Chapter Text
A shuddering gasp ripped through him, a visceral tremor that seemed to originate from the very marrow of his bones, propelling him into the dizzying abyss. The air, a frigid phantom, clawed at his skin, and for a fleeting, terrifyingly exhilarating instant, a perverse sense of liberation washed over him. It was the freedom of utter surrender, the final shedding of control.
Through the swirling chaos that had become his vision, a face materialized, a fleeting, distorted image in the storm of his senses. A woman. Her features, though blurred and indistinct, were contorted in a silent scream, a raw, soundless agony that somehow pierced the chaotic symphony of his final moments, echoing in the hollow chambers of his being.
“Chishiya—!!” The sound, though perhaps only a phantom echo in his own mind, tore through the imagined silence, a desperate, ragged cry that resonated with a strange familiarity. Her face remained a watercolor painting left out in the relentless rain, the colors bleeding into one another, yet the sheer, unadulterated agony in her voice struck a chord deep within him. It was a resonance of something profoundly familiar, a faint echo of a warmth he had long believed extinguished, the ghost of a home he thought he’d lost forever.
And yet, amidst the echoing scream and the wind’s mournful song, a peculiar numbness began to seep into his consciousness, a strange detachment settling over him like a shroud. He could feel the frantic, desperate pulse of his own blood, a furious, surging tide within, like molten bubbles rising inexorably to the surface. But the searing pain he anticipated, the agonizing burn of impact, the inevitable shattering of bone and flesh, never materialized. Instead, there was only a peculiar lightness, an ethereal sensation as if he were falling onto an impossibly soft cloud of feathers, a sense of unbound freedom in the descent towards his unknown, and likely final, destination.
His final destination. The thought echoed in the cold recesses of his mind, a chilling yet strangely peaceful acceptance settling over him. He had always known, deep down, that his existence was a fragile, fleeting thing. He lacked the inherent drive for self-preservation that seemed to dictate the actions of others. Death, in its inevitability, held no particular terror for him. He braced himself for the inevitable collision, the brutal, crushing impact of the unyielding ground meeting his fragile, temporary form. He closed his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips – a strange, weary exhalation that held a mixture of fear and a profound, almost clinical resignation.
But the brutal jolt he anticipated, the violent end he had braced himself for, never came.
Instead of a shattering impact, a jarring, disorienting sensation yanked him back from the precipice of oblivion. He was suddenly jolted awake, his body instinctively arching against the familiar softness of his futon. The comforting, predictable scent of his small room filled his senses – the faint mustiness of old paper, the subtle herbal notes that sometimes lingered from his… extracurricular studies, the clean, almost sterile aroma of disinfectant from his meticulously organized surgical tools. Sunlight, fractured into soft, warm rectangles by the paper screens of his window, cast a gentle glow on the towering, precarious stacks of books that formed the landscape of his sleeping area. Volumes on advanced cardiac procedures sat precariously next to treatises on rare and exotic poisons, a testament to his dual fascinations. Titles in various languages, detailing intricate surgical techniques and the subtle, often undetectable, mechanisms of various toxins, formed a bizarre yet familiar library. The chilling tendrils of the dream still clung to him, the woman's phantom scream echoing faintly in the quiet corners of his mind, a disquieting residue of a world that felt both utterly alien and strangely, disturbingly familiar.
He sat up, the thin cotton of his sleeping robe clinging to his skin, pushing aside a weighty textbook on cardiothoracic surgery that threatened to topple a precarious pile containing a worn compendium of poisonous plants. A faint, almost imperceptible noise drifted from the other side of the room, a soft, rhythmic rustling that gently broke the lingering silence of his unsettling dream, like a hesitant melody in the aftermath of a storm.
As his eyes struggled to refocus in the soft, diffused morning light filtering through the delicate shoji screens, the source of the sound gradually sharpened into clarity. There, standing hesitantly in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the gentle light, was her. The woman from the receding edges of his nightmare, no longer a terrifying, indistinct blur, but etched with a delicate concern that instantly eased the knot of anxiety in his chest, replacing the lingering fear with a quiet sense of peace. Aoi. Her very presence seemed to banish the last icy tendrils of the nightmare's chill, replacing it with a familiar, comforting warmth that spread through him like the gentle heat of a low-burning ember.
