Chapter Text
It only took him one second of distraction for the idiot not to spot the third knife in time.
Fushimi was always constantly pushing Yata in battle- in fact, it was a regular old routine for them to egg on each other daily. This night in particular, however, seemed the most comfortable to their particular ex-friend rivalry.
The city lights above him melded into a blur of neon brilliance, nearly causing Fushimi to let loose a laugh as he spun through the city chasing Yata. Typically, their fights were more aggressive, but this one was more of a dance. Familiar. To the both of them.
He searched around, and a grin split his face at the challenge, calling out for the other in his most mocking, candy-sweet tone.
"Mi-sa-kiiiiii~.."
Hearing a small 'Tch!' from the side, Fushimi spun without hesitation, throwing one, two, three knives, all in Misaki's direction.
The red headed boy let out a noise of complaint, wiggling his arms once two of the knives pinned his shirt sleeves down. But that wasn't his main source of distraction, oh no. A sound seemed to carry over the wind, just a murmur, and Yata slightly strained his head to the side to try and hear it.
Fushimi could only watch in slow motion, horrified as his third knife continued on towards its unintentional target. Misaki knew his fighting style better than anybody, what the hell was he thinking?! Fushimi's lips parted to shout, but only a small, choked noise came out.
And then, it was too late.
The knife went into Misaki's left eye with a resonating thunk, and Fushimi didn't think that he would ever be able to look at a plate of jello without feeling sick ever again.
Yata- Misaki let out a scream as he crumpled towards the ground, the two knives in his shirt holding him suspended against the wall like a rag doll. Fushimi swore, dropping the sword he had drawn and sprinting over to him.
Yata tried to shove him away at first, letting out another loud cry of pain, as he gave up the effort to clutch his heavily bleeding eye instead. Fushimi quickly pulled the knives out of his sleeves and grabbed his shirt, trying to tug him away to seek medical help.
Again, the other fought against him. Gritting his teeth, Fushimi simply picked up Yata with a grunt, in a fireman carry across his shoulder.
"Saruhiko you fucking-! You..damn traitorous bastard how could you how could-..." He beat against Fushimi's back with the fist that wasn't clutching his eye, red aura flickering fervently in shocked pain.
It burned a little bit. The burn felt good. It kept Fushimi focused as he jogged out of the alleyway, down and across the street. Yata made awful noises, horrible, throaty sobs as he cursed Fushimi out the entire way there.
'There' meant his closest clan member, which, in ordinance to Fushimi's ongoing nightmare of a day, happened to be Mikoto. Mikoto and Munakata, who were both staring at him, and the groaning Yata on his shoulder, in shock.
"Fushimi. Set him down." Munakata ordered quickly, eyeing Mikoto with an air of rising panic. His sword lowered instantly, and he swiftly glanced to the side.
Fushimi couldn't understand why until he followed the gaze to Mikoto, and saw the king's eyes boring a hole through him. He took a step forwards, and the pavement almost seemed to turn into actual lava beneath his feet. Fushimi who had never, ever seen him that angry before, took one last glance at the now-limp Misaki.
After a moment of deliberation, he set the other down carefully, and walked until he was safely positioned behind Munakata, trying to ignore the rolling feeling of his stomach.
Mikoto stared him down darkly, but Munakata took a step in front of Fushimi, meeting the red-hot glare with an even frown, and a clipped, urgent tone of voice.
"Yatagaratsu needs to be taken to a hospital. I assume that our clan affairs can wait until another night."
The air temperature was rising noticeably from Mikoto's anger, and Fushimi resisted the urge to scratch at the mark on his chest. The flames that made up Mikoto's aura rose even higher, towering far above, before shortly disappearing altogether.
The red haired man gave a stiff nod that looked almost painful, strutting over to Yata and scooping him up. He held the other to his chest just like a little kid, but his face was unreadable as he whipped around without warning, striding off.
Although his expression had been forcibly neutral in the past few seconds, Fushimi wasn't fooled at all. Mikoto's boots left scorch marks in their wake when he walked, and before Fushimi could even think about trying to follow, he found Munakata's death grip on his shoulder.
Fushimi could remember, vividly, his own king questioning about his potential allyship with a certain Yata Misaki. That was before he had ever seen the two of them go at each other's throats, back when he trusted Fushimi's opinion on all things Yata, always.
