Chapter Text
Touya was not happy.
The doctor who’d come in earlier had smiled a little too brightly when he said it — “You’re finally awake from your five-year sleep.”
Five years.
Five fucking years.
It didn’t sound real. The words just bounced around in his skull like static. Five years meant birthdays missed, seasons forgotten, everything he knew already ash and smoke.
He’d tried to get out of bed right after hearing it. Big mistake.
The moment his feet touched the floor, his legs crumpled under him — thin, useless things that didn’t remember how to hold him up. He would’ve faceplanted if a nurse hadn’t caught him by the arms, gasping.
Now he sat there, half-buried under a blanket that smelled faintly of bleach, staring down at the hospital-white sheets covering his wasted legs. His fingers twitched against them, cold and trembling.
He couldn’t walk.
The doctor had told him it was normal, something about muscle atrophy, nerves needing to relearn movement. “You’ll recover with therapy,” he’d said gently. “It won’t be permanent.”
Touya didn’t care about permanent. He cared that he was trapped — in this bed, in this room, in this body that barely felt like his.
He wanted to talk. He wanted to ask.
Where’s Mom?
Where’s Yumi? Natsuo?
And—Dad. I have to go see Dad.
But when he opened his mouth, no sound came out.
Nothing.
The air scraped his throat raw, but no voice followed.
That was the other thing they’d told him: his vocal cords had been severely damaged by heat exposure. He might not speak again for months—maybe years.
Maybe ever.
Fire, they said.
Touya almost laughed — a brittle, voiceless sound.
Fire had built him. Fire had broken him. Fire had burned away everything that once made him alive.
He lifted a hand and stared at the pale, pinkish skin stretching over his forearm — the patches of old burns healed unevenly, leaving ridges that glinted under the fluorescent light.
Weak. Pathetic.
The words came unbidden, like echoes from another life.
When they’d left him alone, he’d pulled the blanket down, inch by inch, to see the rest. Scars everywhere. Burn marks that crawled up his sides, his chest, his neck—like vines claiming ruined stone.
He should have been dead.
And yet, somehow, the scars weren’t as deep as they should have been. No purple blistering, no twisted flesh like those left by his own blue flames. Faded.
Almost... healed.
He didn’t understand how that was possible. Scars born from blue fire didn’t fade.
The thought gnawed at him.
Something else did too—the cold.
The room was freezing. Not the mild chill of an air conditioner, but bone-deep cold that seeped through the blankets and clung to his skin. His breath came out in faint mist.
And then he saw it.
Outside the glass window, a shape moved — large, pale, slow.
He blinked. And blinked again.
A polar bear.
A real, living, polar bear, padding lazily across the snow just beyond the glass.
For a long moment he just stared, brain short-circuiting.
When the fuck did Japan start keeping polar bears in hospitals?
He would’ve yelled if he could, but his throat betrayed him again. The bear, as if sensing his distress, turned its head and — gods help him — pressed its snout right against the glass, tongue lolling as it licked a foggy patch onto the window.
Touya flinched backward, wide-eyed.
That was when it hit him.
This wasn’t Japan.
The doctor’s accent — slightly off. The layers of thick insulation. The polar bear. The blinding white landscape beyond.
He was in Antarctica.
Of all places.
He sank back into the bed with a soundless exhale. Great. Just great.
The cold didn’t bother him much, of course — his body ran too hot for that — but still. Antarctica? Who the hell had dragged him here?
He knew it wasn’t him. If it had been, the old man — Endeavor — would’ve stormed in here already, made a whole scene about “reclaiming his son” or some dramatic bullshit like that.
But there was no fire. No shouting. No father.
Just this quiet, cold place.
So who had saved him?
The thought barely formed before the door burst open.
A tall man stood in the doorway, chest heaving as if he’d run the entire facility to get here. His eyes — gray, sharp — locked onto Touya like he’d seen a ghost.
A cold weight settled in Touya’s stomach.
Those eyes.
They were the same shade as hers.
His mother’s eyes.
And the man’s hair—pale as snow, just like Rei’s.
What the fuck...
He felt memories jolt awake, uninvited: his mother’s gentle hands, her tired smile, her voice trembling the night before everything burned.
He’d said something cruel to her. Something he never got to take back.
Mom...
Touya’s chest tightened painfully. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to go home. He wanted her.
The man in the doorway moved closer, slow and careful, like approaching a frightened animal.
“Hey—” His voice was calm, low, familiar somehow. “Shh... easy now, Touya. Deep breaths. Look at me. That’s it—inhale, exhale, with me, okay?”
