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“You look like you’re in pain,” you said, smiling softly at the pale boy by your bedside.
“Well, it’s not exactly fun to see you like this,” he mumbled.
He looked down at your hand resting on the crisp white sheets. A bright green wrist tag had your name and blood type printed in neat little letters, the first thing you saw when you woke up a few days ago.
He was one of a whole parade of people who had introduced themselves to you since then.
There were your parents, warm and weepy.
Several of your friends had come by, carrying flowers and making jokes you didn’t quite understand.
A colleague from work, serious and a little awkward, had dropped in to tell you not to worry too much.
You had not been worrying at all, up to that point. You didn’t even remember what your job entailed.
They came and went like shadows in a thick fog, little slivers of a life that seemed nice enough, but also very far away. A blank space that you were desperately trying to fill.
The young man had come in after the others left, near the end of visiting hours.
He drifted in like a storm cloud, looking for all the world like he didn’t want to be here, sleek black hair falling over a sullen face, hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans.
He looked you up and down as you sat in the hospital bed and all you could feel for a second was ice.
He was intimidating, to put it mildly.
“He says he’s your boyfriend,” the kindly old nurse murmured and she placed the call button next to your pillow, giving you a pointed look before leaving the room.
The boy did not move from his place by the door while she flattened your sheets and quietly stepped out.
He wore a scowl that looked like murder and you wondered if it was meant for you.
“Hi,” you said, frowning at the way his shoulder slumped, how he ducked his head down as if he was weathering torrential rain.
“Hey you.”
“Would you like to take a seat?”
He sat, pouting, in a chair at the foot of your bed.
“I don’t remember you,” you said.
“I know.”
“At least you’re cute,” you shrugged, grinning.
You wondered if maybe he had a warm smile to give.
Maybe that was what had drawn you to him.
But he rolled his eyes and looked away.
The two of you sat in uncomfortable silence until the nurse sent him home.
He came back the next day and showed you pictures on his phone.
There you were, smiling brightly at the camera, your arms around the pale boy who was glaring at something in the distance.
You, holding up a peace sign while he grabbed you from behind.
You, giggling madly as you lay across his chest on the grass, shouting something at the unnamed photographer.
He didn't seem to smile much in these pictures. Mostly, he looked mildly contented, with his chin resting on your shoulder, clay brown eyes staring at the camera from under a small frown.
You looked from the pictures to him, and back, and tried to recognize the face he made when he was happy.
The third day he brought you music and books he said you’d liked.
Your parents had done much the same.
The things they called your favourite were very different from what he said you adored, but you diligently listened and leafed through all of it.
Both parties were sort of correct. You decided that you liked many genres.
You had eclectic tastes and interests.
You asked him about his. He hated a lot of things.
He talked about politics and history while you occasionally frowned at the crudeness of his language.
The nurse walked down the hall on several occasions, lingering a little too long in front of your door each time.
The fourth day he brought you smells and tastes, since that had worked before.
The bread your mother baked had brought back scraps of a memory, of carefree mornings with a warm sun shining on dewed grass, of a wooden kitchen with little flowered tiles on the walls.
There had been a caramel sweet that showed you the kind, wrinkled eyes of an old man, and you’d cried when they told you that man was long dead.
So he had brought you a shawl with your perfume on it and a brand of dark chocolate that they didn’t sell in the hospital gift shop.
The shawl gave you a feeling of sweaty heat, of a heavy beat moving a mass of people, the sound of footsteps on a wooden floor, a crowd cheering.
The chocolate tasted like falling leaves.
They were all very vague things, but the nurse considered them progress.
“Be patient,” she said, and the boy rolled his eyes behind her back.
You sagged into your pillows and wondered how long you were supposed to trudge through this swamp.
IT was the fifth day and he sat in a chair by your bedside, silently looking at your hand.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“Stop that.”
You studied his grumpy face.
It was starting to become familiar, the lines on it a map to his eyes which were always, it seemed, looking everywhere but straight at you, as if you were too bright for him.
His demeanour scared the old woman across the hall, and most of the nurses actively avoided him by now, but you found his presence oddly calming.
He demanded nothing.
He didn’t hope, like your parents or friends.
He didn’t get frustrated when the day’s efforts failed.
He just sat and grumbled, impatient but unmoving, like he had since the first day he visited.
“I really am trying,” you said.
“I know.”
He sighed deeply.
“Look,” he said, “It took me a long ass time to make you mine, so I can make a little effort to get you back.”
You blinked at him, confused.
“Never mind,” he said, “just take it easy, ok? Try not to break your head again, you idiot.”
You giggled at his rudeness and he sagged deeper into the chair.
Then an idea struck.
“Hanamiya-kun,” you asked, “can I touch you?”
He raised an eyebrow and you pointed at his hand. He laid it on the sheet and flinched only a little when you softly ran your fingers over the skin. You traced the lines from his knuckles down to his wrist while he stared out of the window, lips pressed into a thin line.
