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There’s red everywhere.
That’s the only thought that rages in the corners of a trembling boy’s mind, hands pressed against a wound that is far too wide, far too deep to be anything other than fatal. Sticky liquid clings to his fingertips and it’s all he can do to keep from gagging. The body underneath him is barely breathing, ragged gasps of air wheezed through clenched teeth.
“M’fine.” It’s a weak reassurance, given the circumstances, and if he wasn’t basically dying right now, Akaashi would have the common sense to slap the other boy. He suffices with a harsh glare, doing his best to quell the tears that threaten the edge of his waterline.
“Save your breath.” He musters, matching in tone and mentally slapping himself for slipping so far this quickly. Keep it together, Keiji.
But it’s hard to keep it together when your friend is bleeding out through three horrible, clawed-out gashes in the side of his abdomen. It’s an ugly sight, even with the pressure of his palms covering some of it up. There’s so much crimson, so much stickiness. The wounds weep in protest, the injured boy fighting for his life in short breaths and whimpers of pain. He’s doing his best to keep it together, Keiji can tell, and he admires the other boy for keeping as calm as possible in this situation.
Far better than he’s doing, anyway.
Somewhere behind the pair, two other voices are whispering, full of concern and hesitation. It’s to be expected, he thinks, eyes falling back to the wound in an attempt to steel his nerves and stomach. He swallows the bit of bile that creeps up his throat, leaning forward to put more pressure on the bleeding crevice while trying to find his voice.
This was their quest. Their mission. He could not be seen as weak right now. Not when there was a life on the line.
Jaw setting in determination, Akaashi minisculely shifts to glance back at the satyr and newest demigod, both huddled away from the mess. It ached to know that he was about to put them through a very unpleasant experience, but this was the curse every demigod bore as children of the gods. Not a single half-blood could escape the pre-made destiny of fear and death bestowed upon them at birth. It was all just one big, hypocritical circle of life.
Osamu hisses as Akaashi’s grip tightens, a consequential side effect of losing focus on the bigger problem. He murmurs a quiet apology before calling over the other two members of their little party, After a few encouraging words and a multitude of beckonings, the two younger members are close enough to hear what Akaashi has to say without getting too close to the queasy mess the younger Miya twin is in.
Personally, Akaashi wants to break down right then and there. Sob like a child, have someone else do this for him. He’s exhausted, days on the run, days trying to make it to Texas in one piece leaving him with very little energy left. There comes a time where everyone reaches their breaking point. He’s one hundred percent sure that he’s reached his. But something keeps him from doing so, and it probably has to do with the way Osamu is shuddering underneath his palms, soul drawing closer and closer to the Underworld with each wasted second. There was no time to be weak. Weakness meant mistakes, and Akashi could not afford mistakes right now.
“The backpack,” He swallows, dislodges the knot in his throat, “In the backpack, there’s a small baggie with ambrosia inside. Grab that and feed one whole square to Osamu.” Deep blue eyes meet the terrified expressions of the young ones, giving a curt nod as encouragement. “There is also a bottle of nectar. We will need to have him drink some of that as well.”
The satyr is the one who responds first, hands shaking as he draws closer to Keiji and unzips the pack still strapped to his back. There’s a bit of rummaging, quiet mumbles of negative finds and almosts, his patience slowly fizzling out as the seconds tick by. But it’s a victorious find in the end, as the last of the ambrosia and nectar are yanked out and suspended in front of his face. Akaashi hums in approval, quickly instructing one to hold the ambrosia and the other to handle the nectar while he keeps pressure on the wound.
It worries him though, staring at the small stash of ambrosia leftover from a previous injury. There isn’t much, barely a square left. He wouldn't be surprised if the nectar was running low too. How had he not noticed before? A sinking feeling blossoms in his chest, restricting his breathing for a moment before he struggles to push away any darkening thoughts. Keiji sends a silent prayer to the gods and his own mother that it would all be enough to lead Osamu on his way to recovery.
It’s still quiet, save for the trembling breaths from Osamu and the crinkling of the ambrosia baggie. The young demigod, a girl no more than twelve, thirteen at most, gently breaks off pieces from the food of the gods, feeding them to the son of Nike as best as she can. Osamu is a champ, doing his best to receive the healing properties and swallow, letting the ambrosia do it’s work. The nectar helps as well, the boy gulping down the last of the liquid and breathing a sigh of relief at the comforting warmth the drink always brings.
Akaashi watches silently, locked in place at Osamu’s side, hands holding the open wounds together. It’s all he can do, with a mouth that’s pressed in a thin line, to keep from diving headfirst back into his thoughts. He would never be able to resurface if he submerges himself now.
Something brushes against his knuckles, the boy whipping his head around to catch the fleeting scrape of a hand reaching to hold onto his own. It left behind a crimson stain, but it’s not like he doesn’t have blood all over his hands anyway. The contact sends a shiver up his spine, causes him to pause and catch the grey eyes of the one underneath him. Searching. Reaching. Trying to understand.
