wrung in distress, face pale and sweaty. "Oh god, I have to call for help, I have to—"
"D-don't panic, idiot," he reprimanded harshly. With his stronger arm, he tugged at Henmi's tie to bring the man out of his frenzy. "Lis—ten. Just—just call for help, okay? And hold on to this…for me…will you?" He placed Henmi's equally clammy hand over the bundled cloth in his shoulder, forcing him to staunch the wound in his place. With effort, he added. "Don't…pull."
"Yokozawa-san, hold on—please—please!" Yokozawa watched his junior flip open his cellphone with his free, hand, shouting coordinates into the emergency hotline.
"And—" What was he going to say again? The thudding in his head was fading, replaced by an escalating buzz in his ears. What was it? Oh, yeah…
"Tell Kirishima…that I won't be making it…for dinner…"
And with that last final thought, Yokozawa unwillingly faded to black.
oooOOOooo
Yokozawa floated aimlessly in the grey and wondered if death was this boring. Imagine, he thought wryly, an eternity of this, of shadows floating by and around. And yet there was still a vague awareness—he wasn't really dead yet. His mind was probably biding its time until it was ready to accommodate the pain he just knew he would be waking up to. Even so, it was all so peaceful, and quiet…as though he were submerged in a deep pool. Breathing didn't seem to matter, only the steady beat of his heart. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear something—was that a machine?—beeping. Voices slowly crept in his awareness; he tried to decipher the words, to no avail.
Soon, he gave up, letting go of these futile concerns. Slipping, slipping further into darkness…
No—no! You can't do that, he admonished himself.
You have to wake up.
Again, he tried harder, stretching his arms forth, fighting the current that threatened to sweep him. A little more…up towards the surface… he reached out. Bright lights exploded in his vision, extinguishing all the grey, and the sudden noise hurt his sensitive ears. He cried out at the lancing pain in his shoulder, and he gasped for oxygen in the mask covering his mouth and nostrils. He tried to move, wanted to pull at the stinging in both his arm, but strong hands held him down.
"He's waking up, doc!"
"Yokozawa Takafumi, can you hear me?"
Why the fuck are you all shouting? Where am I? Why am I in so much pain? He wanted to scream but sound failed to come out of his slackened mouth. Giving up, he answered with a nod.
He could feel the world shift quickly around him and vaguely he realized that he was lying on a bed—and the bed was moving. More indistinguishable faces in the background of stinging light passed around him. He tried to focus on one face just above him, and met the calm and determined eyes of the female doctor, mouth and nose hidden by the surgical mask. In spite of the vague sensation of needles poking his both his arms, he felt light. He was safe.
I'm not going to die.
"We won't let you." Had he actually said that out loud?
Over the noise, someone was asking him questions that he could not understand. Yokozawa tried to fight the buzzing, tried to focus and fight the haze. But it was all too much.
No. Try harder!
He could feel his brows in effort, tried to focus on the pain to keep him awake, to him just there.
"…consent…"
What?
"...bringing you—operation…."
"Yokozawa-san!"
"…consent!"
Someone pinched his nail, and he automatically pulled back, but it was enough stimulus for him to process one question:
"Do you have a relative or guardian?"
The murky waters seemed to be taking him under again, but with all Yokozawa's might, he forced his jaws to move, forced his vocal chords to operate—just one person, just one name.
His head was above the water, one hand was outstretched in a grab.
Who's your most important person?
He mouthed a name before succumbing to the darkness.
oooOOOooo
The past and present seemed to meld right before his eyes in fuzzy colors. It was disconcerting, if not downright confusing. He waded through an indecipherable maze of faces and scenarios and voices and thoughts.
First loves never last. I knew that, from the very beginning.
Love existed for his parents. This, he understood, in spite of the fact that he hardly saw them, busy with work as they are. He remembered arguments in his childhood, escalating into blistering words. But when they weren't busy sniping at each other, there were those tender glances, and soft giggles emanating from the confines of their bedroom, or the rare moments his mother cooked and the soft smile on his father's face as he sampled those dishes. He understood then, in his childish heart, that love represented two faces—the good and bad of each person—and learning, somehow, to live with both sides, hope for the best, and even enjoy its rare benefits.
