Chapter Text
"Sensei, thank you for everything."
Saying those words out loud turned out to be harder than Ai had expected. Strange. She'd said them so many times on screen, smiling into the camera—routine, pretty, empty phrases. But now, in this small hospital room, the words got stuck in her throat.
Gorou-sensei looked up from the clipboard in his hands. He adjusted his glasses—they were always sliding down his nose—and answered in his usual calm voice:
"It's nothing, really. It's my job, after all."
Ai looked at him and saw what he himself, apparently, didn't notice. The bags under his eyes. The greyish pallor of his skin. That particular look of someone who'd long forgotten what it meant to sleep more than four hours.
Three months. Only three months she'd been here, and sensei was already so worn out that sometimes he fell asleep right in the room, sitting on a chair. Ai had seen it once—she'd pretended to be asleep so as not to embarrass him, and watched through her eyelashes as he slept, his head drooped onto his chest, his jaw going slack in a way that was almost funny.
He'd promised. He'd said it that first day: "I'll help." And now Ai was beginning to suspect that for him, that promise meant more than just a job.
Why? That question had haunted her for all three months.
That very first day, when she'd crossed the threshold of this hospital, Gorou hadn't tried to hide that he recognized her. He'd said it straight out: there was a patient who'd stayed here and always played her performances. B-Komachi. Ai. He'd even smiled then—shyly, almost boyishly.
But whenever Ai asked about that patient, sensei would go quiet. Change the subject. Or simply evade the question with a deftness that suggested he'd been doing it his whole life. Even the nurse who assisted him would press her lips together and pretend not to hear.
They were hiding something. Both of them.
And one more thing. Gorou-sensei was her fan. A real one. Ai knew the type—she'd seen plenty over the years. The ones who gazed at her on screen with adoration, who wrote letters confessing their love, who would stand for hours at concerts. Not long ago, Ichigo-san had said: "Fans would destroy me, and you, and the whole company if they found out about the pregnancy."
But Gorou behaved... normally. Restrained. Almost detached. Sometimes Ai caught herself being almost offended by it. She was used to attention, to people around her melting, going weak, losing their heads. But sensei just did his job. Did it well, but—just did it.
Strange.
"Sensei," Ai placed her hand on her belly, feeling the pleasant warmth under her palm. Inside, two small hearts were beating. She'd learned to tell them apart—one slightly faster, the other calmer. "I trust you. If I call for you—please come."
She didn't know why she was saying this. She just wanted him to know.
"Of course." He smiled, and Ai noticed a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "My home isn't far from here. But even if I'm not around, the other doctors will help you, so don't worry."
"Please don't say that!" Ai puffed out her cheeks, feeling a familiar wave rise inside her—the theatrical, capricious one. But right now, it was real. "I want it to be you!"
Gorou chuckled softly. Ai liked his laugh—quiet, a little hoarse, tired. And then it happened—what she'd been waiting for three months. He reached out his hand and gently, as if afraid of breaking her, patted her head. His palm was warm, slightly rough.
"Hehe," Ai squinted contentedly, like a cat that had finally gotten to the cream. "I knew it. I knew someday you wouldn't be able to resist and would start getting handsy."
"Hey, hey, what are you talking about?!" Gorou jerked his hand back as if burned and looked around frantically, checking if anyone had witnessed this "outrage." "I didn't do anything!"
Ai laughed. Lightly, sincerely, the way she hadn't laughed in a long time.
"I wouldn't mind if it's you," she flashed her signature smile, the one that made fans' hearts melt.
Gorou pressed his palm to his forehead and sighed heavily.
"I've heard that somewhere before... Do teenagers really talk like that?"
Ai wanted to joke further, but the smile slipped from her face on its own. She looked at her hands, intertwined her fingers, started rubbing them together—nervously, without stopping.
"Sensei, I'm sorry for causing you so much trouble. Because of me, you can't even get proper rest."
"Nothing to worry about."
"Still!" Ai lifted her head and met his gaze. There wasn't a trace of the lies she was used to in the industry. Only tiredness and some strange, warm calmness. "I don't want you to regret helping me... and my children."
Gorou froze. For a second, his face became completely serious. He pulled over the chair standing against the wall, sat down next to the bed, and leaned closer. So close that Ai could see the small wrinkles around his eyes.
