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Kim isn't home.
Kim isn't home, and he said he would be back by now.
That's… fine. It's fine, right? He’s a grown man, he can do whatever he wants. He can stay out late, go anywhere, answers to no one.
It's certainly none of Kenta's business.
But Kenta lives in Kim's apartment, and has grown used to his comings and goings, the rhythms by which he lives his life. Kenta knows, now, that Kim wakes early in the morning, that he hums snippets of songs that are on his mind, but doesn't actually talk much before a fortifying cup of coffee. He knows that Kim enjoys moving, being active, but hates the gym and will always go for a run outside when he can. He knows that Kim doesn't really care about food, but that he loves to cook, that he’s exceptionally happy when he can feed Kenta.
Kenta knows things, is the point. And he knows that, whenever he goes out without Kenta, Kim is always careful to tell him where he’s going and for how long.
Kenta hadn't really considered why, but he thinks he understands now. He thinks Kim was trying to avoid him feeling like this, worried and anxious, so unhappy with it that he can't settle. He walks from the kitchen to the balcony, looking out over the the street below as if he can summon Kim through wishing it into being; he sits for a moment on the sofa, legs jiggling nervously, before jumping up to pace back and forth in the tiny living space.
Kenta doesn't often think about what Tony took away from him. Tony took so much, from so many people. Their lives, of course, from some. From others, their children. From Kenta, the things he took away were more theoretical; he took away the potential for Kenta to live a normal life, and he destroyed any possibility of Kenta fitting in with a normal pack. But those things were never real. They only ever existed in Kenta's mind, or in some other universe where Kenta's mother didn't need money more than she needed her son.
(And for all that he loathes Tony and the harms he has caused, Kenta has to acknowledge that Tony also gave him many things. He’s a good fighter; he speaks four languages fluently and can get by in another two or three; what he doesn't know about weapons and human anatomy isn't worth knowing. He’s exceptionally skilled in a handful of (admittedly niche) areas, and that's not just due to natural talent.)
What Kenta doesn't have, he’s realising as his mind goes on a long and complicated journey, spiralling without his permission, is any concept of how quickly it's socially acceptable to start looking for Kim. How long he's supposed to wait before he's allowed to panic. How long after that before he can start hunting people down and pressing them until they give up Kim's location.
(The other thing he doesn't have, is a full and complete understanding of why he needs it so badly. Why, after just a few days, it's so important to Kenta to know where Kim is, to know that he’s safe and protected, to guard him as fiercely as he’s ever guarded anything precious to him. It's a mystery, and when he thinks about solving it, something flops over alarmingly in his stomach, so he’s pushing that aside for now.)
In the end, Kenta waits for thirteen and half minutes, which is probably not long enough, but he’s only just found someone worth worrying about, so he going to do it properly. He texts Pete to ask if he can track Kim's phone, and his own phone screen lights up a moment later, a link to a map with a red dot moving along a small road north of the apartment block. It's not far away, but it is a little too far for him to have got there and back by the time he said, which means it's not somewhere Kim ever planned to go.
Kenta is out the door before his screen falls dark again.
The dot is moving, too slow for a car, too fast for someone walking. Kim is running, and Kenta knows he didn't go out in his running shoes. He speeds up, corners too fast in Kim's car, chases the dot with an urgency that feels unfamiliar in his chest.
When he finds it, Kenta has to begrudgingly thank Tony once again for the training that allows him to push back against the rising tide of panic that would otherwise overwhelm him. Instead, he’s able to focus on the situation that's in front of him, to concentrate on that and not lose himself to the anxiety nipping at his heels. To dash out of the car, to race to Kim's side, to observe the facts and nothing else.
Kim's in an alleyway. Kim is lying on the ground. Kim has blood on his leg, high probability it's his own. Kim has a hole in his jeans, high up on his thigh, small and dark, almost invisible in the mess of slick, red-black blood bubbling up out of it.
Kim has been shot.
Kenta focuses on that. Focuses on that too much, in fact. He focuses so hard that he misses the other salient fact, which is that the gunman is still in the alley. Kenta misses that until there's a gunshot, the sound echoing loudly off the walls in the narrow space; a second later there's a sharp pang in his side, just above his hip, blooming from nothing to pain in an instant.
