For maripas, who wanted an introspective Akari in a very particular situation and who likes stories exceeding 500 words. This is my gift to you; it's a sort of expansion on some of the themes in the "Hearts" chapter.
To everyone else: Please read the whole thing before you grab your pitchforks and torches. Oh, and remember that I don't know anything about medicine and human bodies. I'm a humanities student.
Also, I tend to go back and edit my work (even after it's published). I don't have the wherewithal at present to do much more than a cursory once-over. Please pardon any roughness.
Akari's thumb brushes Hirato's eyelashes for the briefest of moments. His fingers ghost along the brunet's sleeping face before sliding to the base of his throat and stilling.
There's a pulse there, but it's thready. And weak. Weak enough to stop the doctor's heart suddenly and send biting pain slicing through his chest. He nearly doubles over in agony. Sheer willpower and professionalism manage to hold him upright. If Research Tower staff believe he's too emotionally compromised to carry out this procedure, Bizante-sama will assign a substitute immediately.
He cannot allow that; Hirato's life, and his death, are Akari's claim.
Keen, appraising eyes take in the bloodied, mangled form that's lying upon cold steel, making all requisite observations with characteristic swiftness. In the corner of his mind unhindered with processing medical data, Akari concedes that this situation was not merely a possibility, but rather an eventuality. In fact, Hirato's been under his scalpel before. Doubtless he'll be there again. Circus consider the Second Commander little more than a weapon forged and deployed for their brutal ends, after all.
How dare they? It's an ephemeral thought. Fury flares and dissolves before he can sense its ebb and flow. He's hellishly irate at the lot of them for undervaluing someone who is—to him—the most significant object in this vast, wondrous universe. Fantasies of pulling rank and blackmailing Executive Tower flit through his psyche. Let's see how many missions Circus' Second Ship undertakes if SSS-ranked Researcher Akari threatens to resign.
He'll never attempt such a thing; Hirato would never forgive him. That is, if the captain survives...
If. Efficient, skilled hands inject more ketamine into the brunet's IV.
If, if, if… Akari barks orders to his team and marches alongside the gurney, unconsciously wrapping his fingers around Hirato's wrist while reviewing the final set of charts.
What if all ifs end here? The doctor's breath catches. Only Tsukitachi notices the minute stumble of sure steps. It's with these inquiries of 'if' whirling through his subconscious that Akari scrubs and enters the operating theater.
The first draw of blade leaves a vibrant red trail that looks plastic under the over-bright lights. Although part of the lead surgeon's dazzling mind is unsettled by the fragility of the future that awaits, no one finds fault with the steadiness of his movements—no one except Akari himself. He loathes touching Hirato like this, carving him up as if configurations of blood, flesh, vessels, and bones circumscribe everything about the man. Guilt threatens to overwhelm.
.
.
.
I'm sorry, Akari thinks. I'm sorry for everything that's been left unsaid. And there's so much, despite all they'd shared over the years. Even lovers keep secrets, right? Particularly, he's regretful that he never said, "I love you." Not in the manner he should have done, at least. The one time those words passed his lips, they were uttered in anger and resignation—words better-suited for inculcating guilt instead of affection.
"I love you," Akari breathes to the obsidian marker signifying his lover's resting place. "Okay. I said it." Weary legs fail and his knees hit chilled, damp grass with a dull thud. Moisture seeps into the wool of his trousers, but the discomfort doesn't register. He claws into the earth, wishing desperately that he could burrow underneath and sleep against the other man once more. "You win, Hirato. You'll always win. So please, come back."
Akari doesn't cry in earnest, even then. But he permits Tsukitachi to pull him upright and hold him close as the sky threatens to break open overhead. Hours must have elapsed; it's dark. "He promised to come back." He buries himself into the First Captain's shoulder.
Rain falls in sheets, soaking the duo. If he drowns in the deluge, he'll reconsider his bad opinion of the gods.
"I know, Akari-chan." Tsukitachi understands that nothing can soothe this kind of anguish. There's no succor he can provide except the heart-breaking truth. "He meant to come home."
.
.
.
That's not our future. The scenes unfurl in the recesses of Akari's cognizance. Clearly, they're fears that had resided there for years and have been jarred loose by the sight of an unconscious Hirato. Still, he pushes them aside and marshals his concentration.
Precisely then, the physician perceives the other man's scent. It's strange, no doubt. Operating rooms typically smell cold and clinical, and this one is no exception. Nevertheless, there's no mistaking that singular combination of fragrances, faint though it may be.
.
.
.
Sandalwood and cloves… a touch of smoke... and warmth. Hirato's clothes retain his distinctive scent, driving Akari mad with memory and longing. He's been sleeping in them. He acknowledges how terribly irrational this is and that he cannot continue like so indefinitely. A decent man would donate them to charity. But falling asleep to Hirato's smell allays his nightmares, at least temporarily. Some part of the man he loves lingers in these quarters. No crew has stepped inside since the night their captain didn't return. They intuit that this is the doctor's territory, his burden. For once, everyone respects his privacy.
Soft sheets remain rumpled from where the two had lain together. If he closes his eyes, he can feel Hirato's touch skimming along his skin and a set of strong arms slipping around his waist. The physician's trembling fingers tangle themselves in the fabric and he promises an absent paramour that no other will take him to bed ever, ever again. The last lips he tastes will be Hirato's.
