Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Another member of HOMURA had faded into the skies above. 

Yata clenched his fists in fury, as an overwhelming sense of dread and anger washed over him. How could he not have seen this coming? He had been staring at Mikoto for so long that he forgot about the state of his Key and the slow crumbling of his time left as a King. He stood next to HOMURA—to his family—and chanted the words that almost felt like a desperate prayer in his mouth. 

Tears slid down his cheeks as he realised the reality of this situation. Everyone else’s faces were solemn, and Yata found himself wishing briefly that he wasn’t so emotional. A warm glow spread over his chest, where he flaunted his HOMURA mark—a sign of his pride and joy—and Yata watched the sky slowly turn red, as the glow of his red slowly filtered out his skin and floated up into the night sky. 

Briefly, his thoughts came back to Fushimi as he noted the navy blue that almost swallowed the red whole. 

Despite his lack of presence now, he was still in HOMURA once. Was he witnessing the same thing now? Did his heart ache as much as Yata’s did? He chanted HOMURA’s saying once again, his fist raised in the air as more tears flowed out. 

First Totsuka, and now Mikoto… when will this end? 

His gaze flickered to see Fushimi on the bridge—though only faintly seen, he was still there. Yata felt glad, despite all that had occurred between them. 

He’s there. He’s alive. I can still talk to him. I can still touch him. 

Then, he let his gaze focus back on the sky, letting Mikoto’s red wash over him for the last time.  

No blood! No bone! No ash! 

-

He couldn’t sleep. 

The heartache was still consuming him, eating him away. It was so hard to imagine that the man that he had so whole-heartedly looked up to was now amongst the ashes in the wind. 

Yata rolled over, clutching onto his blankets. The apartment was deathly silent as always; he tended to keep to himself when there was no one else to talk to. He hated it. He hated not having someone to talk to when the nights were long and there was nothing else to do, hated only pulling out one bowl instead of two—but it was something that he had slowly learned to grow accustomed to, even if he never wanted it to be that way. 

The empty presence that loomed over his bed was especially prevalent tonight, and forced Yata to face his reality once more. He finally gave up with a sigh, turning on his phone and absentmindedly scrolling, before accidentally clicking on the music app that had been installed on his phone. 

The song that popped up on his screen caused a flood of memories to seep back into his brain. 

“River flows in you,” Yata read quietly, before feeling his heart tighten at the words. He suddenly remembered the bickering that had been caused by this song addition. 

“Another classical song?” Yata groaned. “I don’t get what’s so cool about them.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Give it a try, Misaki.” Before Yata could protest, Fushimi forced an earphone into Yata’s right ear. Fushimi inserted the other earphone into his own ear, before he pressed the play button on his phone.

Yata sat there silently, letting the gentle piano notes wash over him. He felt a sense of ease gently ripple into his body, his muscles relaxing. He then looked up at Fushimi, who had his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. 

Yata stared, and stared again. He rarely saw a smile on Fushimi’s face, if ever, but the sight was something that he knew to cherish in his heart. Suddenly, the music had faded to nothing in his ears—the only melody that played now was the soft hums of Fushimi and the quiet sways to the music. Gingerly, he reached his hand out to touch Fushimi’s hair, before retracting it. 

What was he doing? 

He dropped his hand, and soon after, Fushimi’s eyes opened. Yata hadn’t realised the song had finished—the only thing he had truly been focusing on was the soft, gentle movements of Fushimi’s body and the smile that had appeared on his face so naturally. 

Fushimi looked over at Yata, almost as if he was expecting an answer. 

“Oh! Yeah! The—the song…” Yata trailed off, not daring to look Fushimi in the eyes. How could he tell Fushimi that he hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest, because he was too focused on how calm Fushimi had seemed at that moment? “It was… really nice. It felt gentle—like cotton candy.” 

Fushimi stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed. “You didn’t have to add those weird descriptions, Misaki.”   

Yata laughed awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t really know how else to describe it… but it is nice. It’s calm, like the sea.” 

Fushimi clicked his tongue once more, scrolling through the playlist. Though he seemed to be annoyed, Yata could tell by the soft look in his eyes that he was glad that Yata liked the song, too. 

He then clicked on the play button. Instantly, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, as he found himself having tears pooling in his eyes. The memories that flooded back into his mind were visceral; even stupid moments that Yata had seemed to forget managed to resurface back into his brain. A mental projection of their old times flashed into his memory, watching as the tape rolled and laughter was made. 

Fushimi fixing, Fushimi coding, Fushimi clicking his tongue in annoyance—Fushimi relaxing, Fushimi smiling. 

Fushimi laughing. 

They were all so close, but yet still out of Yata’s grasp. His fingers skimmed the surface of those times, but he wasn’t close enough to grab onto them and hold on for dear life. He had never understood Fushimi’s interest in classical music, but as the music played on and the tears began slipping out onto the pillow, one by one, he could finally understand why. 

You stupid, stupid dumbass, he thought, as he choked out a sob and clutched his phone close to his chest. The song, now muffled, continued playing into his shirt. The glow and heat from the phone transferred over to his bare neck; a warm device against a cold, lonely body. 

I wish you could come back. I wish you could tell me why you left. 

His eyes slowly drooped shut, as the last notes of the song faded into the background. It was another lonely night for Yata, and another night of questions that he wished for an answer to.

-

That day had come once again. 

Yata had awoken with his hand on top of his phone, which had inevitably died due to the fact that he had accidentally put the song on repeat. It was now lukewarm, and he groaned before rolling onto the floor, slamming against the tiled floors with a crash. 

“Ow…” he complained, before standing up and shrugging on his regular shirt. He rubbed his eyes, plugging his phone into the charger and began pulling out a singular plate. Yata stared at the other plate in the cupboard, almost mocking him as it remained still in the cupboards. He was half-expecting it to jump out at him and taunt him with that voice which had been embedded into his mind. 

Mi~sa~ki~!

He jumped, catching the plate in time. Turning around quickly, he almost breathed a sigh of relief to see no one behind him. He cursed quietly under his breath for being so jumpy of things that weren’t there. 

He ate breakfast, his eyes downcast to the empty seat in front of him. He quickly finished the lifeless meal, placing the dish in the sink. Today, he didn’t want to do much—the feelings from that day somehow seemed to still affect him now, and he knew the instant he entered HOMURA’s bar, all the members would stare at him, concerned. 

He hated that—he didn’t need babying. He could take care of himself. Yata knew it was only out of the kindness of their hearts, but he wanted to treat this day as if it was any other day. HOMURA had already died out, regardless—with Mikoto gone, all the other members had faded away—and only Yata and two others remained loyal to the bar. 

He grabbed his skateboard roughly, skulking out the door as he shovelled the keys into his pockets. In an instant, he was on the board, skating down the streets as the wind flew into his face. Yata needed a distraction, and fast. The feelings were catching up with him, which empowered him to skate faster, to skate further—and so he did, feeling the breeze flow into his shirt and through his beanie. 

He suddenly halted to a stop once he arrived at HOMURA’s bar, hopping off his skateboard and pushing open the door. Yata was lucky to enter when he did, because the skies instantly darkened the moment he entered HOMURA’s bar and rain began roaring down from the clouds. 

HOMURA was more lonely these days; everyone had decided to tend to their own devices when Mikoto had died. Dewa and Chitose had left together; Kusanagi had fled to Germany instead of staying—and as for the rest—Yata didn’t really know. 

It seemed that he didn’t know his family as well as he would’ve liked to. 

He flopped on the bar seat, bending over the table with his head in his arms. He let out a sigh, listening to the faint rain pattering on the windowsill. Anna came in from the other room, and Yata sat up suddenly, attempting to smile at her. 

“Anna,” he said, a smile on his face. “Good morning.” 

Anna looked up at Yata, before smiling gently in reply. “Good morning, Misaki,” she replied. “You don’t have to act happy.” 

“Wh—” Yata started. Damn it, had he really been that obvious? “I am happy to see you, Anna.” 

“No,” Anna shook her head. “You act happy, but your heart is sad. Is it because of Saruhiko?” 

Yata flared up, hitting the table with his fist. “No!” he exclaimed, suddenly turning away. “...I mean, no. It’s not… him. This weather… is just a little depressing. That’s all.” 

Anna gave him a knowing look, to which Yata averted his gaze. He didn’t want sympathy. He just wanted this day to be like any other day; where he would be able to enjoy his time with his newfound family and his new friends. He didn’t want to spend his day wallowing over some traitor, who had decided that Yata simply wasn’t good enough for him and so had promptly ditched him for other people. 

Why couldn’t anyone seem to understand that?

“Seriously, Anna,” Yata spoke again, wondering briefly if this was to convince himself more rather than to convince her. “I’m fine. I don’t want to spend my day mourning over some traitor anyway,” he bitterly spat.

And I certainly don’t need any reminders that today marks the day he left me HOMURA. 

Anna scrutinised him for a little while more, before shaking her head and heading over to the couch. Yata turned around to look at her, as Anna pulled out a red marble and held it up to the dim lighting of the bar, focusing on the image that began to materialise in the glass. 