Kenta falls to the ground, and if he were honest he'd have to admit it's not the pain in his body that drags him down, but fear. Fear for Kim, fear that he's too late, fear that the hole is his leg is too close to something vital. He lands next to Kim's body, pieces of grit and broken glass pressing into his knees, Kim's blood and his own soaking into the cotton of his jeans, mingling so he doesn't know whose is whose.
Behind him, he registers the gunman running away, footsteps turning to dull thuds on the ground before fading away to nothing. Once they're gone, he can hear Kim's breathing; it's laboured and he's groaning quietly; it's awful, horrible, scrapes over his brain like a nail on a chalkboard, but it's proof he’s alive, and for that reason alone it's the most beautiful sound Kenta has ever heard.
"Kim, can you hear me?" Kenta asks, slipping off his jacket and balling it up so he can press it against the wound in Kim's leg, palm pressing down as evenly as he can.
Kenta is assessing the wound as he applies pressure, free hand slipping underneath Kim's leg to feel for a matching exit wound. His search is fruitless, fingers finding nothing but uninterrupted denim. The lack of an exit wound is worrying. The bullet wound is too high up Kim's thigh, too close to his femoral artery, for a bullet trapped inside to be untreated for any length of time. It's also too complex for Kenta to treat it completely on the scene; he needs to get Kim to a trauma centre as soon as he can.
"I can — of course I can hear you, why wouldn't I be able to hear you," Kim snaps, teeth gritted against the pain.
Kenta is so pleased to hear his voice he doesn't even mind how fiery he sounds. If anything, he’s glad Kim's temper is still as strong as ever. No one as hot-headed as Kim would be calm in this moment, so if he’s cross, he can't be hurt too badly.
"Ah, I wasn't sure, your breathing was — it doesn't matter. How are you doing?"
"It fucking hurts," Kim says, "I've been shot in the leg, how do you think I'm doing?"
"Yeah, it's not fun." Kenta sympathises; the first time he was shot was a real low point in a life not over-burdened with high points.
"No, it sucks. Shia, it's the worst," Kim gripes.
"Ah, okay. You're going to be okay, I'm going to — ah." Kenta's hand finds nothing in his pocket, where he'd expected to feel body-warmed metal. "Shit. My phone is in the car. Where's yours?"
"It's — I think he took it, the guy who shot me. He didn't even know me," Kim says. He sounds unreasonably annoyed at that, as though it would have been much better to be shot and mugged by someone who harboured a grudge.
"Okay. That's — that's fine, I'm just going to… I'm going to…"
Kenta doesn't know what he’s going to do. His brain is a whirlwind, thoughts flying through it faster than ever before.
He needs to call an ambulance before Kim bleeds out, he needs to keep pressure to stop Kim bleeding out, he can't let go of Kim's leg to get his phone, but if he doesn't let go of his leg to get his phone… the thoughts cycle round and round, a chaotic, horrible carousel that he can't slow down, can't stop, and he doesn't have time.
"Kenta?" Kim asks calmly. "What are you going to do?"
Although he's calm, Kim also sounds a little quieter than he had before, a little more subdued, his earlier fire fading to embers.
"Okay," Kenta says firmly, decisively, his hand not wavering on Kim's thigh, "I'm going to have to take my hand off the wound, just for a moment, to tie a tourniquet, okay? So don’t panic. Don’t panic, Kim."
"I'm not," Kim says softly. "I trust you, Kenta."
"Good. Okay, that's good." Kenta thinks distantly that he should try and smile at Kim; he knows keeping calm is good for the patient in emergent situations, and he knows Kim likes it when he smiles, but Kenta can't quite muster one up, not right now. "Take off your belt."
"Wow, you're not even going to buy me dinner first?" Kim says, then sighs. "No, don't look at me like that, it was a joke, Kenta, it — never mind."
"I know," Kenta mutters. He doesn't say that he can't handle jokes right now, that while he’s glad Kim is able to make fun of him, Kenta isn't able to laugh at anything.
