Chapter content Warning: Mentions of blood and vomiting.

The smell of blood hits Kankurou's nose before he can turn around to see it.

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Kiba bangs at the toilet door.

"Dude hurry up I really need to pee!"

Now is really not the time.

The tickling of sweat running down his back feels like undead hands scratching him with their nails.

He needs to stop thinking about this image before he tries to peel his skin off.

"Just use the fucking urinals!"

There's an odd second of silence before Kiba yells again.

"What the fuck are you even doing in there? It's the third time since the beginning of the rehearsal. Come on!"

Kiba has a lot of qualities. He's honest, he's loyal, he's good at lifting everyone's spirit, he's pretty, he's not the best guitarist out there but their music is not exactly delicate and his stage presence makes up for all of it anyway, but fuck is he stubborn. (Which would probably be a quality too, in another context, but definitely not right now while Kankurou's fucking bleeding out.)

He tries to wipe himself up to the best he can in a hurry, afraid that Kiba's banging might end up breaking the frail wooden door.

For a moment the other man seems about to shout at him again (as expected) but he suddenly stops and squints at him instead.

Maybe another day Kankurou would have tried to guess what was going on in that little head of his, but today he's in way too much pain and way too pissed off (at Kiba, a bit, but mostly at his body and at himself) to dwell on it.

"Here. The stall's free."

It's unsure how he even made it up to his apartment but he collapses the second the door is closed behind him, arms clenching over his stomach in a grunt of pain.

He should probably call his doctor.

(He should definitely call his doctor. He should have done that a long while ago, actually.)

But he doesn't want to deal with the talking and the invasive tests and the new meds and the explaining to everyone around and maybe it's just a mistake, a little flare-up that will be gone overnight.

(It's not and he knows it.)

He grabs his phone in his pocket, turning around to lie on his right side and lower the pressure in his abdomen.

[22:31] Kankurou: Hey baby bro, I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow for our usual Friday coffee

[22:31] Kankurou: I'm sorry

He tries to take his hoodie and t-shirt off, starting to feel dizzy from the fever but the clothes stick to his sweat-damped skin. He's frustrated and shaking and G-d fuck why won't this thing come off.

The cold air stinging his burning body wrings a hiss out of his lips when he finally manages to undress. He starts shivering immediately.

[22:36] Gaara: Is there a problem?

The trembling in his hands makes it hard to unlock his phone.

[22:37] Kankurou: Something came up at work. Nothing bad but I have to go early.

[22:37] Gaara: I wake up early. We can still meet before if you want.

He grunts in frustration and guilt.

It's surprisingly hard to lie to Gaara, not because he's good at noticing people are lying, he's terrible at it, but because he's very bad at refraining from asking inconvenient questions at inconvenient times.

[22:38] Kankurou: I would love to but I need all the sleep I can get

It's also hard because he cares about him deeply and it's painful to disappoint him.

[22:38] Kankurou: Next week I'll be there I promise

He lets the phone on the floor and crawls into the shower, resting against the tiled wall while taking the rest of his clothes off

Thank l-rd for walk-in showers.

There are bloodstains in his underwear.

Hopefully, hot water will help bring some of the pain down.

[22:40] Gaara: Okay.

[22:42] Gaara: I hope work goes well.

He passes out on the floor moments later.

He's woken up by the sudden cold on his skin when he runs out of hot water.

He can't deal with washing off his clothes right now, or the shower, so he leaves everything in a damp pile in the corner.

The shadows in his living room are shivering and he can feel their burning stare on his freezing skin.

He crawls still half wet into his bed and the sensation of the sheets sticking to his skin is suffocating, but his current state of pain and fever and semi-unconsciousness doesn't allow him to do anything better.

Hopefully, he will sleep or pass out soon enough that he can forget the pain for a while.

"Wow, you look like shit."

He can't say he hasn't brought this one on himself. That's what one gets for wanting to work for Sasori.

The man's manners usually aren't a bother, on the contrary, it does a good pre-selection. Many people refuse contracts with him because of his status as ex-convict (Kankurou doesn't know what exactly his master has been sentenced for, but it doesn't feel appropriate to ask, and frankly he doesn't really care), but he is arguably one of the best bunraku puppet makers of his generation.

"Are you aware that associating your name with mine will close you some doors?" he had asked when the younger man first came asking for his tutelage. A question to which Kankurou had answered that he only cared about the one it opened because he was not interested in working with, let alone for, people who put personal reputation and history over the quality of his craftsmanship anyway. Sasori had laughed and asked him to come to work at 8 am sharp the next morning before throwing him out of his workshop.

He settles at his workbench.

Working with wood has always been soothing to him. He likes the feeling of its grain under his fingers, the repetitive movements of the tools, the smell of sawdust and oil. That's also what made him choose to play the drums in the first place.

Today it's not enough for him to forget the constant piercing stab-like pain in his abdomen, though.

When he comes back from his fifth forced bathroom break of the morning, hair sticking to his forehead from cold sweat, Sasori is leaning against his workbench, arms crossed on his chest.

