I do not own Digimon.
Warning: character death and general sadness. Tissues, hugs, and ice cream are encouraged.
There will be no ships sailing here. We're staying on land, people!
The hospital room is dim. The only light that enters is what's left of the sun as it dips toward the horizon. Despite the approaching darkness, it glows, and Takeru is reminded – too strongly – of a light at the end of a tunnel.
He lays, and he watches, and that's all he can do. His limbs are weighed down by exhaustion and misuse. An IV pumps him with otherwise unattainable fluids. An oxygen tank does what his lungs cannot. He wonders if he's even a whole person anymore.
"We'll do all that we can," is what the doctors had told them. But they had been saying that for months. It was clear to Takeru that this is not an illness with a cure. No, it is an illness that comes out of nowhere and snuffs out its victims with no explanation. That's why no doctor could tell him what was wrong.
That's why no doctor could save him.
He watches the sun sink low in the sky, eyelids like weights.
His mother has stepped out. She had fallen asleep in her chair and needed to grab a coffee, return some phone calls from work.
"I'll be right back honey, okay?" she tells him earnestly, as though she regrets leaving him at all.
His father still has a few more hours of work. He hates himself for having to work while his son is so ill, but his hands are tied. Takeru smiles and says that he understands. Like always.
How long has it been since he got sick? How long has his life revolved around medicine and blankets and worried looks? Takeru's brow furrows as he tries to remember the last time he went to school. What had that day been like? Had he taken it for granted, that his body was strong and that he could move about as he pleased? He must have. He now thinks that most people do.
He tries to remember the last time that he walked to school with Miyako and Iori, Patamon perched on his head, all laughing and carefree. But he finds that his head is full of cotton, and that his memory is foggy. He cannot even remember the last time he stood up.
No, wait – he does remember that. He had been home alone, and he needed water. He had just made it to the linoleum before he fell. What he forgets is exactly how long he was on the kitchen floor before Yamato came home and found him.
His brother had been beside himself that he had collapsed while home alone, but what could have been done? His illness had not yet progressed to the point of hospitalization, and his mother had to work – especially now, with all of his medical bills. Yamato and his friends were all in class during the day. Even Patamon, who was always by his side, had to leave, exhausted from staying in the real world for so long and needing some rest. Patamon had fought to stay with Takeru adamantly, but relented when Takeru smiled and told him to go. "We can't both be sick, right pal?" were his reassuring words.
The IV itches in his elbow, and Takeru wishes he had the strength to scratch it. He would never have believed that this would be his reality. A hospital bed. A terminal illness. He had been tired, that's all. The flu, he figured. Then something that felt like a year had passed, and here he was.
Was he really fourteen? He felt more like a hundred.
The door hinge squeaks, and footsteps enter the room. They are tentative, as though they think he is asleep, and they set something large softly down on the floor. Takeru doesn't see him, since he is facing the window, but he knows the sound of a bass guitar case hitting the ground.
Yamato is here.
His brother comes every day. Some days he's late from band practice, and he says numerous times that he doesn't need to go; that he can come straight to the hospital after school. But Takeru insists that he keep up with his music. He needs his brother's life to be stable, normal; it makes up for the fact that his own is so messed up.
Yamato has been a constant throughout his entire illness. Even in the beginning, when it had been just fevers and fatigue, he had come around often to check up on him. Takeru had been grateful for the company. Being too sick to go to school, tied with being in an empty apartment, made for long, boring days. And Takeru would have been lying if he said that he minded being spoiled a bit by his Nii-san.
But as his illness got worse, and he grew weaker, Yamato's concern translated into tireless care. He would cook him anything he wanted, if only to get something inside him. He would play his acoustic guitar soothingly when Takeru's exhaustion grew into restlessness. When he had no strength left to move, Yamato would prop him up against him so he could drink water, asking endlessly if he needed medicine. Or the oxygen mask. Or a doctor. And the worry and stress never left his face.
Takeru never mentioned it, but he felt like a burden on his brother. Like he was an iron chain, keeping him from freedom. From being happy.
Their father even questioned Yamato once, one evening when he came over with takeout, if he was looking after himself. The conversation was meant to be private, but Takeru could not help but listen in. It was a concern that he and his father shared.
"I get it, son," Hiroaki had murmured, "You're worried about him. But you're still young-"
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" Yamato had hissed back. "Go out on dates? Sell out concerts? Have the time of my life while he's-"
And all Takeru could do for his brother – as he has done his whole life – was smile.
Even though his smiles, though ever frequent, grow heavier and heavier.
"Takeru?"
His name is whispered. He turns to his brother, but cannot say hello with the oxygen mask in the way. He smiles instead, hoping his brother can tell.
Yamato looks tired. His pale face and dark circles make it look like he hasn't slept well in months.
Maybe he hasn't.
A burden, Takeru thinks. I'm a burden.
This illness – this unnamed, unidentifiable illness – has caused his loved ones so much stress. From his mother, who would rush through the doorway after coming home from work, checking him for a fever and asking him if he's alright before even putting down her bag, to his father, who worked so hard to appear calm for Natsuko and Yamato, yet was probably lighting up packs a day to try to handle the stress.
