Chapter Seven I’ll Be Seeing You Again #2
"Then you should obtain it before asking others to conceal it."
Ken laughed once, without humour.
"You sound like him."
"I doubt that."
"No. Same annoying way of making everything sound obvious once you've said it."
Renji considered leaving. Instead, he asked, "Who attacked you?"
Ken's expression closed. The change was immediate.
"Don't know."
"You fought them."
"They wore masks."
"That was not my question."
"It's the answer I have."
Renji looked at the blood beneath Ken's nails. The man was tired, grieving and still prepared to lie for Haruki. Loyalty that immediate was rarely bought. It had to be built over time.
"Tell Mr Ishida Jun survived," Ken said.
"You can tell him yourself."
"They won't let me into intensive care yet."
"Then wait."
Ken exhaled.
"Please."
Renji did not answer. He turned towards recovery. Jun's heart rate remained steady. The leg was warm beneath the blankets. Alive. For now.
"I will tell him," Renji said.
Ken nodded.
"Thank you, Doctor."
Haruki was asleep when Renji returned. This time Renji had a reason — he had promised to deliver medical information. That was all.
The room was dim. Only one light remained on above the sink.
The monitor cast pale green across Haruki's face.
Without consciousness animating him, he looked less formidable.
More vulnerable. Renji preferred patients unconscious.
They were easier to understand. The body declared its needs without disguise — blood pressure, oxygen saturation, temperature, pain translated into measurable signs.
Awake, people concealed themselves. Haruki concealed fear with humour.
Guilt with command. Pain with flirtation.
Renji stood beside the bed. He should have left a message with the nurse. There was no need to wake him. Still, he remained.
Haruki's right hand rested outside the blanket. Bruises marked the knuckles. One finger was splinted. Fine cuts covered the skin. Hands used in a fight. Not the hands Renji would have expected from a man who conducted business from a tailored office.
Renji had heard the name Ishida before that night.
Everyone in Takamori had. The Family was discussed in lowered voices by people who wanted favours, feared debts or imagined violence behind every closed door.
A criminal dynasty, some called them. Protectors, others insisted.
Renji had never cared enough to decide. Institutions changed names while power remained.
Families rose. Families vanished. Centuries had taught him that reputation was often nothing more than history written by whichever witnesses survived.
Haruki shifted in his sleep. His brow tightened. The monitor climbed. A dream. Or memory.
Renji touched two fingers to his wrist. A pointless gesture — the monitor already gave him the pulse. Haruki's hand turned beneath his. His fingers closed loosely around Renji's.
Renji froze. The contact was not deliberate. Haruki remained asleep. His grip was weak. Warm. Human. Renji could have withdrawn immediately. He did not. For one breath, he allowed the hand to remain around his. Then another.
The room seemed too quiet. He remembered Haruki looking up from the trauma bed, bleeding badly enough that speech should have been difficult, and asking whether Renji undressed patients that quickly.
Remembered the smile when Renji said his name changed nothing.
Remembered the certainty in Haruki's voice. I'll be seeing you again, Doctor.
Renji removed his hand. Haruki's fingers fell back against the sheet. The monitor settled.
Renji turned towards the door.
"Leaving already?"
He stopped. Haruki's eyes were still closed.
"You should be asleep," Renji said.
"I was."
"You require rest."
"People keep telling me that."
"There may be a reason."
Haruki opened his eyes. Sedation still softened his focus, but the amusement was immediate.
"Were you holding my hand?"
"No."
"You were."
"I was checking your pulse."
Haruki glanced at the monitor beside him.
"Machine broken?"
"No."
"So you wanted to hold my hand."
Renji looked at him. Satisfaction spread openly across Haruki's face. He appeared far too pleased with himself for someone recovering from major surgery.
"Jun survived," Renji said.
The humour vanished. Haruki stared at him.
"The leg?"
"At risk. The next day will be important."
"But he's alive."
"Yes."