"If you're too sick to work just leave," he says in a tone that makes Kankurou unsure if he means, "take the day off" or, "never come back again."

He's been the man's apprentice for almost three years and he's just been assigned his first solo project. Nothing big but nothing he can afford to mess up or fall behind schedule about. Sasori has taken him in because he's serious about his job before anything else, and he has no doubt the man will dump him just as quickly if that ever changed.

"I'm fine," he says (lies), sitting back on his stool. His sander doesn't switch back on.

Sasori throws the unplugged cable next to him.

"I'm serious. Killing yourself on this workbench is not going to make you seem professional. I've been looking at you for the past hour. You have spasms, your movements are sloppy, you're going to hurt yourself or, worse, mess up your puppet. I don't care how you handle your health regarding your personal life, but the good thing to do for your job right now is to stop before you fuck up and come back when you've got whatever's going on with you sorted out, quickly."

Kankurou stays silent for a moment, not sure if he's supposed to just get up and go home or something else.

"Leave. I'm not letting you anywhere near this puppet in that state anyway. Get your shit together and come back on Monday."

He spends another night bleeding out.

Bile burns his throat and nose as he throws up his first meal of the day in the still blood-stained toilets. The pain is worse than the days before and the lack of actual sleep rather than intermittent passing out is starting to severely kick in.

The bathroom stinks of the pile of wet clothes he hasn't found any strength to deal with in the past two days. It smells of blood, shit, and musty fabric. It smells like his own body is rotting.

He takes his phone out of his pocket when nausea seems to calm down.

The music on hold of the doctor's office makes him wanna smash his phone against the wall.

He hates this. He hates this so much.

He was 15 at the time of his first flare-up. He had been an orphan for less than a year and had found himself curled up in pain and shitting himself on the floor of the bathroom of a place he still had trouble calling home, way too scared and ashamed to go to Baki even if he had been able to walk.

His whines of pain and panic had eventually woken his uncle up and, to Kankurou's surprise, he had been mostly worried and very much not angry against him.

It was almost worse.

He was used to Rasa's range of emotions, from disinterest to rage, and he knew how to handle them (that is to say: shutting up, biting the bullet, and never crying before he was gone).

He did not know how to handle that and it felt humiliating that someone would actually care for him. He'd been good without it until that point.

And then after Baki came the nurses, the doctors, the treatments, and the shoving of cameras down his throat and butt and he realized the pain wasn't the worst part of being sick. The deprivation of his own body was.

The way his sensations became foreign from the cramps and the pain and the fatigue and the drugs. The way his body would not obey his orders to move, talk, or think. The way he couldn't argue with being touched and punctured and taken samples of.

The second flare-up in his early twenties was milder but still infuriating.

This one… this one was way worse. He should have seen it coming. He did, actually. He recognized the pain when it started weeks ago. But he hoped it would pass. He hoped he wouldn't need to talk about it again and submit his body to the medical corps again. If he didn't think about it. If he acted like it wasn't there. Maybe it would go away.

He has never lost that much blood before.

He hates this. He hates this so much.

But some time along the way in life he has realized he doesn't like the idea of dying of exsanguination or peritonitis much more.

Fuck please just answer the g-d damn phone before I change my mind and let myself die with my head in this toilet.

Somewhere his prayer must have been heard because the secretary's voice finally rings through the speakers.

"Yes, hello, my name is Sabaku No Kankurou."

His lips feel heavy and uncoordinated and speaking out loud is way harder than he had anticipated.

"I'm a patient of Dr Senju, she supervises my ulcerative colitis treatments. I'm having a bad flare-up right now, I think I need an appointment."

There's a moment of silence on the other side of the line while the woman runs through the doctor's calendar. It's probably just a few seconds but it feels like hours of agony.

"She can have you on Tuesday morning if you're free?"

For a second, he thinks of explaining she doesn't get how bad the situation is and that he's not going to hold on for three more days like that, but it's too much, it's too hard and he just wants to be alone and in silence and unconscious at the moment.

"Okay. Thank you."

[15:23] Kankurou: I'm sorry guys I won't be able to come practice with you this Sunday

[15:25] Tenten: why

[15:25] Tenten: no let me guess

[15:25] Tenten: you're cheating on us with another band

[15:25] Tenten: you have a double identity and you're a spy for the Japanese government

[15:25] Tenten: you have a date

[15:26] Tenten: no that seems unlikely, I'm going for the spy thing

[15:27] Kankurou: Fuck you ️

[15:27] Tenten: ️ ️

[15:27] Kankurou: But no, I'm just still sick as a dog and I have a big thing at work, I can't afford to miss a day rn so I really need to rest before Monday

[15:28] Hinata: I'm sorry to hear that, I hope you recover soon

[15:29] Kankurou: Yeah, me too

[15:29] Kankurou: You survived without a drummer for three months before you took me in, I'm sure you can work it out without me tomorrow

He sighs. Hopefully, things will get sorted out soon enough.

The pain is a bit better than it was in the morning, that could be a good sign right?