Neglect is a vicious cycle.
He wondered, often, if that love extended to him as well—they were always away, even when he was sick. He became an overachiever to please them; and like a dog, he hungered for those rare absent pats on his head, those few praises sent his way. He knew—hoped—that they loved him in their own way. He had a daily allowance, clothes on his body, shelter over his head—he could never call it home when all it was only an empty house—why should he complain? But he had no one. By the time he was an adult, these childish yearnings had hardened to forced nonchalance. They couldn't even make it to his college graduation—who was it that climbed on the stage to receive his diploma with him?
Takano…the very embodiment of lost love.
A vicious cycle.
It was a dark night but he could see him—could see the both of them as though he was a spectator. He sat across Takano—and the eyes looking back at him reeked with loneliness and desperation.
"Takafumi…" the man clenched the sheets in his drunken stupor. "Help me forget." The words echoed over and over and over under the stormy night. The boom of thunder was a warning in the distance. He—his younger self—did not heed it. They were already too busy struggling with each other's clothes to think of the consequences, eager for the frantic coupling of flesh.
I've got to be by his side, I've got to support him…
What did he say when he held him then?
"I'm here, you fool. I've got you."
That was their first time—he remembered his body hovering his ex-lover's, the sensation of naked torso against torso, of tongues battling in dominance. Takano's body arching as Yokozawa penetrated him, so deeply—he sank into his body and into his despair.
I've got to hold him…
Turning back was impossible now…
Love born in despair was doomed to failure.
It was still raining outside—and the storm seemed worse. But he was older now, hunched over the bar, the shot glass slipping through inebriated fingers in one drink too many. Instead of a bartender, there was a mirror across him, and he watched his sorry self—tie loose, dress shirt unbuttoned, hair disarray, eyes bugging and red, face damp.
"I was the one who fuck'n held 'm. It was suppos'd to be me," he cried, clutching his hair in frustration. "Why can't it be me?"
Mentally, he flinched, embarrassed by this display of emotion, so unlike him. This is why he hated being drunk…
Someone was beside him—a faceless companion in a lonely night; but Yokozawa would recognize those curly locks anywhere now—presently dampened by the rain.
What was his name?
Somehow, he knew the man was saying something, soft lips hot against his ear.
"…why don't you love me instead?"
If he could flush, he would've. The words tickled a strange memory in him. But when he turned, a little girl was there in his place—a girl who had her mother's face and his father's mischief. A warm feeling settled in his chest as he smiled down at her.
"Onii-chan! Can I add the cabbages now?"
"Yes, Hiyo—but be careful, alright."
Hiyo…he tested the name in his head, and he was filled with happiness. Hiyori…he thought again.
He remembered finishing a race, then carrying her high above his shoulder in triumph.
He remembered the bright smile on her face when she pushed the promise ring onto Yokozawa's finger.
Hiyori…
Right.
A phone in his hand beeped, and the message was bright and teasing. Hello, Fumi-chan—he fought the urge to roll his eyes —let's eat out with Hiyori tonight.
Before he could fire up a scathing reply, he was suddenly stumped.
Who am I sending the message to?
The large OR lights blinded him—someone was talking again.
"…relative or guardian?"
"Takafumi…"
"Wake-up, sleepyhead."
He opened his eyes and the race was over. He reached for the card, flipping it open: The most important person.
Who's my most important person?
His eyes instantly searched the parents' stand—there was only one person there.
Kirishima…
Did he think it, or did he actually say it? There was a key turning, and when the door opened, he drowned…
"Why, I never realized you wanted to get to know me that much. And actually—I'm fine either way. I'm attracted to strong-willed types, regardless of gender."
Am I even that strong?
"'I've got to be by his side, I've got to support him, I know him better than anyone else'. Thinking that way is just the underside of wanting someone else to do that for you!"
What the hell do you know?!
"I'd accept you unconditionally—you don't have to change one bit."
Ah, but I changed, didn't I? The change was not unwelcome.
"You're the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. It has to be you."
…and what did I say? Ah…
"…I'm pretty sure I couldn't live without you either."