Touya tried to follow. Tried. But the room was spinning again, black creeping in at the edges of his vision. He heard the man call out—urgent, panicked—for help.
By the time nurses rushed in, darkness had already swallowed him whole.
When Touya woke again, it was quiet.
Dim light filtered through the blinds. His throat was dry. His body ached less.
The first thing he saw was the same man, slumped asleep on the couch beside his bed.
He was still in his doctor’s coat, glasses slipping down his nose, stethoscope draped loosely around his neck. Lean frame. Messy white hair. The faint shadow of exhaustion carved into his face.
Touya’s eyes drifted to the ID clipped to his chest pocket.
Dr. Himura Touma.
Neurologist.
Surgeon 3.
He stared.
Himura.
Touma.
The name clicked like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His mother’s maiden name.
His uncle.
The one no one in his mothers side of the family ever talked about—the ghost that hovered at the edge of childhood visits to his grandparents’ house. He remembered seeing an old portrait once, a teenage boy in ceremonial robes with the Himura crest, and how his grandmother would stare at it with a sigh that said everything she didn’t.
And now here he was.
Older, wearier—but unmistakably her brother. The resemblance was eerie. If not for the scars painting his own face, Touya might’ve mistaken him for a mirror with softer eyes.
The man stirred then, rubbing at his temple as he blinked awake. His gaze swept the room, landed on Touya—and froze.
Neither spoke.
Touya’s guard went up instantly, muscles tensing under the blanket. He didn’t know this man. Didn’t know why he’d saved him, or what he wanted.
But the doctor just looked at him—really looked—and something in his expression softened.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t forced. It was small, tired, and full of something Touya couldn’t name.
Touya didn’t know how to feel about that.
Touya didn’t move.
Neither did the man—Dr. Himura—for a long time. The silence between them stretched, heavy but not hostile. The only sound was the faint hum of the heater and the soft ticking of the monitor beside his bed.
Then, the man straightened slowly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if steadying himself.
“…You’re awake,” he said at last. His voice was low and quiet, a little rough from sleep. “That’s—good. I was starting to think I’d have to shake you.”
Touya just stared, unblinking. His throat still hurt too much to speak, and even if it didn’t, he wasn’t sure he’d know what to say.
Dr. Himura seemed to realize that. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes darting briefly to the floor before meeting Touya’s again.
“I’m, ah—” He paused, exhaled through his nose, and tried again. “I suppose introductions are in order, even if this isn’t exactly the way I’d imagined them.”
He took a small step closer, careful not to spook him.
“My name is Himura Touma,” he said softly. “I’m a neurologist here at Polaris Base Hospital.” A faint, almost self-conscious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“And… I’m your mother’s older brother.”
Touya blinked slowly, his expression unreadable.
The doctor hesitated, searching his face for any sign of recognition. “You probably don’t remember me,” he continued, tone gentler now. “I wasn’t around much after your mother married. I—left Japan a long time ago.”
He sounded like he was choosing each word carefully, as though afraid one wrong sentence might shatter the fragile calm between them.
“You were very young the last time I saw you,” he went on, eyes softening just a little. “You and Fuyumi both. I used to bring sweets when your mother visited our parents. You didn’t like the red bean ones.”
Touya’s fingers twitched where they rested against the blanket. A flicker—something faint and half-forgotten—stirred in his memory: a man kneeling down to his level, holding out a small wrapped candy, his mother’s laughter echoing softly in the background.
He didn’t nod, didn’t react much at all, but something in his posture loosened.
Dr. Himura took that as a good sign.
“I found you,” he said quietly, the warmth fading from his tone, replaced by something steadier — solemn, almost reverent. “Five years ago. On the mountain north of Kyoto.”
Touya’s eyes flicked up, sharp now.
“You were barely alive when I found you. Severe burns, hypothermia, multiple organ failure.” He stopped, swallowed. “If I’d been even a few hours late—”
He cut himself off. The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush air.
Touya wanted to ask how. Wanted to ask why him. Wanted to scream why didn’t anyone else come. But the questions tangled in his throat, trapped behind the same damaged cords that refused to give them voice.
The older man seemed to understand anyway. His gaze softened, distant, guilt and tenderness warring behind it.
“I didn’t contact your family,” he said after a long pause. “Not yet. Your condition was too fragile. I thought it best to focus on your recovery first.”
He sat back down on the couch, folding his hands in his lap like a man confessing a sin.
“…And maybe,” he admitted quietly, “I was afraid.”
Touya blinked at him, confusion flickering in his tired eyes.
“Afraid of what?” his expression seemed to ask.
Dr. Himura exhaled, the corner of his mouth twisting in a rueful smile.