“Anna?” he asked. “What are you doing?” 

Anna remained quiet, before letting her hand fall to her lap. Her eyes narrowed slightly, looking at her feet. 

“Misaki,” she said, quietly. “He’s coming by today.” 

Yata’s eyes widened. How dare he have the nerve to come swing by HOMURA’s bar as if nothing had happened? First he left HOMURA—had betrayed Yata—and now he decided to come back as if he had never done anything to them in the first place! His fists tightened, as he resisted the urge to hit the table harshly once more. He knew Kusanagi would skin him alive for the damages he had already caused due to his rage. 

“What—?” he raised his voice, before stopping himself abruptly and letting himself take a breath. “How… How do you know?” 

Anna held out the marble, as Yata hopped out of the chair and leaned closer to Anna’s hand. Inside the marble was a projected image of Fushimi’s back, with his SCEPTER 4 uniform on. Yata’s lip curled at the image of his uniform—his stomach knotted with anger and rage. 

He shouldn’t be there, Yata thought angrily. He shouldn’t be there at all. 

“My marble can show who you want to see most,” Anna explained. Yata jumped back. The marble was surely lying! Yata especially didn’t want to see him today—he didn’t know if he’d be able to contain himself. It wasn’t as if he had many plans to go out right now, anyway—it was pouring, and Yata would prefer to stay dry tonight. As Yata opened his mouth to retort, Anna shook her head. “Don’t try and defend yourself, Misaki. The marble does not lie. As for me knowing that he will come today…” Anna dropped the marble into Yata’s hands. “I can feel it. He will come.” 

Yata’s mouth thinned into a tight line, looking at Anna’s marble. He wanted nothing more than to throw it against the wall—but this was Anna’s marble and this bar was Kusanagi’s, so Yata decided against it. 

“...Alright,” Yata admitted, slumping his shoulders in defeat. “We’ll see if he comes—and if he does, I’ll—I’ll figure something out.” 

He hoped that Anna was wrong, but something deep inside his gut told him that it would be true. Fushimi would pass by HOMURA’s bar, and Yata would have to confront the thing that he had been trying so hard to forget. Unfortunately, Fushimi was one of those things that refused to let go—days came and went, but Fushimi was always at the back of Yata’s mind, taunting him, teasing him, for being so weak. 

Why can’t I just move on? Yata thought, at a loss. I don’t need him anymore—he’s shown that he doesn’t need me. 

I want him back.

Anna soon went back upstairs, talking about having to prepare for the incoming storm—which Yata couldn't understand where a storm would be coming from, but he shrugged his shoulders and flopped back onto the bar seat. 

This was so horribly unfair. Fushimi got to waltz around as he liked, as if he wasn't affected by any of this—leaving Yata behind to wallow in his own anger. If it had been anyone, Yata might have been willing to let go more easily, might have felt no remorse berating and cussing them out for their betrayal.

But this was different. Fushimi was different. He had been Yata's inspiration, his rock, his reliable partner. Yata had thought that they would always be together, no matter the case. 

It seemed that he was too naive to notice the signs—to notice the way Fushimi’s frown deepened with each day that passed in HOMURA, with each new interaction Yata had—and it infuriated him so fucking much, because what exactly had he done wrong? 

Was he just a conceited asshole? Was that who Yata had decided to stick by? 

Yata didn't know anymore. He wasn't a thinker; that was usually Fushimi’s job. He expressed himself using fists and actions—he felt as if his intentions were better expressed with his body rather than his mind. 

It hurt to think; hell, it hurt to even look at the red marble that Anna had given him, because Fushimi was there and it reminded him of the one thing that wasn't here. 

That should have been here. 

Saruhiko should be here, Yata thought bitterly, narrowing his eyes in anger. Why the hell is he with those Blues? Why did he betray HOMURA? 

Why can't he come back?  

But as the rain pelted and time ticked on, Yata was beginning to get bored of sitting around in a bar all alone. Sure, he had Anna, but he didn't exactly want to vent his frustrations to a child—that would be cruel to both himself and Anna.

He stuffed the marble in his pocket quickly, sighing in frustration as he walked closer to the door. The rain was still pouring onto the streets, and his breath fanned the glass, causing fog to appear. 

His eyes widened as the familiar figure skulked down the street. He didn't even need to wipe the glass to know who it was. Yata’s shoulders tensed, and his blood boiled. 

Anna was right. He cursed under his breath. 

Why today? 

Why did it have to be today? 

His seething fury got the best of him, as his vision turned red. Before he knew it, the faint sounds of the rain had suddenly become much more apparent, and he felt his shirt slowly begin to stick to his chest, slicked with water. 

“Oi, you monkey!” Yata roared. He clenched his fists, watching as Fushimi turned around to face him. His hair was soaked, and he wore that stupid uniform that Yata despised. “What do you think you're doing around here?! This is our turf, alright?! You stupid Blues need to stay away! ” 

“Misaki…” Fushimi trailed off. Yata took a step forward, resentment boiling at the pit of his stomach. He hated that name. Fushimi knew that—he had seen Yata teased for that given name so many times. Yet now, he used Yata’s first name as if it was his given right! “Your so-called King is now dead.” Fushimi laughed maniacally. “I could just as easily take you down right now, Mi~sa~ki~! Look at you, so powerless, so angry… you really haven't changed one bit, Mi~sa—” 

Yata lunged, not being able to let the anger fester any longer. His rage ate away at him, clawing at his skin and burning in his veins. “Argh!” Yata raged. “You stupid monkey, why'd you have to show up?! "You—you've ruined everything.” 

You ruined HOMURA. You ruined me. Why are you back? Why can't you just leave me alone? 

Stop toying with me like this—stop playing with my feelings for your fucking entertainment. 

He grasped the collar of Fushimi’s shirt tightly, as the burnt remains of HOMURA’s mark peeked out from underneath. His knuckles turned white from the sheer pressure; tears threatened to spill, but Yata held back just enough to not let them out. 

“Me?” Fushimi mocked, a slight edge to his voice. He looked down on Yata. His eyes were empty, lifeless. His mouth curled up into a sadistic smile—the very sight sent chills down Yata’s spine. “It was you, Mi~sa~ki~! And now, look where that's gotten you. I told you, I was never fit for you or your stupid punks at HOMURA, either.”

“You're the one who left HOMURA!” Yata cried, attempting to not let his rage consume him.

You're the one who left me us. 

“You just left one day, and now you think you suddenly get to come back and waltz in our fucking bar like nothing happened?!” The grip on Fushimi’s shirt tightened. Yata wanted to scream more, to put those actions into comprehensible words for Fushimi to understand. He couldn't do words. That wasn't his thing. 

Yata wanted to push Fushimi away and pull him back in at the same time, and he didn't know which one would hurt more. 

“Last time I recall, HOMURA’s bar was a public place, Mi~sa~ki~. ” Fushimi drawled, the sadistic grin still on his face. Yata couldn't understand how it didn't suit a face like his at all. Sure, Fushimi could be irritating—scratch that, fucking annoying—but he wasn't sadistic. Yata knew he wasn't that kind of person. 

The figure that he was currently gripping onto for dear life said otherwise. 

Yata stilled, his anger slowly dissipating. A newfound sense of fatigue washed over him, as his fists that had been so tightly curled unfurled themselves. 

Fushimi continued on with his prodding—another painful reminder that he had no care for Yata—another painful reminder that Yata was just his plaything that he had quickly gotten bored of. 

“Given up already, Misaki?”

Yata held back the lump in his throat from spilling forward. Slowly lifting his gaze to meet Fushimi’s, only the truth fell from his lips. “...I don’t care anymore, Saruhiko.” he admitted. I don’t want this fight to last any longer than it needs to. I don’t want to see him act like this anymore. It hurts. He hurts. “I’m tired.” 

—And of course, Fushimi couldn’t care less about Yata’s wellbeing. Yata was a fool for even thinking that Fushimi would want to listen to someone as idiotic as Yata. Yata with his dumb naysayings—Yata, who fumbled with words and could never do anything right. Why would Fushimi ever like someone like Yata? 

Why would Fushimi ever care about someone he betrayed? 

“And here I thought you'd actually have some spirit, or perhaps revenge in your veins—since that's what you HOMURA hooligans are known for, Misaki.” Fushimi laughed. “You need to get a move on. Your King is dead; so what?”  

So what? Yata thought angrily. What do you mean, so what? The rush of red flooded his vision once more; how could he say such a thing about HOMURA’s king? Mikoto was someone Yata admired deeply; his power and status was something that Yata revered and praised. After all, he was the reason that HOMURA was Yata’s newfound home. 

Mikoto saved us, Saruhiko—or do you not even appreciate that? 

“So what?!” Yata exclaimed, How could Fushimi not even understand someone who saved them both? “Mikoto saved me—saved us. He's the reason I'm here today, instead of scrounging for spare change to try and pay for rent! Don't you remember those days, Saruhiko? Don't you remember when we struggled to find money and had to rely on your computer skills to pretend we had paid finances we didn't have?”  

