Chapter Text
It wasn't easy to sleep.
It was noisy.
There was some bug making a racket, screaming, or buzzing or something.
There was a creak and whir of a fan oscillating in the room and it was so damn hot. There were beeps and sounds of too many machines. Occasionally there were voices in the distance. Loud, quiet.
The sound of wheels, rolling past in a rush. Something on tile.
It was also too bright.
Even though his eyes were shut, even though he was trying to sleep because he was so exhausted, because he didn't want to open his eyes, he wanted to put it off longer. He didn't want to see, he didn't want the pain that would come with opening his eyes.
Sunlight he thought. Coming in bright through a window.
The bed wasn't comfortable. The pillow under his head was weird. Hard.
He wasn't even sure if it was a pillow.
Maybe he was asleep in a park or something.
With a rock under his head.
Which would explain the pain.
His head hurt.
His body hurt.
His neck hurt.
His throat hurt.
He was so thirsty. And his eyes hurt.
He wanted to go back to sleep.
He didn't want to be conscious.
But everything was too hot.
And he was so damn thirsty.
He opened his eyes and it hurt. His eyes felt heavy, bruised. He was inside, in a room, with a little TV. A remote sat near him. The bedding was all bright bleached white, heavily starched.
He pushed himself up and that hurt. Moving hurt. Things were pricking at him, tugging. He didn't want to look.
He felt abysmal.
There was a cup near him with water in it and he reached out to take it, wincing. His knuckles were bandaged.
He focused instead on the water. On picking it up and bringing it to him.
He drank.
It was so soothing.
He drank the whole cup full and wanted more.
He looked, found a pitcher and reached for it.
It was heavier than he expected and he frowned, focusing to pick it up and to pour, filling the cup up to the top, resting the pitcher on his thigh. Drinking.
He drank because his throat hurt.
It felt like it was on fire.
It burned and ached.
He stared at the TV, looked at the remote near him and leaned over, carefully balancing the pitcher on the bed, keeping it upright leaning against his legs and held it carefully in his hands.
He pushed the red button.
The TV clicked on.
The news.
He stared. He tried so hard to focus.
He was trying not to ask questions. He was trying not to think. To focus on the TV.
But.
He didn't understand anything the newscaster was saying.
None of it.
He began to panic.
He muted the TV and closed his eyes.
He breathed carefully.
He looked around the room.
There were colorful posters on the wall. Big bubbly letters...he couldn't read them.
He shut his eyes again.
They stung.
His heart was pounding.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know why he was there.
He didn't know the day of the week, the year, the month or date.
He didn't know how old he was.
He didn't know where home was.
He didn't know what he liked.
He didn't know why he was hurt, why his body ached.
He didn't know what had happened.
He didn't know who to call for help.
He didn't know what to say.
He didn't know his own name.
He cracked his eyes open again and turned towards the bedside table again.
There was a small tree in a cracked pot.
He reached over and carefully picked it up bringing it into his lap.
The leaves were small, so impossibly small.
It smelled of dirt and pine.
It twisted in such a beautiful way.
There was a band on his wrist and he looked at it.
Things were printed on it, but he couldn't read it.
He tried to decipher the curling letters, the numbers, he recognized the numbers but he couldn't tell what they were for. A one still seemed to be a one but the letters next to it didn't stick.
The door slid open and an older man walked in, moving towards him, towards the chair near his bed. And he stared.
Nothing sparked.
He didn't know the man. But he also didn't know who he was, so it meant nothing.
The man sunk into the chair with a sigh.
"Know me?"
It was a relief.
He understood.
He nearly cried.
He could understand the man.
He had so many questions that he didn't know if he wanted to know the answers to.
"No, I'm sorry. But I...don't know me either."
The man's brow furrowed, focused and sighed. He turned towards the door and called out something that he didn't understand.
A dark haired boy walked in.
"Again?" the man said softly.
"Huh?"
"He doesn't understand," the guy said sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Do you know Miyagi?"
"Miyagi?" he repeated, tasting the word on his tongue.
The guy nodded pointing towards the elderly man. "His name. Miyagi-san."
"San?"
"What's your name?"
