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Every Saturday night, Fushimi found himself hating his cellphone.
More than usual, that is. He kept up a casual dislike of it going during the weekdays, but Saturdays were a different story altogether. Saturdays involved him toting his phone around with him all night like some lovesick teenager, checking it every five minutes until it finally buzzed (usually at the most inconvenient time) with a message from Kamamoto that frequently read something like: Hey Yata is passed out in the wendys drive thru can u come pick him up?
There was only one reason he had for keeping an ingrate like Rikio Kamamoto in his phone, and it was precisely to inform him of when his boyfriend had gotten drunk enough to do something so profoundly stupid that Fushimi was required to pick him up.
The dreaded Saturday night had finally arrived, and Fushimi was just sitting down to an extremely late dinner, chopsticks barely in hand, when the call came through. Dumb Fatass blinked on the display, and Fushimi quickly grabbed the phone and tapped the answer button.
“Fushimi,” he said into the receiver.
“Fushimi-san!” greeted a familiar voice, “It’s Kamamoto – listen, uh, I think you better get down here.”
“Where are you?” he asked. There was little point to why or what has he done now. He’d find out soon enough anyways. In the background he could hear vague conversation and clatter, and something like laughter. He was already getting up and moving around the apartment, collecting his wallet and keys.
“The McDonald’s on block 12,” replied Kamamoto – as though Fushimi would need clarification on the address. He could probably find his way to this particular McDonalds blindfolded.
Even Kamamooto, he noticed, sounded like he was on the verge of laughing, and Fushimi scowled into the receiver. So typical of HOMRA to sit around and laugh while waiting for him to arrive and clean up their mess.
“Fine. I’m on my way. Make sure he doesn’t die before I get there.”
Fushimi hung up before Kamamoto had a chance to interject with anything inane. He slipped his phone into his back pocket and, after briefly considering the temperature, grabbed one of Yata’s sweatshirts. Not because they were comically big on Yata, which meant they fit him perfectly, or because of the comforting smell seeped into them (something like concrete and sun and the city), but because if Yata ended up hurling on him Fushimi was going to make damn sure it wasn’t on any of his own clothes. He’d already learned his lesson long ago.
He made it to the McDonald’s in good time, and as he pulled into the parking lot he couldn’t spot any sign of Yata passed out in the drive-thru or stuffed with in a trash can with his feet sticking out. All promising signs.
It was past midnight and the fast-food restaurant was mostly empty, with the incredibly loud and obvious exception of the small group of HOMRA members seated around a booth over towards the left of the restaurant, near the kiddy zone. Judging by the vaguely drunken roar of their laughter, McDonald’s hadn’t been their first stop that evening. Chitose (Fancy-hair Pervert in Fushimi’s phone) noticed him first, and quickly tapped Kamamoto on the shoulder and nodded over towards the McDonald’s entrance. Kamamoto looked up and, at the sight of Fushimi, broke out into a broad grin. It left Fushimi feeling sick.
“Oi, Fushimi-san!” he called, turning in his chair. “You made it!”
Right, as if navigating his way to the McDonald’s was some sort of herculean task. Fushimi sighed and made his way over to the booth, the slow whistling of his IQ dropping as he approached HOMRA practically audible. Eric, Bando and Akagi (Homeless Mophead, Admiral Bugface, and Delicate Shitflower, respectively – Yata should never have put the numbers in his phone in the first place if he hadn’t wanted Fushimi editing their names) were sitting at the table, too. Yata, Fushimi quickly noticed, was absent.
“Okay,” he said, standing at the edge of the table. “Where is he?” The less time he was condemned to this greasy fast-food hell, the better.
Chitose raised one finger and pointed it over Fushimi’s shoulder, at the same moment that a faint thumping started to echo from behind him. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Fushimi slowly turned around to meet his boyfriend, who stared back at him from the inside of one of the massive plastic tubes that made up the McDonald’s play place.
It took Yata about one second to recognize Fushimi. And then he started shouting.
“SARU!” he yelled, his voice strangely muffled behind the twisted tubing. “SARU HELP!”
