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In the first hundred days, he thought he knew was leadership felt like; carrying the weight of humanity's hopes and trying to guide his fellow students' lives.
Those days all seem so trivial now.
There had been a time when he could walk through the halls with hardly anyone seeing him or noting his activities. Now he can't exist without the hyperawareness of their focus - there was never a moment that they did not each of them know precisely where he was and what he was doing, longing to find some excuse to be close to him. It makes him uncomfortable, how they cling and fawn over him, but they are happy now, free of their doubts and worries. Each look and touch lingers worshipfully, even as they quail at the expression he can never quite fully erase.
Even Eito is changed even beyond the version he knew in that first time. When he sees the look of unbridled adoration as he hovers, brings him a cup of tea unasked, he wonders how he had ever been fooled by that act. It makes it all the more jarring when Nozomi looks at him with that disappointment and judgment in her gaze. She quietly asks if he's okay, and he can read the meaning behind the question. Doesn't she realize what he's going through? Does she think he doesn't know?
There is no room for him to wallow in doubts or discomfort, to indulge in selfishness. If they could find peace in this war, who was he to take it from them?
And - in a way. At certain times. A small, shameful part of him thinks it can be nice, to feel needed, after having struggled for so long to be a good leader. Acknowledging the thought makes his stomach turn.
Each time the others return to their rooms, he can hear their footsteps slow as they linger outside his door. Though he knows they will resist the urge to knock until they are allowed, cowed by the fear of his disapproval, he can't help but hold his breath when he notices their presence.
Takumi is a beacon for them, and will shoulder that burden for the sake of the fight and the greater good. Because he is a part of something bigger, more important than himself.
-
The room is quiet like a grave but for the hum of the machines in their endless hymn. Yugamu sits vigil in a chair pulled close, watching the steady mechanical rise and fall of Takumi's chest as the ventilator does its noble work.
Eito has charged him with the arrangements, of course, as the only one of them with any real medical knowledge. Yugamu can tell that having to rely on him rankles. By necessity, it grants him special privileges - even though Tsubasa was recruited to help with the mechanical elements, and a few select others have been taught to help monitor him, this was ultimately Yugamu's domain.
Even when it isn't Eito's shift, he has a tendency to hover, but the care Takumi requires is involved, and at times he is pulled away to deal with managing the others.
It hurts to see their leader so still, so vulnerable. He should be forefront among them, sword blazing in his hands as he cuts down his enemies. But he knows Eito was right - his noble heart would burn itself out for their sakes. They could not allow him to come to any other harm.
There were, of course, downsides to the plan. Paralytics unfortunately affected the diaphragm, making ventilation necessary. Aspiration was a risk, even as careful as he was with the feeding tube. Vigilance against infection from the catheter was required, and frequent repositioning was needed to prevent bed sores. All the many inevitable indignities of the flesh.
Someday, the muscle atrophy would set in regardless. A truth that none had to strength to face but him: Takumi was going to die.
He dreads to imagine their reaction, if they knew the thought that crosses his mind - that it was capable of finding a home in his mind at all, that it did not burn through him like a hot iron. Only Yugamu knows that his death will not be a betrayal; it will only be a loss of the mortal form he clings to. Death will be a transformation, one only he has the devotion to see through to its completion.
It will happen even sooner, now no matter what. The body will fail. But Takumi would not.
And even when his spirit is freed ~~from the cage of his failing meat~~, Yugamu will tend to what remains just as dutifully. Some things he knows already; others he is learning from the library. Chemical treatments. Temperature control. This planet is not worthy of the mausoleum they will bring forth from its ruins. The others don't know, but someday they will. Let them continue in their ignorance; he will be ready. For now, he keeps these tender thoughts tucked away, burning slow and steady, aching just below the ribs.
The room is warm. It feels warmer now.
Takumi's eyes are open. It is difficult to tell how much he sees, what thoughts occupy his mind now that he is no longer burdened with the need to respond to their unworthy words. He reaches for the eye drops, squeezes two into each staring eye. Some of the fluid slides down the bridge of his nose, and Yugamu dabs away the excess with the tenderness of a lover. He could spend hours looking into those peaceful eyes.
Yugamu likes to imagine Takumi can hear him when he speaks, can feel the weight of his devotion settling over him. Daring to push his privileges, he gently reaches out, brushing back his hair, tracing the shape of his brow.
He shouldn't they shouldn't be here this can't -
The thought fractures before it can complete. He sits back down, hands resting in his lap, and knows he presumed too much. A pressure pushes at his mind, and -
But the feeling slips away like water through his fingers, and all that remains is the truth: Takumi is safe. They are protecting him. This is their purpose, and their greatest honor. Yugamu is a weapon crudely forged, yet graciously allowed to strive in the service of something greater than himself.
Each memory from before the academy? the drug? the paralysis? is hazy now, as though seen in the distance through a fog. The pain of it mercifully fades each day, burning away in the light of Takumi's sun if ever he tries to focus. Soon he will be left only with the blurred shape of things, the memory of blood.
It's better this way. Easier. The past can only be a distraction from the present. That hadn't been a life. That wasn't a purpose. Each of them had been given new meaning, set in their orbits around a radiant central star. No need for violence, anymore. His hands have greater work.
"I wish you could fight beside us," he says softly. Knows he shouldn't. "I wish things could be different. But this is necessary. You understand, don't you?"
Takumi stares at the ceiling.
"You're our light. We'll destroy all your enemies. We'll make it all worth it. Everything you've given us - everything we -" He pauses, begins again, voice strained. "You'd forgive us."
Forgive? What is there to forgive? What-
The thought is banished before it forms. He doesn't doubt, doesn't question. If ever his thoughts turn troubled, the seas are always soon to calm. No one else needs to know. He's beyond reproach. He's *good*.
When he speaks again, he's quiet enough that he doubts Takumi could hear even if -
"I'll - we'll take care of you. Forever. I promise."
There are footsteps outside the door. The time he has is never enough, and it is over once again. It distresses him, the thought that while he is gone one of the others might miss something, might fail to re-administer his medical. But as he stands, smoothing his clothes, he already feels the weight of sleep tugging at him.
As he moves to the door, he dares another glance back to the serene figure on the bed. No bed rails obscure his appearance. None are needed.
As ever, he is peaceful. Safe. Loved.
Yugamu closes the door behind him, as gentle and quiet as he can.