"Listen," he began, and in his voice there was no trace of that professional detachment he usually wore like a mask. "I understand your fears. I really do. But believe me: I don't regret helping you one bit. I didn't become a doctor to count hours and feel sorry for myself. I became a doctor to help people."
Ai looked into his eyes and couldn't look away.
"You see," Gorou smiled slightly, "Gorou-the-doctor and Gorou-the-fan—they don't conflict. As a doctor, I'm obligated to help you because you're my patient. And as a fan..." he hesitated, searching for words, "as a fan, I'll be happy if having children makes you happy. It's simple. So don't stress over such nonsense."
He reached out and touched her head again—this time more confidently, as if he'd been given permission.
"Better prepare yourself mentally for the birth. That's the hardest part. They've already taught you everything else, so there shouldn't be any surprises."
"Thank you..."
The word escaped on its own. A quiet, almost inaudible whisper. Ai felt warmth spreading inside her from his words. The same warmth she always portrayed on stage but so rarely felt genuinely.
Gorou started to get up, but Ai suddenly caught his sleeve. Her fingers tightened on their own.
"Can I ask you one more thing?" She paused, gathering her courage. "About that patient who..."
"How about we make a deal?" he interrupted gently. "I'll tell you everything, but only after you give birth. Okay?"
Ai searched his face. Looked for a shadow of deceit, evasion, anything. Didn't find it.
"Right after I give birth?" she repeated. "You promise?"
Gorou chuckled, shook his head.
"Well, going that far isn't necessary. But... if you need confirmation—yes, I swear by my title as the best doctor in this hospital. And by my own skin."
He stood up, stretched, his back cracking, and headed for the door.
"Well, see you tomorrow," he waved.
"See you," Ai responded, waving back.
The door opened, and the nurse's voice came through:
"Doctor, are you finished?"
"Yes. Call if anything happens."
"Got it. Get some rest."
"Thanks."
The door closed. Ai was left alone in the silence of the room. She placed her hand on her belly again and sat motionless for a long time, listening to the two small hearts beating inside her in unison with her own.
Outside the window, the evening city hummed with noise. But inside—inside, it was warm and calm. For the first time in a long time.
***
The night Ai had both waited for and feared began with a wet spot on the sheets.
At first, she didn't understand. It was just warmth, dampness between her legs. Then came the fear—cold, sticky, having nothing to do with pain. She fumbled for her phone with trembling hands.
The voice on the other end sounded calm. Too calm. Ai understood immediately—Gorou was doing it on purpose. So she wouldn't panic. It didn't work.
After that, everything turned into a kaleidoscope.
White lights overhead. Cold metal of the table beneath her back. Strangers' hands—deft, quick, impersonal—attaching wires, inserting a catheter, fixing monitors to her belly. Ai stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe. Someone was beside her—a nurse with kind, slightly tired eyes. She silently adjusted the pillow, and somehow this small gesture became an anchor. Ai wasn't alone.
Then She came.
The Pain.
Ai had read about contractions. She thought she was ready. She wasn't ready.
It wasn't like a leg cramp or a bruise. It was a wave—slow, building, merciless. It started somewhere deep in her abdomen, coiled like a tight spring, squeezed her entire body until she wanted to howl. Ai gripped the edge of the bed, clenched her teeth, tried not to scream. She couldn't.
"Hold on, Ai. You're strong."
Gorou's voice pierced through the fog. She couldn't see him—only a white blur of a coat somewhere to the side—but she could hear him. His voice was the only thing that remained normal when everything else in her body stopped obeying.
She didn't know how long it lasted. An hour. Two. Three. Time no longer existed. There was only the cycle: build-up, peak, release, pause. Build-up, peak, release, pause. During the pauses, she drifted into semi-consciousness, but the pain dragged her back, struck her hard, wouldn't let her escape.
"Full dilation. The pushing stage is starting. Listen to me. Only to me."
Gorou's voice had changed. There was a steel in it that Ai had never heard before. He wasn't asking anymore—he was demanding.
Pushing was different. If contractions had merely tormented her, pushing turned her inside out. Her body, without asking, began living its own life. It contracted, pushed, forced something enormous out of her, and Ai couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.
"Push! Come on, push!"
