Chapter Text
In the crest of time between afternoon and night, Fushimi leaves his hospital room to go for a walk.
He's not sure in what direction he's headed, slipping past nurses and patients alike to wander the halls. It's a desolate place after hours, what with the constant echo of workers clocking out for the day. It takes about ten minutes before somebody asks if he's lost, and then another five before they insist he return to his room. He's both slightly impressed and annoyed by this fact.
When Fushimi returns, it's obvious that there is yet again the dark shape of something hanging down outside his window. However, now with his glasses on, it distinctly resembles a leg. He considers calling Munakata, just in case it's a lone strain. After all, he is unarmed.
As always, his curiosity wins over first.
Fushimi slides open the window, cautiously climbing out onto the firescape of the adjacent building. Never before has he been so grateful for long legs. When he looks up, he is expecting a monster, or a member of Scepter 4. He is not expecting to see a dejected looking figure, orange hair fluffed out without the ever-present beanie.
"Misaki...?" The other's head snaps up, and he scrambles to his feet, a heavy angry flush eclipsing the top of his expression. One of his eyes has a patch over it, and he fervently smooths out the hospital gown.
"What do you want, Saruhiko." Yata all but spits, balancing on the edge of the hospital roof. Fushimi wants to call him out on being an idiot, but for some reason all he can do is stare at the figure bathed in dusky, sunset pink.
He knows that he must look ridiculous, eyes widened, mouth parted slightly in the residue of shock as he takes it all in. Whatever is in his face, it seems to shake Yata, who swings down and lands on the rail, as smoothly as ever. Fushimi puts his hand out to steady him anyways and it quickly gets slapped away.
"Why are you in the hospital," He demands, watching Fushimi. "Did somebody injure you too?"
Fushimi leans back with a sigh, and eyes him warily, giving a defeated shrug.
"Myself."
Yata's expression is unreadable, and it fills Fushimi with a heightened sense of anxiety. Misaki can't possibly pity him after everything that's happened in the last few days. Impossible, he concludes. The next question absolutely sends him reeling.
"Did you mean to do it?" Yata asks, and his lower lip trembles, and suddenly Fushimi feels an aching pain in the middle of his chest.
He crosses his arms defensively and looks away, trying to ignore the sudden tightness. "We were in the middle of battle." Yata's lip only trembles harder, and Fushimi thinks of how easy it would be to send him over the edge. To take out his fear- and dare he say guilt- by breaking Misaki. He swallows and waits patiently instead.
"But you didn't think it would hit me. Blind me." Yata's voice has gone toneless, and it unnerves him into answering honestly for once. Crippling guilt could only render him useless for so long.
"I did not." Fushimi states, and is met with a short exhale of relief. He looks up incredulously, wondering how the news could be relieving at all, and is met by Yata studying him furiously. Probably looking for an ulterior motive. He can't blame him.
“Did you mean to hurt yourself?” The other demands next, and he resists letting out a short huff of laughter. From past experience, that form of self-deprecation has always made Misaki the most furious.
The question almost makes him feel sheepish, the way it’s posed. It poses a twinge of guilt to have Misaki scrutinizing him, looking for something to pity even after the horrible thing he’s done. Idiot. He doesn’t deserve the sympathy, or even the conversation. But like the selfish sap he is, Fushimi drinks in the attention, and revels in it.
“Not particularly,” He lies with a shrug, before heading on to a partial truth. “Seeing that kind of injury would make anyone too sick to eat.”
“You son of a bitch.” Fushimi simply shrugs at the insult, leaning back against the wall. Misaki leans forwards, and he finds his eyes trailing on the other’s bent feet, uncannily ready to catch him in case of a slip. He would never slip.
This reminds him of the eyepatch over Misaki’s left eye, and he glances at it, wondering how much of a hindrance he’s caused. The other shifts uncomfortably, obviously aware of his gaze, and Fushimi’s eyes flick suddenly to the movement of his unkempt hair. It hasn’t been without the beanie since HOMRA, desperately in need of a cut. The vibrant ends curl around Misaki’s ears, and he finds himself wanting to run his fingers through it.
His chest tightens, and for a second his vision blinks. By the time he’s back, he’s clutching at the rail and breathing heavily, while Misaki calls out his name.
“Saruhiko?” It’s panicked, and Fushimi’s chest spasms again at the pain the familiarity causes. His fingers are trembling so hard shakes wrack up his arms. It’s like watching his body spasm, finally losing himself like he’s always suspected that he would. There’s the sensation of something touching him, a louder sound, but he can’t make himself unclench from the rail, his one lifeline.
Misaki is in front of him now, calling out and trying to hold him up as he sinks down to the ground. The door from inside the hospital room bursts open, followed by lots of swearing once the nurse spots them on the balcony. All Fushimi can focus on is the feeling of Misaki’s fingers against his own, and the rolling of his stomach.
It goes on for a long time, there’s the distance hissed exchange between Misaki and nurse in the background, before finally he starts to calm down, mortified and utterly exhausted.