"I don't know."
The guy stared surprised. "You don't remember?"
He shook his head.
The dark haired guy turned towards the elderly man, speaking fast.
He spoke so fast.
He had a headache.
Trying so hard to focus, willing the words to mean something.
The elderly man, Miyagi, sighed and stood, gently patting his shoulder and walking towards the door.
"We'll talk to the doctor," the guy said, he frowned studying his face. "You'll be okay."
It was like a promise. A promise that soothed the despair filling him. Fear that the people who he understood were going to suddenly leave him alone again. Alone without any clues, unable to navigate or understand anything.
He nodded sniffing.
"Nice bonsai," the guy said.
"Bonsai?"
"The tree."
He looked down at it.
Bonsai.
"Is it mine?"
"I think so."
He knew nothing.
Not even his own name.
But he had a tree.
That helped.
He had something that was his.
"Is it bad?" he asked.
"Is what bad?"
"Me? I...feel...bad. But I can't bring myself to look."
"You definitely look like you were in a fight. But it looks like it'll all heal. I'll find out."
The guy stood up and walked towards the door where Miyagi stood talking to someone in a uniform.
A doctor?
A nurse?
The guy was talking to them. Listening. Nodding. Motioning towards him.
"Do you recognize him Miyagi-san?"
Miyagi looked at the injured boy in the bed and shook his head. "Never seen him before. Why'd you call me?"
"Ah, we found a note. It was partially destroyed in the accident and the rains."
"That is not from an accident," Miyagi said with a frown. "That's injuries from a fight. What happened?"
"We're not sure, but you know, there have been more...fights lately. We think...and this is just a guess...that he got mugged after leaving the airport."
"Mugged?"
"He's got nothing on him, nothing but that tree and the note."
"Nothing?"
"No ID, no passport, no money or cards, nothing worth anything of money."
"Do we even know where he's from?"
"No idea. We were hoping once he woke up we'd find something out," the doctor said turning towards the boy walking towards him.
"What did he say?" Miyagi asked.
"I think he's got amnesia."
The doctor sighed. "We were worried that would happen. He got hit pretty hard. And there's older injuries."
"Older?"
"The bruising on his neck is a couple days old, older then the rest of it. And he's got some other older bruising."
"So what did this note say? The one with my name on it?"
The doctor pulled out a washed out and torn piece of paper. Miyagi studied it and frowned then motioned for the boy to read it. "What's it say?"
"Johnny, and then something about a bonsai, and then at the bottom here it just says Miyagi."
"So we think he was on his way to you and got jumped," The doctor said.
"Why though?" Miyagi asked with a frown.
"We don't know."
"Is he a recruit?" Miyagi asked the boy.
"I can ask uncle if we were expecting someone but...even when they haze their new recruits it's not this bad. And there would be an uproar if he was a new military recruit."
Miyagi sighed. "Poor kid. How long's he been here?"
"He was brought in last night. Someone found him bleeding in an alleyway during the storm. We need to keep him and observe him for a couple more days, but due to the trauma...he might not remember."
"Ever?"
"He might remember in a few hours, but it could be a long process."
Miyagi sighed looking at the blonde boy, at his blackened blue eyes, the spit lip, the angry bruising around his neck that seemed much worse then a mugging. Darker.
"We'll come back later," Miyagi said. "Come on Chozen-kun, let's go home. We'll come back around dinner with something good to eat"
"We're going to keep coming back?" Chozen asked.
"Yeah, can't leave him alone."
Miyagi watched as Chozen turned back towards the room, the blue eyes that were watching them and Chozen sighed shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, okay. I'll bring you back tonight." He turned to the boy speaking quickly in English and Miyagi watched the boy nod and relax turning his attention back to the tree.
Miyagi smiled patting Chozen's shoulder. "Thank you."
It wasn't the person he'd hoped when they'd called. The reason he'd dressed so fast and asked Chozen to drive him in a rush to the hospital. But the world worked in mysterious ways and if someone came, lost or not, knowing or not, in search of him, he couldn't turn his back on them. Even a blonde haired blue eyed boy who he didn't really understand, who or where he'd come from. Even if he was bruised and battered.
