Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of weed smoking, blood, and vomiting.

The whole day at work is absolute fucking hell.

Granted, Kiba's never been very good at sitting on a chair for more than three minutes, one of the reasons why, while his job title at the clinic is technically secretary, he is, in practice, much more of a handyman than anything else. Starting from the moment one makes more than three people (and there are much more than three people here) working in the same building, there are always boxes of delivery to be put away, lightbulbs to change, leaking faucets to fix, automatic doors that won't fucking open and no one knows why and all sorts of shit that someone has to care about, and whose no one's work it is to do so, and, well, it's Kiba's.

The job comes with the opportunity to see pups and cats all day every day, and pay that is sort of minimal but is still pay, and there's frankly not much he could be asking for. It's not exactly like he's been able to keep (or get, really) any kind of better job (or job at all) before that anyway (and not like he's been able to keep up with any kind of study after high school either), so he doesn't have the luxury of debating if it's good enough either way, but, as far as he's concerned, it is.

Today though, today is hard. One of the girls who usually holds the desk while he's busy doing anything but that is on maternity leave, a replacement hasn't been found yet (and he's not entirely sure anyone is actually searching for one, so this might drag a bit) meaning he is on actual secretary duty for once, and, more importantly, the anxiety is killing him.

Seeing how tense Temari was the day before, she doesn't strike him as the kind who would wait until the afternoon before visiting her brother on the day after his surgery, and yet it's almost eleven and he hasn't received a single answer to his messages so far. (He'd tried texting Tenten first, but grew tired of playing grapevine in the hope of getting any information, and opted for extorting the woman's number from his friend instead. Not a frank success so far.)

He stretches his legs under the desk, trying to make the pins and needles and restlessness recede a bit from his underworked limbs, but ultimately knowing full well the feeling will return the second he goes back to sitting still.

Hana appears from the hallway door leading to the examination rooms, on her way to call in the next patient. The white coat suits her well. It makes her look dignified and smart – which she is, she has gone to college, didn't give up every four weeks, studied seven whole years, and, after all of that, managed to put in the word for her unqualified little brother to get a piece of the cake despite him having very little of his shit together at the time. He's so very lucky to have her (and Tsume) in his life.

"You holding up over there?" she asks, leaning against the counter with a little smirk that still holds some softness to it.

She finds his agony amusing and disproportionate, but endearing, and she's still got empathy left for his struggle as well.

"No. I think I might die in the next twenty minutes," he whines and it makes her scoff. "Maybe ten, even," he adds with a wince.

"I take it you haven't gotten news from your boyfriend?"

He checks his phone resting on the desk next to the keyboard for what surely is the hundredth time of the morning. There's nothing, of course.

He shakes his head.

"No. And he's not my boyfriend, that's kind of the whole situation."

"You're as worked up as if he was, though," she teases, her smile unaffected by Kiba's despair.

"Well, I don't need him to like me back to be worried he might die, do I?"

It's not like he has much control over his current emotions anyway.

Hana lets out a discrete sigh. Not one of actual frustration or boredom, one of "Okay, I can see you're getting stressed out, come here.". If there wasn't a high desk between the two of them, she would probably pat his shoulder, or ruffle his hair or something.

"I'm sure he's fine," she states with as much certainty and calmness as she can in her voice. "Your break is in an hour. You can try to call his sister then. She probably just hasn't seen your texts because she's busy."

He can feel his mouth bend in a little pout but doesn't make much effort to stop it. He's pouting, that's what it is, and he's very much allowed to. He doesn't like this situation. He doesn't like it at all. It sucks, and if he can't fix that, at least he can complain about it in great length to temper his impatience.

"Alright," she says, stretching a bit of the tension out of her shoulders. "Let's get back to work."

He's in the middle of boiling water for instant noodles in the clinic's break room when his phone finally, fucking finally, buzzes on the table. (Honestly, this lunchtime calls for weed much more urgently than it calls for food – one of the other major downsides of having to hold the entrance desk being no undeclared smoke breaks in between two tasks which, arguably, has not been helping with his current jitteriness either – but he knows if he goes out right now for a vape he won't be coming back in for his meal at all.)

