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When Misha steps out of the grocery store, it’s raining.
It’s a light drizzle, nothing to slow the hustle and bustle of the city around him, but the clouds above look too dark and ominous for him to trust going out uncovered. He steps out of the aunning, popping open his umbrella, and he’s thankful for once that his (slightly above) average height keeps him inconspicuous in the crowd.
Misha doesn’t have anythingー or anybody, for that matterー to hide from anymore, but habit is easy on the stomach and he’s had way too much to swallow in the past few months.
It was harder to ascribe to a routine when he was associated with the organization or, well, in hiding , but the comfort of normalcy is something strange in this new life that he didn’t even know he had wished for all this time. There’s something… almost cathartic, about consciously knowing that he has to turn right at the next side street without having to map out an alternate route as a backup, or hearing footsteps scutter behind you only to be faced with a stray alley cat begging for food. (Misha usually feeds them whatever he has in his pockets, because he knows what it’s like to have nobody to care for you. It’s the same kinship that led him to Hisoka and Chikage, and the reminder of that puts a bag of treats into his cart whenever he goes shopping.)
The alleys are darker when it rains and the clanging of water against the trash can lids probably scares away any hungry cat, and Misha has never been good with his thoughts while he’s alone. He hums a tune, some American lullaby that he isn’t even sure where he heard, and he grips his bag tighter as he rounds the end of the alley.
“Hey,” He hears, a quarter of the way through turning and when half the space in front of him is a blind spot, and Misha is suddenly August and fending for his life on the street again. He throws an arm up, and immediately goes for a round kick to the shin when his wrist is caught. He’s jerked sharply to the right by his opponent, effectively losing his balance, and he clenches his jaw expecting to get slammed into the concrete.
“Calm down, Misha-san.” His opponent whispers to him, and Misha is suddenly acutely aware of his chosen name, (not “chosen”, as in, by the organization like so many other things in his life, but by himself. One of the only things that’s unapologetically his,) and how.… not angry he sounds. So he squints an eye open.
He suddenly feels a different type of fear, one that isn’t so much about fending for his life but about protecting the egg carton that just got whipped through the air.
“Oh, Furuichi.” Misha wiggles his wrist a bit and Sakyo lets go, dropping his palm to rest on his hip. It’s stiff, and a little awkward, but Misha can chalk that one up to unfamiliarity. He rolls his wrist once, twice, and wipes his hand on his pants before picking up his umbrella where it rests against the corner.
“Sorry about that,” Misha starts awkwardly, like he had bumped shoulders with Sakyo on the sidewalk and not accidentally tried to paralyze him. He’s a little bit glad it was him, thoughー and especially glad it wasn’t the director or any of the kidsー because while it’s not like he knows a lot about Sakyo, he knows that his own gut reaction being to fight isn’t something completely unfamiliar.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Is all Sakyo says before turning on his heel and walking back towards Veludo, the tail of his jacket whipping to the side like he’s making some dramaticized cartoon exit. Misha’s mind goes blank for a minute, and the gears in his brain and his legs somehow start turning at the same time.
“Hey, Furuichi!” Misha yells after him, a little too loud and a little too fake emotional when they’re so close to Veludo. “If you’re going to treat me like that, I'd really appreciate it if you just called me Misha!”
He watches the way Sakyo stutters in his step and clicks his tongue, but more observes the way that the rain seems to be clearing a path for Sakyo. It’s still pouring where he stands.
“Please,” Misha trails on, holsting the grocery bags up to rest in his elbow and speeding up a little to catch up with Sakyo. He wordlessly offers the protection of the umbrella even though Sakyo seems to be parting the rain himself, and he obliges with a huff and bends down slightly to squeeze under. “Consider it a peace offering.”
“That’s not necessary, I said that we were fine.”
The rain slaps unabashedly against the umbrella above, and for as much as Misha tries to emulate the sun, he feels that he’s the only thing obstructing Sakyo’s sky.
“Okay, then consider it as me prepositioning you to be my friend.”
