The lashes of his eyes were visible against the headlights.
"Are you sure you've the time to send me to the station?" Tezuka asked pragmatically as they began to cross the road, flashing green lights beckoning them onwards. The night air was freezing after the warmth of the ramen shop. Remembering that Fuji felt cold easily, he took off his woollen scarf and wound it around the slighter man's neck without waiting for a reply and carried on walking.
"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't already going that way, Tezuka." Fuji offered lightly, catching up with him.
A lie, but they both knew better than to call it out.
They reached the silver car, streaked amber in the streetlights, and Tezuka waited patiently for Fuji to unlock the car for them to enter. Fuji's bag had been tossed into the front passenger seat, and several books lay scattered below it. Somehow he thought they looked unnaturally perfect. He heard the tinny sound of bells, and from the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of their orange-gold reflection tinkling against two keys.
"Would you mind sitting at the back?" Fuji smiled apologetically, "I'm afraid Yuuta left his books here, and there's more space at the back for your bag too."
"Not at all."
From where he was sitting, his eyes caught sight of the silver hoop on Fuji's ear, partially hidden by the shoulder-length brown hair. One concession to the androgynous beauty that had ensnared so many until they realised that they were speaking to a boy. His sister found it amusing, he once told Tezuka, and his brother-in-law wouldn't look at him in the face for the first few months of their acquaintance.
The silence in the car was partially filled by the first movement of Beethoven's Appassionata piano sonata. They had met for dinner before. Not that he was counting, but they had met at least four times since their breakup in spring. So why did he still feel so awkward? Fuji had never said anything out of place, had never acted without propriety, nor forced him to confront their past, though it always trailed behind them like a starved, hopeful dog. Instead, Fuji had been pretty much the same as he'd always been. He spoke with the same light-hearted ease, gentle words belying a more wicked sense of humour and a keen appreciation of schadenfreude. Was he still expecting the fall-out to occur, after Fuji's calm acceptance of his decision? Their decision, Fuji would have insisted out of kindness, but Tezuka would have known anyway as soon as his eyes hit the mirror.
Eventually, the gentle humming and the steady purr of the car's movement lulled him to sleep.
.
"I meant to cut it but well…it doesn't suit me, does it?" Fuji looked awkwardly hopeful as he waited for Tezuka's approval. What could he say to someone who looked as if they were asking to be measured and found acceptable? Even if he had said that it was ugly, ugly like nothing of Fuji's was ever as ugly, he wasn't sure if that smile would diminish – but the hair length definitely would.
He wasn't sure if he despised himself more for these thoughts or Fuji for being able to hurt his conscience without trying, each and every time.
"It's beautiful." You're beautiful.
Fuji smiled at him, and he found that he could believe it after all.
.
There had been no warning.
When Tezuka opened his eyes again, his first instinct was to touch his head to ensure that it hadn't split open upon contact with the window. It throbbed in sudden pulses and he felt as though someone had taken a racket to his head, causing the slight dizziness. The crash was still ringing in his ears but the left side of the car looked alright, he thought numbly, and there was no blood on his fingertips.
"Fuji?"
"Are you okay? Answer me," he fumbled clumsily with his seat-belt until it came undone. Shaking Fuji's shoulder gently from behind, he leaned forward and craned his neck to get a better look at the front seat, when any further words died in his throat.
A jagged portion of the fence had smashed through the windshield and the wrought iron fencing had created delicate spider-webs against the windshield. But the prey they sought was lying limp against his seat and his blood was splattered against their silver-white fibres. Thin cords of red had oozed their way across the speedometer and begun dripping onto the black floor mat.
Why weren't his limbs cooperating?
"Fuji. Fuji. Shuusuke," he repeated, his voice breaking a little and it seemed to rouse Fuji out of his reverie.
Fuji's eyes were closed as he coughed a little and began to move, before wincing visibly and forcing himself still with an effort. Tezuka's eyes travelled lower and saw the metal iron drenched in blood, disappearing into Fuji's stomach, and something about Fuji's unnatural stillness forced his limbs to move at last and get out of the car.
When Tezuka managed to pull the front door open, he felt a sickening jolt to his stomach as he realised that there was no way he could free Fuji from the wreckage without dislodging the slender iron pole and causing even more blood to gush from the punctured wound. As it was, Fuji's fingers were a little cold as he pressed them to the side of Tezuka's face, those blue eyes looking weary but still so, beautifully, conscious as he noted that Tezuka was unhurt.
"Where's he?" Fuji asked calmly, and rather insanely, Tezuka thought, before realising that shock was probably starting to set in.
"Don't move. I'm going to call an ambulance and will be right back," he promised tersely, returning to his seat to retrieve his cell phone. Stopping short, he found himself speechless at the sight of a second body that lay several feet in front of the car.
Yukimura Seiichi.
He was not moving, but his pulse still fluttered weakly under Tezuka's fingers and Tezuka offered up a silent prayer in thanks as he recited the address of their current location numbly to the operator on the other side of the line. What were the odds of something like this happening? There weren't many people at this time of night, and a few looked wary of coming any closer to the scene. He supposed he wouldn't be that thrilled either about coming into contact with a corpse. Debating with himself about the benefits of shifting an unconscious person with possibly severe internal injuries, he returned to Fuji's side instead and tried to swallow all panicked thoughts of impalement and death.