Keiji musters the strength to give Osamu a rare smile, putting all of his panic aside for a split second to provide a semblance of reassurance and peace before the hard part comes. The healing.
It shows on Miya’s face when the emergency supplies start to work, slowly stitching together torn flesh, broken capillaries, severed muscles. By now, Akaashi had wrapped the injured demigod’s torso with bandages, thankful that he’d thought to pack two of everything in cases like these.
He doesn’t realize he’s still pressing into the bandages and torn fabric until Osamu hoarsely tells him to ease up on the pressure. It’s meant to be a joke, to lighten the mood, but Akaashi’s movements are stiff as he falls away from the warm body, clutching his own hands and staring at nothing in particular for a moment. But it’s one moment too long and he snaps back to the present, inhaling slowly before studying the three faces who stare back with expectancy. As if he’s the one in charge. (He supposes that while Osamu is out of commission for the night, he might as well be). The additional pressure shouldn’t be anything new, but the weight is a new pain on his shoulders nevertheless.
“Right. Let’s set up camp for the night. No point in trying to go anywhere while he’s healing.” The others nod, quickly volunteering to gather firewood and set up a clearing for everyone to camp down. Osamu offers his assistance but Akaashi gives him a withering glare and he instantly wilts back into a resting position.
Camp is set up in record time, some of the rations passed around for a makeshift dinner. Once everyone is settled down, Osamu is comfortable and eating something other than ambrosia squares, Keiji quietly excuses himself, in desperate need of washing his hands. The blood dried by now, but it’s such a stark color against his pale skin that he pukes along the way to the river they’d passed earlier that day. It takes him longer than normal to scrub his hands and face, remaining calm as he washes and washes and washes, rubbing his skin raw and pink with the constant, insistent scraping.
He’s rather surprised that he hasn’t broken down yet from the shock of everything. It’s okay to give himself a small pat on the back in congratulations for making it this far, right? He does it anyways, if not to keep the impending dam from breaking.
By the time he returns to camp, everyone has settled in for the night. He eats in silence as he takes first watch. Sleep does not come easy and Akaashi listens as the others fidget restlessly in makeshift beds. He tunes it out in favor of nightlife, the cicadas buzzing, the leaves and bushes rustling in a warm summer wind. Across the fire, Osamu lets out a small groan but quiets down after a moment to doze off into some semblance of sleep. He warily watches, half expecting the boy to start thrashing in pain, ready to go and shove another round of ambrosia and nectar down his throat if need be. Keiji relaxes when the other starts softly snoring, deflating like a balloon as he presses his palms against tired eyes.
It’s going to be a long, tense first watch.
. . .
He breaks down later that night, when everyone is finally asleep and he’s alone to wash away what’s left of the crimson stains on his pale hands.
Yes, it’s a waste of a water bottle but he can’t stop the images of bloody palms from invading his mind’s eye. It’s another desperate scrubbing session which ends in him stifling a sob, wet hands pressed against his mouth to hold it in.
Thank gods the fire has all but died, only the last bits of tinder lighting the area around his feet, enough to see as he stumbles over his own two feet in an attempt to go and hurl a second time somewhere more quiet. The bile is right there, begging to be let out, and he all but goes to fulfill its request.
“Akaashi.” A hand gently wraps around his wrist, and he doesn’t need to know who it is before he’s being tugged back towards the dying campfire. It rains on his parade, his quick escape to the darkness of the forest, where he could cry in peace and return as if nothing ever happened.
“You should be sleeping.” He mumbles instead, aggressively wiping at his eyes to stop the tears from flowing. He can’t afford to be weak, they can’t see him like this, it’s not good for morale. But the other two are slumbering, deep breaths the only indication. No one is up besides him and Miya.
So he lets Osamu pull him into a hug, even though he should be resting, he should be recovering, but the warmth the other boy provides is so lulling that Akaashi can’t pull away or tell him to go lay down. So he buries his face into the other’s shirt and sobs, letting the stress and fears roll off his shoulders in waves.
“Thought I— we— were going to lose you.” He hiccups, fists balled into the fabric of Osamu’s shirt, as if that was enough of an anchor to keep him from tipping over the edge. “When the gryphon came— I didn’t react in time and— And it cost you this.” Keiji pulls away, gesturing to the bandages, now a dark shade of pink from excess blood that seeped through. Guilt hits him full-force then, in a wave of utter despair that clings to his throat and makes him choke. Here he is, crying over spilled milk while Osamu is still in pain. Still recovering. Still here.