The commander's spare glasses are perched atop the nightstand. Akari picks them up absentmindedly and wonders how the world looked through those striking violet irises. When he slips them on, he finds his field of vision unchanged.
A small laugh escapes just before a few paltry tears fall in crystalline droplets against the lenses. Akari removes the spectacles and wipes his eyes. "So you didn't need these, after all. I'll bet you thought they made you look sexy." He shakes his bowed head but can't bring himself to scoff. Not really. "You bastard," he murmurs. The epithet has lost its meaning.
.
.
.
I told you, you bastard. That is not our future. You still have to answer for this. The episodes are instant flashes, yet even in the nanoseconds they occupy, Akari feels the full rush of emotions that such scenarios would inevitably entail: loneliness, anger, sorrow, desperation, and most frighteningly, grief. Impressively, despite these fleeting sensations floating somewhere in the nether regions of his consciousness, his attention is focused intently on executing a flawless surgery.
It's not surprising when he succeeds—not to anyone apart from himself, of course. The blond-haired researcher is all too aware of how close he came to losing everything.
'Everything' is reaping the fruits of drug-facilitated sleep when Akari finishes rounds. Tsukitachi practically ordered him to rest after Hirato stabilized, but he refused, knowing the slightest hint of fatigue or weakness could be a charge levied against his lover for rendering him falliable.
He steals into Hirato's room sometime after midnight. Research Tower has come under a heavy hush, all its staff exhausted after an unusually long day. Moonlight supplies scant illumination, but it's sufficient to see the reassuring rise and fall of the brunet's chest. The doctor sheds his lab coat and shoes and pads silently across the floor, eventually crawling under the covers and wrapping an arm around the sleeping man.
He's so warm, he thinks as he sidles closer, fitting himself into the commander's side. A reserved, chary hand slips under Hirato's nightshirt and settles on a patch of un-bandaged skin near his heart. It flutters under Akari's palm, prompting him to pilfer a kiss.
Professionalism be damned.
He's almost drifted off when Hirato stirs and moans softly, eyelids quivering for several moments before slitting open. The physician shifts away and prepares to administer more opiates. A slight tug on his sleeve stops him.
"Don't go," Hirato says creakily. Even in a murky delirium, he doesn't seem remotely taken aback at finding his partner curled against him in a hospital bed. It's like he expected as much.
"You need morphine. The pain will be back. And it will be unbearable, even for you." He sweeps aside raven hair and tucks it behind the captain's ear.
"Wait." The brunet sounds completely spent. Their conversation is exacting too steep a price on already-depleted energy reserves.
"What is it?" Akari asks, hoping to conclude the interlude quickly.
"I'm sorry." The doctor stills and swallows his shock. Indigo orbs are unusually reluctant to meet cerise. "You're remarkable, you know. Trying to spare me pain even though I hurt you very deeply." He speaks in a small, tired whisper, yet Akari can hear the sentiment with startling clarity. Such remorse is not precipitated by his fulfillment of duty. Indeed, he's not at fault there. His guilt is resultant of doing so unthinkingly, without proper reverence toward the feelings of the one he leaves behind. On that score, he's most certainly culpable.
But an apology? He's more mentally incapacitated than I thought, Akari thinks playfully while pressing curved lips to Hirato's head. "You came back. Everything else can wait."
"Not everything."
"What's so urgent?"
"When you climb into this bed again, you had better be naked." That little remark will cost. Dark eyelashes dance against pale cheeks while Hirato's breathing deepens. He manages a tiny chuckle nevertheless. "You were so cute pressed against me like I'd somehow disappear."
"Shut up," Akari's mock irritation ill-conceals his relief. He rises, fills a syringe, and injects it into the IV. "You're incorrigible."
"Mmmm," the brunet nods in agreement, the shadow of a smirk curling his mouth. "Get used to it."
"I am."
"Good... because I'll always come back to you." The promise is carried on a soft exhale as he nods off.
Akari's not naïve enough to believe such a promise can be kept. Neither is Hirato. But both implicitly recognize that endeavoring to keep it will demand more caution on the captain's part, more fighters on Airship Two's inordinately dangerous missions, and no more incorrigible fools going it alone unless absolutely necessary.
It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. Nothing short of retirement will suffice. But for now, it keeps Akari's waking nightmares at bay.
The next story will be of a happier, slice-of-life variety. I owe it to Animecherryblossem33 (and the rest of you who might be sharpening your knives now).
And yes, Akari is an emotional wreck in the flashforward (?) sequences. That was intentional on my part. My reasoning is that losing Hirato might shatter his characteristic stoicism, particularly since Hirato seems to be one of the few who can get under his skin in canon. I get that Akari typically bites back his emotions. My point in this chapter is to envision a scenario wherein he is completely unable to do so. Losing the one person who matters more than anyone else might warrant a few tears (but only a few). Also, bear in mind he's not at work/public in those sequences. With the exception of Tsukitachi in the first one, he's completely alone. Facades are worn for the benefit of other people.
And if you're still not buying my argument, then I'll appeal to the fact that those scenes never really happened. ;) Anyway, I'd like to hear from you. Character experts, please weigh in: Is the good doctor OOC?