A profound wave of relief washed over him, so intense it stole the breath from his lungs and left him momentarily speechless, a fragile dam breaking within him. He opened his mouth, the single syllable of her name escaping his lips in a soft, almost reverent whisper, a silent acknowledgment of her anchoring presence in the often-turbulent waters of his mind.
"Aoi…?"
“Shuntaro? What are you—wait…” Aoi squinted her dark hazel eyes, her brow furrowing with a familiar blend of worry and exasperation as she took in his disheveled state. “You sleep-deprived man! Didn't I tell you that we have our advanced cardiac physiology and anatomy exam next week, and you, here, look like a ghost that hasn't slept in a century! Honestly, sometimes I worry about you more than my actual relatives.” She scolded, her tone laced with a familiar blend of exasperation and genuine care.
It wasn’t just the looming exam that fueled her concern; it was the unsettling knowledge of his fascination with the darker corners of pharmacology, the quiet hours he spent meticulously cataloging and experimenting with various toxins under the guise of research. Aoi forgot how she should’ve kept Chishiya under supervision, with his ruined sleep schedule and the constant desire to be knowledgeable about something really do make him quite reckless.
Despite her words, she took a step forward, her movements gentle as she reached out a hand to help him sit up properly.
While she fussed over him, adjusting his blanket and pushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, his gaze drifted around his familiar room. The chaotic mess of medical textbooks and obscure apothecary guides scattered around his futon, the comically large, slightly faded poster of a human heart stuck haphazardly on the wall – a relic from his overly enthusiastic early medical studies – all spoke of his singular, often unsettling, focus. He vaguely registered the dark circles under his eyes, a testament to his relentless study habits and perhaps other, more clandestine pursuits, but pushed the thought aside.
The overwhelming, undeniable reality was the fact that he was alive. Truly alive—breathing, feeling the gentle pressure of Aoi’s hand on his arm – a tangible reality far removed from the fleeting, terrifying freedom of his fall.
He gasped softly, a shaky inhale that filled his lungs with the sweet, ordinary air of his room. He could feel it – the gentle expansion of his chest, the subtle rise and fall. This wasn't the abstract, terrifying freedom of plummeting through the sky; this was the grounded, comforting reality of simply being alive. His breath hitched in his throat, a silent testament to the profound and utterly confusing relief that washed over him.
As he feels the wind or oxygen through his lungs, it is as if a weighted burden from the past suddenly dissolves without needing any physical stuff but then, he looks at the time. It's 4 in the morning. Right. His exam is around the corner—he swears to the one who makes this god-awful study system; they won't get away with this.
Anyway, putting that revenge thought away, he turned towards Aoi, his close friend or siblings? He doesn't know what to describe their relationship but it's nothing in between that identity as “lovers”. He internally shivers at the thought, it was disturbing, truly like—who would've wanted a person like him? And besides that, Aoi literally is his sister without being in the same bloodline. He shakes his head one more time, trying to get those weird and uncomfortable thoughts away to finally open his mouth to ask Aoi.
“Aoi, what day will the exams take place?” His palm, a familiar landscape of old scars from forgotten experiments, tightened almost imperceptibly on the soft cotton of his sleep robe. A subtle tremor of anxiety, quickly masked, flickered beneath his carefully neutral expression. He smoothed his tone, aiming for a casual inquiry, a deliberate softness so as not to betray the unease stirring within him or, perhaps more pragmatically, to avoid unsettling Aoi. Beneath the surface of his question, he carefully arranged his features into an expression of calm reassurance, the kind one might wear when simply confirming a trivial detail.
Aoi answered softly, having just finished arranging the precarious stacks of his medical texts on the small study table. “The exams? Well…” she sighed, the sound carrying a weight of dread, her face scrunching up in a grimace as if the very thought left a bad taste in her mouth. “We’ve got two different ones crammed into next week.” She shook her head with a harsh exhale. “Honestly, the audacity! As if the regular semester exams, the ones that decide if we’re even fit to be called doctors, aren’t enough.” Her frustration was palpable. Well, he won’t blame her, two different exams in one week? Where they also have semester exams to test students whether or not they could be called doctors, and a chemistry exam which for him is the easiest because he mastered that subject but the only exam he hates the most is the surgical training or practical exam. Probably because it required full focus onto one’s body and mind with no distraction getting in between the practical surgical test of the human heart.
