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A sudden jolt against what felt like a blur between a brick wall and a mattress was the first thing that initiated his response.
“You’re awake—” The blunt statement went unaccounted for.
The boiling wetness in the corners of his eyes created a weight upon the man’s eyelashes, digging his fingernails into the sheets of the bed that he felt bound to. An all too clear sound of the ear-splitting heart monitor and the artificial, repugnant fragrance of the hospital ward plagued his senses, swallowing him in his entirety when the sound of the hospital bed creaking under his tremors of pain that violently wracked his body soon built in up pressure from the back of his head, prying at his temples and scraping the tissue of his brain away, or so it felt.
“Woah, woah, calm down—” A bleary, yet familiar tone of voice crept through the walls of panic that he had surrounded himself with.
His chest heaved now, the sound of his own breathing clearly having been enough to cause ample discomfort as he swallowed hard with the intention of breaking the confining state of mind that spiralled around in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Uncertainty was built up with regards to whether his voice was hoarse from screaming, or the blood in his head that pounded in his ears was what kept nescient to the sound as the sensations chipped away at his mental state. Fingers clawed at the oxygen mask that fueled his fears further, tearing it away from himself in desperation. He wasn’t even sure if he had the energy to scream, if not compensated for in the ragged breaths he took as he hacked and wheezed.
“Saigiku.” That same assertive tone spoke again, though enunciated with much more clarity now as lithe fingers desperately wrapped around Jōno’s wrist, peeling his hand from the sheets which would have only caused more of a scene if he actually had the time to articulate the movement.
The trembling hand was promptly rested upon the chest of the other individual, shoulders loosening in tension as fingers curled into the fabric of the other’s shirt. A rhythmic and familiar thudding of his partner’s heartbeat seemed to resonate with him almost immediately, sending signals from his fingertips to his brain as he emitted a pained sigh, body slacking though still trembling in the slightest.
The two remained like that for a while, Jōno’s fingers that were formerly entwined in his comrade’s shirt had begun to undo the grip that they had affirmed, up until a weak push was dealt to Tetchō’s chest. The other hadn’t moved at all from such a feeble attempt, not a single waver in his stature up until he made the decision to slowly move Jōno’s hand down to his side. Such an attempt of consolation was met with a half-hearted slap to his counterpart’s face, Jōno’s whole figure wincing in pain at the sudden movement of his arm.
“Don’t you fucking dare.” Former tears of exasperation seemed to stain Jōno’s paled face, uttering the words in pure disbelief.
“What.” Whilst his reply was intended to be more of a question, it came out flat as he slumped back into the seat adjacent to the hospital bed, though tense in his position.
“Usually you’re a walking hindrance to me, your very being is a pest to the joys of my life, but right now—” He paused, almost hesitating at the thought of the spiteful words that laced his tongue. “You’re near parasitic.”
“You were—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about what was happening. I didn’t want nor ask for your intervention. Leave.”
“You’re hurt, might this be just the one time you allow me to—”
“Get. Out.”
“Right,” amber eyes drifted towards the door and then Jōno, almost wincing at the way in which the other man’s face scrunched up in discomfort, “I’ll tell the nurse that you’re awake.”
A sigh of defeat left the swordsman as he turned to leave, sparing himself one last glance at his partner whence he exited the isolated room within the trauma ward.
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The following morning presented a new opportunity, Tetchō was sure of it. In the back of his mind lingering still however, was the thought of Jōno dismissing his presence again. Perhaps he had overstepped a boundary, Jōno was fully in the right to be at unease upon coming to his senses after such an enervating and terrifying experience.
Hearsay amongst the few that dared to discuss the influence on those infected had told him that Stoker’s ability caused strong auditory hallucinations and persecutory delusions of which Tetchō imagined was the fuel for Jōno’s hostility consequent to waking up. The infected were unaware of their predicament: conscious whilst living with a deeply skewed perception of reality, which in turn led them to believe that those around them were intent on causing harm. The ‘vampire outbreak’ was driven by the most vile form of fear being instilled into an individual.
