Work Text:
It was three days before Sousuke visited Otoharu again. It wouldn’t do to look too desperate, to seem like he cared too much about his old rival. Now that the man was awake, he couldn’t get away with sitting endlessly by his bedside anymore, waiting for him to recover. He would never live it down. But three days was probably enough; it wouldn’t look like he cared, not really, not with the bone-crawling heat that had taken up residence in his chest and in his limbs for the long days of Captain Takanashi’s fever, delirium, and unconsciousness. He still didn’t know why that had happened, why the feeling had yet to recede; it was this horrid uncertainty, more than anything else, that had kept him on the opposite side of the ship from Otoharu, refusing to even spy on him, but ordering his crew to take strict care of him, to follow his orders as though they came from Sousuke himself, no matter what they were—but to never state that out loud under pain of death.
It had been working so far, he thought; the updates he’d gotten all said that Captain Takanashi was recovering well, physically at least, he was drinking enough water, they were very vehement about that. And he was making his desires known. They were supposed to do whatever he said, right…?
Sousuke wasn’t sure why his crew had asked that question so many times, but after the fifth in two days he just sent them on to Anesagi, who first cussed them out for asking stupid questions, and then swore up at the sky, and then started insisting that Sousuke check on Otoharu for himself, because whatever she thought about stupid orders it wasn’t the crew’s place to disobey their captain.
And because Sousuke knew better than to ignore Anesagi’s recommendations, he went early on the morning of the third day, or started to. For whatever reason, he found himself unable to step over the threshold of the ship’s medical bay, to push back the canvas curtain in the doorframe and face his old rival once more. And for what? Only recently had he spent days in there, watching Otoharu breathe; it was ridiculous that he couldn’t bear to cross the threshold now. And yet it was only when he heard footsteps approaching from nearby, heralding the advent of a witness, that Sousuke got up the nerve to step forward; push the canvas curtain aside; step into the room.
It was very quiet, and empty except for the two patients inside. Perhaps anticipating that Sousuke would want as few witnesses as possible for this, Anesagi had ordered that the crew not linger inside this room; that, or nobody wanted to waste their time here. Either was possible. Otoharu was lying on his side, but awake; Sousuke could tell by the shape of his shoulders and the rhythm of his breath. The first mate still did not seem to have moved in the intermittent three days, and for some reason, Sousuke found himself remembering Otoharu’s words—I have Banri-kun—and hoping that the boy had died.
This was a strange hope—it carried with it the confirmation that Takanashi Otoharu would have nowhere to go other than to Sousuke, and why would he want that—so instead of examining the thought or feeling in any way, Sousuke quashed it down and walked to Otoharu’s bedside.
Immediately he noticed something wrong. Though it had been days since the other captain’s rescue, his eyes were clouded, his cheeks hollow and pale. There was enough food on this ship, more than enough food on this ship, and yet somehow, he looked as though he still was starving. Sousuke stared for one, two, three breaths, fury building up in him like a heartbeat, before he snapped, “You aren’t eating?!”
Because of course his crew would have fed the man, if at all possible; of course they would have given him the best care possible, if they had any choice in the matter—if they did not, they would be keelhauled. The only exception was if Otoharu gave them any kind of conflicting order about his care; clearly, he had. It seemed that, on occasion, Sousuke’s crew actually did have a good reason to act jumpy and nervous around him. Who knew.
Despite Sousuke’s indignation, Otoharu did not say a word, though Sousuke knew he had heard him—he had twitched, just slightly, and that in the old wound of their relationship said more than a thousand words ever could have. He was listening. He knew Sousuke was here.
And Sousuke would give him hell for it.
“What are you thinking?! No, are you thinking? Do you want to die?!” he demanded.
Otoharu said nothing, so Sousuke grabbed him by the too-bony shoulder and pulled, rolling him over in a splay of limbs so that their gazes met, eye to empty eye.
“You’re starving yourself,” Sousuke shouted, “deliberately starving yourself—if this goes on you’ll die, do you hear me?! You’ll die!”
He shook Otoharu by the shoulders; there was no resistance, as though he were shaking out a sheet, or a sail bereft of wind. He cursed at him, almost spat in his face—held himself back only at the last moment; if Otoharu were well, and they were fighting, if they were speaking about Musubi, then of course he would have, but there was within him a dawning horror that that might only make things worse, that Otoharu might slip away as quickly and as easily as Musubi had, and with as much assistance from Sousuke as Musubi had had from Otoharu. He swore again, at the air or maybe at himself, got up, and stormed out of the medical bay down to the galley to demand a bowl of bone broth. Something in his chest twisted and ached at the cook’s look of relief at his demand, and he turned on his heel and sent out an order for somebody to tie Captain Takanashi down on his hammock. Sousuke would be force-feeding him personally, and he didn’t intend to give him any chance to struggle.
Sousuke’s crew was very capable. By the time he returned to the medical bay, bowl and spoon in hand, Otoharu had been bound hand and foot to the hammock. His head, neck, and torso were not spared, either; great leather straps covered them, three for his torso, one on his neck, one over his eyes. They would have restrained a far stronger man than Otoharu, even if he had been in the pinnacle of health; as he was now, they were merely a humiliation, as he deserved.
This time Sousuke pulled a stool up to the side of the hammock and actually sat down, balancing the bowl between his knees and leaning over the patient. First he tried to force his jaw open—it didn’t work—so then he pinched Otoharu’s nose shut and waited. Eventually he had to breathe.
It took a little while. It took long enough that Sousuke started to get concerned, actually, that he wasn’t suffocating the man right, but eventually, Otoharu’s mouth opened in a gasp, and Sousuke shoved his hand in, so that the mouth couldn’t close. Otoharu’s teeth dug into Sousuke’s hand, and he started gagging, but Sousuke was unconcerned; he would never have made it as a merchant if he couldn’t handle someone trying their hardest to bite his hand off, and anyway this wasn’t even the worst bite he’d ever sustained. He waited until Otoharu had tired himself out, and then used his free hand to take a spoonful of the broth and pour it into Otoharu’s mouth. He choked—it bubbled—he swallowed, and Sousuke, pleased, did it again and again until the bubbles stopped and Otoharu’s body jerked even more, and Sousuke realized that he was genuinely choking.
Sousuke cussed, yanking his hand out of Otoharu’s mouth—it didn’t help—and then pulling his knife out of his boot to cut the hammock down from the wall. It fell to the floor with a thump, and Sousuke followed it after a minute, thrusting his fists into Otoharu’s stomach and chest until he began to cough, broth and bloody saliva slipping from his lips and running down his cheek. Now that his airway had cleared, it was time to make sure that breath was running through it; the swift rising and falling of his chest could, after all, have been mere spasms. There was no way of making sure he breathed unless Sousuke did it himself.
Sousuke pressed his hands against Otoharu’s shirt, warmed with his body heat, and then leaned down until he could feel Otoharu’s lips against his, chapped and wet. Viciously, he dug his teeth into Otoharu’s lower lip until it drew back, and then he blew into the man’s mouth, as hard as he could, again and again and again, until he thought that maybe the man might be able to breathe on his own. Still, best to be certain. He ran his tongue around the roof of Otoharu’s mouth, hoping to feel the movement of air. It was hard to tell, though he did get intimately acquainted with the taste of Otoharu’s morning breath. Somehow it was not as terrible as Sousuke had feared.
He stopped and pulled back once it became clear that Otoharu was struggling hard enough that he had to be breathing. Panting, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and glared down at his old rival.
“I am having you moved into my personal cabin,” he growled. “From now on, you will eat.”