Chapter Text
Nanami Kento was tired.
This was always given, a simple fact of life. Everyone around him knew it: the other physicians, the nurses, the house staff. He was known to be stoic, straightforward, hardworking. Each of the hospital’s employees had a relatively uncomplicated view of the man as a result, understanding him to be quite exhausted and quite intimidating. It wasn’t that the personnel ignored Nanami, nor did they wish to avoid working with him — he was extremely gifted, and it seemed that medical students in particular took a liking to the man and his comprehensible explanations — it just seemed that he was always preoccupied, even more so than the other doctors.
He glided down the hallway to the nearest restroom for employees, opening the door briskly and closing it behind him with the same ardor. Before he had mentally prepared himself, he met himself in the mirror, taken aback by his appearance, as per usual.
The dark circles under his eyes now stood out more than the jade green of his irises, and they stood in stark contrast with the silver frame of his lightweight rectangular glasses. Those were perhaps his most noticeable features, apart from the beginnings of crows feet which were now spreading from the corners of his eyes; conceivably, it might be from all the squinting in the too-bright hallways of the hospital.
Nanami let out a long, throaty sigh before removing his glasses, turning on the sink, and splashing cold water on his face. He massaged his temples a bit with his neck angled downward, then let his wet fingers leisurely glide down his prominent cheekbones. The very existence of the gray strands that littered his blonde hair made him feel weary; he was only thirty-five. He patted his face dry with a rough paper towel and glanced at his extravagant silver watch.
Only six hours left in this shift.
Nanami’s appearance served as an ever-present reminder of his own disillusionment with the world — the medical field in particular. As he placed his hand on the door to exit once again, though, he reminded himself why he stayed. It wasn’t for himself, it was for the routine, the safety, in more ways than one. Nothing put Nanami’s woes to rest more than the knowledge that he was doing something he was good at, regardless of how he felt about it. At the same time, though, his unrest was what caused this feeling of safety to be so intangible — an emotional ideal that he was never able to properly cling to.
Nanami sharply inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth as he opened the door again, stepping into the hallway.
His ears, which barely had time to rest during his bathroom break, were instantly flooded with the sounds of the hospital. The sounds of heels clicking on the white tiles in the hospital, nurses whispering to each other, and a family collectively weeping somewhere in the distance were at once distinct, then slowly blended together as Nanami began to pace down the hallway once more. He was about to be late to check up on his next patient.
Everything was always too bright, almost blinding. Nanami glanced down at his shoes and continued forward, turning a right, then a left, before stopping a few paces down at the first door in the hallway. The name tag beside the entrance simply read: “虎杖倭助,” and right below that, “ Itadori Wasuke .” Nanami entered the room and watched the older man stir as he fixed the room. He shouldn’t be doing a nurse’s duty, let alone opening the blinds to Itadori’s liking, ensuring the light wasn’t overbearing. He got migraines, probably almost as often as Nanami, who found solace in the man’s demeanor.
Wasuke’s eyes cracked open, and he scowled. “Kento?” he inquired hoarsely. “Again? Where’s Utahime?”
Nanami playfully scoffed. “Iori? She asked me to check up on you in her place. Something about inappropriate comments.”
Wasuke rolled his eyes. “Tch. She doesn't have a sense of humor.”
Nanami unsuccessfully fought back a smile as he lifted Wasuke’s worn pillows from behind his back and fluffed them. To an extent, he was right: Utahime couldn’t — no, wouldn’t — take a joke, albeit only when it was a straight man cracking one. The thought was enough to make him chuckle. Again, Itadori settled on a somewhat frustrated expression. “It’s not funny, Kento.”
Nanami pulled up a seat beside the older man, taking care not to scrape its legs against the ground, lest they project an unpleasant sound. Itadori would surely complain if they did. Rather than continue to entertain him, Nanami reached for a clipboard from a nearby table as he squatted down. He let out a breath the second he connected with the chair, a minute sense of relief washing over him. Itadori, unbeknownst to Nanami, had also let the air slip from his lungs. He knew these questions all too well.
He gave Nanami the answers without having been asked a single one of them. Nanami jotted down his answers smoothly in shorthand, and Wasuke found himself staring through the cracks in the blinds once more. It wasn’t sunny, nor was it cloudy. It was somewhere in between. Not unusual for this time of the year.
Once he had made his way through his list of regular answers, Itadori sighed. His mind drifted to his brief conversation with Nanami beforehand, fixated on the doctor’s angular eyes and face, lips curved downward. He focused on his scowl, which one might believe to be omnipresent had they no further knowledge of the man. He wondered to himself. Then he wondered aloud. “Kento, you have a girl?”
Nanami inhaled swiftly and came dangerously close to choking on the air. There it was, the question which plagued him more often than not. The same weighted question which, no matter how many times it were to be posed, he would never have a proper answer to. He recalled the many times his mother pestered him about finding a date for school dances, or when his father inquired about his romantic endeavors upon his return from university. Each time, his answer varied slightly, but its essence — always the same misleading truth — remained constant. “ No,” he always replied with a hint of a smile. His mother, his father, his friends, all took it for a “No, not yet,” never a “No, I’m only into guys.”
Perhaps, he had once meant to say “Not yet.” Nanami certainly hadn’t always been aware of his feelings himself; maybe that’s why his response began and remained so vague. It was only when his closest friend, Haibara Yuu, entrusted Nanami with his own deepest secret that he had even realized being gay was a possibility. It was only towards the end of high school, during senior prom season, and despite his mother’s constant nagging, that he recognized he would rather go with Yuu than with a girl he didn’t know.
Nanami tilted his head, sat a bit too deep in thought, and considered his options. He could be honest — or not; he hadn’t fed Wasuke any white lies yet. At times, depending on the patient, he preferred to downplay or boast his accomplishments, or formulate a story to entertain them. But never to Wasuke. This would be his first.