The swordsman understood that the other had probably acted out of fear and disorientation, though he was far too conscious of Jōno’s tendency to remain bitter after he found himself at fault, ergo took it upon himself to try again. Thus, Tetchō’s shoulder pushed up against the door, its hinges creaking throughout even despite his best efforts to stay as silent as possible whilst his hands were full.
Setting his eyes upon the figure left him to fill in the gaps that he had spared himself looking too far into the day before. Tetchō trailed his eyes along the barbaric tracks scaling Jōno’s chest, only the surface was visible yet a sword rang much deeper. He followed the intricate pattern of a fire half burning enveloping his arms, twisting and swirling into distinct marks on the base of his skin. Continuing along the path to the grievous markings on Jōno’s neck left as a perpetual reminder of what could have been his last battle. Battered and blue; a cold and cruel painting that was only ever warmed at the time of his rescue, the crimson red aligning his figure, bones contorted into abnormality . Tetchō reached out his hand: to be able to trace these marks back to their maker, only he was met with a wall enclosing a burden he could never understand. Jōno didn't want him to ever understand.
The outstretched hand was swatted away almost immediately, Jōno’s fingers then curling into the mattress as to haul himself upright in a desperate attempt to assert himself over the man despite the weak predicament in which he sat.
“Had I not made myself clear the first time, Tetchō?” He spat, though wincing at the adjustment in his position either way.
Before the brune’s protest was made, Jōno grit his teeth, speaking in an otherworldly tone compared to the usually irate way of which Tetchō felt accustomed to. Even despite such words of malice, his voice wavered in vexation and utter fatigue.
“Is there not one instance where you listen to me? I told you to leave me alone. Do me the minimal courtesy of fucking off,” The beeping of a certain monitor had begun to quicken, only hightening Jōno’s embarrassment and resent for his counterpart, “is your compliance so much of me to ask for? Is it?”
“No, no I brought—”
“Oh of course you brought something, cause that makes it all better doesn’t it? You’ve really outdone yourself this time Suehiro! I’m sure someone will give you a pat on the back and politely tell you to go away elsewhere.”
Slumping back down into the mattress with a thud, Jōno groaned in pain, body scrunching up reflexively only to cause another tremor in his movements. “What makes you think that you can touch, hm, Suehiro? Touch, let alone dare breathe in my presence again.”
Such melodrama was accompanied by a pang of defeat in Jōno’s words, as if the man formerly swayed by nothing was at a loss. For the first time that Tetchō could make note of.
Tetchō’s head dipped, shoulders slouching down at his second monumental fuck up of the week. The direct address, especially with his last name, had only furthered the disappointment and conflict that built up, desperately pressing at the corners of his deemed scatterbrain for a way to find resolution. Instead, he set the bags down beside the hospital bed, a brief, but awkward silence forming as he rummaged through, a pink knitted blanket in his hands that he soon folded, laying it next to Jōno’s arm, careful not to upset the other man any further. More so focused on reconstructing that diminished composure, Jōno thereby ignored the brune who had placed something beside him.
Crouching down again, Tetchō carefully lifted a pot from the second bag, the aroma of such a familiarity finally sparking the other’s attention as Tetchō set the plant upon the window sill. A small, pink flowered anthurium plant, wild in its way of growing outwards despite its small size, it was well looked after, too.
All of Jōno’s houseplants were, actually: vibrant green shoots of life from the rich soil of the potted arts. There had always been a certain elegance to Jōno’s way of providing for them. He had a few for the sake of entertaining himself on off-days. The tenacity of nature seemed to accompany his efforts with the plants as opposed to fighting him off and branching out erratically or causing a moribund decline of the poor things that usually came with Tetchō’s care towards them. Hence Jōno’s usually strict instructions to stay away from them.
Unsure of how long Jōno would really be in the hospital, he wanted to make the other’s stay more bearable. It was evident the other was suffering merely for the fact that he was bed bound in one of the most specifically irritating places for him, with the constant zipping of the machines around him — and perhaps attached to him peeling away at his heightened senses alongside the dreaded smell. He understood that outwardly saying he wished to help his partner in such a weakened state would land him back where he started, however.