Not while Kim is hurt.
Kim half-sits to take off his belt; Kenta feels the muscles in his leg shift beneath his fingers and presses down harder, ignoring a shocked grunt of pain from Kim. He’s sorry to hurt him more, but pain is survivable, whereas there is a finite limit to the amount of blood he can hæmorrage.
Kenta takes the belt from Kim and works it under his leg. It's awkward using only one hand that's slippery with blood, but it's fear that's the real problem, fear that's making his fingers clumsy and slowing his mind, his reactions, so that it takes him twice as long as it should to fasten the buckle, cinching the belt tight just below the groin.
Kim cries out as Kenta pulls the strap taut, body spasming with it, jacknifing off the dirty ground. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Kenta mumbles as he ties off the belt, tugging it to make sure he's done it properly, that it's safe and the belt won't come loose. "It has to be tight. Has to be tight enough."
Tight enough to save your leg, Kenta thinks but doesn't say. Kenta doesn't know if Kim could keep driving if he loses the leg, and he doesn't know if Kim could keep going if he loses driving.
"I know." Kim spits the words out through gritted teeth, braced against the pain. "I know, I know, it's just…"
"I know," Kenta echoes Kim's words. He wants to pat his leg or squeeze his hand, but… perhaps not. "Okay, I'm going to get my phone. Stay here, I'll be right back."
"Stay here? Really? Because I was thinking about running a marathon, maybe hiking out to Chiang Mai," Kim calls after him, but Kenta isn't listening.
The pain in Kenta's hip twinges as he stands up; he pushes it down, walls off the pain so that he can focus on his task. One step, and then another, legs doing the work, no need for any extra input from his brain, no need to worry about the ache by his hip, the small dot of pain now blossoming out into something larger. His gut throbs with a billowing, inconsistent pain that burns one minute, sends shafts of ice-cold spikes through him the next. It doesn't matter, he’s stronger than the pain, stronger than a handful of randomly firing nerve endings trying to hijack his thought processes, stronger than a stupid tiny bullet that's nicked his hip.
One step, then another, one final step and he’s at his car. No, not his car, Kim's car. He doesn't have anything of his own, everything he has, he has because of Kim. That's why he has to save him, can't lose him, can't lose now when he’s only just found him, when he’s only just beginning to understand how wonderful he is. The door is still open, Kenta can just slump inside and —
His phone is gone.
It was right there, in a holder mounted to the inside of the windscreen, when he got out of the car. Kenta knows it was, because he put it there to drive here. He'd followed the little red dot, watching it turn this way and that, its path irregular and unpredictable, and he'd prayed the whole way that he was wrong, that Kim was fine, that the sick feeling in his gut was foolishness and overthinking.
There's a far worse pain in his gut now, but it's still preferable to that sick feeling, that worrying and uncertainty, gnawing at his ribs, hollowing him from the inside out. The phone isn't there, because he left the door open in his haste to get out of the car. So focused on finding Kim, getting to him as quickly as possible, that he had just bolted out of the car. Foolish, Kenta, Tony's voice echoes in his head. A foolish, foolish mistake.
Kenta groans quietly, all the acknowledgment he'll allow himself that what comes next is not going to be a lot of fun, and then he shifts slightly in the driver's seat, turning his torso so that he can check the wound in his side.
When he was kneeling next to Kim, panic and adrenaline had masked the worst of the pain well enough for him to think clearly, to act as needed. But now, the walk to the car has the pain flaring white-hot and unavoidable. Kenta exhales slowly, a long breath eked out through pursed lips as he lifts the hem of his t-shirt and finally looks down.
He knows it's going to be bad before he sees it; the thin cotton fabric has to the wound, which starts bleeding again as he tugs it free. And it's not just a graze, as he'd hoped, as he'd told himself — lied to himself —kneeling at Kim's side, but a puncture, a hole in the skin above his hip, close to his flank.
