For These Scars
~Chapter 5~
Written by: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, and Saisyu Kusanagi belong to SNK
Kyo had left him more messages. Several texts, all asking where he was, was he all right, and to please get back to him if he was able. With each message he saw, with each message he read and re-read (knives to the soul), Iori despaired further and further. He had to put his phone aside and get ahold of himself, because Kyo's concern (so much of it) hurt and he couldn't let himself…he didn't want to cry again. He had other issues at hand to deal with – also as painful – and he didn't have enough energy to expend on both physical and emotional matters.
It was the video that nearly undid him – magnified the raw anguish he now carried.
He kept his phone far away after that. The hurt was too great.
Doctor Yamashita ordered more blood tests and X-rays done and monitored his condition as the days went by. His sternum would take about four months to heal – it wasn't a clean break; had bone fragments that were placed and realigned during surgery – and on the matter of his burns, the young doctor was more delicate in his phrasing. Certain areas were burned more badly, would certainly need skin grafts. Did he want them to start the process? Start getting the cells ready for cultivation in the labs so that within the next few months, they could start his treatment?
He had no choice, really. Some of the burns were bad. He saw them.
He gave them the go-ahead and then lay in bed that night, mind completely empty. It was the only way to keep sane. His whole world was breaking – every little part becoming undone – and there was no one there to comfort him, to be by his side.
He tried not to think about Kyo. Didn't think he succeeded.
Saisyu's warning followed him even into his dreams and sometimes he awoke, panicked, sure he was about to be incinerated just for existing.
More tests were done and more treatments were suggested. The burns affected his joints – backs of his knees, his shoulders where the sockets were, his wrists, his ankles – and the doctor recommended therapeutic rehab. He'd listened in disbelief, unable to comprehend that he'd have to go that far to regain a semblance of himself. For that was what it was – a mere semblance. He was never going back to what he was before – would never be a fighter in his prime again.
He was only twenty four and his best days were done. Over.
Saisyu took all that away from him, just like what had been done to his old man.
On top of that, his lungs were so affected by the circulating heat that even after he was taken off the tube, breathing was strained. Medication was given. Would be prescribed once the hospital deemed him healthy enough to leave. There would be several prescriptions written, which he would have to fill immediately. Enough painkillers to deaden the worst of it and one so that he could continue breathing without complications.
His body temperature never changed. The nurses cooled him down, gave him sponge baths and dampened his forehead but the vicious heat continued to cycle, continued to spike at the worst times. He'd been overwhelmed, had slipped into fevers which left him weaker than before. Rebounding was always harder and Doctor Yamashita had the nurses on a constant scheduled watch, just in case something went wrong.
He'd recovered but his heart had suffered and this, too, was detrimental to his final outcome. The nurses cared for him – some offering quiet encouragement – with the doctor checking his stats and improving his treatments. Days spilled over into weeks and by the time he underwent what felt like the millionth blood test, Iori wanted to leave.
He'd never liked hospitals. Never did, never would've gone to one if things weren't serious.
But the two hospitals and this one in particular saved his life. Continued doing so.
So he waited. Waited and remained, listening to the sounds of his phone going off, knowing the source of those calls, those texts. In moments of weakness, he reclaimed his phone, would open up the videos just to look upon Kyo's face. He knew he had changed – was no longer the same – but the other looked the same, if only more fretful, more concerned.
Kyo's old man had found out. Was Kyo doing okay?
He always wanted to ask but he never let his fingers wander onto the digital keyboard, to punch in the characters that would form that question.
Contact meant death and he wasn't ready to die. He'd only been fighting for the last few weeks not to.
So he'd let his fingers slide away from the keyboard, knowing that while he did so, he would remain alive. That Saisyu wouldn't come after him, because he hadn't run afoul of the warning. Knowing that doing so was denying himself the one person he could truly say he loved.
It hurt. It hurt him badly, admitting this to himself.
But there was nothing he could do.
Nothing at all.
When he finally left the hospital – close to three weeks gone – the sky was leaden and overcast, clouds rolling overhead heavy with rain. It was cooler and with his feverish state, he welcomed it. He was still burning inside, still off-balance and somewhat dizzy, so when the first raindrops fell, Iori took a carefully-drawn breath and craned his neck upward to look at the sky. After being indoors and bedridden for so long, the change of scenery and fresh air was pleasant. Soothing, even. He let the rain wash over him, let it run into his hair and down his face.
It felt good. Really good.
He was tired, though. Had never stopped feeling this way since the attack. It was part of his life now, inseparable. He also found his movement hampered, the burns affecting his mobility. Opening his wallet, counting the yen inside – unused, untouched – he made a decision. This being a hospital, he could hail a taxi at the front entrance and let it take him somewhere safe. Somewhere to sleep, to stop thinking about things for just a few hours.
Usually, home was shelter. Was safety.
But after Saisyu's direct assault upon his life in his own apartment, he no longer felt safe there anymore. Didn't want to go back and see where he'd fallen, where his life began going wrong. So when the taxi came, he gingerly climbed in – aware his sternum was still healing (he'd set off every metal detector now) – and asked for the nearest standard hotel. The driver set his cost per mileage counter ticking and he was off, away from the place that did, for some time, become shelter and home.
He put his wallet down next to him. His keys were in his pocket, as was his phone.
He'd have to return home eventually. He couldn't avoid it – just didn't want to do it right now. He still struggled to breathe normally – would have to get that particular prescription filled out soon – and undergoing a possible panic attack in his own apartment would only make that worse. Could possibly land him back in the hospital again.
Until he had to go back to continue his burn treatments, Iori didn't want to see the inside of a hospital again. No matter how well he was treated or how skilled Doctor Yamashita was at his job. It'd removed him from the outside world and it reminded him of how terrible things were for him to even call for emergency services in the first place. Like as not, he'd always carry reminders of this time on his skin, within himself, and deep in the recesses of his mind.
His phone was a weight heavy in his pocket.
He didn't reach for it.
The taxi stopped at a decent-looking hotel. He paid the man and left, walked carefully inside and asked if they had a room available. They did – several, in fact – so he chose the most comfortable one and made his arrangements. Since he didn't have luggage, he took himself upstairs. This time, he took the elevator, since climbing stairs would aggravate his breathing and he still felt unwell. It was something he had to adapt to, to figure out how to shape his life around.
Changes and none that he'd ever asked for.
He needed a shave and a haircut as well. He also wanted decent food again, but none of those were as promising as the bed and the rest that followed. His jacket and shirt were slung over the nearest chair and he soon drifted off, the sheets cool against his overheated skin.
His phone buzzed, the sound soft in the silken silence.
He slept. Thought of nothing else.