“No,” he replied, all too quickly. He consciously loosened his jaw so as to not grind his teeth. It was an awful habit, and he seldom noticed until later when his jaw began to ache. He recognized too late the oversimplicity of his answer, the suspicion it raised, and the slight smirk that overtook Wasuke’s otherwise calm face. That same smirk smoothly covered the serenity that might have otherwise twisted into a pained frown.
As if on cue, Itadori let out an inconspicuous cough and gently gripped his waist. Nanami detected Wasuke’s discomfort; he behaved similarly when he didn’t want to bother Utahime shortly before he went into an emergency surgery. Nervously, Nanami glanced downward at the vitals and answers he had written down minutes ago. Everything seemed alright to him. Surely, nothing could happen to Wasuke now.
“Kento, come on! Are you telling me you can’t get any girls to—” he began, already aware of Kento’s response and conceivably piecing together its implications.
Nanami’s facial expression whispered the rest to him. Itadori had never seen Nanami flustered, had never seen the way Nanami’s blush spread to his ears and his eyes grow so wide that his entire pupils were visible. Almost as quickly as Kento reacted, he retreated into himself, focusing only on slowing his heart rate, which he was sure was twice as fast as it usually was. Wasuke chuckled and, had he been closer, likely would have clapped Nanami on the back.
“Oh,” Wasuke began again, “You don’t owe me an explanation. I have a grandson like you.” For one of the first times, a genuine smile crossed Wasuke’s face, and he appeared content. Not at the prospect of remaining in the hospital for the rest of his days, Nanami was sure, but at the first lasting conception of someone he had an unfeigned connection with.
Wasuke’s life fractured the moment he entered the hospital, into before and after . Nanami had seen it countless times, the split, the following pervasive sense of desperation. But Wasuke’s grandson remained a constant: energetic, composed, present . Wasuke’s good-natured grandson, who adored him long before — and well after — his health began deteriorating, had kept him sane. Yuuji wasn’t someone Wasuke had only known from before , nor was he only someone only from after , but someone from both, from in-between, someone who existed in Wasuke’s past and surely would exist in his future.
It was only then that Nanami realized his lips had been pressed into a thin line and his hands clenched around the clipboard tightly. His knuckles had not turned white, though he was sure they would have soon had he not allowed relief to flood away from his chest and into his shoulders and arms. He almost permitted himself to laugh as well, somewhat shocked by the lack of professionalism this revelation demonstrated, and an awkward smile cracked regardless of his desire to remain impassive. His eyes scrunched and the wrinkles around them extended under the frame of his glasses and towards the corners of his face.
The word gay hadn’t been uttered a single time, nor did it have to be. Wasuke’s comforting silence affirmed Nanami further; he had been understood, and he was alright with leaving it at that. He might have regretted it if Wasuke had been any other patient, but he was too casual to be truly embarrassed around. With each second he remained alone with his thoughts, he became exponentially more sentimental and began to recall the night he met Wasuke, towards the end of a twelve hour long shift, when he was worn and weary.
Wasuke had appeared so isolated, so uptight. He seemed so alone, yet never lonely at all, though that aura evaporated the moment a young man named Yuuji — who Nanami now presumed to be Wasuke’s grandson — visited. He was the only visitor Wasuke ever had, but recently he had been visiting less often. Wasuke had scolded Yuuji about attending his club at school more often, regardless of whether or not he wished to see him; regardless of whether or not they wished to see each other. What are you doing spending all your time with an old fart like me? You won’t have any friends left by the time you hit high school! Nanami always appreciated when the boy stopped by and the solace it brought Wasuke. He wondered when his next visit would be.
Perhaps it would be sooner than Nanami imagined.
Wasuke called weakly for Nanami. His given name floated through the air to his ears tantalizingly slowly, and he felt something deep within him crack as he watched Itadori cough. He could scarcely gather himself to begin adjusting the equipment around him and calling out to a passing nurse. Wasuke wouldn’t die right now, Nanami figured that, though he was in worse condition than his earlier answers and his vitals let on. Wasuke himself didn’t seem to believe he was alright.
He reached for Nanami’s arm and asked for some water, which Nanami gracefully grabbed from his bedside table. During and after Wasuke had his drink, his grip on Nanami’s arm remained strong. When he lowered the plastic cup from his lips, he resisted Nanami’s reaching for the cup on instinct. Wasuke knew Nanami panicked in moments like this, and he should have been as well considering the sharp pain radiating from his left side. Nonetheless, he’d rather speak with Nanami.
“Kento,” he said. Nanami leaned in, wondering why Wasuke had stopped him, yet not daring to pull away.
“What is it?”
“Have a little fun, will you? Help other people. But learn to help yourself.”
Shock scarcely had time to settle in Nanami’s gut (when did it ever?) before Wasuke began to hack once again. Nanami, in a hushed and even tone, soothed Itadori. The remainder of the hour passed in a blur of blue gloves and scrubs and the ever-present smell of disinfectant, as it did each time this happened, not that Nanami was present for a majority of these fits.
As Nanami predicted, Wasuke was alright. Though as he trekked down the too-bright, starkly white, overwhelmingly full and empty halls of the hospital he had been placed in since he was twenty, he felt grief settle at the bottom of his chest. His heart disconnected from the rest of his body, as it sometimes did on days like this, though Nanami couldn’t discern why. Wasuke hadn’t passed, and even if he had—
It was all just part of the job.
With his gaze pointed towards the ground, he continued on, repeating in his head a sickeningly optimistic mantra: It doesn’t get much better than this. It doesn’t get much better than this.
It doesn't get much better than this.