(Not that he would trust it after tonight).
Distantly, Fushimi was aware of Munakata speaking to him in the present, voice forcibly calm as he attempted to get to the bottom of it all.
Fushimi felt none of it. The air was too cold, now that Mikoto and Yata were both gone, and a gurgling laugh escaped his throat, fighting down the hyperventilation to plaster on a twisted smile instead.
Munakata's voice is clear to him now, and it distinctly repeats the same question on stereo, furrowing his brows.
"Was it on purpose?" He asks Fushimi, staring down at him like an insect with his cold, blue eyes. It sounds like it's coming from underwater, sand washed up under the ocean.
"I don't know," replies Fushimi, with another sick laugh- and then he is sick, ripping his shoulder out of Munakata's grip and hurling on the nearest wall. His king watches him, but he does not offer him any form of comfort.
Not yet.
Fushimi throws up part of the apple he had for lunch and then some. For the rest of the night he is alarmingly resigned from the world, caught up in his own mental chassis. Not one word, excluding the inevitable thunk playing on repeat in his mind, penetrates into his thoughts, no matter how much comfort his pathetic clan 'family' offers him.
They give him a ride blanket back to HQ, and he is bundled under an unnecessary shock blanket. The entire time, he ignores everybody. It's only after he's been dropped off does he eventually respond, although it takes some prodding on someone else's part.
"Fushimi.." Aweshima begins, unsure of how to proceed when he won't even meet her eyes.
Go away, he thinks, hunched over in one of the chairs at Scepter 4 headquarters. Somebody has draped a blue blanket over his back, but for whatever reason, he doesn't decide to shrug it off.
Scepter 4's second in command straightens up, resting a hand on her hip. She eyes him like a hawk, and speaks determinately.
"Fushimi-kun. I am ordering you to go rest. Understood? And then I am ordering you to care for your own personal health, for the sake of our clan."
Wait.
"What."
Saruhiko grimaces at how it sounds coming out of his mouth, but he honestly can't do much more than squint up at Awashima incredolously as she crosses her arms.
"You heard my orders. And you're not going back to work for another couple of days. Captain's orders."
He wants to ask her why.
He wants to go kicking and screaming and demand how exactly a couple of scratches compares to potentially murdering HOMRA's personal vanguard, Yata Misaki.
But he doesn't.
Fushimi stands, suddenly, giving her a jerky nod of his head. Her eyes widen in confusion, but by that time he's already moved away, striding down the empty hallway towards the cold Scepter 4 dorms.
His room is barren of all personal objects, except for the papers on his desk, and the spare knives laying on his bedside table. The entire layout is detached, it soothes his aching chest.
(..He scratches it anyways).
Old habits die hard.
Mostly, Fushimi just wants to sit in his bed and stare at the wall, however, before he can begin the wall staring, a buzzing sounds from his back pocket.
Ah. He forgot that his PDA was there.
Cautiously, Saruhiko pulls it out, swiping across the screen and staring at the name at the top of it.
--
Totsuka:
Yata-chan is going to be okay!! I thought that you would want to know.
Accidents happen, Fushimi-kun.
--
A brutal laugh escapes his chest at the message, and he tosses his PDA at the wall, forcing a fake grin of savage delight at the harsh noise it makes.
Accidents.
A knife in Yata's eye, and somehow Totsuka is still trying to reassure him, still aiming to offer him the benefit of the doubt.
The mention of Misaki has him let out a long hiss of air through his teeth, fighting the rising feelings of panic and guilt which threaten to consume him.
Misaki, age eleven, going head-to-head against some dumb idiots, and getting his ass kicked in front of Fushimi.
Misaki, age thirteen, trying to convince him to sleep over 'just one more night Saru!! I know your parents can be kind of-'
Misaki in the grass, taking pictures of him 'just for kicks'. Misaki, stealing his food off his plate, and forcing him to eat twice as much. Misaki, joining HOMRA, and drifting, crying, standing in the alleyway, he turns his head, but the knife hits his forehead this time and-
Fushimi swears and shakes his head, balling his hands into fists.
It was his job to engage HOMRA. And by all technical definitions of the word, he did engage.
Rolling over onto his side, Fushimi vaguely wonders if he should strip out of his uniform.
Quickly, it is evident that his fingers are shaking too hard to undo the buttons.
(He sleeps in blue).
...(It's a long night).