She pushed. Screamed. Tears streamed down her temples, filled her ears. Her vision darkened. She pushed again. And again.
And suddenly—relief. Sharp, overwhelming. Something slipped out of her, and the pain receded, ebbed away, leaving behind emptiness and trembling.
Ai heard a cry. Thin, indignant, the most beautiful sound in her life.
"A boy. Healthy." Gorou's voice, tired and happy.
Ai wanted to look, wanted to see, but a new wave already crashed over her. Her body gave no respite. Inside, the tight spring began coiling again.
"The second baby needs to come quickly. One more push. Listen to me!"
Something was wrong. Ai could tell from the voices. The nurses had started bustling. Gorou spoke faster, sharper. She didn't understand the words—only the intonations. Alarm. Tension.
"Come on, Ai! Your daughter's life depends on this!"
Daughter. She was going to have a daughter.
Ai found strength where there was none left. She clenched, screamed, arched—not for herself, but for the small one still inside. Push. Push. Push.
Silence.
A brief, terrible silence. The second cry didn't come. Ai froze, forgetting the pain, forgetting everything. Time stopped.
And then—a thin squeak. Weak, but alive. The most beloved sound.
"Alive. Healthy."
Ai exhaled. The whole world exhaled with her.
Then something warm, wet, alive was placed on her chest. First one—tiny, red, wrinkled. Then another. Two small bundles pressed against her, snuffling, seeking warmth.
Ai looked at them and didn't recognize herself. She was Hoshino Ai. Idol. Star. A girl who'd spent her whole life playing roles. But this role—this was the most important one. Mother.
She cried. Quietly, soundlessly, smearing tears across her cheeks. She didn't care how she looked. She didn't care that someone might see her weak. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to be simply herself.
Gorou sat down on the chair beside her. She felt his presence without looking. Heard his breathing. And his voice—quiet, tired, happy.
"Well, hello there, little ones. I've been waiting for you."
Ai smiled through her tears and looked out the window. Dawn was breaking. A new day. A new life. The most ordinary. The most miraculous.
***
Do babies dream?
The question came to Ai suddenly, in the middle of another light sleep, as she checked for the hundredth time in the past hours whether the two small bundles beside her were still breathing. They were breathing. Barely audibly, almost silently, their tiny noses working in unison.
Aqua snored evenly, wrapped in his blanket so that only the tip of his nose poked out. Ruby, on the contrary, was spread out like a little star, her arms thrown wide as if trying to embrace the whole world. Ai could watch them forever.
Postpartum euphoria—that's what Gorou-sensei had called it—had already faded. By the third day, reality had returned: the pulling pain in her lower abdomen, her aching back, the endless fatigue that made her eyes sticky, but the moment she closed them, she'd imagine hearing someone cry. But Ai held on. She tried with all her might not to fall apart.
Now she had a family. Her own. Real. Two little people who depended on her completely. These children had a mother who... loved them.
The thought stopped short, leaving behind cold goosebumps that ran down her arms.
Loved.
Ai could almost physically feel the word scratching at her throat from inside. Her own mother—she remembered her poorly, but well enough to know that what had been between them couldn't be called love. The orphanage had been hundreds of times better than home. She'd told Ichigo-san that at their first meeting, and it had been the most honest sentence of her life.
Ai looked at the sleeping infants. Aqua frowned slightly in his sleep—maybe he was dreaming of something troubling. Ruby smacked her lips, as if searching for milk even in her dreams.
These two would never experience what she had experienced. Never. Ai would have sworn anything on it. Even if protecting them meant committing a crime. Even if it meant killing.
The sound of the opening door pulled her from her dark thoughts. The rustle of fabric—so familiar, so dear after these past months. Ai could pick that sound out of a hundred others.
Gorou-sensei raised his hand in greeting and approached the bed silently, almost catlike. Ai followed him with her eyes: first he looked at Aqua—checked that he was breathing evenly, adjusted his blanket. Then at Ruby—he paused a moment, looking at her outstretched arms, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. Then at Ai herself.
"How are you?"
In that short phrase, everything was contained: his professional composure, his human concern, and something else, something deeper that Ai couldn't name. He looked at her as if checking whether she was still whole, whether she'd fallen apart.