“What,” began Fushimi, “the fuck.”
Behind him, HOMRA burst out into roaring laughter. Fushimi whirled on them.
“What the hell is this?” he snapped, his hands in fists. This was a whole new level of drunken idiocy, even for Yata, and of course they were happy to just let it happen. There was a reason he’d betrayed these assholes after all.
“He just – crawled in there!” said Akagi, who was nearly tearing up. “And then he couldn’t get out!”
“SARU I’M TRAPPED!”
Fushimi turned back to Yata, who was still pounding frantically on the plastic window. There was a genuine urgency to his voice, almost as though he really thought he was going to be forever imprisoned in this McDonald’s playpen – god, his boyfriend was truly trashed.
“I’M TRAPPED SARU I CAN’T GET OUT!”
“Oh my god,” he muttered, before stepping up to the plastic window. “Okay, just – ”
“SARU!”
“What!?”
“SARU HELP!”
“Misaki, just – ”
“HELP I’M STUCK.”
“Will you just– !”
“OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO DIE IN HERE!”
“Stop shouting! You’re not going to die!” snapped Fushimi. He was dimly aware of the fact that the rest of the restaurant had turned its attention to the two grown men shouting at each other, one of whom seemed to be stuck in the play place. “Just turn around, turn to the left, you can get out to the left!”
“WHAT?”
“LEFT, YOU IDIOT. TURN LEFT.”
He watched as Yata did a full 360 degree turn, his face becoming panicked when he looked up and saw he was in the same position.
“OH MY GOD, SARU, SARU IT DIDN’T WORK!” he shouted, pressing his palms up against the plastic window. “SARU I’M RUNNING OUT OF AIR!”
“Dude you can’t let him die in there!” said Chitose, who Fushimi noticed had his PDA out and seemed to be filming the whole affair. “That’s your man, dude!”
Fushimi just glared at Chitose. That was his man. That far-too-drunk, over-grown child who was convinced that he was going to die in a play area built for five year olds, was his.
“I CAN’T BREATHE SARU!” shouted Yata, a wave of panic settling over his face.
“OH MY GOD, AM I DYING?”
Fushimi turned his attention back to Yata, letting out an exasperated sigh.
“Misaki, you’re not dying.”
“I’M DYING!”
“Stop being so dramatic!” said Fushimi, who had his own hands pressed on the other side of the window before he could think about how incredibly stupid a gesture it was. “Just crawl, you idiot!”
“DON’T YOU CARE IF I DIE?”
“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE!”
“You gotta save him!” crowed Chitose from the table, talking through a mouth full of food. Fushimi thought about what it would be like to take that disgusting western creation in his hand and shove it down Chitose’s throat. “Otherwise he’s a goner!”
“Why didn’t any of you stop him?” asked Fushimi, his temper rising. Back in the tunnel, Yata was still pounding urgently on the plastic window.
Akagi shrugged, at about the same time Chitose answered, “Because it was fucking hysterical.”
Fushimi glared at them, inwardly wishing a painful death for each HOMRA member, before turning to Yata.
“Misaki, just stay there.”
“WHAT!? WHY!?” Yata’s eyes grew to the size of pizza dishes. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
“I’m going to save you, you idiot!”
“SARU DON’T LEAVE ME!”
Un-be-fucking-lievable.
Ignoring Yata’s confused shouting, Fushimi made his way over to the play place entrance, the HOMRA members still laughing. Fushimi crouched at the entrance of a big yellow tube and looked up, wrinkling his nose. To his left was an illustration of a smiling clown, who looked as though he’d been recently lobotomized.
Ronald’s Way to Play! said the text next to the clown’s head. Rule One, Be a friend! Take turns and share. Big kids, help the little kids have fun!
Fushimi scanned over the rest of the rules, and flicked his eyes back to the clown, who looked less brain dead and more like a smug asshole now. Look at you, the clown seemed to be laughing. It’s Saturday night and your boyfriend’s a total fucking moron.
Well, no arguing with you there, clown.