Fushimi scowled in response. Yata’s blood boiled. “He never saved me, Misaki. I serve under the Blue King, now.”

Blue. Blue. Blue. 

Yata despised everything about the colour blue—how cold the colour felt, how much passion it lacked. It was the stark opposite of red; who was warm, who was inviting. Blue turned a shoulder to Yata’s pleas, whilst red invited him wholly and embraced him with welcoming arms. But blue—it was also the one thing that he admired. He admired the blue that adorned Fushimi’s hair—the blue that his eyes portrayed, dark and luminous. 

You shouldn’t be in that uniform, Yata thought disgustedly. Why do you like it so much? 

“Yeah, well—your Blue King is a piece of shit! And so are you Blues. All of you Blues need to get a grip on reality, instead of acting all fuckin’ high and mighty as if you own this city.” Yata snapped. “Mikoto was humble. He was a good King. He treated us like family.”

And then he left, just like him.

Surprisingly, Fushimi smirked at that reply. “He is,” he nodded. “Munakata is seriously a pain in the ass.”

Yata stared at him, bewildered. Did they actually mutually agree on something? 

“Your King means nothing to me.” Fushimi narrowed his eyes, a flame of disgust alight in his irises. Yata had been too optimistic, yet again. “I don't care what he was to you—and your so-called family—where is it now?” 

Where is it now? 

The question echoed through Yata’s mind like a broken cassette. Where had HOMURA gone? He could go and defend their familial bonds as much as he wanted, but it wouldn't bring back the relationships that he wanted. 

The fury pooled in his mind, his heart roaring with vexation and rage. Why the hell did Fushimi have to show up today, why did he hate Yata so much, why, why, why was he being like this? 

“You…” Yata narrowed his eyes. Anna, Totsuka, Kamamoto and Mikoto flashed through his mind. They were his family. They were such an integral part of him—how could Fushimi ever understand? He couldn't understand Yata’s bonds at all; so what right did he have to comment on that sort of thing? “You don't get to speak on what family is or not! You're the one with a broken family anyway.” 

Fushimi’s eyes widened, and Yata heard him crack. 

Shit, the thought flashed through his mind. Shit, shit, shit. I hit a nerve. 

What happened next sent chills down his spine—instead of lunging, instead of raging and screaming about how Yata would never be able to have parents like Fushimi’s—he merely smiled. 

“Wait,” Yata said, “I didn't—I didn't mean to—”

“No,” Fushimi scoffed, the corners of his mouth turning up maliciously. It was so foreign to Yata; he had never felt so cold in his life. “You're right, Misaki. I'm the product of a broken family—of a mother who didn't care, and a father who did nothing but torture me—so I shouldn't get a say on what a family means. Ding, ding, Mi~sa~ki~! No one cares for me; you're probably wondering why I'm still here. The truth is—”

“You—you fucking dumbass,” Yata interrupted, his teeth grit and his fists clenched. His eyes burned with a passion to save—a passion to save Fushimi—because if no one else wanted to, then Yata would always be on the other end of the rope, at the end of the day. “Did you really think that?”

Yata couldn't bite his tongue back anymore. The words tumbled from his mouth, like water dribbling down his chin. He thought that? It was simply ridiculous to even consider that option to Yata; his new coworkers appreciated him and looked up to him with glittering eyes—and it reminded Yata of back then, when he'd always be in awe of Fushimi. 

He really thought no one cared? 

Yata couldn't believe it. 

Fushimi had the audacity to be surprised; Yata thought he was stating the obvious. 

“You're right,” Yata continued on. “I know you don't care about Mikoto like I do, and I know that you don't care about HOMURA anymore.”

“Stating the obvious now—”

“But you—you have no right to say no one cares about you!” Yata roared. “Why else were you accepted into the Blues so easily?! Why else did that stupid Munakata guy let you join the ranks that easily?! It was so easy for you, it's fucking ridiculous.” 

It was so easy for you to drop me like a piece of trash. 

“Munakata sees me as a piece of the puzzle,” Fushimi laughed, almost pathetically. Yata wanted to strangle him; how could he not understand such a simple concept? “He doesn't care for me. To him, I'm a useful tool. So I have to make the most of it.”

“What about those other Blues—”

“They're scared of me,” Fushimi huffed. “No one hangs out with me, even amongst SCEPTER 4. So, what's it now, Mi~sa~ki ~?”

Yata was bewildered. Just how different were their worlds that Fushimi wasn't able to see what Yata could notice so easily? For Yata, Fushimi being cared about was as blatant as the sky being blue, or the rain pouring down on the two right now. His gaze dropped to the ground, as his mind repeated words that he wished he could ignore. 

I do. 

I care. 

I care about you. 

His eyes narrowed, as his fists clenched. Why did it have to still be this way, even after all this time? Why did his heart still care about someone who had tossed him away into the trash? Fushimi clearly had moved on; the only one left over was him, attempting to pick up the scraps left at his feet in a desperate measure to connect the pieces back together. 

“...I…” Yata whispered. “...I still care… and I hate that I do.” 

There you go, his mind mocked. It’s out there now. You care about someone who doesn’t. 

Fushimi was silent. Had Yata’s words gotten to his mind for once? Was this what it took for Fushimi to finally listen to Yata? 

“You…” Fushimi trailed off, before huffing out an amused, cold snicker. “Why? I left HOMURA.”

Of course, he didn't end up listening. Yata thought bitterly, averting his gaze. Say something, his mind urged. Before you end up doing something instead. 

“I don't know, okay?! I just do. Even when I try not to, I—it ends up never working.” 

Even when I try not to, I end up caring anyway.  

Fushimi stilled at that comment. Yata’s eyes slightly widened, watching his chest rise and fall erratically. For a split second, Yata panicked at the thought of Fushimi fainting—he knew the bastard didn't like taking care of himself. He then mentally shook the thought out of his own head—how could such thoughts be attributed to a traitor? 

Fushimi gulped slightly—if a regular person wasn't paying attention, it wouldn't even be noticed—but he did. Yata always noticed Fushimi. His gaze slowly trailed up to Fushimi’s face, who glared down at Yata as if he was the scum of this earth. His heart ached suddenly. 

“Then try harder,” Fushimi sneered. “Stop caring for me, Misaki. I stopped caring for you a long time ago. Learn to do the same.”

The words sounded so foreign coming out of Fushimi’s mouth, but it was yet another reminder what he really was to Fushimi—a worthless piece of trash tossed aside once his usefulness had dried up. Yata felt water slide down his cheeks; this time, they didn't seem to come from the sky. 

Of course, Fushimi couldn't care less; he turned away from Yata, leaving again. The rain pelted down, harder, fiercer. Yata tried not to let the tears slip more than they already had. 

I stopped caring for you a long time ago.

Yata collapsed to the ground, watching as Fushimi disappeared into the distance. Again, he had been left behind. Again, he had broken down into tears over Fushimi. He wanted to thrash and scream, to tell Fushimi that he was the biggest asshole in the world and kick him against the wall and—

Yata was tired. He had given up. 

“Hah,” he laughed into his sleeve. It sounded more like a choked sob. “You think I haven't tried, Saruhiko?” Silence prevailed, the rain providing the white noise in the background. 

“I can’t, you stupid monkey. I'm already in too deep.” 

-

Yata was wrapped around a towel, shivering from the rain. He could barely feel the cold, though—more burning thoughts were at the forefront of his mind. 

Why did he show up? 

Anna was by his side, looking at him concerningly as Yata’s gaze dropped to the ground. When did it all change?  When did he forcibly drift the relationship between himself and Fushimi? 

“Misaki,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry.” 

Even now, Anna apologised. Yata hated how she took the blame for matters she wasn't a part of. 

“You didn't do anything, Anna,” Yata smiled gently. “Just… unresolved stuff, I guess.” 

It's been going on for four years now. When can this all end? 

“I think it's more than that, Misaki,” Anna said, turning her head to look at him. “You both are misunderstanding the other.” 

“Misunderstanding…” Yata trailed off, huffing slightly. “What's so hard to misunderstand about that traitor? He left HOMURA and ran over to SCEPTER 4—‘cause what, that stupid Blue captain spewed some bullshit about whatever and decided to leave me—and HOMURA?” 

“...Not everything is as it looks like,” Anna replied. Yata could tell that she wanted to say more, but was hesitating. Yata wished that he could have a personalised map for the inside of Fushimi’s mind, because it was getting tiring and confusing trying to navigate to whatever the fuck he was thinking about. 

Yata used to pride himself on understanding Fushimi. He used to grin whenever Fushimi said something that only Yata understood the true meaning of. 

That was back then. 

Now, he was just as lost as everyone else—and each new word only added more confusion to his poorly drawn-out map. 

What are you doing, Saruhiko?  Yata wanted to scream. I don't understand you. I can’t understand you. Why won't you tell me? 

Why won't you let me in anymore? 

Yata let his shoulders slump, watching the pool of water gradually grow on the ground. With each drop that landed on the floor, he was reminded of the events that had transpired minutes before. Anna had found him in a heap, an umbrella over her head as she gently prodded his arm. He had slowly gathered the strength to stand up, before they skulked back into the bar. 