“I understand that you don’t like me touching them, and I know I’m not good at looking after your plants— but I asked Teruko this time what to do with it, and I’ll visit in the mornings to water it, you don’t have to talk to me at all, either, since I’ll be careful,” he paused, contemplating his choice of words, wishing not to say something easily misconstrued, “I thought one of your plants and your blanket would help you clear your head, I’m sure they smell familiar and are a contrast to the antiseptic smell in here..”
Tetchō soon stopped himself, preparing for the second barrage of insults, though instead the former silence returned. Though, it wasn’t uncomfortable this time, it was the silence he understood, Jōno’s acceptance of the gifts Tetchō had brought, his confirmation being the way he had seen Jōno’s sigh of relief, unfolding the blanket as he pulled it up to himself just as Tetchō was closing the door to take his leave.
However, pulling at Jōno’s lips was a frown as the door clacked shut, hinges creaking before it did so. Jōno was drenched in self-condemnation. Whilst he pitied his predicament, of course, he couldn’t help but loathe the attitude he’d been presenting his colleague with, especially after the man had saved his life and had to witness and persevere through the fact that Jōno had already died twice during his arrival to the hospital. His vulnerability embarrassed him, not the way in which Tetchō acted towards him, and he wished that was apparent.
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Tetchō’s entering presence had clearly already warranted an exasperated sigh, as anticipated by the man moments before. This time, however, he allowed himself to sink down into the dusty blue cushioned seat, adjacent to the bed in which his colleague sat upright. Head tilted to the side in slight bemusement, he mentally queried the other man’s current task, which he seemed to be very endorsed in. Too much so as to pay mind to Tetchō’s entrance for once.
Head down, for once not so unrelenting to make a snide comment towards the man beside him, a piece of Jōno’s hair was tucked behind his ear, a working habit that Tetchō had observed over the years. His red tips had clearly begun fading out into that of an almost pink-ish colour now, an indication of how being in the trauma ward had left him without Teruko’s aid to re-dye his hair. Jōno’s tongue poked out the corner of his mouth, eyebrows raised in perplexity which contrasted with his effortless approach to looping the crochet hook under the coloured yarn and interlocking pieces together, adding to the slip stitch in which the thread lay, the delicacy of his craft present with the meticulous approach he took.
Even still, Tetchō’s staring was soon diminished by his own realisation of the fact, dipping his head shamefully as an offerance of courtesy perhaps in compensation for how their recent conversations had crumbled into mutual dishonour so fast. Tetchō didn’t wish to discomfort Jōno any further, therefore he sat in silence, striving to fathom the correct words this time.
A suffocatingly thick silence had enveloped the air, so much so that Tetchō had believed he may not have even been breathing up until Jōno spoke, who had grown tired of waiting for his counterparts' presumed futile attempt for conversation again. Which was understandable, considering Jōno’s present attitude towards him, in turn causing him to dip his head in near shame as he set aside the crochet hook upon a bedside table, thread still attached.
Tetchō’s eerie silence irked him in fact — Jōno couldn’t possibly decipher whether the brune was actually even breathing, perhaps having had taken old demands of Jōno’s into genuine consideration, which he doubted was the case. That concern and guilt had bubbled up again, threatening to spill from Jōno’s mouth at a rate that would surely graze his pride, hence his prompt to finally speak.
“Are you going to say something, then?”
This was pivotal to Tetchō, though the words hadn’t fully resonated with him as of yet, and Jōno’s patience was not nearly close enough to cope with his colleague’s ineptitude here.
“Don’t think you can sit there and not reply after all of this, simpleton-Suehiro,” he sneered, turning to face the other at once, “I’m not talking to you if I’ll be forced to deal with your maladroitness again.”
“What does that mean?” Raising his head, Tetchō deadpanned.
“Oh, be quiet.” The other retorted, bringing a palm to his face in irritation at the brune’s genuine puzzlement.
Tetchō pondered a response as to not let the conversation that Jōno had this time initiated. “What are you making?”
“I’m not making anything, I was, before you entered the room, trying to find out if I could even remember how to make a slip stitch after all of this, but alas you interrupted my efforts.” There was an almost nonchalance to his sarcasm, his fatigue, if Tetchō had read into it correctly.
The swordsman frowned, hands clasped together as a result of not quite knowing what to do with himself here.