Big kids help the little kids, amirite?
Rule number four of Ronald’s Way to Play included taking off your shoes, but the last thing Fushimi was going to do was lessen the amount of layers between himself and whatever disgusting child diseases were coated over this place. Plus, it wasn’t exactly a rule, but Fushimi was sure Ronald hadn’t intended for inebriated men to be allowed to storm around in the play place.
“SARU! SARU WHERE ARE YOU?”
Jesus fuck.
“Just hang on, you idiot!” shouted Fushimi. It was now or never. He lowered himself onto his knees and elbows, trying to avoid directly touching as much of the tubing as he could, and slowly inched his way forwards. If Chitose was filming any of this he’d take his PDA and smash it in his face.
The whole moving-through-the-play-place thing was harder than Fushimi had assumed it would be. Not because it was difficult to navigate, because it wasn’t – he was a fucking adult, okay. But the tubes and tunnels had been built with children in mind, and not everyone had the advantage of Yata’s stunted growth. It was cramped and slow going, and the whole thing smelled like piss and grease.
Yata was really going to owe him.
“SARU!? SARU HELP! SARU WHERE’D YOU GO?”
Yata’s frantic yells echoed along the stuffy tubing, and Fushimi winced. The moron might be small, but his lungs were big. And he was close, if his shouting was any indication of his location.
“I’m right here, okay! Stop being so noisy!” snapped Fushimi, crawling around a corner and nearly plowing right into Yata. Well okay then – closer than he’d expected.
“Oh my god! Saru!” shouted Yata, who seemed to have calmed slightly at the appearance of Fushimi, though he was still a touch too loud for Fushimi’s liking. He was trying to avoid hearing aids for another ten years, at least.
“Saru!” he said again, falling back on his heels. “You came to rescue me!”
“Yes, I did. Don’t make me regret it.”
“You’re a hero!”
“I know, don’t – gkcrhg!”
Yata had thrown himself at Fushimi, crashing into his chest and looping his arms around his neck. These tunnels hadn’t been built with the idea of one grown man hanging out in them, let alone two. There was barely any room to breathe, let alone move. His boyfriend reeked of fast food and alcohol. Fushimi was going to require Yata brush his teeth minimum five times before he came anywhere near him with that mouth again.
“I thought I was going to die, Saru!”
“Okay, well, you’re not,” replied Fushimi, who’d freed himself enough to talk, though Yata was still mostly wrapped around him like some sort of drunk koala. “We just have to – ”
“How are we going to get out?!”
“I’m telling you how we’re going to get out, Misaki,” muttered Fushimi, clicking his tongue irritably. The tunnels were so cramped that turning around would probably prove to be more cumbersome and embarrassing than it was really worth. Which left only one direction to go in.
“We have to go forwards.”
“What!?”
“We have to go forwards. So you need to let go.”
“I know that!” replied Yata, barely loosening the grip he had around Fushimi’s torso.
“Great,” muttered Fushimi, attempting to resume his crawl with Yata still struggling to hang onto Fushimi like a drowning man to a lifesaver. Even through the plastic tubing, HOMRA’s laughter was loud enough to be heard clearly.
“We could go a lot faster if you would let go.”
“Fuck that!” snapped Yata. “What if I lose you?”
“What are you talking about!? Do you even know where you are?”
Judging by the silence, Yata was either shaking his head, or he genuinely had no idea. Fushimi exhaled, long and slow, and continued shuffling forwards, thinking that he was going to have to start instituting some sort of weekend curfew with Yata.
They were crawling past an opening on their left when Yata suddenly yanked sharply at Fushimi’s shirt, a little harder than was probably necessary and eliciting an ungainly hacking noise from Fushimi.
“I think that’s an exit!”
“Yeah,” said Fushimi, getting his breath back, “But it’s a slide, and I’m not – ”
“AN EXIT!” crowed Yata, right into Fushimi’s ear. “WE’RE SAVED!”