A cursory check finds that, like Kim, he has no exit wound. There's a bullet inside him, somewhere, nestled in a bed of torn blood vessels and ripped muscles, probably some damaged cartilage, maybe even shards of bone knocked loose. But despite that, the bleeding isn't as bad as he would have expected. That must mean the damage isn't that bad, surely, not if a simple t-shirt could stem it as well as it had. And if the pain seems to be getting worse now, that's probably only because he’s seen the wound. If he'd never looked, it wouldn't hurt hardly at all.
It doesn't matter how much it hurts, anyway. Kim needs him, right now, so he can ignore the pain for a while longer.
Kenta grits his teeth and hauls himself back out of the car.
Kim is weirdly heavy. Kenta has thought about carrying him, has thought about it a lot actually, and he'd been sure Kim would be lighter than this. Maybe it's his bad leg, making him clumsy, weighing down his limbs so he can't easily get to his feet. But eventually Kenta braces himself on the alley wall and Kim sort of… climbs awkwardly up him, like a kitten up a tree, until he’s upright albeit a little bit wobbly.
Every motion, every tiny little movement jostles Kenta, sending sparks of agony through his side, spurts of pain that steal the air from his lungs and leave him tight lipped and unable to speak. He grits his teeth and holds steady, refusing to let his face give away the truth of his struggle. Hold on, hold it in, hold fast; Kenta holds, and Kim holds on to him. It's okay, it will be okay, Kenta thinks. They're going to be okay.
"Put your arm around my shoulders — yeah, like that, lean on me," Kenta tells Kim when he's on his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist and tucking him close into his side.
"You're cold," Kim says, but Kenta’s not paying attention to what he's saying, distracted by concentrating on staying upright, on finding a way to walk that doesn't cause his hurt leg to buckle under him. Kenta lets him find his rhythm, supporting him without dragging him along faster than he can manage. It's not as easy as he'd hoped, and Kenta almost drops back down to his knees twice on the short walk down the alleyway, but eventually they reach the car.
"It's not far to the hospital," Kenta tells Kim, helping him into the passenger seat. Leaning over him to fasten his seatbelt tugs at his hip, sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through his belly, and his bloody fingers slip on the buckle; it's not until Kim wraps his hand around Kenta's that he steadies himself and feels the metal click home.
"Not long now," Kenta says, when he’s got himself settled in the driver's seat. "It's not far to the hospital, it's just — just by the river. I'll get you there soon, okay."
"Okay," Kim says tightly. When Kenta risks a glance over at him, he looks ashen, his face drawn and eyes closed as if he hardly has the energy to keep them open. His mouth is open, lips slack, breathing laboured again.
"So, so soon," Kenta promises again.
Driving is harder than he'd hoped, too; like helping Kim to his feet, something that should have been familiar and easy feels instead like an impossible task. His hands slip on the wheel and the gearstick, everything is quickly tacky with drying blood, and his feet struggle on the pedals. It's his brain, he thinks, it's getting harder to concentrate. Everything is so foggy. He must be losing more blood than he'd thought, or maybe it's just shock. Maybe his body is finally trying to protect him, shutting out the trauma as best it can.
Probably not. Just like his family, like Tony, like Pete, Kenta's body has never looked out for him before.
The drive to the hospital goes by in a blur. Kenta's brain isn't working, but his body remembers what to do, just about, and it's late enough that there isn't much traffic in this part of town. He doesn't park the car well, either, just gets as close to the main doors as he can and throws on the handbrake. He climbs out of the car, door open behind him, yelling for help as he staggers towards the building.
Kenta has a vague impression of walking through sliding glass doors, and then he's in a room that's too bright, fluorescent lights and high ceilings and people in spotless uniforms walking around briskly, sure of themselves, knowing where to go.
Kenta sees a desk that looks hopeful, the sort of desk that looks like the people manning it might actually know what they're talking about. He walks towards it, still calling out for help. He's trying to sort out the words he'll say when he gets there, trying to reach for them through the fog in his mind. What those words might be, he never finds out; his legs fail before he reaches the desk, or his hip does, he’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything, really, beyond the incontrovertible truth that the floor is hard and uncomfortable.
"Kim," Kenta manages to say, when a face swims into view in front of him. Above him, probably; they're backlit by a fluorescent halo, glowing unnaturally as they peer down at him. "In the car. Kim."