“Of what would happen if I told them,” he murmured. “Of what your mother would have to remember.”
Silence again.
Outside, faint snow brushed against the glass, the pale light shifting across the sterile walls.
Touya’s gaze dropped to his own scarred hands — pink and pale against the white sheets. He flexed his fingers slowly, jaw tightening.
He still couldn’t speak. But the thoughts churned loud enough inside him to burn.
Touya blinked at him, confusion twisting in his chest.
What is this man afraid about?
His mother would cry, of course—probably because he got hurt. That was normal. But what did he mean by “what your mother had to remember”? Something happened? What happe—
“Your mother had a psychotic break.”
The words landed like ice in his stomach.
Touya’s head snapped up. The man’s eyes were calm, soft, careful—carefully breaking something inside him. Carefully breaking a truth he wasn’t ready for.
“A year after you… died,” Touma continued slowly, swallowing hard, “your mother snapped, and harmed your brother.”
Touya froze.
What…?
His eyes widened in disbelief. His mother… hurt his brother?
His brother—Natsuo. Of course, it had to be Natsuo. His younger brother. That was the only brother he could remember.
Impossible.
Natsuo was safe. Natsuo was fine. His mother—his mother—had never, ever, been violent.
And yet… the man’s gaze was steady.
Touya’s chest tightened. He wanted to scream, deny it, demand an explanation, but the words refused to come. His throat still wouldn’t let them out.
He couldn’t remember Shoto. Not yet. Not ever. For now, his mind only registered Fuyumi and Natsuo. Two younger siblings. The brother Touma referred to could only be Natsuo.
Panic clawed at his chest. His mind raced—How could she? How could Mom hurt him?
But she would never! Mom was gentle! She'd never hurt—
“Mom…” he muttered silently in his head. “…why?”
Touma flinched slightly at the tremor in Touya’s expression, then leaned forward, resting his forearms lightly on his knees. His voice was low, measured, careful.
“It… it wasn’t who she is, Touya,” he said softly. “She was broken. Grief, guilt… the years, your absence… it pushed her over the edge.”
Touya’s mind swirled. He thought of the burns, the fire, the hospital, the years spent unconscious. The silence. The absence.
His fists clenched around the blanket, white knuckles pressing into his palms. Questions piled inside his head, unformed, demanding to be heard.
“Five years,” Touma said gently, “I’ve been taking care of you since I found you. You were barely alive when I discovered you in the mountains north of Kyoto—severe burns, hypothermia, multiple organ failure. If I’d been even a few hours late… you wouldn’t be here.”
Touya’s eyes widened at the words. Mountains? He found me? He tried to remember, but his thoughts were foggy, tangled.
“You’re safe now,” Touma continued, softer this time, almost like a whisper meant to soothe. “That’s why you’re here. Not Japan. Not your old home. Not your family. You needed to heal… away from everything that could hurt you again.”
Touya’s gaze flicked to the window. Snow stretched endlessly beyond the glass. Polar bear, white, massive, wandering lazily in the distance. Antarctica. Cold, silent, remote. Perfect for keeping someone alive—safe from the reach of the world he’d left behind.
And yet the thought didn’t bring comfort. It brought isolation.
“I—I don’t…” Touya wanted to speak, to argue, to ask why, but the words refused him. His throat burned, raw and dry, nothing escaping.
Touma’s eyes softened further, noting the tension. He shifted closer, hands folding in his lap. “I know you’re scared. Confused. Angry. You should be. You’ve… been through more than anyone should.”
Touya swallowed. Fire, pain, scars, silence—the weight of everything pressed on his chest.
The uncle’s voice cut through the haze again. Quiet, hesitant, careful: “I’ve been here the whole time, watching over you. Protecting you. I couldn’t let anyone — anyone at all—risk you before you were strong enough.”
Touya’s vision blurred. He thought of Mom, Fuyumi, Natsuo. The fire, the hospital, the coma. The snow outside. The polar bear.
Why? Why did he take me here?
Touma smiled faintly, tired, awkward, like a man unsure if he’d overstepped: “It’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to be angry. You have every right to be. But you’re here now. Alive. And that’s what matters.”
Touya didn’t know how to feel about that. Alive, yes… but everything else? A storm of doubt and disbelief churned inside him.
And somewhere deep down, he realized—there were a thousand questions waiting. About his mother. About his father. About Natsuo. About this strange, familiar man who had saved him.
And one day… he would demand answers.
But not yet. Not now.
For now, he just lay there, staring at the white-haired man—his uncle—trying to make sense of the world that had moved on without him.