"Stay awake. Don't fall asleep until the medics arrive." Tezuka said sternly, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.
"Don't…let my guard down?" Fuji smiled tiredly.
"Yes."
"Don't you think…it's a little late for that?"
Fuji laughed a little, and an abrupt spasm of pain swept through him. As he breathed raggedly, the contractions of his stomach caused more blood to ooze from the wound, and as far as Tezuka could see, the lower half of his shirt was already dyed a deep crimson. He had started to shiver, and Tezuka cursed himself inwardly for his slow thinking, as he removed his jacket hastily and attempted to drape it over Fuji without moving him.
Several minutes had passed, and he became increasingly agitated at the lack of sirens to alert him to an approaching ambulance. He returned to Yukimura's side, and noticed that the blood flow was starting to lessen, but consciousness had not returned to the slight, frail looking man. He tried calling his name, but the other was unresponsive. In the end, he wound up scrolling through his contact list as he tried to think about whom he should be calling in this instance. Which hospital would they be sent to? What details could he furnish the parents with, considering that he hadn't even been awake to witness the actual crash?
His eyes lighted upon a name.
.
"Honestly, Tezuka. Why didn't it strike you to call me first? You wasted ten minutes dithering about, waiting for a mere ambulance when you had the private number of The Atobe Keigo with his own helicopter? What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't thinking."
The sound of defeat in that voice was enough to placate Atobe. He sighed and leant back against the wall. Two worthy opponents of his past, and both were in the same hellhole waiting to be brought back to life. He had received a call from Tezuka an hour ago, seeking his help. However, there was only so much which he could do. The medical facilities run by the Atobe group were located too far from the city centre, and only a few of them were equipped to treat trauma victims. The closest hospital to the accident site had denied admission to the ambulance by citing a lack of equipment and space. When Atobe was informed of this, he insisted on the patients being sent to the next closest hospital with the facilities for emergency treatment. Ishigaki Hospital had attempted to refuse admission at first, but a stern call from Atobe to their director, as the son of a major stockholder, had earned from them their reluctant consent.
Atobe walked over to the vending machine and bought two hot coffees for Tezuka and himself. Perhaps it wasn't time to bear down on the previously stoic and unflappable captain of Seigaku, who looked faintly as though he expected a verbal trashing at any given moment. The guilt was probably doing the job for him, Atobe reasoned, as he held out the cup in front of Tezuka.
"You're not doing anyone any favours if you collapse during the prognosis," Atobe explained wryly, seeing Tezuka recover himself enough to give him an odd look. As though it would be unlikely and highly suspect for one as gracious and generous as him to bestow such spontaneous acts of consideration for others. The sheer nerve of it, really!
He glanced back and saw Tezuka restrain a smile.
"What is it?"
"It's odd," Tezuka sighed, breathing in the scent of coffee. "You're actually pretty easy to read."
"Are you insinuating in your Neolithic bluntness that I, the great Atobe Keigo, am unsubtle and transparent to all?"
"No," Tezuka said, but Atobe saw his lips twitch anyway. Idiot.
"Excuse me, Atobe-san. May I have a word with you?" the director inquired pleasantly, when he turned the corner and found the two waiting at the benches.
"Of course," he replied smoothly and stood.
.
The night was cold and the sound of their shoes rang sharply against the slate-green flooring.
When they were a safe distance away, Atobe listened to what the hospital director had to say, and found himself keeping his eyes trained on the distant nurse at the reception desk, in case his eyes gave away the confusion and sick, twisted hope that was churning inside him as he ran through the facts in his mind once more.
Atobe Keigo had known since young that the world belonged to those with money. Healthcare, as it seemed, was no exception. Hospitals needed funding to attract top surgeons and to purchase the most advanced equipment. The survival rate of their patients bore testimony to the effectiveness of such expenditure. When a potential patient's chance of survival sank below a certain percentage, hospitals would refuse admission to such parties by claiming that they lacked personnel, equipment or space to handle an additional burden on overtaxed resources. It was not uncommon for such delays to result in fatalities where there may once have been chance for recovery, not when hospitals were keen on attracting greater investments.
From the figures which he'd been presented with at a recent board meeting, he knew that the hospital was well-equipped to handle emergency cases. However, he had neglected to take into consideration Yukimura's previous hospital records. The captain suffered from Guillian-Barré syndrome. It was a condition which necessitated a neurosurgeon to be on hand at time of surgery. On the other hand, Fuji was losing massive amounts of blood and an induced coma would have to be carried out in order to carry out the operation. Unfortunately for them, one of the two neurosurgeons in the hospital was away on leave.
He remembered the bound journal and a smile which always seemed to hint at hidden knowledge. Of what benefit were these to him at moments like this? Only, his mind's eye insisted upon returning to those fine sheaves bound in cream, and he knew what he had to do.
We are similar – you and I.
Atobe smiled bitterly.
"Fuji is a well-respected friend of mine. I would regret it deeply if anything happened to him," he said simply and turned away, sick at heart.
END CHAPTER