“Oh come on, Tetchō. You come all this way every morning and the one time I choose to speak to you I feel like I’m talking to the wall again.”
A brief pause ensued, contradicted by how Tetchō’s mouth was now left agape, his words a mere stutter of breath to which he swallowed down before a word had so much as slipped. His nails curled into the fabric of his jeans whilst his lips formed a thin line, querying whether what he wished to ask was time appropriate, let alone rational.
“How long had you known?”
“Known what?” Jōno replied flatly, the pitch of his voice barely raised at the end of the question. It was something Tetchō had always recognised as a telltale sign that Jōno absolutely knew what the question was in full, though strived to stall his response.
“That Fukuchi was the mastermind,”
“Don’t call him that. That’s stupid. He’s stupid. Just call him a terrorist”, he sneered, adamant towards his avoidance of the way Tetchō was nearly interrogating him now, “you continue to call him a ‘mastermind’ as if the plans he set on were his own as opposed to the fact that he instead became Dostoevsky’s newest little play thing.”
Tetchō this time, instead narrowed his eyes at his colleague, a certain stare he knew the other man would sense and would derive ample discomfort from: which, from the reply that followed, Tetchō assumed it had worked.
“I had my suspicions for a while, I was always looking for something. Itching to find things out of spite I’d presume it was at the time,” there was the brief slip of Jōno’s expression before he spoke, nose scrunched up in abhorrence at the way Tetchō’s ploy succeeded, “Tachihara’s conversation with him had by then confirmed my suspicions.”
“And you didn’t tell me— anyone, even?”
“I saw no reason to, at the time.”
“You burdened a child and didn’t tell anyone at the expense of yourself and Michizō almost dying.”
“And you say that as if I could have said anything to the boy. He fought Fukuchi with the knowledge of the fight that he was about to step into.”
“Did you?”
Jōno shut his mouth that had previously opened to offer retaliation, swallowing upon hearing the question, which he recognised to be rhetorical, and most certainly a harsh reminder of the flaw that had almost ended his life.
“Did you possess that knowledge after an ability had entirely blocked your escape route? If you and him both had the knowledge of the fight you were stepping into, why is it that I found you half dead on the floor choking on your own blood, writhing with half of the bones in your body either shattered or broken after Stoker’s ability was halted?”
“Tetchō.” The name was spoken quieter than intended, which only furthered his embarrassment as his partner piled on the comments.
“I don’t even think you understand the damage you could have avoided and the lives you could have saved, or maybe you do understand, maybe you do. For as long as I’ve known you I’ve painted you as a good person because that’s what I saw. Right now I’m struggling to uphold that perception of you that I have believed in for years.”
“Stop.”
“Why must you strive to rid yourself of good qualities? Why do you never tell me anything? Is it because you think I’m inept? Am I too stupid, Saigiku?”
“Stop it.”
Tetchō had only realised the volume of his voice after noticing how Jōno’s bottom lip trembled slightly as he spoke the two words, fists were balled into the sheets again and his head hung down in mortification.
Jaw snapping shut in an instant, Tetchō leaned back into his seat, noticing how rigid his stature had become as he pinched the bridge of his nose and he huffed in ire.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” He spoke, voice lowered as he stood, not expectant of any reply other than the begrudging nod he received.
Hearing the door click shut was almost an offering for relief of the stirred cauldron of emotions that Jōno had held in the back of his throat for so long, which was now closing up as a hand raised to cover his mouth, predictive of the sob that he forced himself to choke on out of reluctance.
Incoherent words of hurt towards himself were muttered into both hands of his now and tears long overdue had since welled up, coursing down his cheeks and gathering at his chin as the uncomfortable torrents of grief he had learned to despise and shove away. The extent to which he rubbed caused Jōno to open his eyes in an attempt to relieve himself of the redness that had accumulated around them.
Involuntary and yet still pathetic sniffles were accompanied by the occasional hiccup as a result of his desperate attempt to keep himself quiet, his own sounds only furthering his misery. Turned white from the grip on his blanket, his knuckles ached from the strain whilst he pulled the covers up to his face, coming to his senses with a jolt as his back straightened instantaneously whence the door reopened, humiliation reigning over him instead now when he felt the other man stand in the doorway.