Yokozawa finally smiled, throat caught in emotion. He remembered this. It was the first time he every really said it to his face. But this time, instead of teasing him, Yokozawa changed the memory by leaning forward, cupping his lover's face. An adorable dust of red was across the other man's nose, a sure sign of embarrassment on those rare bursts of tenderness from Yokozawa.
He really should have done this more often.
"I love you," he whispered so softly, so tenderly.
It was so fucking corny. But all his emotions were contained in those three little words.
And as he lay in the alley, life flashing before his eyes, it was Kirishima instead of Henmi who held him, absolutely frantic.
I'm not going to die.
I can't die.
"We won't let you."
"Onii-chan!" Warm wetness in his shirt—and tears sprang from his own eyes as well.
"Don't leave me—Onii-chan!"
Don't cry, Hiyo…I'm all right.
No, you're not, scoffed someone.
"Wake up, you damned fool!" There was a sudden pressure gripping his arm—and the throbbing in his chest told Yokozawa that it was him. Only one person who could make him feel that way, these days—only one who could fill him with despair, hope, desire and love at the same time. He could almost see those almond eyes burning into him, pleading him to hold on.
"Kirishima…"
Prayer is the boon of a dying man.
He knelt. He never believed in God but he was muttering now—God, wherever you are, whoever you are if you can hear me, let me live, let me live, let me live—so I can be with them longer.
Zen… Hiyori…
oooOOOooo
Yokozawa woke up to a choking sensation in his throat. His first reaction was to sit up and cough—but he was too weak to do so. Also, the head of the bed was already elevated, so he was in essence already sitting up. When he did manage to cough, it came out as pitiful hacking sounds from his extremely dry and parched throat. Reflexively, he took a deep inhalation to catch his breath, and winced when the oxygen from the nasal cannula burned his nostrils.
"Steady now—take it easy."
Recognizing the voice, he opened his eyes, and regretted it immediately, as the bright overhead light burned his retinas. "Ah—shit—" His voice sounded foreign and raspy in his own ears. "Water…"
A straw was immediately pressed between his chapped lips, and he sipped greedily, enjoying the refreshing sensation. Eyes still closed, he heard the press of a call button.
'Good evening—how can we help you, sir?'
"He's awake."
'Ok—we'll tell, doctor.'
Finally, Yokozawa risked a glimpse, blinking his eyes repeatedly until his lover's face came into focus.
"Ki—Zen…" he opted instead, and saw the breath hitch in the older man's throat. Kirishima was an absolute mess—his hair was ruffled, the bags under his eyes deeper than ever, and there was a furrow between his brows that Yokozawa was pretty sure wasn't there before. Overall, the stress seemed to have aged him considerably in the time he was out.
Where am I? he wanted to ask but didn't. Already, he knew he was in a hospital. The 'why' he was actually there was the hazy part.
Instead, he cleared his throat. "Hiyo…?"
Where's Hiyo, he meant to ask.
The older man only gestured to the sofa by the bed where the 10 year old girl slept, facing him, tear-tracks staining her face. He winked away the sudden pricking behind his eyelids and looked back at his lover who just stared at him with an unreadable expression on his face.
More than anything, Yokozawa wanted to reach out, but his courage failed him. For some reason, he was suddenly afraid of the older man's reticence.
Guilt, he realized, ate at him. Was he responsible for the pain on their faces?
Why aren't you saying anything? He wanted to ask, unnerved by the steady look the older man was giving him.
"Zen…" he tried again, wanting more than ever to dispel the uncomfortable tension between them. But there was a knock on the door and a woman wearing blue-and-grey scrubs came in. Kirishima stepped aside and Yokozawa bit back the frustration in his throat.
"Good evening, Yokozawa-san, Kirishima-san," said the doctor. "You might not remember me, but I'm Dr. Ayuzawa, the surgical resident who saw you at the emergency room."
Vague memories assaulted him, and his head pounded. He remembered the woman's determined and calm amber eyes peeking over the surgical mask. "I—I kind of do…you told me…you won't let me."
