(no subject)
Title: Patient
Author: Nezuko
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Characters: Hayate, Yuugao
Status: Complete, Worksafe
Words: 423
Dedication: For Ki, who asked
Summary: Some nights, Hayate wakes up screaming.
Patient
by Nezuko, Prince of Rats
This is a work of derivative fiction based on the manga "Naruto" by Kishimoto Masashi. The characters and the world in which they live are the property of Kishimoto-sensei.
Hayate wakes up screaming. Heart racing, eyes wild, he chokes out a name, then leans over his knees, coughing until his whole body is shaking and the sheets are spattered with blood. It is only then that he notices Yuugao's hand on his shoulder. She is holding a dampened cloth, wiping at his lips and face, speaking to him in a low murmur.
It is only then that the tears standing in Hayate's eyes spill over and run down his cheeks.
Tears are unmanly, and Hayate wipes them savagely away, taking one shattered-sounding breath after another, while Yuugao reaches for the small greenish mask at their bedside, holding it to her lover's face as she turns on the gas. Oxygen for lungs that can no longer pull enough of the precious element from the air alone.
After several long, tension-filled moments, Hayate's shoulders relax, just a little. Breath coming easier, coughing abated. He finally looks up at Yuugao in the dim light of their bedroom. She is worried, hovering anxiously. Her long, deep purple hair is disarrayed, and the light cotton tank she wore to bed is twisted and sticking to her awkwardly, with one strap hanging loose over a creamy white shoulder. One of Hayate's shirts, too big on her by just enough to be shockingly sexy.
"Are you..." Yuugao starts, and Hayate reaches for her, pulling her close in still shaky arms.
"It's alright," she soothes, wrapping her own arms around his too-thin shoulders. Is he ever going to regain the weight he's lost? Is he ever going to sleep through the night again, without waking up gasping for air, or choking on the names of the dead?
Sometimes it's just his terribly damaged lungs that wake him, leave him panting and blue-lipped, struggling for air. But some nights it is like this. Nights that fall on anniversaries. Nights that that follow closely on the heels of a funeral. Some nights Yuugao recognizes the names: Satorou, Hiroshi, Fukashi. Some nights she doesn't: Shigeru, Hiroko, Okimi.
"It's alright," she says again, and slowly rubs Hayate's back. So thin. He's much too thin. And she can feel the air burble and vibrate through bleeding, damaged, never-quite-healing lungs. It takes her strongest will to sit quietly, just holding him. Not to get up, look for medicine, fiddle with the valve on the oxygen tank, clean the besmirched bed sheets. She wants to do something, but there is nothing she can do, nothing either of them can do, but wait.
This, she realizes, is why a sick man is called a patient.
Author: Nezuko
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
Characters: Hayate, Yuugao
Status: Complete, Worksafe
Words: 423
Dedication: For Ki, who asked
Summary: Some nights, Hayate wakes up screaming.
Patient
by Nezuko, Prince of Rats
This is a work of derivative fiction based on the manga "Naruto" by Kishimoto Masashi. The characters and the world in which they live are the property of Kishimoto-sensei.
Hayate wakes up screaming. Heart racing, eyes wild, he chokes out a name, then leans over his knees, coughing until his whole body is shaking and the sheets are spattered with blood. It is only then that he notices Yuugao's hand on his shoulder. She is holding a dampened cloth, wiping at his lips and face, speaking to him in a low murmur.
It is only then that the tears standing in Hayate's eyes spill over and run down his cheeks.
Tears are unmanly, and Hayate wipes them savagely away, taking one shattered-sounding breath after another, while Yuugao reaches for the small greenish mask at their bedside, holding it to her lover's face as she turns on the gas. Oxygen for lungs that can no longer pull enough of the precious element from the air alone.
After several long, tension-filled moments, Hayate's shoulders relax, just a little. Breath coming easier, coughing abated. He finally looks up at Yuugao in the dim light of their bedroom. She is worried, hovering anxiously. Her long, deep purple hair is disarrayed, and the light cotton tank she wore to bed is twisted and sticking to her awkwardly, with one strap hanging loose over a creamy white shoulder. One of Hayate's shirts, too big on her by just enough to be shockingly sexy.
"Are you..." Yuugao starts, and Hayate reaches for her, pulling her close in still shaky arms.
"It's alright," she soothes, wrapping her own arms around his too-thin shoulders. Is he ever going to regain the weight he's lost? Is he ever going to sleep through the night again, without waking up gasping for air, or choking on the names of the dead?
Sometimes it's just his terribly damaged lungs that wake him, leave him panting and blue-lipped, struggling for air. But some nights it is like this. Nights that fall on anniversaries. Nights that that follow closely on the heels of a funeral. Some nights Yuugao recognizes the names: Satorou, Hiroshi, Fukashi. Some nights she doesn't: Shigeru, Hiroko, Okimi.
"It's alright," she says again, and slowly rubs Hayate's back. So thin. He's much too thin. And she can feel the air burble and vibrate through bleeding, damaged, never-quite-healing lungs. It takes her strongest will to sit quietly, just holding him. Not to get up, look for medicine, fiddle with the valve on the oxygen tank, clean the besmirched bed sheets. She wants to do something, but there is nothing she can do, nothing either of them can do, but wait.
This, she realizes, is why a sick man is called a patient.