Listening to Tetchō’s heartbeat had felt like he’d grabbed it and pulled it to his stomach himself, a grim reminder again, of Jōno’s continual fault in treating the brune with basic human decency. Jōno almost physically recoiled when he heard his colleague sit beside the bed. The silence that followed his entrance was sickening, wiping his tear-stained face would be futile at this point, he knew the tears would flood back.
The light of the room had suddenly felt warm on Tetchō’s eyes, the atmosphere was entirely different than before, he was certain. As he soon realised he could only bring himself to peer at the other, the pads of his fingers rubbed against each other, grasping for any kind of physical action that would ground himself for even just a moment, up until he gave in to his efforts, tapping Jōno’s wrist twice.
Judging by the other’s body language however, he seemed to have already understood when he sat more upright, lips curled downwards into that of concern and brows furrowed. Any words Tetchō came to conjure in efforts of consolation filtered into white noise far back into the crevices of his mind, the impulse to speak had been shoved down his throat and any internal dialogue he possessed had sunk into incoherence.
Taking Tetchō by the hand, Jōno pressed his finger into the swordsman’s palm, tracing various delicate patterns into his hand, breathing through his nose so as to not hear his own breath hitch and cause his state to decline again. Jōno understood Tetchō’s predicament, as best as he could, at least. It wasn’t something he was unaccustomed to, per se. From the few times it had occurred in the past, Jōno tended to apply something that Tetchō could apply sensory familiarity to when he became overstimulated.
They sat, for a time in which Jōno could not put a claim to. His perception of time had already been skewed since being administered to the hospital, and it wasn’t as if he was in the state to specifically care about the date or time in the present moment. The two could have been in such a familiar silence for thirty minutes up to an hour for all he knew, let alone cared for.
“Sorry.” Tetchō strained, clearing his throat and exhaling sharply when Jōno slipped his hand away. “I didn’t think I’d— well—”
“Shush,” Jōno retorted, prodding a finger to the brune’s forehead, “I’m saving you the exhaustion of explanation before you insist, I understand.”
The swordsman hummed, scratching the back of his head, which soon recoiled in distaste from the fact that he hadn’t brushed the long mess in days from the stress, he’d only recently untied it from the loose ponytail that hung out of convenience. It was clear to anyone that he hadn’t been taking care of himself accordingly for the past few days.
Noticing the lack of reply, Jōno raised conversation again, he wanted to sway Tetchō’s nerves into that of ease, though he felt his apology in particular was a necessity.
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry that I didn’t. I was unsure of what either you or Teruko would do with the information, and the uncertainty irked me so I acted on my own,” his lips pulled into a thin line of discomfort, unbeknownst to how Tetchō would respond, “I know I’ve been god awful to you, and I understand my word isn’t really one to take anymore, therefore I don’t really.. well, expect forgiveness or anything of the sort.”
There was a pause, of sorts. Jōno had a brief instance of panic, considering if his wording could be misinterpreted to any degree, though said thoughts of concern were soon overridden by his awaited response.
“I don’t think you should apologise,” Tetchō spoke in his normally modulated tone of voice, nearly shrugging in the nonchalance that he said so.
“It felt like a necessity.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“Well that contradicts what you just said..”
“Maybe I’m just shocked by your hidden ability to compose an apology.” He stated, matter-of-factly.
“Many swoon over my linguistic skills!” The casual sarcastic tone that he usually donned had returned, causing Tetchō to crack a smile.
“If agreeing would make you happy—”
After their bickering had died down into a comfortable silence, Tetchō took the best opportunity he had received to slip his hand into Jōno’s, a clink of metal warranting a stifled giggle from the other, face in his sleeve for a moment as he squeezed Tetchō’s hand, idly rolling the other man’s ring around his finger.
“I’m surprised you kept it on all throughout.” Jōno mused.
“Well I feel like you would smack me around the back of the head with a hardcover book if I didn’t.”
“I would.” A smirk had since graced his countenance, recalling several instances that he prided himself in.
“I’m well aware.”
“I cannot believe I’m married to a man who can’t count past 25,” He jeered, though still eliciting a laugh from the both of them.