The recollection brought a small warm smile in the young doctor's face. From the periphery, he could see Kirishima frown. "I assisted Dr. Ishikawa in the surgery. If it is all right, I would like to brief you on what happened. Would you be fine with this, or do you want me to come back tomorrow morning so you can rest?" She spoke softly, careful not to awake the girl still slumbering in the sofa. From the way she looked back and forth at them, Yokozawa could tell she was addressing them both.
"It's fine with me," he said, cutting off Kirishima. He looked up at his lover, challenging him even now.
With a frustrated sigh, Kirishima ran his fingers through his hair. "All right. Fine. I'll just—I'll take a minute."
Without waiting for either's confirmation, the older man strode off, door closing behind him in a resolute click.
"I-I'm sorry for that, doc," he said uncertainly, not knowing why he felt compelled to apologize.
Ayuzawa only nodded. "I'm afraid these past few days have been trying to him."
"Come again?" he stared. "Just—just how many days was I out?"
"I'm afraid this is your third day here." At that, Yokozawa flinched. I was out for three fucking days? "What do you remember?" she said gently.
"I was…" he frowned as the memory slowly clicked into place. Kirishima chose that moment to return to the room. He frowned at the man—what, did he go out to just hover outside? He tried to fight off his uneasiness at the emotionless mask on this Kirishima's face; the man stood apart, leaning with deceptive casualness against the doorframe. "I was running after this…guy who tried to steal my…briefcase. And I ran after him. I—I reached him—hell, I think I even got a few punches in. Then, then—" He frowned at the memory. Then what? A throbbing in his shoulder made him instinctively reach up—to touch his left shoulder, covered with pressure dressing. His eyes widened at the sudden memory of himself gasping in the alley. "Holy shit. He stabbed me."
Unable to hold back himself anymore, Kirishima stepped forward and gripped his injured lover's hand, as though to shield Yokozawa from the probing stare of the young doctor.
"Is this really necessary?" Kirishima said coldly.
Unfazed, the doctor said. "I'm afraid it is. But I understand…if you aren't ready yet, Yokozawa-san, I can come back tomorrow."
"No—no, it's okay." He laced his fingers with Kirishima's for borrowed strength. If the older man was surprised, he didn't show it. "Henmi came—the last thing I remember was telling Henmi to call for help."
Ayuzawa nodded. "You were brought to our emergency unit approximately twenty five minutes following the injury. I actually commend your foresight in not removing the blade—if you had, the bleeding would have been difficult to control and it would have been…problematic." She said this last word with hesitation, and Yokozawa did not miss the meaning in these words. He shuddered.
He would really have died then…
"The knife nicked your left subclavian artery, and punctured the apex of your lung—you were bleeding badly, and with your blood pressure falling quickly we suspected developing tension pneumothorax. So we brought you to the operating room for wound exploration and repair, and evacuation of the free air and blood in your left pleural cavity."
He furrowed his brows, trying to read between the context clues but Ayuzawa gave him a wry smile. "In simple terms, tension pneumothorax occurs when a blunt injury leads to accumulation of air and/or blood which increases the pressure in your lungs and heart. If not treated immediately, it could lead to shock. We…inserted a closed tube in your left pleural cavity." Gently, she gestured. Eyes wide, Yokozawa threw down the sheets covering his torso and paled at the thick tube protruding just a little ways below his left nipple; it was heavily bandaged and secured by leucoplast. The other end seemed to be emptying on a bedside bottle just beside the bed.
"Wha—what—"
"Closed tube thoracostomy—to drain the blood and air in your left lung. We managed to evacuate an initial 1.1 liter of blood from the left pleural cavity. We repaired your left subclavian artery, and closed the penetrating wound in your left shoulder. You've…been in the recovery room for seven hours—and brought here to your room just yesterday morning…around 5am, I believe. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, but I believe that is the residual effect of the anesthesia."
"So…so, this is the first time I've been lucid..." Yokozawa muttered more to himself. He had woken up on the third day—evening, rather. He looked up at his lover; in spite of their fingers firmly entwined, Kirishima refused to look down at him. A strange heaviness clenched in his chest. "When will you remove the tube, doctor?"
