Chapter Twenty-Six Blood in the Rain #3
Renji tore the coat open. Haruki's breath caught. Wet. Bubbling beneath the right side. Pneumothorax. Possibly haemothorax. The abdominal wound continued bleeding. Renji placed one hand against it.
Haruki's eyes opened. Unfocused.
"Ryota," he whispered.
"Alive."
"The others?"
"Alive."
Haruki tried to look towards the cage. Renji pressed him flat.
"Do not move."
"You're hurt."
"No."
The lie came easily. Silver continued tearing through his lungs. His vision pulsed at the edges. Haruki's fingers moved against the floor. Searching. Renji caught them. Haruki closed his hand around two of Renji's fingers. Weakly. The contact almost destroyed him.
"Ambulance," Renji said.
Ken was already shouting into a phone.
"Four minutes."
"Too long."
Renji examined the upper wound. No exit. The bullet remained inside. The abdominal shot had passed through. The third — he could not determine the path without imaging.
Haruki coughed. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. Renji's control fractured again. Not outward. Inside. A sound moved through him. Low. Animal.
Haruki looked at him. His eyes tried to focus.
"Renji."
"I am here."
"You look terrible."
"Be quiet."
A faint movement touched Haruki's mouth. Not a smile. An attempt.
Renji pressed harder against the abdominal wound. Haruki's face tightened.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"The argument."
"No."
"I was angry."
"No."
"You were trying to—"
"No."
The word broke. Haruki's eyelids lowered. Renji gripped his hand.
"Look at me."
Haruki did. Barely.
"You do not apologise now."
"When?"
"Later."
"Bossy."
"Later."
The promise became command. Haruki's gaze moved across Renji's face. Something soft entered it despite the pain.
"All right."
His eyes closed. Renji struck his cheek lightly.
"Haruki."
No response.
"Haruki."
The pulse beneath Renji's fingers faltered. One beat. Nothing. Then another. Irregular. Too slow.
Renji felt the old night collapse over him. The first love's hand slipping from his. The final breath. The terrible stillness afterwards.
No.
He placed both hands over Haruki. One against the chest. One over the abdomen.
Hemomancy rose before thought. The Takahara diagrams returned.
Dual circulation. Regenerative force without blood exchange.
A human pulse controlling the rate. But Haruki was unconscious.
No consent. No shared control. The mechanism his family built required both. Renji had only himself.
"Wake him," he said.
Ken knelt beside them.
"What?"
"Wake him."
"How?"
"Speak to him."
Ken gripped Haruki's shoulder.
"Boss."
No response.
"Haruki."
Nothing. Renji pushed regenerative force into the wound. Haruki's body arched. Blood surged from his mouth. Renji stopped immediately.
Wrong. Too much. Without Haruki's pulse guiding the transfer, his blood treated the human body as damaged tissue rather than a whole organism. It could accelerate clotting. Or cause it everywhere. Heal vessels closed around bullets. Destroy him faster.
Renji's hands shook. He had not shaken during surgery in five hundred years.
"Doctor," Ken said.
"Do not call me that."
Ken went silent. Renji pressed his forehead briefly against Haruki's. Rain hammered the roof. The sound became cedar branches. Mud. A dying man. He could not do this again. He had survived the first because there had been no choice. He would not survive Haruki.
The thought arrived with absolute certainty. Not metaphor. Not grief speaking dramatically. A fact. Centuries had emptied Renji slowly. Haruki had returned weight to the world. If he died, the world would not simply become empty again. Renji would know what had been taken. That was worse.
Sirens sounded outside. Too distant. Too late.
Haruki's pulse vanished beneath Renji's fingers.
"Haruki."
Nothing. Renji pressed his ear to the chest. No heartbeat. The room narrowed to one body. One impossible stillness.
Ken said something. Renji did not hear.
He placed his hands at the centre of Haruki's chest and began compressions. Once. Twice. The upper wound released more blood. Renji continued. He counted because numbers were structure. Structure was control. Control was the only thing preventing the centuries from opening beneath him.
Thirty compressions. Airway. Blood in the mouth. He cleared it with his fingers. Two breaths. Again. Haruki remained still.
Someone touched Renji's shoulder. He snarled. The sound made the person step back.
Thirty. Two. Thirty. Two. His strength returned in violent fragments as the silver dispersed. Each compression threatened to break ribs. He adjusted. Perfect depth. Perfect rhythm. A physician. Only a physician. Not a man watching the person he loved die.
He had not said it. Haruki had. Not aloud. Not yet. But Renji had known. And Renji had withheld the word as though silence could make the risk smaller. As though love unspoken suffered less.
Haruki's body gave no answer.
"Come back," Renji said.
Thirty. Two.
"You said later."
Nothing.
"You agreed."
Blood spread beneath Haruki's back. Renji's hands slipped. He wiped them against his coat and continued.
The sirens stopped outside. Doors slammed. Voices. Medical staff entered with equipment. Renji did not move.
A paramedic touched his arm.
"Sir, we need—"
"No."
"We need access."
"I am a physician."
"Then let us work."