“Will you shut up?” He tries to demand to Misaki, whose head snaps up immediately at the weak croak.
“Saruhiko!" What the hell was that? You scared me!” An odd feeling of satisfaction boils in his chest, but Fushimi shakes it off, electing instead to focus on the angry nurse in the window.
“Panic attack.” He mutters, and Misaki’s brows furrow. The nurse looks satisfied, if still a bit pissed.
“You’re both coming inside, right now.” She declares, pointing to the ground next to her. “And if I see any patients on the escapes again, I’m sedating them.”
Fushimi sighs and begins to stand up, shooting Yata a glare when he takes it upon himself to help. Misaki, as always, ignores it.
“Can she do that?” Yata whispers to him, and he simply shakes his head, slowly climbing back into the window on wobbly legs. Fushimi all but immediately collapses on the bed to sit once he’s inside. Misaki lingers near the window, watching hesitantly.
“What the hell is a panic attack? Does that happen to you Fushimi? You shut down!” The cloud of exhaustion urges him not to answer, which only seems to rile Misaki up more. He opens his mouth again to issue more harsh questions, but is interrupted by the sudden click of the window being shut, and the vice-like grip of the nurse.
“Oh no, you’re not coming back here until he’s feeling better than ever, which won’t be soon thanks to you.” Yata’s vibrant aura flickers a little in frustration, but she pulls him out of the door, his wide-eyes easily evaded by Fushimi’s gaze.
Once both of them are out of the room, he allows for himself to exhale a breath of relief, rubbing idly at one of his throbbing temples. Fushimi is nervous, at the idea of returning panic attacks. He used to have them in his home, whenever his father locked him in dark places. Sometimes he had them when his mother was home, which only served to make her angrily demand he stop.
It’s one of the manifested symptoms of his broken childhood, and he fears what the return of them might mean for his already crumbling mental state.
Perhaps it was a fluke, Fushimi hopes to himself. And he hopes, and hopes, and hopes.
Inevitably the nurse from earlier swings back by, both to check on him, and to deliver a severe berating. The latter he regards apathetically, with such intensity that she eventually sighs and relents, going through the usual well-check procedures.
Blood pressure low, but only as low as usual. Blood sugar low, but not deadly. A stranger brings him a meal with way more sugar than he would usually consume, but under the medical staff’s scandalized gazes, he feels obliged to get most of it down.
By the time they leave him, it’s far after dark. Fushimi waits for a while for Misaki to show up, however he never does. A little while later, he becomes aware of the lock that they must have discretely fastened on his window. A small snort escapes him. Perhaps Misaki is also on suicide watch tonight.
Sleep comes easily in the hospital bed, despite him trying to use the internet to dissuade exhaustion. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand, curled at an awkward angle with the food tray still propped on the other side of his legs.
When he wakes up, it’s with a short gasp, and he looks around in a hazy fear, body tense with adrenaline. The food tray is gone, and his phone is on the bedside table, so he has evitably been checked on. It only takes a minute to calm down, mostly because it’s dark, and he’s still somewhat in sleep’s clutches.
Fushimi lays back down, tugging the blanket over himself as he closes his eyes. His glasses press uncomfortably into his cheeks, but before he knows it he’s out again. He’ll deal with the thick red skin lines later.
It’s late morning when he wakes up next, and his nurse is bustling around his room. She doesn’t notice him until he sits up, tugging off his glasses, and rubbing at the skin there.
“Hey there, nervous sleeper.” She greets, and he eyes her resentfully, trying to dissect the worse. Obviously she senses his confusion, because she straightens up, tapping the watch on her wrist. “Do you not remember? I guess you wouldn’t. Waking up two or three times that we saw, always panicked and on edge.”
It chills him, and he slowly shakes his head, stifling a yawn. So more nervous symptoms that he can’t control. Fushimi immediately steels himself to try and escape the hospital as soon as possible.
Of course, just as the moment of truth approaches, Munakata ruins all of his plans like always by sauntering in.
“A little birdy told me you talked to the firey boy last night.” He declares smugly, walking over to lean on the bedside table. Fushimi is already dressed and standing at this point, more than ready to exit.
“So?” Fushimi responds defensively, glancing away. He resists to make the ‘tch’ noise like a petulant teenager, but it’s difficult. Judging by Munakata’s smirk, he can already tell.
“Just as predicted, your alliance with HOMRA survives another trying time.”
His face scrunches up incredulously, and he stares at Munakata in disbelief. Munakata quickly holds up his hands in defence, gaze contemplative.
“Alright, maybe not all of HOMRA, but still.”
“Can we leave.”
Fushimi waits anxiously for the answer, and hates every ticking second that the Captain pretends to ponder it. He anticipates what the answer will be, but of course, as with speaking to all lunatics, nobody can know for sure what he’ll always say.
“Of course.” Munakata finally concedes, gracing him with another sly smile.
Fushimi angrily pushes past him, grumbling about his creepy face. Mostly he’s just embarrassed about his link to Misaki. Of course Munakata would be well-versed on their past history, but it really wasn’t anything special. Just two idiots trying to survive the worst years of their lives together.