"Well, the secretions coming out are becoming fewer and clearer—so that means less blood. We measure the output daily so once it is less than 150cc in 24 hours, I will inform Dr. Ishikawa so we can do a bedside removal, all right?" Yokozawa nodded. "All right…if there are no more questions…" she trailed. Yokozawa shook his head. "…for now, then, let's call it a night. You need lots of rest. You can actually eat now…but remember to chew your food properly so you won't choke. Drink fluids in sips. You can walk…with assistance. Make sure to take 10 full deep inhalations per hour to prevent the collapse of your small airways, all right?" She paused again and watched him nod in understanding. "If you have any questions or concerns, just ask your bedside nurse, all right. Anyways, some of the reminders, are written on the board." She added tapping the whiteboard hanging on the wall across the bed. With a last good night, Dr. Ayuzawa left, shutting the door gently behind her.
Suddenly exhausted, Yokozawa relaxed on the bed with a groan. He rested his eyes, wondering how all the peace was shattered in a matter of minutes. Obviously, he lost three days at work and would be forced to rest for weeks more. He thought of Henmi and felt bad for the younger man—he remembered his panicked face hovering above his wounded form. When he got out, Yokozawa resolved, he would stop teasing the man; he owed him his life, after all.
Yokozawa felt the hold on his right hand slacken and he jolted. Kirishima was extricating himself from him, and a sudden panic filled his chest. Had he been waiting all this time for me to wake up? What did Kirishima feel when he heard the news of the incident? The idea of him waiting in standing in front of the thick double doors of the surgical floor made his heart clench unbearably. And to think, he reflected with another pang, that his wife died here, in a hospital.
And Hiyo, he glanced at the girl still sleeping fitfully in the sofa. How many times did his little girl cry for him?
Wake up, you idiot! He remembered vaguely.
Onii-chan! Don't leave me!
How much of it was a dream?
Perhaps it was weakness but he held on to Kirishima's hand, as though it were his life raft. He could feel the heat of his lover's gaze on him but he did not look up; he felt entirely too ill and shamed. This kind of pain was not something he wanted for these two important people.
He gritted his teeth when shameful tears forced their way out of his eyes, falling onto their joined hands.
"Kirishima…I—"
I, what? What do you even say in these instances? He tried to speak again amidst shallow breaths but was surprised when he was pulled into a tight embrace.
"Shut up," said Kirishima, and Yokozawa knew from his muffled voice that he was crying as well.
"…Zen—"
But Kirishima growled. "Just—just shut up, you idiot, and let me hold you like this." He pressed his damp face against the firm, clothed torso, relief washing over him. His fears and worries ebbed as he breathed in that familiar scent; he could only cling helplessly against Kirishima. He was a big man but he never felt so small in his life as Kirishima held him silently. He was hyperaware of his lover's shallow breaths, of his body shaking with equal relief. Right now, he could care less about pride or weakness—he was just too damn happy to be alive.
When Kirishima finally pulled back, there was a steel of anger in his red rimmed eyes. His hand gripped Yokozawa's uninjured shoulder, shaking him. "Why the fuck did you run after that asshole?"
Yokozawa slumped his shoulders. "Well, he—he got my briefcase—"
"You can replace that—"
"There are important documents there," Yokozawa snarled, suddenly irritated by Kirishima's behaviour.
"That shit's replaceable!" Kirishima ground. "And don't fucking tell me you don't have back-up because you do!"
"Hiyo's ring wasn't!"
"You—huh—what...?" The look of confusion on Kirishima's face would have been comical had it been in some other situation. The injured man wasted no time in taking advantage of it and persisted.
"The ring...remember...the one Hiyo gave me before? I placed it in the briefcase. That—that's not replaceable." The last sentence was spoken softly in an almost embarrassed manner. Peering up at Kirishima's face, he saw a glimpse of fondness beneath the steel. Clearing his throat, he added. "Hell, if you were in my position, you would've run after that bastard yourself—"
This immediately brought the older man back up again. "Oh, sure—say I was there and I did? I know judo! You don't!"
"What—can you shoulder throw your way with a knife?"
"Maybe not—because I would've disarmed the fuck!"
They were getting off track. Yokozawa shook his head and tried with reason. "We had something scheduled for that afternoon—"
"And that was rescheduled anyways!"