“Yeah, well, I wish it was, ‘cause it feels so hard for me to understand,” Yata said, holding back the urge to punch the now wet floor; its glistening reflection of water almost mocked him, reminding him of the tears that he had shed and the water that slid down his back. “I just wanted today to be normal—then, of course, he had to show up and ruin everything. Like always.”

Anna remained quiet, as Yata continued staring lifelessly down at the floor beneath the two. 

That stupid monkey’s going to get sick. 

-

Yata woke up to see a blanket wrapped around him and his back on an unfamiliar surface. Taking in his surroundings, he was surprised to see that he was in HOMURA’s bar, instead of in the comfort of his own apartment. 

His hair had seemingly dried, but his clothes were still slightly damp. He groggily sat up, looking over to see Anna sitting at one of the chairs. Kamamoto was in the other seat, sipping at a can of coke. 

“Oi,” Yata piped up. “What time is it?” 

“You were knocked out ‘till the next day,” Kamamoto replied. “Slept like a baby.” 

"Wha—” Yata started, jumping up suddenly. He saw that the floor wasn't slathered with water anymore, and heaved out an aggravated sigh as he threw the towel on the sofa and grabbed his skateboard. “I'm going home to change,” he said, before pushing the door open and promptly leaving. 

Back through the streets he went, the familiar sensation of the wind flowing through his hair. He had been so occupied with getting back, that he almost crashed into one of the Blues that happened to stand in his path—

“What the hell?!” Yata roared, skidding to a stop. His clothes had miraculously dried with the fast speeds that he was skating at. “Get out of my way, stupid Blues!” 

“I cannot,” the woman said. Yata immediately realised that the woman was Awashima, the captain’s deputy lieutenant. “The Captain has ordered that you report to SCEPTER 4 headquarters.” 

“Hah,” Yata grinned. “I don’t respond to any King other than the Red King. Get out of my way, or I'll make you.” 

“I cannot,” Awashima said once more. Looking down ashamedly, she added, “...It's about Fushimi.”

Yata’s eyes flared with rage. “You mean, that traitor? What do you think someone like me wants to do with him?”  he sneered. 

“I wish not to have to say this either, but I must,” Awashima closed her eyes in shame. “Fushimi is sick. He has requested your presence.” 

Requested? Fushimi?  Yata thought, shocked. No way. 

“If this is some sick joke or something—”

“It is not,” Awashima interrupted. “SCEPTER 4 does not joke around with serious matters such as this.”

Yata stilled. He could just push by, he could choose to escape… but he knew Fushimi was utterly useless in terms of health. With every passing moment, the mere thought of Fushimi attempting to take care of himself without Yata’s guidance set off alarms in his head. His eyelids screwed shut in frustration; why did he still dwell over matters like this? He didn't have to go to Fushimi; he could leave him, like Fushimi had. 

He needs asked for me. 

“Fine,” Yata spat. “But we aren't going right now. I need to go home first,” he said, motioning to his attire. 

“Of course,” Awashima bowed. “And, Yatagarasu…” 

Yata threw a glance at her. “What?”

“...Thank you. It is appreciated.”

Yata grit his teeth. “Che. Whatever. I’m only doing this because you Blues can't seem to do jackshit.” He then skateboarded home, with Awashima tailing behind. 

He had forgotten that her mission was to make sure he got there, instead of running off to who knows where. He laughed to himself; as if he had another home he could return to, anyway. HOMURA was his new home; his only home. 

Once he had reached his apartment, he quickly replaced his current clothes with a new set of clothing, before rummaging through his fridge for food. He could see Awashima standing outside, and instantly felt judged. It wasn't his fault that his house seemed disorganised. 

It was just… old habits die hard, he supposed.

He sighed in frustration when he realised that everything he had was tailored to him and not Fushimi. It was funny—back then, he had designated a section specifically for Fushimi’s food. He knew exactly where he had put it, too—in the uppermost left corner of the fridge, separated with a box so as to not confuse their condiments. 

(Yata never needed the box in the end, anyway; remembering Fushimi’s dislikes and likes was easy when the guy complained about what he didn't like every five seconds during dinner.) 

He gulped, before grabbing his wallet and strolling out the door. 

“Finished?” Awashima said, raising an eyebrow. 

“...I need to buy a couple more things,” Yata said, looking away. “You can stand outside the store while I go in.” 

Awashima’s eyes narrowed.

“Relax, I won't try to escape,” Yata sighed. “I don't even have my skateboard on me. It's inside the apartment.” 

Awashima’s eyes softened, before nodding. “Let us go,” she stated, as Yata led the way. 

-

Yata didn't realise how daunting supermarkets were. 

He stood there, reading all the ingredients associated with the item he was currently holding. He grimaced when his eyes read a greenery, putting it back with a sigh. “I would’ve liked that too…” he muttered, before moving onto the next item. 

Slowly but surely, his cart began piling with items, and it was just as he was tapping his card on the card reader that he actually realised what he was actually doing. 

Why am I helping someone like him?  He thought, but the transaction had already gone through. He couldn't take it back. “Che,” he muttered under his breath, before picking up the designated plastic bag and walking out the store to find Awashima. 

The two began walking in silence to SCEPTER 4, with Yata beginning to wish more and more that he had just declined the request.

After a while, Awashima broke the tension-filled silence. “I know this may be a bit personal,” she started, “but I wanted to know for myself.” Awashima looked over at Yata, who sighed. 

“Hurry up.”

Awashima nodded slightly. “How was he… back then?” 

Hah, Yata chuckled. Back then? 

“Before becoming one of these stupid Blues?”

“No,” Awashima said. “Before you guys found out about this new world.” 

“Before this world…” Yata trailed off. His eyes lowered to the ground briefly, as flashbacks of their past came back into play. “Before this world, he was amazing.” 

“I gotta say, Saruhiko, if it’s you, I feel like you can even take over the world!” 

“So cool! Saruhiko is so cool!” 

“You and I, we’ll fly away to somewhere huge, and together, do amazing things.”

Back then, Yata could say those things without a second thought. Fushimi being an amazing person was simply a fact of life to him—he was a person that could do anything—and that skill allowed Yata into an entirely new world, where hope resided and boredom withered away into the past. 

But what about now? 

“...I see,” Awashima replied, smiling. “I see Fushimi has not changed in his ways.” 

“...What do you mean?” Yata asked warily. His shoulders were tense. 

“He is incredibly useful to SCEPTER 4,” Awashima explained as they entered the gates. “Fushimi has been of great aid to us—”

“So you all are—what, using Saruhiko?” Yata spat. “Take that back.” 

“We are not using Fushimi,” Awashima narrowed her eyes. “He has, and continues to be of great assistance to SCEPTER 4.”

“You're all treating him like some—some object!” Yata jabbed. “He's not a thing; he's a person. Or can you Blue dogs not even understand what it means to be human?” 

“Of course he is a person, just as each one of us is,” Awashima said curtly. “He requested your presence here, Yatagarasu.” Awashima leaned over to grab Yata’s bag in an attempt to lessen his load, but Yata snapped. 

“Don't touch me, you stupid Blues!” Yata roared.

“Please remain calm—”

“Why did I even agree to this? I want to burn this stupid place down.” Yata grumbled, but walked onwards nonetheless. Soon, they reached Fushimi’s dorm, Yata taking in the ornate decor carved into his door. 

“Fushimi, you have a visitor—”

“Visitor?! Like hell I would ever visit him. You—”

The door suddenly swung open at that moment, which caused Yata to immediately close his mouth in response. Fushimi looked over at Awashima, who had a sour expression on her face, before glancing back at Yata and his plastic bag. 

Shit, Yata thought. He's sicker than I thought. 

“You said—” Fushimi said to Awashima, prompting a defeated sigh in return. 

“It wasn't me,” Awashima muttered, looking away ashamedly. “Captain’s orders.”

Fushimi’s gaze flickered towards Yata again, who had been standing next to Awashima awkwardly throughout the ordeal. “...Misaki,” Fushimi uttered with that soft, hoarse voice of his. Unconsciously, Yata’s heart tightened; the sudden prickle of desire to reach out and touch was quickly suppressed. 

“Che,” Yata tutted. “You look like absolute dogshit, Saruhiko.”

Fushimi stared at him quietly, before coughing into his hand. Yata turned to Awashima, who was still standing at the door awkwardly. He sent an angry glare in her direction; one was sent in response, before Awashima turned her heel and walked down the halls of the corridor. 

Hah, Yata thought triumphantly. That's right. Leave him to me—you'd barely be able to do it yourself. 

An awkward silence ensued. 

So, are you going to let me in, or what?” Yata thinned his lips in annoyance. “I look like an idiot just standing outside your door.”

“You were always an idiot,” Fushimi said pointedly. “What's in that bag?”

Yata felt his cheeks warm. He didn't want to sound like his mother by admitting that he had brought in groceries, supplied fresh from the store. 