"Don’t worry about that now," the haloed figure says, which is ridiculous. How is he supposed to not worry about Kim? They might as well tell him not to worry about breathing.
Maybe that's not the best comparison right now, actually. Kenta's breathing is slower than it should be. Everything is slower than it should be, in fact, his breathing and his reflexes and his thoughts, all slowing down to a sluggish crawl.
"Kim," Kenta says again, and that turns out to be all he can say before his eyes close themselves, the fluorescent halo disappearing as the world around him goes black.
"You're awake," Kim says.
"Okay," Kenta says. He's glad of the information; he isn't sure what's happening or where he is, but he trusts Kim, so if Kim says he’s awake, he must be awake.
It seems reasonable, anyway. His eyes are open and, even though his body feels floaty and a bit odd, he does have a body, which is something he’s always had when he’s been awake before.
The warm feeling he's got, like the blood running through his veins is soft and pink and fluffy, though — that's new.
"I think they've replaced my blood with candy floss," Kenta tells Kim.
"Oh?" Kim raises an eyebrow. It makes him look even more handsome than usual. Kenta can't help sighing at the sight of him, handsome and curious. "Well, we are in a hospital, if you want to talk to a doctor about it."
"No, I don't mind." Kenta lifts his arms and waggles them around so Kim can see how nicely they move. "Do you see?"
"I have no idea what you're trying to show me," Kim says.
"I'm showing you — oh, you can't see it," Kenta says sadly, looking at his hands. They look completely normal, instead of pink-tinged and glowing. "It's gone invisible. Invisible candy floss, like a magician would eat."
"It's called morphine, you'll be over it soon."
Kenta hopes he’s wrong. He feels like he’s been enveloped in velvet bubble wrap, like a massive padded burrito. He’s never felt this safe and warm in his life.
"Did they give you morphine too?" Kenta asks, remembering Kim's leg suddenly.
"No, they gave me other painkillers," Kim says. "I'm okay, though."
Kenta squints, furrowing his brow until things come more clearly into focus. Kim is in a wheelchair beside his bed; he's wearing a hospital gown which is tucked up on one side, showing thick bandages around his thigh.
"You should lie down," Kenta tells him. "You have to listen to me, I'm a doctor."
"Oh, really?" Kim asks. He’s smiling; Kenta doesn't understand why, but it makes him so, so pretty to look at, so pretty that Kenta doesn't mind not understanding what's going on.
"Yeah, Dr. Kenta says go to your room."
"Oh, okay, I'll go in a moment. I only came in here to be mad at you for not telling me you'd been shot," Kim says. His voice sounds like he’s laughing even though he’s not actually laughing, like he’s got laughter stitched into the fabric of his soul. He’s so pretty it takes Kenta a moment to understand what he’s said.
"You're mad at me?" Kenta asks, when the words filter through the all-encompassing haze cocooning him.
"No, he’s not," someone else says. When Kenta turns his head, a nurse is doing something to an IV stand that's near his bed. He’s also smiling, so it must be a lovely IV stand, Kenta thinks. "Do you want to know a secret? He’s been sitting in here waiting for you to wake up since they brought you back from surgery."
"Oh." Kenta tries to work out what that means; he thinks it's important, but the reason why it's important is hovering just out of reach, like a dragonfly over a lake on a hot day, iridescent and alluring. "They surged me?"
"They did," the nurse says solemnly. "They surged you up, and now you're going to rest for a while, until you're all better."
"Yes, okay, rest now." Kenta rolls his head lazily on the pillow until Kim comes back into view. "Oh, hey, look at you. I think you're my dragonfly."
"I'm your — what, sorry? Your dragonfly?"
"Mm-hmm. Look," Kenta says; he waves a hand around in the air to demonstrate. "Little and shiny and important. Dragonfly."
When it squeezes his own, Kim's hand is warm, warmer even than the liquid comfort being pumped into his veins. Kenta lets his eyes fall closed, Kim's warmth a soothing balm to his various aches and pains.
"Sure, Kenta," he hears Kim say as he drifts back to his chemically-enhanced sleep, "I can be your dragonfly."