Sakyo stares blankly ahead for a moment, spares a disconcerted glance at Misha, and then continues to look ahead. “I think those kids are rubbing off on you a bit too much.”
Misha laughs softly, a quiet sound against the rain, and he gestures with the umbrella. “Maybe you could learn from them, you know?”
Sakyo doesn’t give him a response. Instead, he grips his hand around the top of the umbrella handle and jerks them to the side. Veludo is uncharacteristically quiet for how lively it usually is, and if Misha had enough confidence to be able to pay no mind to embarrassing himself in front of Sakyo, he’d carry both of them into an etude to entertain the dead crowds stumbling across the sidewalk.
But Mankai is only about another block ahead from here and Sakyo doesn’t seem like he wants to talk anymore, much less draw any attention to himself, so Misha silently lets himself get dragged as he counts the steps.
…
They don’t talk again for too long after that.
Misha is whisked onto stage and blinded by the spotlight before they so much as make eye contact again, and he finds himself yearning for some sort of acknowledgement from Sakyo. Except he doesn’t really… know how to make acquaintances yet, and though Summer had no problems taking him in like he had always been there, he’s still socially versed enough to know that accepting an invitation and giving an invite are two different things. They’re in different troupes anyway, and it’s not like they have anything close enough in common that he could make an excuse using.
The more he dwells on it, too, the more he realizes that he needs to have already done something to be anywhere further with this.
…
So this is why, after very deliberate consideration and one too many hours spent thinking about it, he ends up in an unfamiliar hallway with a hastily folded up piece of paper that says ‘206’ in sparkly pink gel pen. (Kazunari, somewhat like Chikage, Hisoka and stray cats in alleys, makes Misha feel like they both have something to protect in each other.)
(Misha knows that if his life were any different at twenty-one, he’d be looking at a spitting image of himself.)
He knocks slowly on the door of 206, still slightly uncertain of what he’s actually going to get done here and significantly more anxious than necessary regarding how to alert somebody of his presence.
“Uh, hi!” He says, when somebody who is decidedly not Azuma opens the door. He tries to discreetly look over Guy’s shoulder for any hint of him, but the room is... appropriately dark for being what Misha is suddenly realizing is half-past midnight. He suddenly feels embarrassed about his inappropriate placement.
“I’m sorry if I woke you, Guy. Is Yukishiro here?”
Guy opens the door a little more instead of verbalizing a response, and Misha can very vaguely see that the room is empty.
“He’s bathing, but you can come in. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”
The lights flicker on as he trails Guy inside, illuminating a whole bunch of... nothing in the dim light. Misha vaguely knows something about Azuma living alone for a long time prior to last year, but as he looks around the room he can’t see a single thing that could be attributed to him.
(Misha has to remember that he’s here for somewhat selfish reasons, so he really doesn’t have the right to judge their interior design choices. He did expect Azuma to have something a little more sophisticated and otherworldly, though, and maybe if all goes well they can go furniture shopping together or something like normal men their age do.)
Guy gestures for him to sit down, and Misha accepts with a nod while he watches him retreat to the kitchenette.
“Tea or coffee?” Guy asks, like he isn’t already starting to heat up the kettle. Misha doesn’t see the need to give him much of an answer when he seems to already have his mind made. Instead he shrugs noncommittally and lets himself sink further into the chair.
“Tea it is.”
It goes uncomfortably silent with that, and Misha finds himself counting the little kernels on their ceiling as he waits for the tension to be broken by somebody that isn’t himself. He gets to two hundred before he gives up and starts fiddling with his thumbs, and he’s suddenly glad that he hadn’t asked for coffee.
The quiet finds itself becoming decidedly louder after longer than five minutes, but Misha appreciates Guy’s silence more when he thinks about how it could be replaced with prying, and he thanks him in his head when he sets the tea down next to him.
Guy sits down on another stool next to him, both of them sipping along and staring holes into the counter, and it’s so close to just being a comedic rendition of something real that Misha could laugh.
As if on cue to Misha starting to lose his mind, the door clicks open behind him.