"What—wait…" Yokozawa's mind whirled at that. "Is it because—" He faltered at Kirishima livid face. "But...Henmi knows about the plans and the contents of the afternoon's report—he should have been able to discuss it if he had the..."
But his voice trailed at the expression on Kirishima's face. He was obviously fuming, and Yokozawa could almost swear that he was popping arteries at the way his face was purpling. This last justification seemed to be the final straw. The injured man could only brace himself at the outburst.
"Are you a moron?! "
"Shh! Hiyo's asleep, dammit!" hissed Yokozawa but Kirishima only continued in harsh whispers.
"You expect Henmi to just ship your damned body off at the hospital, and return to Marukawa, to do what—oh, I know!—start the meeting in a bleeding suit? Fuck that."
It was the first time he had ever seen such loss of control in the other man; in their arguments in the past, Kirishima always managed to keep a semblance of control. Before, Yokozawa thought that it was unfair that it was always he flying off the handle. But now, staring directly into the snap of rage and frustration in his lover's face, he wanted desperately to unwind time and un-see it.
Yokozawa tried on to wince when the grip on his uninjured shoulder tightened. But Kirishima slackened his hold and with shaking hands that humbled him, threaded his fingers through his jet black hair and pulled him close, mouth pressed to his forehead. In a tremulous voice that made Yokozawa shake as well, he continued his tirade. "Fuck that. Have you any idea what I felt when Henmi called from your phone—when I heard what happened? Do you have any idea how long that ride to the hospital was? I prayed, and prayed as I sat outside the operating room. I never thought I'd feel that kind of fear in my life…not even with my wife."
Yokozawa was surprised by this admission. But on reflection, Kirishima's wife had been ill for a long time; her death, though painful, was an inevitability that Kirishima had resigned himself to. This incident on the other hand was something no one could have expected happening. He tried to imagine his own reaction had their positions been reversed; most likely, his sentiments would have been far worse.
"You had no right…to do that to me…to us, you selfish bastard."
Unsure of what to say, Yokozawa dropped his head against the Kirishima's heaving chest, pressing his dry lips directly to his lover's heart. He allowed the tears to fall freely now, truly humbled beyond measure by this man's grief. "I'm sorry…for my carelessness. For hurting you this way. If I'd known, I never would've—but it's a done deal now. So, we'll just have to deal with this…I can't do it alone. I need you."
"Fool," whispered Kirishima, as though he could read the injured man's darkest secret thoughts. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here. I love you, you bastard."
I know. Instead, he whispered, "I won't let you, anyways."
"No more heroics. And," the older man added. "From now on you're living with us. No but's."
Yokozawa shook his head. "I wasn't gonna."
His next words promptly stole his breath. "You're my life now, Yokozawa Takafumi."
Those intense warm eyes simply melted him. At that moment, he knew exactly what to say and for the first time, he was unafraid to say it out loud. "I love you, too, Kirishima Zen."
The shit-eating grin on his lover's face was enough to lift away his physical pains. Kirishima lifted Yokozawa's face to meet his and pressed his thin lips against damp eyelids, cheeks. Their noses rubbed teasingly. When their mouths finally joined, it was a gentle and slow exploration that made Yokozawa very glad that he was sitting on a bed; he dug his fingers against Kirishima's waist, uncaring if it would bruise his partner.
When they pulled back to catch a breath, some of the old humor was already back in the older man's eyes. "Your mouth tastes like shit."
Yokozawa glared and rolled his tongue over his teeth. "You do know I haven't brushed my teeth in three days, right."
"Not really complaining—I'll take anything that sexy mouth of yours can offer. Tartar included."
"Disgusting." But he said this softly with a wry smile. Uncharacteristically, he reached out carefully and caressed his lover's jaw, unmindful of the sharp stubble on his chin. He looked at the still sleeping child on the sofa, anticipating the joy on her face once she saw him finally awake. As the two lovers looked directly into each other's eyes, he thanked the gods for another chance spent with his loved ones.
I'm damn glad to be alive.
Thank you for reading! I know I did a mini-crossover with Ayuzawa (from my Maid-sama fanfic) and I hope you don't find it weird. Tell me what you think. :)