He doesn’t trust himself to speak again, only sniffles and wipes at swollen eyes before shaking Osamu’s arms off of him. Bandages. He needs new bandages. Akaashi moves, sluggish after the waterworks, stumbling away to find his backpack and the additional bandages within. The son of Nike is saying something, but it’s too quiet to make out now that he’s put distance between them. It takes longer than necessary to toss around the contents of his pack while searching for the roll of medical gauze. It takes even longer for him to make his way back over to Osamu, keeping his head bowed as he squats in front of the other. No words are exchanged as Keiji unwraps the soiled bandages, barely looks at the wound, and redresses it with nimble fingers. He tries not to think too much about it, the jagged flesh, the red tears that are still present but slowly closing. Gods, he wished they had more ambrosia or nectar. Or both. It might be a risk to give Miya more, but if it meant quickening the healing process, he would’ve offered it in a heartbeat.
If only they had more. If only he’d been faster. If only he hadn’t froze. If only they’d made more progress today, this could have been avoided. If only his mother’s balancing scales hadn’t tipped against them today. If only he’d been better at the one job he was given. If only this quest had been given to someone else. If only he hadn’t been sent in the first place. If only there were others better than him who’d volunteered in his place.
If only, if only, if only.
A hand reaches out and rubs a calloused thumb against his cheek. Keiji flinches, about to scramble away, only to realize that tears were once again streaming down his face. Osamu was just trying to wipe them away, but it ended up just smearing the mess over his cheekbone. He hiccups again, free hand snatching at the other’s wrist to pull his arm away from the raven-haired boy's face.
“Breathe, Keiji.” It’s soft but firm, a rumble deep in Osamu's chest that only tightens the knot around Akaashi’s own. They don’t move, staring at each other, a clash of gunmetal blue and rocket metal gray against the darkness.
Why. Why? Why is he being so kind? He didn’t deserve this, not when Miya was fairing off so much worse than him right now. But the kindness in his eyes, even in the dim light of the campfire, shines so brightly.
“Yer not responsible for what happened.” It’s like a slap to the face. Akaashi gapes, stunned to silence as Osamu presses on, “If ya hadn’t been there, things coulda been much worse.” Now he tries to argue, but the other boy beats him to it, clamping a hand over his mouth to shut him up. The fleeting thought of licking Osamu’s hand passes in a blur along with the millions of other thoughts and rebuttals piling up on the tip of his tongue. He settles for an overzealous huff instead.
“I never got to thank ya.” Now the other boy is smiling, and something in Akaashi flutters nervously. “Because of ya, I’m alive. We’re all alive. That stubborn head of yers is what got us outta a buncha situations so far. So, thank you.” He’s pulled both hands away by now, letting them rest at his sides as he studies Akaashi. Not knowing how to respond, Akaashi can only bow his head in thanks, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.
You’re too kind, Miya.
“Get some rest, Miya.” Akaashi hears himself before he realizes he’s getting up, ending the conversation instantly. He hesitates before placing a careful hand on Osamu’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze of gratitude and reassurance. “We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow. You’ll need your strength.” He doesn’t miss the flash of teeth, a grin so wide and humoring that he has to look away, ignoring the hand that brushes against his own before pulling away.
He doesn’t look back until he’s sitting by his belongings once more. He doesn’t look until he’s sure that Osamu has laid down, until his breathing has evened out, until he’s sure that he’s drifted off. When he does, it’s too dark to see anything. The fire finally died out.
“Goodnight, ‘Kaashi.” It’s murmured into the night, and he barely catches it, wondering if it was his imagination. But he replies nevertheless, albeit quieter than usual, more to himself than anyone else.
“Goodnight, Osamu.”
The crickets chirp, the cicadas sing. The warm summer wind blows through trees and bushes, rustling leaves and branches in its wake. It’s peaceful, for a moment. Keiji indulges in this peace, mind sharpened, eyes focused. Hand resting against the hilt of a sword, long and sharp, welded time and time again. He inhales. Exhales. Breathes. He dwells in the knowledge that while he might not be in control of fate, he can still make small decisions, small choices that can prove fruitful. Like his extra bandages. Like wasting a water bottle. Like overpacking. Like overthinking sometimes. Like going on this quest.
Like Miya Osamu.
Keiji sends another prayer to Nemesis, thanking her for the small tip in scale. Even if it wasn’t in their favor, it still balanced the luck out. Though twisted, it still balanced out the events of their quest. He never enjoyed the thought of revenge, of retribution. Couldn’t stand the views his own mother had, couldn’t understand why he was one of her children and not someone else’s. But now? Now something clicks into place, a final little piece in the big puzzle of Akaashi Keiji’s low-life of being a demigod.
An answer to his decade-old question.
A balance of good and evil. A balance of the good moments and the bad moments. Everything had to balance out, in the end. A significance of scales, indeed. He should’ve known.
Someone snores, and he can’t quite pinpoint which of the three sleeping individuals it came from. Keiji stifles a laugh, smiles small, and looks up at the night sky. It was a nice night to think. To get lost in thought. To mull over certain epiphanies. He’ll give his satyr companion another hour or so of sleep before waking him for the next shift.
Tomorrow was another big day, after all.