Haruki closed his eyes. Relief moved through him visibly — a breath released, tension leaving his jaw, his shoulders, the hand resting against the blanket.
"Thank you."
"I did not operate on him."
"You came back to tell me."
"I said I would."
"To Ken?"
"Yes."
Haruki opened his eyes again.
"You keep promises."
"When possible."
"That's rare."
"It should not be."
"No."
His gaze lingered on Renji.
"Still strange."
Renji adjusted the blanket despite it requiring no adjustment.
"Your pain medication will be due in twenty minutes."
"You could stay until then."
"There is no medical need."
"Does there have to be?"
"Yes."
Haruki studied him. The flirting was quieter now. Less like armour. That made it more difficult to dismiss.
"Dinner," Haruki said.
Renji frowned.
"What?"
"When I'm discharged."
"You will require several weeks of recovery."
"After that."
"After that, you should continue following medical advice."
"At dinner?"
"There will not be a dinner."
"You haven't heard the invitation."
"You said dinner."
"That was only the category."
Renji stared at him. Haruki smiled.
"Have dinner with me."
"No."
"Why?"
"You are my patient."
"I won't always be."
"That is not the only reason."
"What are the others?"
Renji could have listed them. Haruki was human.
Haruki belonged to a world built around loyalties Renji did not understand.
Renji had spent centuries ensuring nobody came close enough to require explanations.
He did not form attachments he would outlive.
He did not mistake temporary fascination for something worth pursuing.
He did not sit beside sleeping patients and let them hold his hand.
The reasons should have been easy to speak. Instead, he said, "You are recovering from anaesthesia."
"That again."
"It remains relevant."
"Ask me when I'm sober."
"I will not."
"You might."
"I won't."
Haruki's eyes began to close again. The effort of conversation was catching up with him.
"I'll be seeing you again," he murmured.
"You are currently under my care."
"Not what I meant."
"I know."
Renji realised what he had admitted. Haruki's smile appeared without his eyes opening.
"Progress."
"Sleep."
"Yes, Doctor."
Renji remained until Haruki's breathing deepened. Only to ensure the medication had not caused respiratory suppression. Only because the monitor had changed. Only because leaving immediately might wake him.
Each explanation arrived neatly. None was convincing.
Dawn had fully broken by the time Renji returned to his office. Sunlight entered through the narrow window above his desk, catching dust in the air. The city beyond was waking into traffic and noise.
Renji closed the door. His notes waited where he had left them — tunnel casualties, injury patterns, times of admission, treatment provided. The work should have steadied him. Facts usually did.
He sat down and opened Haruki's file. Name: Haruki Ishida. Age: twenty-nine. Occupation: listed as company director. Emergency contact: Reina Kurogawa. No significant medical history. No regular medication. Nothing remarkable.
Renji read the details twice. Then closed the file. He opened it again.
The memory of Haruki's fingers around his returned with irritating clarity. Warm. Trusting. Unconscious.
Renji leaned back in his chair. Fatigue could explain delayed reactions. Stress could produce misplaced attention. The tunnel incident had been unusual — Haruki had spoken a name connected to Renji's past. That alone justified continued consideration.
It was not attraction.
It was not interest.
It was certainly not the beginning of anything.
Renji had lived too long to be unsettled by a smile. He had known beauty in every century. Loved voices now absent from the world. Watched desire become grief often enough to understand the cost before the pleasure. Whatever crack Haruki Ishida imagined he had found did not exist.
Renji lowered his eyes to the page. At the bottom of the operative note, beneath the formal account of wounds and procedures, he had written one additional line.
Patient remained concerned for the safety of others throughout treatment.
It was not necessary. It did not belong in the surgical record. Renji stared at it. Then placed his pen against the page to cross it out.
He stopped.
For reasons he could not explain, he left the sentence where it was.
Outside his office, the hospital continued around him. Phones rang. Trolleys passed. People lived because others had refused to let them die.
Renji returned to his notes.
For the first time in centuries, he found himself unable to concentrate on the dead.
And far too aware of one living man.