Chapter Seventeen

Bracing himself, he cautiously leant forward, feeling the shards of glass press against his knees through the thick jeans he wore. The driver had not been strapped in, which proved helpful to him now as his rescuer tried dimly to stretch across the length of the backseat. The passenger's seat had been crushed nearly full to the floor, and that made it far easier for Hanamichi to see the pale skin, the unmoving body.

Perspiration dripping painfully into his eyes, he exhaled and then, slowly, put one arm around the broad chest of the driver and, with a silent prayer, pulled.

The body fell slack into his arms like a sack of meal. Torn between relief and dread, he pulled, harder now, and heard the snap of the rail with sickening terror. Crawling backwards, breathing harder with the new weight in his arms, he backed out so quickly that he didn't even notice the trails of blood as they wound round his arms, the cutting pain in his hands as the glass sliced into his flesh. And as he tumbled to the ground, his arms cradling the one he had saved, he looked away, cringing as the car slid further over the edge.

His arms were screaming with the strain now. He pulled the man further away, into the shadow provided by the tanker, and then he remembered, and his heart dropped.

Please, don't let it be him.

And with that silent begging in his mind, he turned the man over. And gasped.

It was him. It was the other man.

His hair was matted with fresh blood that seemed to spill from his temple, and he was unconscious. His face… In a trance provided only for that one moment, Hanamichi reached out and traced a path down the lines of the smooth jaw, the pale cheeks, the closed eyelids, the nose.

He's beautiful. Just like Lincoln.

The wail of a siren cut through his thoughts and he looked up to the flashing blue and red lights of the police car, the whine of the ambulance in the distance the last thing he remembered before he gulped and passed out.

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He stood on the sidewalk, shivering slightly in the cold sea breeze and pulling his coat tighter about his body. It was twenty minutes since their prearranged meeting time. Where was Sendoh?

To make matters worse, there seemed to be some sort of commotion on the far end of the neighborhood. He had seen police cars turn in, other plainer cars, and then a huge, scraped tanker.

What is going on here?

It was only when the tow-truck passed by that his heart stopped for a beat. And then cold panic, raw fear, coursed through his body. He stared at the mangled remains of the black car as it passed, his eyes almost afraid to look as it was towed, beside him, then past him. And as his eyes dropped to the number plate, hanging off by a nail, he staggered back, the chill sweeping through his body, into his mind, freezing him, forcing him to look after the car even as it moved away, a tangled, mangled mess of metal and...and blood.

Akira.

Dimly, he was aware that he was in shock, as a broken wail grew louder, and then he realized that he was the one screaming.

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The police car found the slumped man, looking heartbreakingly childish, seated on the pavement, his eyes unfocused. The policewoman stepped out, then approached the man, squatting down and looking him over.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently.

Akira. Akira. He didn't want to know, didn't want to see, didn't want to hear. Yet, he needed to know.

"What?" she couldn't hear him.

Take me to him, please… A hand shot out and grabbed her arm, almost in vice-like. Astonished, her immediate reaction was to pull away, but the voice stopped her. Filled with anguish and helplessness, he couldn't look her in the eyes, but the desperation she could hear in that hoarse whisper was enough.

"Was he your friend?"

He nodded numbly as she knelt again, put her arms around him, and helped him slowly to the car.