Satisfied that all of them were all right, Gorou exhaled. Actually exhaled, with his whole body, and Ai felt as if she could physically sense a huge weight lifting from his shoulders.
"It seems like you're sleeping even less, sensei. I'm sor—"
She didn't finish. A flick to the forehead—light, almost weightless—landed right between her eyes. Gorou hadn't meant to hurt her. He'd just interrupted, stopping her from finishing the sentence.
"Silly girl," he said tiredly. "How many times do I have to tell you: you don't need to apologize to me. Sleep is nothing when your children's health is at stake. And yours, of course. Just seeing you all like this—that's already a reward."
"Still..."
Ai smoothed her disheveled hair with her palm—after a sleepless night, it stuck out in all directions, making her feel like a scruffy sparrow. But somehow, next to Gorou, that didn't matter. She didn't have to be perfect.
"I'm worried about your health," she said quietly. "Sleep deprivation will catch up with you."
"I'll sleep when you're discharged," he waved it off. Easily, as if it were a trivial matter.
"Sensei, maybe you should see a psychologist," Ai flashed her usual smile, the one that made fans faint. "This kind of obsession with beautiful Ai won't lead to anything good, you know."
The smile didn't work.
Ai saw how his face changed. His skin was more sunken than usual, dark circles lay under his eyes, but that wasn't it. His lips trembled. Just a little, but Ai noticed.
"Sensei?!"
She lunged to get up from the bed, but Gorou gently but firmly held her shoulders, making her lie back down.
"Everything's fine," he said, but his voice treacherously wavered. "Really."
He rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head into his hands. Hid his face. Inhaled. Exhaled. Heavier than ever before.
"But I can see it's not fine!" Ai was almost shouting in a whisper, afraid of waking the children but unable to contain herself.
Gorou lifted his head. His eyes glistened—Ai knew that shine, the one that came when tears had already welled up but the person was holding on with all their might, not letting them fall.
"If they'd sent me to a psychologist as a child," he said quietly, "I might never have met you. So please... don't say that."
He tried to smile. The smile came out bitter, strained, broken.
"At least I can say I didn't try in vain. Even... even if my efforts are useless..."
"Sensei..."
"My mother died in childbirth," Gorou said. Simply. Like stating a fact. "I don't remember it, but the consequences of what happened haunted me my whole life."
"But it wasn't your fault!" burst out of Ai.
"My grandfather—my mother's father—didn't think so. Though it later came out that she'd hidden the pregnancy and given birth alone. At home." He paused, staring at a spot on the floor. "Do you know why I became an obstetrician-gynecologist?"
Ai was silent, afraid of scaring away this sudden confession.
"My grandmother thought it was because of my mother. But actually..." he shook his head reluctantly, "it's more mundane. I wanted to save lives. Any lives. But I didn't have the nerve for surgery. If I'd been more diligent, I could have saved so many more. And even..."
He fell silent. Ai suddenly understood who he meant.
"You're talking about that patient?" she asked cautiously. "Don't tell me..."
"She died four years ago." Gorou straightened his back, reached for the ID badge around his neck. "Anaplastic astrocytoma. Malignant brain tumor, to put it simply."
He took something out of the badge and held it out to Ai. A small pink keychain fell into her palm. With her photo on it. With the words "Ai's Fan Forever!"
Ai recognized it instantly. They'd sold merchandise like this at B-Komachi's very first concerts, when they still performed in tiny venues before a handful of spectators. She remembered these keychains—cheap plastic, crooked printing, but back then they'd seemed like the height of coolness.
"This is..." Ai brought the keychain closer to her eyes, ran her finger over the laminated surface. Worn spots. Traces of time. But someone had clearly taken care of it, cherished it. "Do you remember what she looked like?"
"I have a photograph."
Gorou took out his phone, pressed the unlock button, and handed it to Ai. On the home screen—a girl of about twelve. A hat with a pom-pom. And on top of that hat, a large bunny pin. Also B-Komachi merchandise. The girl was smiling at the camera—a little shyly, but happily.
Ai looked at the photograph and felt something long-forgotten stir inside her. The face was familiar. Very familiar.
"She used to have short hair, didn't she?" Ai asked, not knowing where the thought came from.
Gorou froze. Lifted a stunned gaze to her.
"Yes, before chemothera..." he cut himself off. "You remember her?"