[12:08] Temari: Wow, that's a lot of texts

[12:08] Temari: Someone's crushing hard, innit?

The teasing and overconfidence are more likely than not an act to protect herself from her own worries, he knows it, but that fact doesn't do much to put out the heat of embarrassment pooling in his gut and face. At least, he supposes, Kankurou must still be some level of alive and well, if in pain and sick, or she wouldn't be joking about it.

He picks up his phone under his arm when his cup's filled and rushes to the building's courtyard to make his call.

"He's fine," she assures with an endeared smile in her voice when she picks up to his anxious rambling. He's put headphones on and is impatiently taking the first draw on his oil pen as she continues to speak. "I mean, you know, he's fucked up with pain and fatigue and shit but- he's fine."

There's a strain in her voice when she speaks. Not one that makes him think she's lying, but one that makes it evident this has been another too short and unrestful night and, also, that her statement is more intellectual ("He will be fine. The surgery went well. There is no reasonable cause for worry.") than emotional ("He looks fine. He's doing good. It's reassuring seeing him."). He doesn't entirely like the implications of that fact, but it's nothing he can control.

"Okay. Right. Yes. Good." He pauses for a half second, the time for his lungs to expel the white vapour proper and for his brain to grab onto that feeling to switch from nervous eagerness to actual reflection. "I finish at 5," he states. "I can swing by right after."

The line falls silent for a short instant, only filled with a slight static buzz.

"About that."

This can't be the start of a good sentence.

"I don't think you'll be able to see him today. Maybe for the next few days, we don't know yet."

The word passes his lips way too quickly.

"Why?"

It's a stupid question with an obvious answer: because he just underwent a very invasive surgery and he needs rest, not every single person in his life parading around his hospital room, but he still needs to get an audible confirmation that it's just that.

"He's tired," she answers first, without entirely closing her sentence yet. "And, well, you've seen what it took to drag his ass to a hospital. I'm sure you're a great guy, and I'm sure he knows that too, but I still think he needs the time to pick himself together a bit more to feel comfortable having people seeing him. He's fine," she says again in a bit of a hurry, probably realizing her words could come off as somewhat worrying and wanting to clarify. "It's just not easy."

He nods. It's a bit pointless on a phone call, but his body does what it does, and he has neither the ability nor will to try and police it at this stage.

"He doesn't do very well with pity," he sums up, focusing his gaze on the steam coming out of his lips.

"That's one way to put it, yes. And an accurate one, I suppose. He'll text you when he's good, yeah?"

"Sure."

He can do this. No biggies. (Yes, biggies. Very much biggies. But he can still contain himself because all anxious and restless that he is, he is still a reasonable adult with almost functional coping strategies and social skills. He worked hard to earn them, and it's time to prove it was worth it.)

"Now," she continues. "Since you sound like a guy who needs to do stuff with his two legs to keep his brain from overheating, if you wanna be useful I do have a sidequest for you."

She's captured his essence surprisingly well. Worryingly so even, maybe. In his defence, he's not always this nervous. The last few days have just been particularly tense.

"Yeah?"

"Someone needs to pass by Kankurou's place to pick up some of his stuff since he's going to be there for a while. Phone charger, change of clothes, that kind of shit. I was intending of dealing with that myself, but if he's fine with you doing so, you can pass by and pick up my double of the keys whenever you want."

The keys.

Oh, shit, the keys.

"I have the keys," he says suddenly. "I took them on Saturday when we left with the ambulance. I forgot to give them back."

"Alright, well, congrats on your ADHD I guess, that's one problem solved."

He chuckles, putting down his vape on his lap to start opening the plastic cup left unattended on the bench next to him.

"Yeah. Handy, isn't it?"

The lid peels off easily, with a strong savoury smelling steam escaping from the broth in his hand. Maybe he does need food after all.

"Very. I'll let him text you the list of what he needs, or I'll do it myself if he can't, alright?"

