Chapter Text
Black Jack’s hands, as gifted as they were, were not infallible. Every once in a while, they shook. It would start subtly—a twitch of the wrist, a dropped pen—but for someone like Black Jack, who needed his hands day in and day out for his livelihood, he would notice at the first tremor.
Sometimes it would remain subtle and fade quickly. Other times, the tremors would escalate, and that finger twitching would turn into being unable to write, that dropped pen converted into a dropped scalpel. Black Jack feared these times. Even if the shaking remained small, he’d lose sleep over worries that it would one day go past to the point of no return, and he'd permanently lose the dexterity and precision he had worked so hard to develop.
Previous episodes revealed that his case was psychosomatic. No one escapes getting caught in an explosion unscathed, but Black Jack was used to his lingering symptoms being solely physical. He could understand if the tremors were from his fingers needing to be reattached twenty-odd years ago. The tremors being exacerbated by stress and mental trauma, however? It felt absurd.
Black Jack wasn’t the type of person to have a mental block. That wasn’t his style. He had survived the impossible, recovered over the course of years, and grew up into the world’s most skilled surgeon through his mental strength. He held that story with pride, almost mythologized it. Why he would be so afraid of a tragedy he overcame was a mystery to him.
These hand tremors were his antithesis. They were a reminder that Black Jack had never fully recovered and never will, a reminder that mortality was fragile.
And when one thing reminded you of the fragility of life, you tended to recall everything else.
Black Jack was seated at his desk when it hit. His right hand darted suddenly to the left, smudging the ink on his paperwork. Dread filled the pit of his stomach; it had been about a year since his last bout, and he had been hoping to make it to five before it recurred. This was much earlier than expected.
Not taking his eyes off of his hand, he set his pen down and gripped his wrist with his other hand. There it was, imperceptible unless you knew what to look for. It was the tiniest of jittering back and forth, the inability to keep his hand still, even propped up and supported.
Sweat beaded down Black Jack’s face. The room was getting warmer. This was terrible timing, he had an operation scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Maybe if he put his hands on complete rest for the time being, he’d have enough strength to fight off the tremors until the operation was over and done with.
Of course, he knew the cause was mental, not physical. It was a positive feedback loop; his hands would shake, which would cause him to stress, which would cause his hands to shake even more. He could feel his heart pounding against his chest.
The room was really, really warm. Unrealistically warm. There wasn’t any fire going, and he wasn’t wearing his coat, so logically Black Jack knew that it should not be getting any hotter. And yet, it was sweltering. His breathing became labored. It was like he was melting.
No, melting wasn’t the right word. Kuroo was burning. He was burning and his skin was up against the flames. A great wall of fire was hitting him like a truck, a brick wall slamming into his chest.
And it was still getting hotter. All Kuroo could see was orange and yellow and white. Every nerve was being pinched at once, screaming in searing pain. He could truly comprehend every cell, every molecule in his body when they were all being scorched alive. He wanted to flinch, to squirm, to scream until his lungs gave out, but the inferno didn't even allow him that—the pressure was too overwhelming, the force suffocating. Kuroo was completely and utterly powerless.
How was he still conscious? How was he still alive? Was it ever going to end? He would be like this, in agony, for the rest of his short life.
Kuroo wanted his mom. Wasn't she with him? Where was she? They were holding hands. Was she still there, holding onto him? Where did she go? Why couldn’t he feel her hands? Why couldn't he feel his?
He needed to look for her, but he couldn't tell what he was looking at anymore, what was up and what was down. Kuroo was burning and he wanted to scream and he wanted to cry and he wanted reprieve and he wanted his mom and he was falling and then he hit something very, very hard and then—
Black Jack was sitting at his desk.
At, at his desk.
In his nice little cottage on the cliff by the sea.
…He needed some air.
Unsteadily—very unsteadily—Black Jack rose from his chair. Stumbling his way to the door, he grabbed his coat and swung it over his shoulders. He intended to make a silent exit, but as he stepped in the doorway, someone took notice.
“Where ya going?”
He turned to find Pinoko peeking out from the kitchen, donned head to toe in cleaning gear and brandishing a mop. She had that innocent, curious expression in her eyes that said “Please take me with you!”
That was definitely not happening. His nerves were utterly shot, and he didn’t want Pinoko to see him like that. These episodes were his battle, not hers. “I won’t be long.”
“That doesn’t answer my question!” But Black Jack was already heading down the pathway away from the cottage.
He followed the path leading down the hill, the one that looped back around below the cliffside. Gradually, the grass petered out, leaving rocks and sand and tiny seashells, before opening up to a small cove directly beneath the cliff where the cottage sat.
Pausing for a moment to observe the scenery, Black Jack exhaled and hesitantly made his way to the water. There, he rolled his sleeves up and submerged his hands, focusing on the waves rolling in and out. He stayed that way until the tremor in his hands and the unpredictable metronome of the waves became one and the same.