"Sarina-chan, right?" Ai wrinkled her forehead, trying to grasp the elusive memory. "Or something like that... I've always had trouble with names. But faces... faces I remember."
She looked at the photograph again. And suddenly the picture came together.
The front row at a concert. A girl with short hair and insanely happy eyes. She came again and again. And then—she stopped. Simply disappeared. Like thousands of other fans. Ai hadn't thought anything of it at the time—people stopped coming to concerts for all sorts of reasons.
"So that's why she stopped appearing..." Ai whispered.
She gently touched the keychain with her finger, rubbed its worn surface. How many times had Gorou held this thing in his hands? How many times had he looked at it, remembering that girl?
Ai held the keychain back out to him, but Gorou shook his head.
"I'd like you to keep it," he said quietly. "Sarina dreamed of meeting you again. Let her memory live on with you, at least. It's the best thing I can do for her." He paused for a couple of seconds and added: "It's already a miracle that you remembered her."
Ai clenched the keychain in her palm. A small piece of plastic had suddenly become infinitely important.
"When you're discharged," Gorou continued, "I'll be waiting for your new songs. But don't forget about the children! While they're small, they need all your attention. And also..."
"Sensei," Ai interrupted. She looked straight at him, and in her gaze there was no trace of the playfulness she usually spoke with. "Are you afraid we'll never see each other again?"
Gorou froze. Looked away.
"But you're an idol. You don't have much time, especially for someone as boring as..."
"I'll talk to Saitou-san," Ai said firmly. "I won't leave you like this."
"Wait, wait!" Gorou threw up his hands, clearly frightened. "Do you understand he'll never approve? It could affect your career. If someone sees me with you..."
"I'm not doing this for you, and I'm not doing it for myself." Ai looked at the sleeping infants. Aqua hiccuped in his sleep and continued snoring. Ruby smacked her lips again. "For them."
"What?"
"They need to know who helped them be born." Ai turned her gaze back to Gorou. "In this not-so-fair world, you made sure they came into it healthy. That shouldn't be forgotten."
"But..."
The door opened. The nurse—the one with kind eyes—peeked in.
"Gorou-san," she called in a whisper, "new patient, you're needed at reception."
Gorou sighed, scratched the back of his head. Looked at Ai—seriously, for a long time, as if wanting to remember this moment.
"We'll talk more later," he said. "Don't you dare run away."
"See you later, sensei!" Ai waved to him and smiled—this time not an idol smile, but her own, real one.
The door closed. Ai looked at it for a long time, clutching the keychain in her palm.
***
Night fell over the hospital quietly, like falling snow.
Ai had drifted into a light, anxious sleep—the kind where you expect a cry every second, even when everything is silent. Beside her, the infants snuffled. Somewhere in the corridor, the night nurse's slippers shuffled.
Vibrate.
The phone jerked on the nightstand, pulling Ai from sleep. She fumbled for it in the darkness, brought it to her face—the screen blinded her, and she had to squint.
A new message. An unknown number.
Ai opened it. One single word:
"Congratulations."
Her heart skipped a beat. Then beat faster.
"Hikaru..."
She whispered the name, barely moving her lips. The father of her children. The one she'd parted with on a sad note, but who had remembered after all.
Ai froze, phone in hand. Her finger hovered over the call button. Call him? Ask how he was? Tell him there were two of them? That they were healthy?
No.
"He'll be against it," Ai whispered into the empty room.
She knew this. Knew it as clearly as she knew that Aqua woke up when he wanted to eat, and Ruby when she was dreaming.
Ai typed a reply: "Thank you." Short. Impersonal. Safe.
Her finger hovered over the send button. Then pressed.
The message flew off into the night. Ai deleted the conversation history, just as Ichigo-san had taught her: "No traces, Ai. No traces."
She put the phone on the nightstand, screen down.
She didn't feel like sleeping anymore. Ai turned on her side and watched the two sleeping infants for a long time. Aqua twitched his leg in his sleep. Ruby smiled—just a little, at the corners of her mouth.
The father of her children had congratulated her. Said one word. And disappeared.
Ai stroked Aqua's head—his hair was so soft, like down. Adjusted Ruby's blanket.
Outside the hospital window, the city slept. But here, in this small room, her new life had begun. The most ordinary. The most miraculous.