The back of his hand was smooth, with long, thin fingers stretching out into blunt nails. They were well taken care of, you noted, kept short and filed.
Gently you turned his hand over and rubbed a thumb in his palm. The inside was coarser, with hardened skin on the cushions of his palm and the pads of his fingers.
There was a hint of a memory, of rough skin on soft flesh, a deep murmur turning into a moan and you jolted back, as if you just caught yourself in a compromising position.
“Why are your hands like this?” you asked.
“Basketball,” he said.
These hands, dribbling a ball.
It made sense, you thought, he seemed muscular enough to be some athlete.
A brief impression flashed in front of your eyes, of muscles tightening under bare skin, a chest with beads of sweat running down.
Your cheeks heated up and for the first time, you could see a small hint of a curl on the boy’s thin lips.
As you continued to stroke his palm, the images came fluttering across your vision like a cloud of starlings.
These hands, folded across your chest.
These hands tracing circles on your thighs.
These hands, prying your fingers away from your eyes as you hide from the monsters on the screen.
“You’re such a coward,” his voice in your ear says.
The images came faster, more vivid.
His fingers are sneaking under your shirt, his lips are on your neck.
He’s grinding against you, biting your lower lip with a grin that makes your blood boil.
You know you shouldn’t be here, every sane part of your brain is screaming at you to push him away but he tastes like dark chocolate and whiskey and you want nothing more than to feel him, consume him, swallow him whole.
His nails scrape down your damp back and you hold on to him, pulling him ever closer.
You blinked to find the boy blatantly staring into your quickly reddening face.
“What the hell are your remembering?” he said.
“Um.”
A small smirk played on his lips.
“Whatever works, kitten.”
“I never doubted you, kitten,” he says.
He's holding a letter, skimming it again while your heart is about to burst with joy.
“You did well. I knew you would.”
And you're taking the paper and shoving your whole body into his arms. He's trying so hard to grunt in disapproval, but he can't because he's smiling. It's a real smile, you notice. He's so proud of you and your heart really does threaten to burst.
You smiled at the man by your bed and he frowned at you.
He made a small humming noise.
You took a deep breath and folded the fingers on his hand in, one by one, into a fist.
He’s holding something. Something precious.
“Did that cunt buy this?” he snarls.
“Wait!”
“Did you fuck him for it?”
“Stop! Please!”
“How much is it worth to you?” He spits out the words like bitter poison.
Your throat is sore. You’re heaving, out of breath. Your eyes are stinging and it feels like the floor fell out from under you.
“That’s all you care about, isn’t it? How expensive something is? You wanna be a fucking trophy? Well, go and be that fucker’s whore then.”
“That’s not-”
He throws it across the room and you hear it shatter against a wall.
“Isn’t that what you want? Get out of here and make everyone happy. Have him pay for your friends drinks. Have him buy your parents a trip to fucking Honolulu. Everyone will live happily fucking ever FUCKING after.”
You let go of his fist and shrunk back, turning toward the bedside table for a glass of water.
It gave your shaking hands something to hold on to while the boy sat motionless and looked at you.
He said nothing. Asked nothing.
“I think visiting hours are almost over,” you croaked.
“Hey,” he said and grabbed your wrist.
His hand is holding onto your wrist.
“Let go of me,” you cry.
“No,” he says, his voice bare and broken,“not after all this.”
“I can’t do this. It’s too much.”
You’re sobbing in the middle of a busy street.
People walking by frown at you. One couple halts, whispering.
“Stop this. Come inside and we’ll talk.”
He’s trying his very best to be calm but there is desperation there. You can feel it in the way his fingers clench, leaving marks on your skin.
“Let go of me,” you whimper.
And he does.
You stumble back. You almost fall before you turn around and walk away.
You’re wiping the tears from your eyes when you hear him call your name.
There’s a loud noise, a high pitch and then everything hurts.
His hand is underneath your head. It feels wet, somehow. A searing pain is making it hard for you to concentrate. Your vision is a blur but you can hear him very clearly.
“Don’t leave me,” he’s saying, “not you.”
He’s close, so close you can hear his breath hitch. He’s feverishly wiping hair out of your face.
“Fuck,” he says, “don’t you fucking dare.”
The murmur of a crowd forms near you. There is a crunch of glass underneath shoes and the hiss of an engine somewhere nearby.
“Stop gaping, you assholes! Call a fucking ambulance,” he screams.
You looked up with wet cheeks and the pale boy was looking at you, concern burning vividly in clay brown eyes.
His hand lay, carefully, on your wrist.
“Makoto.”
“Yeah?”
He rose from his seat just as the nurse came in.
“Time to get some rest,” she said gently and turned to close the curtains, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, sir.”
“Will you come back tomorrow?” you asked.
He leaned in and briefly pressed his lips to your forehead.
“Of course,” he said.