Of course, the content of the exams themselves held about as much terror for him as a particularly dull lecture on the proper folding of surgical gloves. No, his current agitation stemmed purely from the temporal tyranny of it all. The sheer, unadulterated time these academic inquisitions would devour. It was an egregious waste of perfectly good hours that could be spent on far more intellectually stimulating pursuits, like, say, deciphering the subtle nuances between various neurotoxins or perfecting the art of a silent sigh that conveyed maximum disdain. And the next weekend? A veritable gauntlet of double tests, courtesy of teachers who clearly derived a perverse pleasure from witnessing the slow intellectual demise of their students. He tsked audibly, a sound that could curdle milk at fifty paces. Honestly, enrolling in this institution had been a testament to his intellect, but enduring its bureaucratic absurdities was proving to be a testament to his (surprisingly resilient) patience.
Setting aside the feeling of confusion and fear, he enrolled into this institution for his desire to learn empathy and sympathy. Well, he tried but it just doesn’t work.
“Chishiya? What’s wrong? Are you…alright?” Aoi’s voice, laced with that familiar thread of concern that had become a surprisingly comforting constant in his post-Borderland existence, cut through his internal grumbling. It wasn't a tone he actively disliked, though admitting that aloud would likely result in some form of teasing. “Nothing,” he replied, the lie slipping out with practiced ease. “Just wanted to… ascertain the exact date. I have this… premonition—” He drew the word out with dramatic flair, enjoying the theatricality of it.
Just as he was about to elaborate on his entirely fabricated "premonition," Aoi, with the lightning-fast reflexes of a startled cat, snatched the nearest heavy textbook – which happened to be Gray's Anatomy, a truly formidable weapon – and adopted a stance that could only be described as aggressively defensive. It wasn't a proper fighting stance, mind you. It was less "karate master" and more "overly enthusiastic baseball outfielder about to catch a rogue fly ball." One leg was awkwardly forward, the book held aloft like a poorly wielded shield. “—of impending… paperwork,” Chishiya finished dryly, the dramatic tension deflating like a punctured lung. “Now, Aoi,” he continued, raising a questioning eyebrow at her bizarre posture. “What precisely are you doing?”
“With your track record?” she retorted, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, the textbook still held at an alarming angle. “The weird hours, the locked door with strange fumes wafting out, your unsettlingly detailed knowledge of things that can make people stop breathing… You always have some crazy idea brewing, especially involving your delightful fascination with things that could kill us all! So, yes, I’m taking preemptive measures to ensure the continued structural integrity of this room, and possibly your internal organs intact.” She slowly lowered the book, though her gaze remained fixed on him with the unwavering intensity of a hawk eyeing a particularly interesting rodent.
A genuine smirk tugged at Chishiya’s lips, quickly escalating into a soft chuckle. Her overprotective tendencies, while occasionally exasperating, were also… endearing, in a bizarre, Aoi-esque way. “Haha! Oh my, Aoi…” he said, a playful glint in his eyes, “are you suggesting I would endanger us in my own home? Where would be the fun in that? Besides, my experiments are always… meticulously controlled. Mostly.” The last sentence left a wordless tension from the fact that he once did what she just said.
This last, muttered aside, was apparently audible enough. With a frustrated huff that sounded remarkably like an angry pigeon, Aoi delivered a swift, surprisingly forceful smack to the back of his head. “Mostly? That’s hardly reassuring!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with annoyance. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked towards the door, her retreating back radiating the indignant fury of a small, but determined, feathered creature. Chishiya watched her go, a lingering smile playing on his lips.
Anyhow..
He gazed around the room and landed on the reflective plate that was made by one of his friends before he left the country to make ends with his business. He sighed and finally muttered softly to not make too much noise.
“Let’s get this over quickly.”