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writetomyheart2022-08-02 11:01 pm
yrindor) wrote in writetomyheart2022-08-02 11:01 pm
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[Team Three] Well In Hand
Some Jakurai introspection and his jumbled feelings about Yotsutsuji. Hypnosis Mic, Jakurai &/ Yotsutsuji, 650w, G.
Out near the front lines, the fighting never fully stopped. It ebbed and flowed, some days flooding them with more casualties than the medical tents were ever designed for, other days sending in only a trickle, but always at least a trickle. Jakurai had stopped counting the number of days since the last time they'd had nothing but the expected sniffles, camp diseases, and the odd burn or laceration acquired while cooking. After fourteen days, the count stopped being anything but disheartening. That had been at least two months ago.
Even on the best days, the medical tents were full. Too many men with too many injuries, and not enough medics to go around. On the worst days, they'd been forced to recruit from the injured themselves, sending those who were still mostly whole out to fetch bandages or carry water for the doctors who never left bedsides or operating rooms.
Jakurai had stopped counting the days since he'd had a full night's sleep too, or even half a night. There was always something, some new critical injury, or a patient who took a turn for the worse that only he could save.
He could never resent them for it. He could never turn his back on even a single one of them, not when he was their only hope for salvation, or at least survival, and they were his. His hands would always bear the stains of his past sins, but he would drown them in the marks of his new profession.
"Sensei, will you teach me?" Yotsutsuji's quiet voice pulled Jakurai back from his thoughts. He held out a suture kit--how many medics had Jakurai trained on one just like it? How few of those faces were still with them?
"It's quiet right now," Yotsutsuji continued when Jakurai hesitated, "and there are never enough hands when we need them. Please, I want to help. I need to help."
You help more than you can know, Jakurai thought, but he took Yotsutsuji's hand and guided him to a quiet corner.
The young boy was a natural. He caught every detail as Jakurai guided his hands through the motions and adjusted his grip on the instruments, then repeated the motions himself without hesitation or error. He should never have been out here on the battlefield, and yet he fit into it perfectly, filling a gap Jakurai hadn't even been away existed.
"You'll ruin your hands if you spend too long at work," Jakurai warned. He cupped Yotsutsuji's hand in his own--smooth skin still unblemished by harsh scrubbing and soaking.
Yotsutsuji set down his tools and reached out a hand to Jakurai's face. Jakurai hadn't looked in a mirror in weeks, but he didn't need one to image the dark shadows that must haunt his face. "I think it's a worthwhile trade," Yotsutsuji said softly. He let his fingers linger a moment longer before he gathered up his tray and turned back toward camp.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and by midday the air was heavy with the stench of smoke and the cries of the wounded. Shrapnel struck Jakurai in the arm in the late afternoon as he helped evacuate the casualties back to the medical tents. He bound the wound with bandages torn from a damaged sheet and returned to his work. His wound could wait. Many others could not.
It was past nightfall when the crush finally dissipated. He sagged against a tent post, catching his breath for the first time that day. His head spun with exhaustion as he fumbled with the knot on his bandage. Just this one final task before he could collapse onto a cot for at least a couple of hours.
Yotsutsuji emerged from the shadows and stilled Jakurai's hand. "Let me," he said as he guided Jakurai to an open bed. "I want to help."
Wolfodder is up next!
Out near the front lines, the fighting never fully stopped. It ebbed and flowed, some days flooding them with more casualties than the medical tents were ever designed for, other days sending in only a trickle, but always at least a trickle. Jakurai had stopped counting the number of days since the last time they'd had nothing but the expected sniffles, camp diseases, and the odd burn or laceration acquired while cooking. After fourteen days, the count stopped being anything but disheartening. That had been at least two months ago.
Even on the best days, the medical tents were full. Too many men with too many injuries, and not enough medics to go around. On the worst days, they'd been forced to recruit from the injured themselves, sending those who were still mostly whole out to fetch bandages or carry water for the doctors who never left bedsides or operating rooms.
Jakurai had stopped counting the days since he'd had a full night's sleep too, or even half a night. There was always something, some new critical injury, or a patient who took a turn for the worse that only he could save.
He could never resent them for it. He could never turn his back on even a single one of them, not when he was their only hope for salvation, or at least survival, and they were his. His hands would always bear the stains of his past sins, but he would drown them in the marks of his new profession.
"Sensei, will you teach me?" Yotsutsuji's quiet voice pulled Jakurai back from his thoughts. He held out a suture kit--how many medics had Jakurai trained on one just like it? How few of those faces were still with them?
"It's quiet right now," Yotsutsuji continued when Jakurai hesitated, "and there are never enough hands when we need them. Please, I want to help. I need to help."
You help more than you can know, Jakurai thought, but he took Yotsutsuji's hand and guided him to a quiet corner.
The young boy was a natural. He caught every detail as Jakurai guided his hands through the motions and adjusted his grip on the instruments, then repeated the motions himself without hesitation or error. He should never have been out here on the battlefield, and yet he fit into it perfectly, filling a gap Jakurai hadn't even been away existed.
"You'll ruin your hands if you spend too long at work," Jakurai warned. He cupped Yotsutsuji's hand in his own--smooth skin still unblemished by harsh scrubbing and soaking.
Yotsutsuji set down his tools and reached out a hand to Jakurai's face. Jakurai hadn't looked in a mirror in weeks, but he didn't need one to image the dark shadows that must haunt his face. "I think it's a worthwhile trade," Yotsutsuji said softly. He let his fingers linger a moment longer before he gathered up his tray and turned back toward camp.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, and by midday the air was heavy with the stench of smoke and the cries of the wounded. Shrapnel struck Jakurai in the arm in the late afternoon as he helped evacuate the casualties back to the medical tents. He bound the wound with bandages torn from a damaged sheet and returned to his work. His wound could wait. Many others could not.
It was past nightfall when the crush finally dissipated. He sagged against a tent post, catching his breath for the first time that day. His head spun with exhaustion as he fumbled with the knot on his bandage. Just this one final task before he could collapse onto a cot for at least a couple of hours.
Yotsutsuji emerged from the shadows and stilled Jakurai's hand. "Let me," he said as he guided Jakurai to an open bed. "I want to help."
Wolfodder is up next!