"What should I tell uncle?" Chozen asked pushing the door open as they walked towards his car.
"Nothing yet. You know how your uncle is."
Chozen frowned but didn't say anything. He knew. He held the door open for Miyagi, standing tall, all puffed up and proud.
Miyagi patted his arm sitting in the seat, looking back at the hospital frown deepening.
"What should we bring him for dinner? Hospital food is no good."
"Think he'll eat Okinawan food?" Chozen asked.
"Ah, good idea. We'll get him healthy food. He'll heal faster then."
"You look...worried, Miyagi sensei," Chozen said glancing at him as he drove.
"Some of the boys injuries...they're old. Like this isn't his first fight this week."
"Bad injuries?"
"Bad injuries."
"His neck?"
"Yes."
"You think, maybe he'll bring trouble?"
"Without a doubt."
"Then why are we going back?" Chozen asked.
"Because."
Chozen heaved out a sigh, a deep breath, accepting that he wouldn't get an answer he liked.
He never pushed it.
He parked outside of Miyagi's home and looked around uneasily, the way he always did, for Yukie, for her niece. If he caught sight of either he'd disappear so fast like a skittish wild animal. But once his search confirmed that neither was there he followed Miyagi through the gates and towards the kitchen. He was like a puppy. Followed Miyagi everywhere when he could. When there was no one to shoo him away.
"What should we make?" Miyagi asked. "What do foreigners like?"
Chozen opened the fridge. "Cheeseburgers, steak, seafood dishes. Taco rice."
"None of those are good if he's healing."
Chozen pulled out a green bumpy bitter melon. "Chanpurū"
"Goya Chanpurū?" Miyagi asked taking it from him.
"Yeah."
"Do they like it?"
Chozen laughed. "Not always, but it's healthy."
Miyagi smiled, "Then help me make some. We'll eat with him."
"Asa soup?"
"Yes."
Chozen went to work, chopping, cooking, focused. They made soup, rice, Goya Chanpurū, and packed them into bentos with shiikwasa juice. On the way back to the hospital Chozen stopped looking in a shop.
"You want to go shopping now?"
"I'll just be a moment."
Miyagi followed him into the shop, watching Chozen looking around, staring at a shelf with a serious look on his face, grabbing a book, flipping through it, picking another staring at it, putting it back and then picking up another.
He bought it.
"Think it will be that boring?" Miyagi asked with a soft laugh. "I need you to translate."
"No. Not for me. I realized everything is in Japanese. He clearly doesn't understand it. Which means he can't talk to most of the staff or watch most of what's on TV unless he manages to find an imported movie or TV show that hasn't been dubbed over. It seems... he looked, very lost, like he didn't want us to leave and I thought maybe a book might help."
Miyagi smiled patting Chozen's shoulder as he checked out and they continued back to the hospital.
The boy, Johnny, was sitting in the hospital bed still, holding his bonsai staring at it with a frown. Like it held all the answers he was looking for.
Miyagi had had so much hope when he'd gotten the call from the hospital that a man from overseas had arrived with a bonsai and his name. He'd expected a different man. He'd hoped for a different man. And his disappointment was crushing. But he wasn't going to turn his back on the boy just because he wasn't who he'd thought, because he was the wrong one with the wrong bonsai. He'd called Chozen not trusting himself to drive, knowing Chozen would get him there fast and safe and that if he needed assistance Chozen would keep his wits about him. Which Miyagi would have needed if he'd collapsed by the hospital bedside in tears.
It wasn't the Johnny's fault. He didn't know. He didn't know anything. And Miyagi had been so focused on his own feelings, on the basics of food and responsibility, unable to turn away a hand reached out towards him that he hadn't thought of things like what it must be like to be in a place and not know the language or why you're there, beaten up and your only possession a bonsai.
He hoped that wherever the man he was waiting for might be, that someone was there with him, that hands reached out to help him when he landed on whatever shore he'd landed on. And that he was taken care of, eating home cooked food and being thought of and cared for. And maybe one day he'd be lucky enough to hear a knock on the gate and a greeting from a voice he only ever heard in dreams.