And there was Patamon, who flitted about asking anyone and everyone "Is Takeru gonna be okay? He's gonna be okay, right?"
And there were his friends, who took turns visiting him, even when the illness had taken a turn for the worse. It had been Taichi's idea: he wanted to keep Takeru's spirits up, as well as help out Yamato so that his best friend could still make it to band rehearsals. At first, when he was better, it had been nice. Each day, some people would swing by his apartment, and they'd chat and hang out for a while, giving him news about school and about the Digital World.
But as he got worse, and all he could do was lay and sleep, it began to take a toll on his friends. Sora would sit beside him and ask him, over and over, if there was anything he needed. Anything she could do for him. Jyou and Ken would second-guess what they said to him, apologizing constantly for feeling like they said the wrong thing. Even Miyako and Daisuke, who he has never known to be without something to say, were quiet. They would converse with him, but there was always a blanket of oppressive tension in the air.
The worst, though, were Hikari's tears.
Takeru feels his throat tighten. He can't take this anymore. He can't watch his friends and family buckle under the strain of his illness. He can't hear his mother cry, or watch his father pretend to be strong, or see the fear and worry in his friends' eyes, anymore.
His failing body, and his weary soul, cry out to him. It's as if they're saying, Maybe you have troubled them all enough.
…maybe it's time to go.
Yamato approaches the bed, and Takeru practically feels his brother taking stock of him. The wires. The emaciated limbs. The D-3 that he clutches in his bony hand. Yamato's baby brother.
And Takeru wonders…has Yamato considered the possibility that he might…not be here anymore? Soon?
Takeru certainly has. At the very beginning of his decline, he thought briefly that this sickness, whatever it was, could be serious, though it had been a passing thought. But as time went on, and his strength continued to leave him, he thought, This…this isn't good. I…I could…
I could die.
Yamato carefully takes his hand, holding it gently. He manages a small smile. "How are you feeling?"
He hesitates to respond. How does he feel? He feels like an hourglass that is almost out of grains of sand. He feels like he is setting with the sun.
He feels like he's dying.
Patamon felt like this once, he abruptly remembers. Patamon faced death. An angel, turning into white pixels and feathers, assaults his memory.
But Angemon had no fear. His voice had not even trembled when he spoke. How, then, could Takeru be afraid to die?
And maybe, just maybe, like Patamon, he could become an angel.
And Takeru could never be afraid of angels.
He works his vocal cords, preparing what is left of his voice. He even tries shifting his body. Yamato picks up on this immediately and hurriedly asks him, "Hey, what's the matter?"
Patamon. His family. His friends. His eyes begin to burn. Can he really leave them? Can he leave these people who he loves, who love him? These people who will grieve for him? His mother, who would be left all alone? His father, who would be brave for as long as he could until he finally cracked? Patamon, who would be ruined without him?
His heartbeat throbs in his chest, painful and slow, and he knows he is running out of time.
So many people will be hurt by this…
He gazes at his brother, who looks like he's a moment away from bolting from the room to get a nurse.
…Mom…Dad…Hikari…Daisuke…Taichi…S-Sora…
But he knows, deep down, that there is only one that he has to be sure of.
There is only one who could ask him to stay in this body-prison, and he'd obey.
…There is only one with the power to let him go.
He uses all his strength to pull the oxygen mask down his chin.
Yamato is startled by this. "Hey, leave that, Teek. You need that." He moves as if to put it back into place.
But no. He needs to say this while he still can.
He needs to know.
"Onii-san."
There's pain in his brother's face. Pain and uncertainly and maybe even despair. Even as he reaches out and gently strokes too-long hair out of Takeru's eyes.
"Yeah, buddy?" He whispers it warily, like he's afraid he might not like the answer.
Like he's afraid the answer might kill him.
Takeru squeezes his hand with the strength of a butterfly. His pulse flutters like one. His blue eyes meet the identical ones of his brother.
The world begins to go out of focus.
"Onii-san…"
He points the deadly arrow at his brother's heart-
"…will you be okay…if I go?"
- and fires.
Yamato is made of marble. White as snow and perfectly still. A statue.
Except that statues don't have eyes that are so full of tears that that Takeru wonders if he can even see him. It's a wonder that he can see Yamato through his own.
His brother is still. Silent. Like he's waiting to wake up from a nightmare. Like he has been for months.
Then suddenly, the blue eyes close, and Takeru sees something horrible and beautiful written on his face.
Terrified, heart-wrenching, painful, excruciating acceptance.
Takeru knows, then, that he will soon be free.
He knows that words sometimes fail his brother. But when his Nii-san leans forward and softly kisses his forehead, he doesn't need a single one.
It is his farewell.
The Chosen of Hope could not break the silence; his voice did not have the strength to leave his throat.
He could not say goodbye.
So instead, he did for his brother as he had done his whole life.
He smiled.
And he saw angels.