“S–Shut up,” he muttered. “I'll show you when I get inside.”

“No,” Fushimi said. “Show me what's in that bag right now.”

Yata felt his fists tighten around the plastic bag. “Are you really going to act so selfish even when I came all the way here?! Why do I have to show you out here? I can just leave right now, you know. I wasn't obligated to come here.” 

“Then leave,” Fushimi retorted. “Why did you come here, Misaki? ”

Why did I come here? 

Why am I standing in front of my enemy's door? 

“That lady leader of yours, or whatever—it was her. She dragged me here!” Yata deflected instead. It was easier to say excuses; it hid the truth. 

“You didn't answer my question, idiot. If you don't want to show me what's in your bag, then leave.” Fushimi glared at him.

“You…” Yata trailed off angrily, shoulders tense. 

Why won't he just let me inside?

Yata sighed, after a long moment of silence. He placed the bag down precariously, taking out the items, one at a time. 

“It's just food,” he muttered. “I made sure… to not buy any greens. But there are still tangerines and pineapples, because you have to eat your vegetables, you dumb monkey.” He stood back up, watching a flicker of—was it surprise?—light up in Fushimi’s expression, before returning to the plain face that Yata knew so dearly. 

“Get in,” Fushimi curtly said, stepping aside and clicking his tongue. His gaze tore away from Yata, fixating on something else instead. Yata took this as his chance to stride inside Fushimi’s dorm—despite the fact that he despised Fushimi’s choice to live in these dingy, old dorms, Yata couldn't deny the bubbling curiosity that was building up inside of him. “And make sure to wipe your shoes on the mat.” 

“I know, I know,” Yata scoffed. “I have manners, unlike you.” He took his shoes off, before noticing the horrible state that Fushimi's room was in.

“What the—” Yata started. “Who cleans your rooms?!” Yata felt a prickling sensation of disgust at the growing piles of trash scattered along the room, before looking back at Fushimi. “You Blues need to learn some proper hygiene.”

“I'm not the one who decides where the funding goes,” Fushimi scoffed. “I'm going back to sleep.”

“Oi—” Yata retorted. “You can't just tell me to come here and then not speak!” He angrily picked up a piece of Fushimi’s trash and threw it into the very much empty rubbish bin. “Che,” he muttered under his breath. 

It was like this back then, in the end. What changed? 

Did you change? Or was it me? 

…Was it both of us? 

As Yata continued setting up the room, a comfortable silence fell over the two. For some reason, despite HOMURA and his new family—this was what made his heart feel full again. Simply cleaning Fushimi’s room sent Yata's mind down memory lane once again, as nostalgia washed over him.

“This reminds me of middle school,” Yata chuckled slightly. “When you got sick, and then I visited your house and made you food… and then the times after that, in… our apartment…” Yata trailed off, not wanting to diverge down that path. The wounds were still too fresh, still too red. 

“Do you still live there?” Fushimi asked.

Of course, Yata thought bitterly. Where else can I call home?  He stilled, staring at the ground, almost in shame. 

“...Yeah.”

“Even after all this time, Misa—” Fushimi began coughing, and Yata was suddenly a lot more alert of the deteriorating health of his ex-best friend. He quickly clambered up the ladder, pushing Fushimi’s bangs aside to rest his hand on Fushimi’s forehead. 

“Honestly, you monkey, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.” Yata could feel just how warm Fushimi was underneath his palm, and the same warmth spread over his chest. 

Hah, he thought. I could almost get used to this again. 

“Shit,” he muttered, realising that the heat radiating from Fushimi was becoming hotter than before. “You’re burning up.” 

Fushimi remained quiet, seemingly too tired to care—though Yata could hear Fushimi’s hoarse breaths, which he assumed was due to Fushimi’s illness. 

Geez, Yata heard slip through his mind. What do the Blues feed this guy? 

“Hot pot, huh?” Fushimi asked, breaking the silence. Yata had been so occupied with making sure that Fushimi hadn’t decided to go off and faint on him, that he had forgotten about the ingredients he had brought in to cook with. A red blush slowly crept up on his cheeks, turning away. 

“...Yeah,” Yata replied. “Look, it wasn’t on purpose, okay?! I just went to the store to get some quick food… and then…” 

And then you ended up spending way too much time thinking about him. 

“Anyway,” Yata huffed quickly. “I’ll start it up now. I’ve cleared enough of your room that there’s actually a place to sit. Geez, you never change.” He quickly hopped off the bunk bed, hearing the slight creak in Fushimi’s bunk bed as his body rolled over to the other side. 

He laid the chopping board down on the floor, beginning to cut the vegetables swiftly, before hearing the sounds of Fushimi in a deep sleep. His eyes flickered to the bunk bed, and he instinctively felt his gaze soften as he saw Fushimi sleeping on his bunk bed. His messy tufts of hair stuck up from his head, and Yata resisted the urge to climb back up the ladder and smooth down his locks. 

He turned back to the chopping board, being careful as to not startle Fushimi with his sudden chopping.

“You're finally sleeping for once,” Yata whispered, huffing out a silent chuckle. He finished cutting the vegetables—if pineapples and tangerines could be considered vegetables—and meat swiftly, looking over at the setting sun to gauge the time.

It was still shining brightly in the sky, so Yata decided to stand up and really take a chance to look around Fushimi’s dorm room. Apart from the trash that was somehow scattered everywhere, it was barren—Yata had expected Fushimi to have at least plugged up some of his computers, being a genius with technology and what-not—but it felt almost as if it had been abandoned, if not for the obvious presence sleeping soundly right now. 

The walls were bare, quiet and reserved; Yata wondered briefly how Fushimi didn’t have the urge to paint his personality in loud colours of blue, green and red. Wandering over to his desk, he sneaked a glance at Fushimi’s still body, before quietly pulling out his drawers. Junk, junk, and more junk—Yata supposed this is where most of his interests decided to lie instead, hidden in these small drawers that could barely store anything. 

He then opened the last drawer, and was startled to see the exact replica of the dolls that Totsuka had made for them when he was still alive. 

He kept it?  Yata thought, eyes widened briefly. It didn’t seem dusty in the slightest—unlike his other trinkets, it was completely free of debris. He reached down to pick up the doll, admiring Totsuka’s handiwork. 

“Ah, maybe I should swap the dolls…” Yata muttered, but then quickly put the doll down when Fushimi stirred in his sleep. 

That’s right, Yata remembered. He’s a very light sleeper. 

He stilled, watching Fushimi intently. Fushimi went back to sleep in an instant, and Yata let out a silent sigh of relief. He wouldn’t know what to say if Fushimi caught him with Yata’s own doll in his hands—and he was glad that that situation would not become a possibility. He closed the drawer, looking back at the food that he had cut not long ago.

“I should get the hot pot going…” Yata muttered, looking over to see the sun setting. He took this as a sign to plug the portable stove into the outlet, turning it on and placing the pot on top. Slowly, he began placing the food into the simmering pot, feeling his stomach rumble suddenly as the familiar aroma filled his nostrils once more.

Ah, he thought, suddenly nostalgic. This is just like back then. 

He heard the sudden movement of Fushimi waking up, looking over to see his sleepy figure. Yata felt a small smile creep up at Fushimi’s sleepiness—it was kind of cute—

What the hell am I thinking?  

“Ah, you’re awake,” Yata said.  “The hot pot is ready.” Fushimi rubbed his eyes, feeling for his glasses before putting them on. Yata stirred the hot pot, setting out the bowls—

when he heard Fushimi’s footsteps go silent. 

Yata suddenly looked behind him, eyes widened as he watched Fushimi fall off the rungs. Before he knew it, he was up in a flash, arms wrapped around Fushimi’s back. Anger and concern flared up at once—how could he be so careless?  Didn’t he know how to be careful? 

“You dumbass! You need to take care of yourself more instead of trying to do everything yourself.” Yata angrily lectured, but Fushimi was quiet in return. The thumps in his heart returned, loud and noisy. They rang in his ears, sang in his body, thundered underneath his feet—and he wanted nothing more but to rid it. Their faces were so close, that Yata could see the woefully painful blue that he had fallen foolishly for, time and time again. 

“I get it, Misaki,” Fushimi grumbled, his eyes averted. “Let me go.” 

Shit, Yata realised. I was holding him. 

He quickly let go, a red growing on his cheeks. He willed for the red to return back into its roots, turning away from Fushimi and continuing to set up the rest of the plates and bowls. 

“Anyway,” Yata said, attempting to move on from that moment. They settled on the floor, across from each other. “I couldn’t bring a table with me, so we have to eat on the floor. God, the Blue’s rooms are so small.” 

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “At least they’re not large and empty,” he retorted. 

You…!  Yata thought, but bit his tongue down. They were eating, and Fushimi was sick—Yata should’ve known that Fushimi would be more irritable than usual with a sickness at hand—but he had forgotten, and that pissed him off. 

“You’re lucky that you’re sick,” Yata scowled. “Otherwise, I would’ve smashed your head into the ground right now.” He motioned to the food in the hot pot. “Now, eat. I didn’t make this for nothing.” 