Or maybe he's just more dissociated.

His phone buzzes again.

[15:34] Kiba: You alright? I can pass by if you need anything

He frowns. Why would Kiba text him personally and not in the group chat?

[15:36] Kankurou: I will be eventually, it's okay don't worry about me

[15:37] Kiba: Ok

[15:39] Kiba: I just know it can be tough so like, don't hesitate to text me if I can do anything

At what point in his life has Kiba become so soft?

He vividly remembers him using "get fucked" as a goodbye last week.

Also, what the hell is he talking about?

Maybe Kiba is pitying him.

Did he look that trashed the other day?

Kiba is probably pitying him.

He doesn't answer the text.

He's woken up by banging sounds, sweating, and out of breath from the pain and the nightmares.

It takes a moment for him to realize someone is probably actually knocking at his door and that the sound is more than the usual ones only he hears echoing against the walls.

He's not going to answer that. He's in way too much pain for whoever is on the other side of that door to be worth walking up to.

The knocking carries on, then stops, and then the door clicks as it opens.

He didn't lock it last night. He knew he might not be able to walk to open it if he ever had to call an ambulance.

Kiba enters the room and Kankurou buries his head into the pillow.

This is so humiliating.

What the fuck has gotten into him?

"Hey."

He doesn't answer.

The other man slowly walks closer as he talks, as if Kankurou was a wounded animal he might scare off if he moved too suddenly.

It might not be that far from the truth.

"I'm sorry I got in without your authorization. You stopped answering your phone two hours ago and I got worried."

He's dwelling on whether or not to say something but a spasm in his gut cuts him mid-thought. He can't repress a whine of pain.

Why is Kiba fucking standing there? Could it be clearer that he doesn't want to be seen right now?

"I was fucking sleeping. Doesn't that happen to you?" he mutters through gritted teeth, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry."

Kankurou waits for him to say something or leave but neither happens.

He throws his blanket away and regrets instantly having sat up so suddenly.

"Why are you staying here?" he still shouts at Kiba, who's looking utterly puzzled, standing there unusually slumped in the middle of his studio. "You enjoy seeing me like that? It's funny to you how shitty I look? What's your problem dude?"

He knows it's unfair of him to say that because Kiba looks nothing like happy about what he's witnessing, just confused, worried, and hurt, but he doesn't know how to handle the mix of pain and shame twisting in his gut any other way than by anger.

He snorts. Fuck that's not the time to start crying.

After what seems like an eternity Kiba breaks the silence.

"Of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Then why are you here?"

He hates how wounded he sounds.

Kiba snaps.

"Because I care about you? I don't know, I thought we were friends or something."

Now is really not the moment to feel like crap for fighting with his friends over bullshit. He opens his mouth to apologize but Kiba is apparently not done.

"I get that you don't want to talk about it with the others but I thought it would be different with me. I was stupid enough to think you could handle a problem in other ways than crawling away and lying to everyone, but I guess you can't."

This one stings.

"Why the fuck would it be different with you? Why do you think you're so special?"

"I don't- I'm not- I just thought- It's easier for me to talk about it with other trans men is all I'm saying."

What?

"What?"

"What what?"

He's unsure how much of his confusion comes from the pain and exhaustion and how much of it comes from Kiba saying nonsense.

"No offence but I don't understand a single word you're saying."

Kiba frowns.

"You… didn't know I'm trans?"

Kankurou frowns.

Neither of them seems to have any clue about what's happening.

"First of all, no, but mostly second of all what does that have to do with me?"

A great range of expressions and colours pass one after the other on Kiba's face as his brain seems to work out a number of things about the whole situation.

"Oh."

What oh?

"Oh."

What oh?!

"You're not on your period, are you?"

What?

"No of course not, why the fuck would you think that?"

Kiba moves his hands as he speaks as if it would help defend himself or make his train of thought more cohesive.

"You were in pain and spending your life in the toilets smelling of blood and you didn't want to tell any of us why. It did seem like a logical explanation that you were stealth and in your bad week."

Ok, this arguably makes a lot of sense in retrospect.

He doesn't have the time and energy to discuss Kiba's deduction skills though.

"Well, I'm not. Now I'm sorry you got misled but since things have been clarified I feel like you can maybe leave me alone."

Kiba doesn't move an inch.

"What now?"

He points at the stains on the sheets.

"You're still bleeding."

"Have you considered maybe that's why I want to be left alone?"

"Have you considered maybe that's why I don't want to leave you alone?"

There's a moment of silence but the tension in the air is deafening.

He's about to say something when the stabbing in his abdomen comes back with a renewed vigour and takes his breath away.

He can't stop himself from shouting in pain as he falls to his knees on the ground by the bed.

Kiba jumps to his side.

"Hey. Hey!"

He's suffocating from the pain and the fever and Kiba contact is just too fucking much.

He grabs his collar to get leverage and tries to stand on his feet enough to catch the side of the table next to them but his legs collapse under him the second he puts weight on them.

He doesn't have the time to put an arm before him to catch himself, his head hits the ground, and he blacks out.