Something like life or death couldn’t ever be assured; just as someone could be beaten to near death and rise back to health, so could the healthy fall into pits of sickness and misfortune and deadly consequence. And still Saruhiko took the words from that loud, stubborn friend to heart; in a far-off way that he could barely take hold of, he was grateful, and he was calm.
When Yata spoke his next words, Fushimi had been brushed awake by the fingers of doctors that were likely eager to stop his bleeding, or ease his breathing, and yet his own fingers still clung to the fabric of Yata’s shirt, waiting to hear what he had to say. He was hanging onto every word, in both physical and mental sense.
Somehow, despite the pain in his cheek and his lips, he found the corner of his mouth upturned into the smallest hint of a smile. (So this is where we found ourselves? Maybe I could —)
The doctors took Saruhiko before he could say anything in response, but he spared one last trying glance towards Yata as he was sent off into one of the many back rooms to be taken care of. They’d be seeing each other soon enough, he thought, but he caught himself holding onto an inkling of hope that Yata wouldn’t be leaving, and they could meet sooner rather than later. Whether or not it was a selfish thing to want someone (can I even call him a friend at this point?) to stick around until God knows how late into the night, the thought accompanied him into the back room.
They worked around him for what felt like hours, probing at his clothing and his injuries with rough handling and high speed. He managed to catch spare words like ‘stitches,’ ‘bruised,’ and ‘underweight.’ (Ah, my favorite part of being checked by a doctor. Can’t they give it a rest? What does my weight have to do with anything?) At least nothing was broken.
By the time they were finished, his thigh was sewn and bandaged. Several scrapes on his arms and back had been cleaned and taken care of while he was lectured on his health; apparently his poor nutrition hadn’t helped with his fever, and if he wasn’t careful, the stab wound in his thigh could become infected. Technical medical speak was barely processed in his mind to make complete sense, but he got the main gist of it all — be careful, take care of yourself.
It was when the doctor said that the redhead who carried him in was still out in the waiting room that Saruhiko propped himself up and mentally shook off his clouded focus. It was up to him whether he wanted a visitor or not; given his thoughts from earlier, he didn’t take much time before he affirmed with a quiet nod that it was fine to let Misaki in.
Fushimi was silent for longer than he probably should have been, but the whole situation was setting in and he only continued to feel more embarrassed that it happened. Truthfully, he didn’t want to talk about it. With all the limitations he felt in his Aura, he had to question whether or not he was worthy of wielding them at all. What other excuse could there possibly be for the lack of heat in his chest, lack of spark in his fingertips? All he had left was a small bit of blue in the back of his mind, and now he felt too exhausted to even look for it.
He looked away from Yata, to the floor, feeling the most exposed that he ever had. And like an animal rounded into a corner, primal fear was still sitting there at his side like an unwelcome guest. (I only ever felt this scared of…)
But in the very least, he was still alive, and he had to speak at some point.
“I didn’t think you’d stick around,” was how he chose to begin, only at that point lifting his chin to glance somewhere other than the floor. He was suddenly all too aware of the blanket over his legs, and how baggy his hospital gown was, and how sore his head felt. Absentmindedly, he scratched at the burn on his chest that was all-too exposed now — an old habit of anxiety.
He realized then that he didn’t even know what time it was. The clock in the wall was out of focus… (They must have taken off my glasses when I came in.) Instinctively, he reached out to the bedside table and found them laying there, but after putting them on he realized that he’d have to find a way to replace them soon; a large crack in the glass left his vision obscured. He could still see the time, though: 4:40ᴀᴍ.
(Hadn’t we stayed up together like this before? I don’t think I ever talked so much before I met you. This shitty silence is more than a little ironic.) A small part of him felt lucky to have a window in the room, though. Like they could relive those small, far-away memories of the sunrise, even if it was in a hospital bed.
The silence lasts longer than he actually wanted it to, urgency shoving the seconds past to fill whatever time lapses, and he finds anxiety holding himself back to talk, but he still does.
❝ Why wouldn't I have? ❞ it's obvious though, given their history, where things left off between them before he actually found out the current situation of where his feelings and thoughts actually lie, where his loyalty lies; the warmth engulfs his body replacing every level of toxicity he harbored for Saru, and he regrets that he didn't have more faith in him from the beginning ( but how was he to know ), ❝ Of--of course I waited! It's not the same as back then, and even then...do you really think I'd just leave ya for dead? We're not--it's not.. like that. Even before I found out, it's not like that anymore. ❞
He's not sure how harsh his words are, if they are, but he can't stop them from spilling out of his mouth. He's never been sure of what Saruhiko's ever been thinking, and he couldn't guess it on his own either, but shooting in the dark only does so much for him when he has nothing to work with, ❝ ...Saru, you... ❞ he looks off for a second, Gathers his thoughts before he starts again, ❝ you're okay, right? Alive. That's what I'm thankful for. ❞
His breath is hushed now, but it's loud enough to get what he means across. He avoids eye contact momentarily while he speaks, wrapped up in his feelings as he usually is, but remains firm with this belief of his. When he looks back at Saru, he rubs the back of his neck, unaware that his stare is probably uncomfortable ( he must admit though, he's scared that if he looks away that he will disappear again ). He does want to be friends with Saru again, there's no doubt in his mind about that. And after almost losing him ( slipped through his grasp into the darker parts of water, where no light shines and any hope of finding whatever falls through lost ) he's more unyielding with the thought. He has no reason to loathe him now, no reason for needless hostility and the constant of bearing his teeth.
❝ I'm staying through this, got it? ❞ Of course, he meant the healing process, but naturally he means through whatever life throws their way next, too. If Saru wanted him in it, of course. If he doesn't...he can't say that he would readily accept it, and if he had to, he'd fight tooth and nail for a spot back into his life. In a place like this especially, he needed him now more than ever; he just hopes he feels the same.
Truthfully, Yata knew what time it was since he glanced at his watch whenever he felt especially impatient -- which was, frankly, pretty often. Giving it a final glance when they called him in, noting how tired Saru must be after everything that happened today--night? He just regrets that he wasn't there to stop the initial attack from happening, but at least he's fine now. He made it in time, that's what matters. Even still, he keeps going over and over again in his head: He's alive, he's alive, he's alive he's alive he's alive he's--
❝ Do ya... ❞ he mumbles at first, coughs, raises his voice again, ❝ Y'feel okay? ❞
Probably not, all things considered. But he had to feel better than when he first found him -- he hopes. At least he's not beaten ragged on the ground anymore, either. At least Yata was the one who found him.
