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He’s tossing, turning, eyes squeezed together in pain as small beads of perspiration drip down his face, gluing strands of his raven hair to his temples and forehead. His skin glowing with an alarmingly pale hue, subdued undertones of green and blue scatter the surface of his skin. The bed creaks with every movement he makes. There’s a distant unintelligible chatter accompanied with the monotonous sound of beeping machines. It’s quiet, yet Arakita can’t seem to find any sort of peace or comfort — his heart races, his entire body dampened with sweat and his mind, circling in a cloud of indecipherable thoughts.
His throat is dry, his breathing jumping at an uneven pace — a slight, involuntary tremble constantly travelling through the lengths of his limbs. It’s hot, really hot, and he weakly kicks off the blankets, rejoicing in the slight breeze that graces him. Exhausted. He’s exhausted, completely and utterly torn down without any recollection of how he had ended up this way.
There’s a part of him that knows he’s awake, but he can’t move.
A small jolt courses through his torso that pulls him out of the trance, his eyes opening as he wakes. Nothing in his general vicinity seems familiar, it’s all too grey. It’s dark, nothing more than a lamp and the lights from nearby machines illuminating the room.
He struggles to sit up, feeling as if all his muscles had suddenly given up on him. He abandons that idea and lays back down on the pillow. It’s too flat and he can feel the back of his head pounding at him, rhythmically shooting sharp pains into his skull.
It’s not until a few minutes of consciousness, does Arakita realise that he isn’t alone.
He turns his head to the side, seeing a familiar face, asleep, on the edge of the small bed — an outstretched hand holding his own. He feels the heat and accumulated sweat on their interlaced hands, it’s unpleasant yet he doesn’t let go — basking in the warmth and comfort of it all.
It’s confusing, his thoughts are muddled but it feels like it has been months — no, years, since he’s seen this face.
“Shingo…” he repeats the name several times, a flit of bewilderment possessing him as he grows in excitement.
“Shingo... is that really you…”
He’s staring at the man’s features, the sharp curve of his nose, the soft edges of his full lips… A face he has known for so long, that he had loved for so many years. A face he hadn’t had the opportunity to see in what might as well have been an eternity.
“I can’t believe you’re here… Shingo…” His voice is a croak, a soft whisper, it’s almost inaudible. His words are laced with both sadness and disbelief.
The man eventually rouses at the sound of Arakita’s voice, an immediate, small, crooked smile plasters itself on his features, his eyes still droopy with sleep. He sits up in his seat, another hand pulling up to caress their intertwined hands.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Yasutomo.”
“Why are you here?” His voice doesn’t sound accusatory, he doesn’t have the energy. He isn’t angry, simply curious. It had been so long, after all.
“Well... I got a call, heard you blacked out at practise. Dehydration, exhaustion… a fever, I guess,” He speaks, his voice is deep, smooth — just as calming as Arakita had remembered it, “I knew it wasn’t threatening but, I couldn’t help it. I came here to know, for myself, that you were okay.”
Arakita chuckles, or tries to. It comes out airy, and breaks him out into a small coughing fit. His breathing has calmed down to a more reasonable, even pace since he’s awoken, but his heart seems to still be racing far faster that he needs it to be.
“As worrisome as ever, Shingo. Give it a break.” he manages to throw in a little banter, a weak smile on his lips.
Kinjou shakes his head, a small fit of laughter escaping his lips as he looks down to their hands, his thumb stroking small circular patterns on the back of Arakita’s hand.
“Go back to sleep. You need to rest.” He speaks, almost orders — but there’s that small tinge of playfulness in the words.
“Alright, alright, captain.” Arakita shoots back in reply as he lays back, his breathing loud and his skin, still covered in a sheen of sweat.
“I’ll be here.”
“You can go home, that chair is probably mighty uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine. Sleep.”
— — —
He stirs awake once again, this time, he feels a lot better. His throat is still dry, as if he has eaten a slab of drywall, but his clothes are not damp, and his breathing, has become much more steady.
Instantly, he feels like something is missing. He glances down to his hand and it’s empty. The familiar warmth, the comforting embrace — it's gone.
“Shingo?” He pushes himself to sit up slightly, glancing around the small room, looking for him but he’s left blank. There’s nothing in the room, nothing accompanying him other than the IV drip by his bedside and the low whir of the machinery.
There’s a sudden sound of the door sliding open and Arakita instantly perks up, his neck unstably craning to see who it is — his heart rate increasing with the prospect of seeing Kinjou once again.
He remembers the night vividly, the small conversation he had, the overwhelming feelings that coursed through him. Arakita was slightly regretful that he couldn’t hold a proper conversation due to his feverish state, so he was ready to make up for that and catch up properly — to finally speak to Kinjou again.
He watches as the door slides open, greeted with someone with a definitely smaller in frame. It wasn’t Kinjou, but he instantly recognises who it is.
“Mom…?” He speaks, sounding slightly disorientated. “Where’s Shingo?”
His mother walks up to the bed frame, a cup of coffee huddled between both her hands. Within a matter of seconds, a look of confusion and sadness flooded her features.
“You’re finally awake and looking a lot better, Yasutomo.” She quickly dodges the question, puzzled, perplexed as she wonders why he doesn’t know the whereabouts of Kinjou.
“Mom. I’m fine. Where’s Kinjou?” He presses, desperately needing an answer, “He was here last night.”
Arakita’s mother becomes increasingly worried as he begins to speak, frantically trying to find the right words to reply to him. “Honey…”
“Shingo hasn’t… been around for many years now.” She says, words coming out soft and cautious.
“Don't you remember? Is the fever messing with you?”
Arakita is stumped for a few seconds, he doesn’t know what she’s talking about — he doesn’t remember. He sits on the bed, his eyebrows furrowed in a mix of confusion, anger and sadness before it dawns on him.
The moment flashes before him, as vivid as ever.
“Shingo, stop!”
The words fall on deaf ears as Kinjou instinctively runs onto the road, his eyes focused on a small dog, terrified, frantically looking for escape. "I've got to help!"
“Shingo— wait! Stop! n-no…”
He stares at the blank wall before him as he breaks out into a laughter, bitterness overflowing with every sound. His fists balled up, knuckles white as his fragile arms punch at the small hospital bed; creaking with every impact.
The laughing soon subsides and slowly replaced with choked sobs; tears beginning to fall.
Right. He’s gone. Has been for years.