“Misaki no – shit do not – ”
But before Fushimi could protest any further, Yata had already hurled himself towards the slide, dragging Fushimi along with him. They didn’t do anything nearly so graceful as actually “slide.” It more like a half-somersaulting tumble that ended all to quickly with Fushimi crashing on his back into the ball pit, Yata landing squarely on top of his chest.
Chitose was howling so hard he fell out of his chair.
“Move,” grunted Fushimi, pushing Yata off of him. Plastic multi-colored balls were sent bouncing. How many used diapers were hidden in this toxic disease pit, Fushimi wondered.
“Oh my GOD!” shouted Yata, who quickly stood up, lost his balance, and toppled back over into the pit. “WE MADE IT!”
Fushimi adjusted his glasses and glanced over to his right, where all that was visible of his boyfriend were two outstretched arms, which soon flopped back down. His boyfriend was buried in the ball pit, but at least they were out of the tunnels.
“Alright Misaki,” said Fushimi after a moment, turning to his side. “Ready to go?”
No response.
“Hey. Dumbass.”
Fushimi stopped and cocked his head, realizing that if he focused he could just make out a soft snoring coming from beneath the multicolored balls.
Fushimi clicked his tongue, before leaning over to jab Yata sharply in the side.
“Ow, FUCK!” he shouted, popping up like a rabid gopher and sending balls flying. He stared around wildly before focusing on Fushimi. “What the fuck?”
“Come on Misaki,” said Fushimi, plastic balls raining off of him as he moved to stand up. “We’re going home.”
Yata ignored Fushimi’s outstretched hand, staring around in a sort of drunken wonder.
“Misaki,” snapped Fushimi.
“Hey, Saru,” said Yata, a slow grin unfolding across his face.
“What.” He really didn’t have time for this. In lieu of answering him, Yata started laughing hysterically.
“What is it?” snapped Fushimi again.
“Balls!” spluttered Yata between spurts of laughter. “It’s a ball pit, Saru, we – OW!”
“What are you, five?”
“Fuck Saru, that hurt!”
“Well get up if you don’t want me to smack you again.”
Yata grimaced, but took the outstretched hand Fushimi offered him, rubbing the back of his head with his other hand. Fushimi hauled him up and led him out of the ballpit, stumbling back into the restaurant amidst uproarious cheers from the HOMRA table.
“You did it!”
“He’s free!”
“Thank god for Fushimi-san!”
Fushimi just grit his teeth and kept walking, one arm wrapped around Yata’s waist to keep him from toppling over. I hope you all get high cholesterol and die, he thought.
“We’ll check in on you guys tomorrow!” called Chitose after them, refusing to be ignored.
“If I ever see your face again I will fucking kill you,” replied Fushimi under his breath, kicking the door open and dragging Yata outside and around the side of the building so that he could throw up behind the hedges. While he stood there heaving, all Fushimi could think was how this guy right here, puking his guts up on the side of a McDonald’s at two am on a Sunday morning, this was the man he’d ended up with.
“Hey Saru,” said Yata later, eyes closed and half-way passed out out as Fushimi dragged him over to his car, “I love you.”
“Yeah,” replied Fushimi, stuffing Yata into the passenger seat and fastening his seatbelt over him. “You too.”
Yata smiled to himself and Fushimi just rolled his eyes, but carefully made sure Yata’s hands and feet were all safely tucked inside the car before shutting the door. By the time Fushimi had walked around and back to his side and sat down in the driver’s seat, Yata was already snoring away. When they got home it took nearly a full minute of solid shaking to jostle Yata awake, and another ten minutes just to get him from the car to the bed.
By the end of it all Fushimi was tired, sore, and he smelled like yesterday’s cheeseburgers. Yata smelled even worse, and he was too drunk and sleepy to even brush his own teeth.
But Fushimi ended up letting Yata kiss him anyway. And maybe he was just as big of a moron as Yata for ever falling for the dumbass in the first place – but drifting to sleep that night, with Yata’s arm slipped over his side and his fast food-alcohol breath lightly hitting the back of his neck, Fushimi found he didn’t even care.
Love was kinda dumb like that.