Misha spins around on the stool, half as an unconscious response and half out of the relief of finally being able to open his mouth.
“Yukishiro,” He breathes, and he only feels a little guilty for barging in now. “Please, help me.”
It’s a little blunt for somebody he’s spoken maybe twenty times total to, a little too dramatic (and probably a little pathetic for what his actual issue is,) around the edges, but Azuma, bless his soul, doesn't seem like the type to shy away from overfamiliarity.
Azuma makes his way across the room and he sits on the direct opposite side of the counter. He doesn’t make eye contact, and instead reaches to the side for half a bottle of wine. He pops it open and gestures to Misha, pouring himself a glass before looking back up. Misha smiles at him awkwardly and gestures with the cup. “Tea,” he says, elegantly.
Azuma laughs, and the wine bottle is slid back to the end of the counter. Guy seems to take this as his hint to leave.
“Um,” Misha says, because he isn’t really sure where to go next, “You can, stay you know? As thanks for the tea.” It’s not really an equal exchange, but he feels bad for intruding only to make him feel like he has to leave.
Guy smiles, and Misha knows that he’s lost.
“There’s no need. I’ll go speak with Citronia.”
Misha wants to tell him that it’s probably almost one in the morning at this point, but he’s overstepped enough.
“Goodnight, then, and thank you for letting me in.”
Azuma waves him out, turning on the stool when the door clicks closed.
“Misha-san, it’s nice to see you,” Azuma sounds genuinely pleased, and Misha sips on his tea. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Misha forgets for a second why he’s here, and then continues to forget what the hell he even said to Kazunari that made him sign up for this.
His hands scratch into the side of the cup.
“You’d... Consider yourself a friend to most people at Mankai, right?” It’s a little too direct a start to what he came here to get advice about, but he isn’t the biggest fan of beating around the bush and Azuma seems like the type of person to catch on easily anyway. Misha sips his tea again. It’s bitter on his tongue.
“Everybody in Mankai is like family to me,” Azuma says, and that’s the exact non-answer that he was expecting to get from every other person and the one that he was hoping to not get from Azuma. Misha sighs. Maybe he should have accepted the wine.
Azuma stares him up and down, and Misha feels stripped bare. “That’s not the answer you wanted to hear, I’m assuming?”
“Well, not exactly.”
Misha’s fingers tap against the cup.
“How did you like,” He gestures with his hands out of anxiety. “..get there?”
When Azuma goes quiet and looks him up and down again, Misha decides that he was right about Azuma being the calculating type. He isn’t sure how he feels about that.
Azuma laughs airily, taking another sip of his wine and leaning slightly more over the counter. Misha’s first reflex is to lean away, but he makes a conscious effort to stay in place.
“It’s not my place to assume, but,” He seems to think for a moment, setting down the glass and leaning even closer. This close, Misha can smell his shampoo and see how shiny his hair is where it clings to his finger. It’s harder to sit still in his seat. “Is this about one person in particular?”
The room is suddenly way too small and Azuma is way too close. Misha gives in and backs away this time, and he hopes that the lights are just dim enough that Azuma can’t see him blush.
If he can see, he doesn’t bother commenting, instead leaning back on his own stool. Azuma balances the wine in one hand and twirls a lock of hair around the pointer finger of the other, and he levies Misha a smile that’s just a bit too far on the side of being genuinely kind. “Bingo,”
Azuma is not just accepting of overfamiliarity, Misha realizes a bit too late, he’s the goddamn overfamiliar king.
Misha half wants to throw up and half wants to think about how nice being doted on feels. He’s always been the dotee.
He chugs the last of the tea down in one motion, smiling weakly back at Azuma.
“I’m that easy to read, huh?”
Azuma brings the hand that was twirling in his hair to his chin, resting his head on it against the counter. Misha debates asking for some wine, but Azuma reaches for it and wordlessly hands it to him before he can open his mouth.
“Mmm, lucky guess, I think.”