Blinking, Tetchō looked up at the clock that he’d been told by the nurses that Jōno had demanded the cut down of the shorter hand of the cursed thing as to minimise the deafening ticking sound that he had succumbed to time and time again. The problem with that however was the brune’s awful timekeeping abilities, combined with the fact that the ticking wasn’t there as a reminder to actually check the time. Ergo, an inward sigh left him as a grimace pulled at his face after reading the time.
“It’s late.”
“How late?”
Tetchō had almost forgotten, Jōno’s perception of time had since disappeared when he was introduced to the trauma ward. It was very offbeat of the other man to not know the time, as pretentious as he was, knowledge of the time was something he constantly pried about, though for the past few days he seemed indifferent about such knowledge. Perhaps the fact that he didn’t particularly want to keep count of how long he’d spent in the dreaded place.
“Well it’s 7pm, it’s dark outside.”
“Oh—” he clicked his tongue, a sullenness that Tetchō couldn’t label fitting his counterpart’s expression, “are you leaving, then?”
Unsurprisingly, Tetchō's face lit up at the returned indication that Jōno no longer wanted him to go, though a frown sat in replacement of his brief smile upon considering the question.
“Well you know I don’t want to.”
“I can tell by the sound of your voice that you’re tired..”
“I’ll stay here then.”
“You’re insane. Leave.”
Chair creaking as he arose, Tetchō laughed, taking his leave almost defeatedly. They both knew fully well that the swordsman was more than prepared to sleep on the floor for the other. And, whilst Jōno found the initial idea sweet, the endearment would be broken immediately by even the idea of his husband sleeping on the floor. A swift goodbye was followed by a quietened ‘I love you’, willing to test his luck after the success he’d had today, and much to Tetchō’s delight, the white-haired man had returned the gesture.
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The coming of morning was always earlier than Jōno anticipated recently, considering his sleep was controlled by how fast his painkillers would wear off, administered by the nurses who checked on him frequently much to his distaste. It wasn’t that he was unappreciative of the care received or anything of the sort, he more so disliked being prodded at constantly, the blood tests, the constant reminder of the cannula in the back of his hand that he’d continually had to grin and bear through the constant replacement of, and the thought of the IV beside him alongside that — an image was created, one of which Jōno cringed at, discomfort arising whenever he left himself with the opportunity to dwell on his physical state for too long.
Hence why Tetchō’s company, despite it all, was the best he would ever receive in those days he spent in the trauma ward. The sound of the brune’s boots tapping down the hallway and reaching the door to his room were a delight every morning, and a reminder that his stay within the hospital was nearing its end.
Such thoughts of sanguine conclusion were cut off upon realising his counterpart had not sat down, after clearly having had heard his entrance. Quirking an eyebrow, Jōno finally spoke.
“And are you not sitting down any time this week?” The subtle jab went unaccounted for, the wide smile that Jōno sensed, yet had not yet pinpointed reason for was still plastered on Tetchō’s face.
“No, not here.”
“Oh?”
“I heard you're driving the nurses insane by now,”
“I do try my best.”
“Lucky you're being discharged today then.”
“I am?” A hint of disbelief was present in Jōno’s voice, a pause before his reply was enunciated.
“I spoke to your doctor this morning, he thought there’d be more pleasantries to go with me telling you instead of him.”
Laughing inwardly to himself, Jōno felt a wave of relief overcome him, he finally felt glad. His focus seemed entirely drawn to his husband sitting before him and for the first time, he was content, he was happy. Such a word wasn't one that the man was accustomed to but strangely it seemed so freeing to be able to feel this way. He was overwhelmed with the life that he was spared, the life that he so very nearly lost; the life he had with Tetchō. Jōno felt himself subconsciously tug on the other’s arm, pulling him down to his level as he pressed his thumb to Tetchō’s bottom lip, his hand soon moving to the man’s cheek before placing a feather light kiss in the area of which his thumb had briefly traced.
“Well I should hope you kept the house tidy,” he spoke, still close in proximity to the other as he felt his nose brush against the brune’s cheek, hearing the way in which the other’s heart jumped at the comment, wordlessly answering his question to which Jōno scoffed at.