"At your orders ma'am."

She laughs. It still sounds tired, but it's sincere, and it's soothing to hear.

"Great. I'll see you tonight then. Take care."

The stench in Kankurou's apartment when he passes the door borders on unbearable. He'd noticed it last time he was there a few days ago: the smell of drying blood, poorly cleaned-out vomit, and wet clothes, but he'd been a little brain-busy with some more urgent preoccupations at the time, and it has gotten two more days to fester freely in the closed studio, with the single south-facing window acting like a glasshouse in the increasingly intense spring sun since then.

Akamaru, picked up at home on the way there, nudges gently at his leg with the tip of his nose. He's a sensitive dog, very good at noticing the ebbing and flowing of Kiba's mood and attention, and at putting them in line. A precious ally.

"Yeah, I guess I gotta do this, don't I?" he says with a half-hearted smile addressed to his four-legged friend. "Try not to chew on anything, please. Poor Kankurou's got enough on his plate already, I think."

It's weird and somewhat uncanny to be there, in this apartment, alone and snooping around in Kankurou's belongings. He knows he's allowed to, he knows it's helpful that he does that, but it's not entirely enough to shake off the discomfort stirring in his gut while he searches the set of drawers next to the bed for underwear and shirts.

He's barely even ever been in here with Kankurou. Once when both Tenten and Hinata were out for family-related business and they swapped their usual rehearsal for laptop composition work, a second time when Naruto bailed on him last minute for a meeting at a park a few blocks away, and he thought Kankurou would probably not refuse an opportunity to share a bag of chips and a can of beer with a friend. (He didn't.), and then of course the unwanted but needed butting into his private life of Kiba a few days earlier.

He hasn't thought much of it so far. Kankurou hasn't been to his place a whole lot either, mostly simply because they already see each other twice a week for rehearsal, and most of the time they spend together outside of that is at parties and such with the rest of their friend group, which absolutely could not fit in either of their tiny apartments. To this day, he has no idea how he managed to shelter Gaara during his first month in town before he found his own apartment to rent.

So, no, decidedly, Kankurou's home being a mostly no-go space doesn't have to imply anything about him not wanting anyone here. It could very much be merely a natural consequence of logistical parameters outside of their respective will. And, by all means, it's probably also that.

Seeing how Kankurou's been over the last few days though (and, in retrospect, weeks, and months), he's starting to second-guess his initial judgment. Kankurou is not outwardly secretive, that's for sure. He's social, easy-going, even, with his sideway smirks and his wide grins, his cutting remarks and his sweet bouts of laughter. People like him. Kiba might not be the most neutral judge for that, but still, he can say that.

That Kankurou wouldn't have ever mentioned his illness before isn't odd in and of itself either. People have different boundaries, he gets that, and if it's actually been somewhat under control so far, it didn't really have a good reason to come up either. That he wouldn't mention it to anyone, not his friends, not his family, not his fucking doctor, when it was effectively ruining his life and putting him in danger, on the other hand, speaks to a whole other level of either denial or very conscious refusal to have that kind of talk at all. (Or both.)

Now, he can't help but wonder if Kankurou has actually avoided letting any of them in on way much more of his life. The feeling isn't accusatory, no agreement binds them to have such vulnerability with one another. He just thought they had, at least a little. He just wished they had.

Akamaru whines with a loud yawn behind him, his chops wrinkling at the crease when he goes back to softly panting. He doesn't like the smell here, obviously, but more than that he doesn't like how Kiba is getting.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm overthinking this," he sighs and checks one last time he's got everything he was asked to bring over in his bag.

He supposes Kankurou wouldn't be thrilled about him staying there more than necessary but the idea of letting the whole apartment decay further for god knows how long again doesn't sit right with him either at all. He turns to Akamaru with an apologetic smile.

"I think we're here for another moment buddy, I'm sorry."

There's so much fucking blood.

