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He wasn’t waking up.
Madara shifted on the sitting cushion, trying to keep his feet from falling asleep under him. The room about them was stifling in a way not at all related to the heat, air unmoving as if the whole house was waiting with bated breath, watching, listening. His fingers played with the ones laid out on the futon but they didn’t twitch or respond to his touch, the only real sign that the other was still alive being the labored movement of his chest and the dulled chakra signature flickering within.
It had been days since they’d found him, covered in his own blood and choking out in the woods. Days since Madara had rushed the man back to his clan for healing. Days that he spent unable to sleep or return to his own, uncaring that the war was going on without him, uncaring that his own clan needed their leader.
Uncaring because Ryouji needed him more.
If it had been anyone else, the injury would have killed them. His throat had been slashed open, Ryouji’s only saving grace being his quite response and exceptional healing capabilities. But there was little knowing the full extent of his lasting injuries until he woke up, especially considering his damned second wouldn’t tell him anything.
He’d done rudimentary scans of it himself. Or, attempted and immediately gave up, his emotions getting in the way of it far too much, and there was no way Madara would risk hurting him any more than he already was.
Waiting was all he could do. Waiting, watching, listening. He held two of Ryouji’s fingers and caressed them gently with his thumb, leaning over to press his lips to his temple, taking in a sharp breath that shuddered despite his best efforts.
When he woke up, he’d confess his heart. Until then Madara held it all back, suffocating in the silence around him, hoping and praying to hear Ryouji’s voice again soon.