He watched Fushimi gingerly lift his chopsticks, picking and prodding at the hotpot—and purposely picked out only the meats, placing them into his bowl. 

“Oi!” Yata exclaimed. Fushimi looked up innocently, which infuriated Yata even more. 

How can he just act as if he’s done nothing wrong?! 

“I bought those for you to eat. I can’t be the one eating it all!” Yata stated angrily. Fushimi responded by staring blankly at the pineapples and tangerines, a disgusted expression contorting onto his face. 

“I don’t want to eat those,” he said, clicking his tongue as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He then placed the food into his mouth, a slight light sparking in his eyes as he chewed. “The taste…” Fushimi muttered. “It’s familiar.” 

“Well, it’s not like I really changed up the recipe…” Yata replied sheepishly, before picking up a tangerine with his chopsticks and placing it in Fushimi’s bowl.  Fushimi looked up at Yata as if he had committed the worst crime in the world, staring at the lone tangerine in disgust. 

Yata closed his eyes in annoyance; Fushimi could be such a big baby sometimes. “Eat the stupid tangerine, Saruhiko. It’s not going to kill you.”

Fushimi muttered something under his breath—Yata assumed it was something spiteful, knowing him—before he finally picked up the tangerine and placed it in his mouth. Yata let out a silent sigh of relief. He was eating a vegetable—that was a win in his books. 

Fushimi struggled to swallow the tangerine, his face contorting into absolute disgust as he attempted not to vomit back up what he had already digested. Eventually, he swallowed it, before glaring at Yata.

“I hated it,” Fushimi said flatly. “I'm not eating another one.” 

Yata sighed, before picking out a tangerine of his own and placing it into his mouth. It burst with sweetness, and Yata wondered briefly how Fushimi could hate such a sweet fruit. He swallowed it down easily, looking back at Fushimi. 

“It isn’t that bad, Saruhiko. You’re just so fucking picky.” Yata said pointedly, pointing his pair of chopsticks at Fushimi’s face. 

“Whatever,” Fushimi scoffed, picking out another piece of meat. “You’re not making me eat another tangerine.”

Yata felt his eye twitch. “At least try eating a piece of pineapple!” He exclaimed. 

“Eugh,” Fushimi shuddered. “They’re too tangy and they sting my tongue.”

“You’re such a baby,” Yata sighed, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “This is why you’re so lanky.”

“You’re the shorter one,” Fushimi smirked, before coughing. “You stopped growing at the age of fifteen. Even after all these years, you can still never beat my height, Misaki—and we’re both twenty years old.”

The urge to crush Fushimi in the room was rapidly rising by the second. 

“I did grow!” Yata retorted. “I measured my height against the wall of our apartment with a measuring stick every year. I grew five centimetres!”

“Congratulations,” Fushimi rolled his eyes. “Would you like a certificate with that, Misaki?  How pathetic, measuring your height like that. It’s obvious you’ll always stay a virgin.”

“Hah?!” Yata screamed. “You have no idea what the hell is going on in my life now, not since you left. That includes girls!”

How could you ever know, anyway? You don't even want to look at me anymore. 

All I was ever good for added up to nothing, huh? 

“The last time I saw you, you were too flustered to even approach one calmly, let alone talk to one. You want me to believe you’re not a virgin? Then act like it, Mi~sa~ki~!” Fushimi taunted, his given name ringing in his ears. 

He hated it, every syllable of it. The only people that he had allowed to ever use his name were Anna and Fushimi. However, he had revoked Fushimi’s pass when he had betrayed Yata—yet he still kept on saying his name. 

…Yata didn't hate the way Fushimi made it sound. 

He could go as far to say that he liked it when Fushimi said his name genuinely, with no malicious intent laced in his voice—but then that would be admitting that he still liked Fushimi, which he absolutely did not. 

He merely didn't mind it as much as he could have. That was all. 

“Che!” Yata angrily replied, chewing on a piece of meat aggressively. He then looked down towards the hotpot, before an idea flashed through his mind.

Guess Saruhiko’s getting his extra share of vegetables for tonight, Yata grinned. He quickly picked up the piece of pineapple, leaning over and shoving it into Saruhiko’s agape mouth. Saruhiko bit down in surprise, attempting to spit it out whole—and they both fell onto their sides, Yata determined to get Saruhiko to eat another piece of vegetable tonight if it was the last thing he could do. 

“It’s just a pineapple!” Yata exclaimed. “Eat it!”

“I told you, I don’t like pineapples!” Fushimi grumbled. 

“You’re such a kid… Just try it!”

Fushimi glared at him, before a twisted smirk made its way onto his face. “Then make me, Misaki.” 

Yata stilled in his tracks, suddenly staring at his eyes. They shimmered with such an alluring glow, his heartbeat suddenly louder than anticipated. 

I want to touch him…  

Some small part of Yata’s mind screamed at him to cut it out, that Fushimi wasn’t the Fushimi he once knew, to get him to stop the burning feeling churning in his stomach—but then his eyes briefly flickered down to Fushimi’s lips, which had curled into a smirk. The pineapple was precariously slotted in between his lips, its yellow tint mocking him. 

“Hah,” Fushimi taunted. “I’ve—”

At that moment, something clicked. The gears turned, and his body surged forward to close the distance before his mind could react. Yata bit off the chunk hanging between Fushimi’s lips, the tartness alerting him of what he had just done—but the only awareness he had regained was of the soft, soft touch of Fushimi’s lips, and of the fact that he wanted more.

You shouldn’t think these things about your enemy, Yata quipped in his thoughts. 

Well, you should also stop caring about him, but that hasn’t happened either. 

Fushimi’s reaction was priceless; his eyes were blown wide open, a slight flush scattered across his cheeks. 

“You…” he trailed off. 

It was then that Yata had fully realised what he had done. 

Shit, shit, shit! 

He quickly sat up, embarrassed, his face descending into the darkest shades of red that Yata had ever managed to create. 

“I mean, you—you swallowed the pineapple chunk, right?!” Yata stumbled over his words, averting Fushimi’s gaze. What was he thinking?! He had kissed his enemy, a traitor, and—

—And… he didn’t regret it as much as he thought he would’ve. 

“I won the bet, r–right?” Yata said, barely higher than a whisper. Fushimi didn’t answer—of course he wouldn’t, you just kissed the goddamn idiot—and stared plainly at his bowl, as if nothing had happened. Or perhaps, he was also processing the events; a small flicker of hope sparked in his body at that thought. 

“...I’m sick,” Fushimi said, lowering his gaze to the bowl in front of him. “You’re going to get sick too, idiot.” He then picked up the bowl once more, picking out another piece of meat as if nothing had happened. 

Shit, Yata cursed himself. Why did I do that?! 

“...Yeah,” Yata replied, not knowing what else to say. An awkward atmosphere had suddenly descended upon the two, with neither of them knowing what to say to the other. For once, Yata’s mouth had run dry with things to say—and he hated it. He couldn’t stand the silence that resounded against the walls of Fushimi’s dorm, couldn’t stand the way that he forced himself to sit still, waiting for his next words like a dog obediently waiting for its master. 

“Misaki,” Fushimi spoke, barely louder than a whisper. Yata ignored the way it almost sounded like a desperate prayer on the tip of his tongue.

“W–What?” 

“When will you be leaving?” 

So he didn’t like it after all, Yata thought ashamedly. Immediately, a new thought came into fruition: Of course he wouldn’t. Why would anyone ever like something like that? 

Yata hesitated. 

“I guess after this meal…” 

The conversation crumbled into ashes not long after, the two eating in a forced silence as the pot gradually began to empty. Soon enough, all that remained in the soup was the uneaten pineapples and tangerines that Fushimi refused to eat. Yata kept sneaking glances at Fushimi, attempting to search for a crack in his stoic expression—unfortunately, he came out empty handed. 

I can’t take this anymore, Yata thought, desperate to make new conversation. Fuck it—I’m going in. 

“So…” Yata trailed off, letting his mind speak his thoughts. “Did you like… the pineapple?” 

He shouldn’t have let his mind do the talking—but Fushimi’s immediate reaction sent Yata’s heart hammering once again, in that stupid way it always did. He turned away from Yata, eyes averted and a flush on the tips of his ears. The warm red seemed to make the edges of his hair glow. 

Cute. 

Yata blinked once. 

Wait, what? Not cute. What? 

“Shut up,” Fushimi mumbled. “It was horrible. I told you I wouldn’t like it, idiot.” 

Yata couldn’t help but feel his heart sink at the words. Of course Fushimi hadn’t liked it; what else did Yata expect? He had said to Yata’s face that he didn’t care about him anymore—he hated Yata, he despised Yata. 

And so did he—he also hated Fushimi, hated the way that he had left Yata behind, hated the fact that Fushimi still affected him like this, hated his stupid face that seemed to never fade, even when he closed his eyes—but he couldn’t get himself to stop worrying. 

“Ah,” Yata said, his gaze dropping to the empty ceramic bowl in front of him. What could he possibly say? 