Intellectually, he knows that's not enough for it in itself to be actually life-threatening. He's washed off just as much from his own bedsheets and underwear in his pre-hysto life enough times to know that. And even if it were, Kankurou is fine now. Monitored and taken care of. It shouldn't be a cause for worry anymore.

Emotionally, he also very vividly remembers how much pain he was in at the time and the distress that comes with that kind of hurt, and with the sensation of his body slipping out of his hands in a way he could not control in the slightest. The metallic and heavy smell, and the feeling of the cold water runny over his finger while he tries to rub most of what he can out of the fabric is familiar but not comforting. It smells of days spent clenching teeth at work between awful toilet trips and too numerous smoking breaks in the hope of mitigating the pain. Of nights spent twisting and turning in bed trying not to think of the ripping in his gut nor to cross Shino's worried gaze on him. Of mornings spent cleaning the drying and sticky blood off his thighs and ass crack and body hair, and thinking it's been a week already and it doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon.

Emotionally, he can't shake off the memory of Kankurou passing out before him, of the pain and shame and anger in his eyes just before that, of the burning heat of his clammy skin, of the wait there for an ambulance to come while not having a single fucking idea of what's going on, of how bad it is, of how much sooner he should have seen or said or done something.

He doesn't think the clothes are ever going to be wearable again, even if he gives it his best and tries to focus on the task at hand rather than on the rambling of his anxious brain.

Stained bed sheets are not too bad. He's got plenty of those, they do their job just as fine.

Stained underwears are manageable too, especially in darker shades like those. (Distantly, he does wonder if Kankurou chose these ones for that exact reason and, as an indissociable question from the first one if the answer is yes, how often must that kind of thing have happened for him to have developed this strategy.)

The rest of it on the other hand… As much as the pants are not as deeply stained, it's a lost cause to hope to get them spotless by the end of the process, and stained pants, especially in that way, are not wearable pants.

Had it not spent days in a wet pile with the other clothes, his t-shirt would have been fine. It's the one he was wearing at their rehearsal on Tuesday, and it's been rotting in a corner of the shower ever since. Kiba tries not to think about how Kankurou must have been feeling for not having moved it one bit despite the disgusting stench coming from the wet fabric for the 48 hours between taking it off and him showing up. Blood has soaked up through it because of the water, creating a light reddish aura over part of it that he doesn't believe he can reasonably get rid of.

The smell is not going to leave from hand-washing alone either, he realizes, and there doesn't seem to be a laundry machine anywhere in the narrow studio. He's going to have to take this home and bring it back later.

He takes the time to do a clean-up of the toilets, scrubbing the speckles of dried blood and bile there off the white ceramic and wiping the ones that have splattered over the seat, before picking up a plastic bag in the entrance to carry the laundry to his own apartment. He'll take the trash out on his way too. This does not need to stay here to rot any longer.

God, he's never been that efficient at getting his own house chores done for sure. It'd be nice if his own survival and comfort were as good of motivation as giving a hand to the people he cares about, wouldn't it?

[18:57] Kiba: Hey, went to pick up everything you said. You need the whole thing tonight or not? There was a bunch of stained and wet clothes there, they need a good wash so I'm gonna take care of that at home before I can put them back. I could do that tomorrow while on my way to drop Kankurou's bag at the hospital, if it's not urgent?

[18:59] Kiba: It can be in the morning if needs be

He waits a few minutes for Temari's answer, sitting down against the door with his hand diving into Akamaru's fur to keep them busy. He's soft and warm, and the weight of him against his legs is a grounding one. He's always found everything easier to go through and deal with with the dog around. He keeps him centred, present, and way more patient than he can be without.

[19:06] Temari: Tomorrow is fine. Morning would be better though. I think it would help if Kankurou could wear some of his own clothes rather than hospital pyjamas.

[19:07] Temari: I'm spending the night with him, come when you want.

[19:08] Temari: I'll have my phone, you can call when you get there

[19:09] Kiba: Alright, around 8 then

[19:10] Temari: Great, see ya

Akamaru's fluffy head rises off his lap when he puts the phone down.

"Who's up for a big walk home?"