He finds himself waiting for the Captain at the front desk despite this, giving him time to catch up. Munakata is pocketing his phone before Fushimi even starts to notice it was out. He gestures for them to head out, and the streets are practically empty.
They walk in silence on the bare cement, Fushimi subtly following Munakata’s lead. It turns out to be pointless, as the latter simply takes them in the direction of Scepter 1. Before they reach the actual building however, the captain turns, heading down a different street towards some shops.
“Captain?” Fushimi questions. Munakata simply stands in front of a restaurant, bent over to squint at the menu posted outside.
“It’s about lunchtime, so I figured we could find something to eat..” He lets out a sigh and reluctantly pulls out his phone, typing slowly. Fushimi represses a groan, waiting impatiently, and glaring in full force at the ground when Munakata finally succeeds.
“There’s a place down the street with good reviews, come on.” He cheerfully waves Fushimi along, and the other follows sullenly, silent as a ghost. That was one part he misses about HOMRA, being able to be ignored, even if it hurt like a bitch sometimes. In Scepter 1 there was no hiding, what with everyone being ridiculously polite.
They stop in front of a fairly nice looking place, even with it’s pseudo-hipster vibe. Munakata regards it with an air of wonder. Fushimi cringes. It’s obvious that the elder wants to be hip, despite him acting like the pervy grandfather nobody ever wanted.
They head in, sliding into a moderately comfortable booth. Within minutes, it quickly becomes evident that Munakata can fill any silence. He keeps up steady conversation, surprisingly, with no innuendoes attached. Fushimi isn’t exactly sure why the other is being so tame, but he’ll take what relief he can get.
He’s almost enjoying himself by the time he goes to use the bathroom. He takes a few minutes inside the stall to check his phone, before heading out to wash his hands. The figure facing away has auburn hair that he would recognize anywhere.
“Misaki.” He finally forces out, tinged with exasperation. Fushimi is mostly just confused by his appearance, but he’d never show it. Yata turns around, regarding him with a strangely wide grin.
“Saru!” His voice bites out, harsh in delight. Fushimi is instantly on guard, scanning his surroundings. No sign of any other HOMRA members anywhere. Something about Misaki rubs him the wrong way, but he just stands there, waiting for the other to make a move.
Yata shifts forwards, placing a hand on his hip and leaning to the side. He looks comfortable, not at all tense as of late. Fushimi eyes him for any sign of alcohol or drug use. Nothing immediately sticks out, and during this time, Yata begins to step closer, dawning a smirk.
“You’re wearing a pretty fucking sour expression,” He notes, and Fushimi sneers, leaning further back in spite of himself.
“You think I’d be happy to see a brat like you?” He drawls coldly, and it finally strikes Fushimi, the reason why Misaki has him on edge. He called me Saru . That’s never happened before. It fills him with a fear like nothing else, and an uncanny urge to run away.
“I don’t appreciate the new nickname. Don’t butcher my first name if you use it, Misaki. ” If anything, Misaki looks even less impressed, crossing his arms and stepping, yet again, even closer. Their faces are only inches apart. He smiles.
It throws Fushimi off-guard, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to decipher what the strange reaction means. Yata’s eyepatch is different from earlier, He notices. It just looks like cardboard and string.
Yata’s other clothes are different than usual too, just a normal sweatshirt, and pants. It’s not a bad change necessarily, but it has Fushimi curiously peering down to Misaki’s wrist, checking to see if the watch he once gave to him is gone.
It is.
He’s startled by a light touch on his jaw, and he jerks back ever so slightly, letting a hiss of air escape his teeth.
“What do you think you’re doing.” He demands, unsettled by the impartial smile Misaki is still sporting.
“A magic trick.” Fushimi just scoffs and pushes the other back, annoyed by his own disappointment at the answer. Yata has the audacity to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck before the slight smirk returns.
“Right, of course you’re enough of a child to still be involved with games,” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t understand how you followed me here at all, if you did.” Misaki doesn’t react at all, which is only slightly surprising.
“Aren’t you going to ask what the magic trick is?” He pesters, reaching a hand up to grip the front of Fushimi’s uniform jacket. Fushimi scowls, rolling his eyes. He waits in silence for a few seconds, both of them locked into a silent stalemate before he relents.
“Fine,” He bites out. “Tell me what it is. If it’s trying to make me feel sorry for you, don’t worry, I’m sure half of the city is already there.”
Feeling the grip on his shirt tighten, Fushimi glances down, and feels his blood turn to ice when his eyes are met with ones that are ruby red. Yata’s face is apathetic and cold.
“To make you disappear.”
He tries to jerk away, but the freezing feeling has encompassed his limbs, causing a dark tinge to edge his vision. Misaki, or not-Misaki in front of him releasing his shirt with a swift motion, standing back as his form starts to shimmer. There’s a confusing swirl of colors, and the sound of somebody yelling in the distance, but the last thing he remembers is a sharp pain in his head, and then everything goes completely black.