The nagging thought that he had attempted to push down for so long suddenly rose back to the surface of his mind. 

Why did you leave me, Saruhiko? 

Before he knew it, the words were already tumbling out, unable to be taken back. 

“Hey, Saru…” The grip on his bowl unintentionally tightened. “Why did you leave?” 

Fushimi simply laughed at his question, a cold smile gracing his lips. “I told you, a million times—I never fit in with you or HOMURA.” 

Bullshit. Bullshit, bullshit—Yata thought, because if he never fit in, then why did it feel so different without him? 

“I’m not asking why you left HOMURA!” Yata burst out. “I’m asking why you left…” 

Why you left me.

“...in general.” 

“You really want to go down that path, Misaki? ” Fushimi laughed darkly. “You really think I’m the one who left?” 

Who else did, then?  Yata thought bitterly. I’m still the one in HOMURA. 

“If I was the one that left, I wouldn’t still be living in our empty apartment.” Yata spat. 

Fushimi stared at him for a lingering moment, before placing his bowl down. “Forget it, Misaki. You’d never understand, anyway.” 

Why did he brush me off so easily? 

“Then—then, at least try to! Don’t act like I can’t at least try to do stuff. You never even gave me a chance, you stupid monkey.” Yata bitterly spat, hurt swirling in his eyes. 

“There’s no point in explaining things to someone who doesn’t bother understanding me in the first place.” Fushimi nonchalantly replied, as it was a given fact.

Bother?  Yata thought. He could almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. It's not that I don't bother—it's that you don't let me in. 

“...And how can I understand someone like you?” Yata asked. It was a genuine question—if Yata could just figure out the mechanics of Fushimi’s mind, to piece the old with the new—then perhaps it would be a lot easier for him to grasp how Fushimi worked.

It wasn't like he didn't want to understand him; it was more like he couldn't do anything. With the little pieces that he had hastily grabbed onto, Yata could only piece together that something horribly wrong had happened during his stay at HOMURA—whatever it was was still a complete mystery to him.

“Exactly,” Fushimi smiled coldly. “I’m a traitor. You can’t understand people like me—so just leave, Misaki. Focus on what matters—your broken family, HOMURA.”

What? 

How in the King’s name had Fushimi interpreted his genuine question so horribly?  Yata almost wanted to ram his fist into Fushimi’s face—he could feel his fists unconsciously tensing up, ready for the shot. 

No, he reminded himself promptly. Fights never solve anything. They just make things worse. 

He had already fought Fushimi one too many times to have that lesson rammed into his head. He glanced down at the empty pot, deciding to occupy himself with the task of clearing the floor instead. 

Yata breathed in slowly, before beginning to pack up the portable stove. “I don't get it,” he said. “Yesterday, you told me to stop caring. But today, you wanted me here… so which one is it? I can't be at your beck and call, Saruhiko.” 

I'm an idiot, Yata thought miserably. So just make it clear what you want, or I'll never understand. 

“It was a request,” Fushimi muttered, clicking his tongue. “I didn't expect Awashima to actually turn up with you.” 

“So what is it, then? Am I just someone to turn to when you need something?” Yata felt his lip curl in anger.

“Wasn't I?”

Huh?  The thought slithered its way into his mind. Who in the world told you—

“What do you—” Yata began, his eyebrows heightened in surprise.

“When Anna got captured,” Fushimi stated bitterly. “You called me because you had no one else. Such a hypocrite, Misaki— you should remember your own words.” 

Okay, so he had said that—but he hadn't meant it like that. 

Then what was your intention by saying that? 

Anger bubbled in his throat as he had realised that Fushimi was also a major hypocrite—what right did he have to tell  Yata to stop caring, that Fushimi couldn't care less about Yata—only to fucking invite the guy the very next day?  It infuriated him to the core; the worst part being that Yata had come over anyway. 

Weak, his mind mocked. You really are just a dumb idiot. 

“Then you should remember yours too! Either you want me, or you don't, Saruhiko. I'm so fucking tired of your games!” Yata cried. He clutched the bag tightly, tilting his head downwards so Fushimi wouldn't see his expression. 

A tear rolled down his cheek silently in retaliation. 

“Just fucking say it, you goddamn monkey. Don't toy with me like this.” Yata swore he heard his voice crack. 

Of course, Fushimi couldn't care less about what Yata felt—in the end, it was always Fushimi’s interests first and foremost, wasn't it? He clicked his tongue, promptly standing up. “Hurry up and get out.” Fushimi hissed, pointing towards the door.

Yata whipped his head up suddenly. 

I really should have expected this. 

“You—” he started. 

“Get out,” Fushimi narrowed his eyes angrily. “Now.” 

Fine, then. Be like that. 

Yata stood up promptly in response, gripping the bags with such force that he felt his nails digging into the palms of his hands. He sent a glare Fushimi’s way in retaliation, as an underwhelming substitute for a punch. 

“God, I hate you. You, and your stupid games. You—” 

You, and your stupid intelligence that could rival the government’s. You, and your stupid smile that could flip a room upside down. You, and your doors that never seem to unlock. 

Why can't you just give me the key? 

Yata stopped himself. “Che,” he tutted. “Whatever.” He left, slamming the door with such a force that he thanked the stars that he hadn't accidentally jammed his fingers in between the door and the door frame. He stood there, looking at the plastic bag that was now devoid of food. 

As he left, he heard a laugh coming from the door. He grit his teeth, and tried not to let the tears fall from his eyes. 

Don't let yourself cry, Yata thought disapprovingly. He bit his lip in retaliation. You're better than this. You're better than him.  

A tear slipped as he walked out of SCEPTER 4’s headquarters.

I failed anyway. 

-

What the hell is this guy talking about? 

Yata could barely contain his surprise as the Blue King told him of the events that had transpired the weeks before their plan to protect the Slates. 

“I told Fushimi that in the event that saving the Slates failed, that he was to infiltrate JUNGLE in any possible means. He was the only one suitable for the mission—after all, he betrayed an organisation once. It was fully in his character to do it again,” Munakata explained. Yata felt his blood boil. He had simply used Fushimi as if he was nothing more than a tool! Had he not calculated the dangers of this move? He was the Blue King, goddamnit! He was meant to be a smart bastard—yet he had pulled one of the dumbest moves that Yata could ever comprehend. 

I might not be able to see him again. He might not be alive. I might not be able to talk to him. I might not be able to touch him again. 

“However, there is a chance that Fushimi can save himself,” Munakata nodded solemnly. Yata’s gaze flitted over to him, oddly nervous. 

“How so?”

“In the event that he truly betrays SCEPTER 4, and joins JUNGLE, he will have a guaranteed chance of survival. I believe you know him best, as one of his closest companions, do you not?” 

Yata felt his fists clench. Would he truly betray SCEPTER 4? Would he betray another organisation? 

The Fushimi he knew was now completely replaced with one that despised Yata, who wanted nothing to do with him whatsoever. 

Could Yata trust Fushimi enough to regain who he used to be? Or was it really a fluke? Yata didn’t trust in the unknown; all he knew was the now and the past, and he knew well enough that the past had all but completely disappeared from his sight. The ‘now’ was something he wasn’t a fan of, either. 

He left Munakata wordlessly, which wasn’t something he was used to. Yata was the type of person to leave with a bang, to make his presence loud and clear. 

All that was on his mind were the words—Should I save him? 

Does he want me to save him? 

Just say the words, and I’ll listen. Don’t you know that I have very sharp ears? Don’t you know that I’ll be able to hear you if you call?

Yata grit his teeth in frustration, before narrowing his eyes in determination. 

“Stupid monkey,” he whispered underneath his breath. “You haven’t even called, but I’m coming to save your stupid ass anyway. I better be thanked for this shit.” 

-

Yata doesn’t think he’s ever skated this fast in his life before. 

The last time he had used this kind of speed was when they were innocent teenagers, with a childish dream of taking over the world. Both of their worlds have expanded since then; with Yata finding his new family, and Fushimi somehow finding solace in SCEPTER 4—well, until he decided to defer to JUNGLE without a single word. 

Is Fushimi loyal enough to the Blues? Can I even get there in time? 

“Get out of my way!” Yata roared, the adrenaline rushing through his body like a gust of wind. It was almost impossible to stop the ever-consuming fire, taking over the road like it belonged to no one else but him. 

Please don’t be late, please don’t be late, please—

He easily skidded through JUNGLE’S mobs as if they were nothing more than props, hoping, praying for a miracle. 

I need to see you alive. I need to talk to you. I need to touch you. 

Through the narrow clarity of his vision, his gaze instantaneously latched onto Fushimi and a boy, fighting to their death.

Fushimi was losing.

You really are loyal to them, Yata thought, almost touched. You just needed to find the right people—even if they were the Blues.  

Yata forced himself to speed up faster, to save Fushimi before the only thing he would be able to see was the sweet, sweet vision of carmine red pooling out onto the grey floor. 

The boy Fushimi was fighting had his scythe raised, a malicious grin painted on his face as he swung down, ready to finish Fushimi once and for all—

Not on my watch!

Yata surged forward in a flash, blocking the distance between the boy and Fushimi, his skateboard raised up in retaliation. 

“I’m not letting you kill him now, bastard…!” Yata roared at the boy, eyes ablaze with belief; belief in Fushimi’s innocence.

Fushimi’s not a traitor. He was never a traitor. 

“You’re in my way,” the boy grit his teeth. “Or did a new player decide to join the game? Either way, this’ll be extra fun for me! More points!” His grin taunted Yata; it was full of malice, as if Fushimi’s life was simply a toy in his hands. 

“Go home, kid,” Yata spat out. 

You’re too young for these kinds of things, anyway. 

“Home?” The boy spat out the word as if it was some sort of joke. “Not until I reap my rewards.” The boy laughed, before surging forward with his scythe. Yata defended vehemently with his skateboard, the two duelling back and forth. Green scattered his way, and red flames were shot back towards the boy. His body twisted with the adrenaline, dodging and diving against the boy’s swift movements. 

Up. Down. Around.

The boy merely kept cackling wildly as his scythe began swinging wildly at Yata, with Yata struggling to defend himself against the onslaught of strikes. He kept accidentally faltering with every attack, causing more opportunities for the boy to fatally strike him. 

Yata thought that this was going to be the end of the line for him, that he was going to die here without even achieving his main objective—

A dagger suddenly flew past Yata’s ear, and Yata watched it pierce into the boy’s arm, effectively ridding his advantage over Yata. He didn’t hesitate to run towards the boy, channelling all of his energy towards his fist. 

“Go home, kid! I said it the first time!” Yata roared, pummelling his fist into the boy’s stomach. The sheer look of defeat on the boy’s face was enough to settle the jittery nerves in his stomach, watching on as he descended down the hole caused by the earthquake. 

Saruhiko, his mind reminded him, and Yata quickly turned around. 

“Misaki…” Fushimi murmured. Yata was half expecting an insult, so the soft calling of his name was surprising. 

“Saruhiko,” Yata breathed. The name was as easy to say as it was for him to breathe. Silently, he skimmed his eyes over Fushimi’s figure. He was relatively unscathed, except…

A stab wound, Yata grimaced silently, kneeling down further to inspect the wound. Hesitantly, he brushed his fingers past Fushimi’s stab wound, watching in silent horror as it bled steadily onto Yata’s fingertips. 

“You’re hurt.” Yata stated, forcing himself not to swallow the lump in his throat. 

I could’ve prevented this. 

“Yeah,” Fushimi said quietly in reply. “I’m hurt.” 

“Why…” Yata started. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Yata whispered, the immediate guilt taking over his system. 

Fushimi merely scoffed. “It’s a classified mission for a reason, Misaki.” 

“Yeah, but…” Yata searched for the words that he wasn’t able to formulate on the tip of his tongue, his gaze still at Fushimi’s rapidly bleeding thigh. “You’re hurt… and I can’t…”

“I’ll be fine,” Fushimi brushed off. “Go save your king.”

Stupid monkey, always brushing others off… Doesn’t he know I care? I told him myself, goddamnit. 

Yata could only nod in response, the lump in his throat seemingly larger than before. There was still so much that he wanted to say, wanted to do, but he knew that saving his King was his job as the vanguard of HOMURA.

However… he finally had a shot of truly reuniting with his best friend and clearing up the rough past that they both had; that wasn’t something that came often, goddamnit!

“Before I go, Saruhiko…” Yata said, looking down. He didn’t know how to word this—but then again, Yata knew that he didn’t know how to say things well in general. 

Whatever. I’ll just ask him my way. 

“What is it, Misaki?”

Yata swallowed. “...Tell me why you left.”

Fushimi huffed out a laugh. “This again, Misaki?”

Yata pushed on. “No, Saruhiko. I’m serious this time… I want to know. You’re not a traitor… not in the slightest. Your loyalty lies with the Blue King, and I can respect that. I just… I want to know what made you go. Why… you left—”

Me.

“—HOMURA.”

“I wouldn’t be able to explain it to you, even if I tried.” His tone sounded almost… regretful. The spur of sudden doubt made Yata want to push forward, to keep trying for someone who couldn’t. 

“Then try!” Yata exclaimed—the loud tone surprised even himself. “Explain it again, and—and again, until you get it through my thick skull! Yeah, I’m an idiot. That’s why you have to tell me these things. I can’t—I can’t read your mind, Saruhiko. I wish—”

I wish I could. 

“—I wish you’d tell me more things.” Yata finished off, surprised by the presence of a tear slipping down his eye and splattering all over the floor. 

“Misaki,” Fushimi whispered. His voice was so gentle and soft, compared to Yata’s loud and brash voice. “Misaki, look at me.” Yata felt Fushimi’s hands underneath Yata’s jaw, lifting his head up gently to face Fushimi.

Suddenly, his eyes felt more watery than usual—was it because he was finally reuniting with Fushimi after many, many arduous years of fighting and arguing? 

How embarrassing, Yata thought, irritated at himself. You’re crying in front of your best friend. 

He tried to lift a sleeve up to wipe the tears on the back of his sleeve, but Fushimi’s thumb got there first—and Yata’s eyes unintentionally widened at the soft motion. As soon as he had made the first swipe, they couldn’t stop coming—the most shocking part of it all was that Fushimi never complained, only wiping away his incoming tears softly, gently, as if Yata was somebody to be taken care of. 

The feeling of guilt settled in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” Yata muttered guiltily, because that was all he could manage to say. “I’m such a crybaby.” He attempted to crack a smile. “I cried when Totsuka died, and now this…”

“I like it,” Fushimi said quietly. 

What? Did I hear that right? 

“What?” Yata replied, his face scrunched up into confusion. 

“I like it when you show emotion. It makes me believe that people are capable of feeling. It makes me believe that… I’m capable.” 

Yata almost laughed at his comment. 

Seriously, how dumb is this guy?  Yata thought, his eyes softening. He gave into the urges that pricked him at the sides, to lean in and stare at those brilliant blue eyes, ones that Yata had always admired—because who wouldn’t admire Fushimi in all of his geniusness? 

“Are you dumb?” Yata chuckled. “And to think I thought you were the smart one here…”

He gently touched the ends of Fushimi’s hair with his fingers, prompting a slight widening of Fushimi’s, but nothing more—so he let his hand settle fully into Fushimi’s locks of blue hair. “You do feel emotion, idiot. You feel so strongly, that it’s hard for even my flames to overpower you. That’s how HOMURA runs. Your power is linked to how much emotion you have. There’s a reason you and I were the strongest duo, Saruhiko. Even now, your heart beats loudly. Isn’t that enough proof that you’re not emotionless?”

It beats in sync with mine, Yata thought, and that’s all I need to know that we’ll always be partners—same clans or not. 

Fushimi simply stared at Yata, his blue eyes bright and brimming and hopeful and—

Huh, Yata felt a smile creep its way onto his face. Did I do that?

It suits him. 

Before he knew it, Fushimi bridged the gap that was keeping their worlds apart—and in that moment, a new world was created, with red and blue bleeding into an ethereal purple. Yata felt the blue spill out onto his red—and he didn’t mind it, not in the slightest. If before was a small morsel, then this was a meal, with Yata memorising the feel of Fushimi’s lips, of his hands on Yata’s cheeks, of his tousled hair, of him, him, him. 

He had to pull away from Fushimi eventually, though, and regrettably wanted to chase him back for a second kiss, but stayed put—after all, despite their reunion, there was a plan to hatch. 

“I lied,” Fushimi averted his eyes. “About the pineapple… It’s true that I didn’t like it in the slightest—but… I liked how it felt.” 

Yata flushed, realising Fushimi’s exact words. “Oi, cut that out!” he stammered unintentionally, looking away. “I don’t—I don’t know what overcame me that night…”

“But, Misaki,” Fushimi spoke up again. “I’ll think about it. I’ll think about a way to tell you.” 

Yata’s eyes couldn’t help but widen. His heart skipped a beat—Fushimi was seriously doing this for him—and no matter how long it took, Yata would eventually understand him. 

I’m not letting you go again. Not now, not ever. 

“Yeah,” Yata said softly. “Thank you, Saruhiko.” 

Fushimi closed his eyes, and Yata noticed the corners of his lips turned up into a smile. “Now, go save your King. She’s waiting.”

“But—” Yata started. “What about you?

“I’ll find a way out,” Fushimi dismissed quickly. “Go, Misaki.” Yata had been told to go, but all he wanted was to stay a little longer near Fushimi, to kiss him senseless once more—but his body moved before his mind could react, and he was already up in a flash. 

He spared a glance back at Fushimi, eyes softening. 

“Don’t die, Saruhiko,” Yata quietly said. “I want to hear your explanation.”

Don’t leave me behind, like they did. 

“Do you take me for a weakling?” Fushimi scoffed. “Go.” 

He slowly backed away, although unwilling, before forcing himself to nod and turn back around. 

Don’t you die on me, you stupid monkey, Yata thought, his eyes set in a hard gaze. I still haven’t told you that I love you yet, you know?