They talk for way too long into the night only for Sakyo’s name to not be brought up a single time, hypotheticals turning into another round of drinks turning into scrolling through the IKEA digital catalogue on Azuma’s phone, but…
Misha thinks it’s nice, not having to be the strong one for once, and he can see why Hisoka and Azuma get along so well. He almost wants to thank Azuma on the way out, but knowing that he’s easy to read, (in Azuma’s eyes,) Azuma will interpret it as meaning for more than the advice (which it does.)
Instead, Misha steps out of 206 at half past three in the morning without a word.
…
He hopes it’s just luck that has him waking up to banging on his door the next morning.
“One secooond,” Misha calls, pushing off his blanket and rubbing his eyes open. The clock next to his bunk reads 12:16, and Muku and Kazunari are (thankfully,) not here.
He drags himself over to the door, (if there's one thing twenty years of being a spy hasn’t done, it’s made him more adaptable to sleeping less than twelve hours,) and the door is swung open before he can even open his eyes all the way.
“Get ready, we’re going grocery shopping,”
“Um,” Misha says, because of course the sixth sentence they’ve ever spoken to each other is going to start like this. “Furuichi?”
“You were the last person to wake up,” Sakyo gives him, like that's supposed to answer anything. He looks over his shoulder, glaring at whatever is behind him. “And your dorm is a mess.”
Misha glares at him, and then turns back to the room. It’s, well, it’s not that messy. Misha’s definitely seen worse. Misha’s definitely done worse. “I live with two children.”
“And who was the one who told me I needed to spend more time with them?” Misha can practically hear the stupid smirk on his face, and he tries to disregard the way his chest clenches at the fact that Sakyo actually remembered something he said. “Bon might be a brat, but he can keep his side of the dorm clean.”
Misha ignores that, instead running a comb through his hair, (a housewarming gift from Kazunari and Muku,) and sliding on some sandals over his socks. He looks absolutely horrid, but it’s just a grocery run. “Ready?”
“You look horrid, Misha,” Sakyo says as a response, and Misha almost feels bad for laughing.
“Woah, woah, Furuichi-san , what’s got you all worked up? Are we friends now?”
Sakyo looks like there’s steam blowing out of his ears and it’s… cute , Misha thinks. There’s not much time to think about that now, but he knows that later tonight, when the lights are off and the dorm is suddenly just him and his thoughts, he’s going to pretend to be surprised at how neatly the puzzle pieces all fit together into the bigger picture.
“If you’re going to act like a child, then I’m going to treat you like a child.”
Misha simply smiles at that.
He slaps his pockets a few times, accounting for his wallet and keys before he nudges Sakyo out and closes the door behind them. Where his forearm rests against Sakyo’s elbow as he locks the door, he can feel the heat that radiates off his body through the black suit in the summer heat. Misha finds himself wondering what that heat would smell like if he got a little closer; like Azuma’s coconut shampoo, maybe, or something a little more earthy, like a pine...
The key turns the wrong way three times before Misha realizes what he’s doing, and Sakyo’s eyes bore holes into his skull as he watches him struggle.
“Ready,” Misha says when he turns around, and he can tell that Sakyo is already incredibly done with him. He twirls the keychain around his finger, and the little cow mascot dances on his palm. He watches the way that Sakyo’s eyes follow it. It’s… incredibly endearing.
Misha stutters on his toes as he skips ahead, winking at Sakyo before hopping around again.
“C’mon, Sakyo-san ,” Misha sings, turning back, and he finds himself wanting to run his fingers across the blush that he can see trailing down Sakyo’s neck. He stops that trail of thought right before it can start, but the basis of it is there nonetheless.
The placard of room 206 down the hall suddenly looks incredibly enticing, especially with a blushing Sakyo in the way, and now Misha feels guilty for bothering Azuma with such a miniscule problem when it’s probably just the bud of something much more.
He doesn’t have much time to think about this, because Sakyo pushes his glasses up and the blush is gone. He can see the echoes of red on the tip of his ears, but the full bloom across his cheeks is gone, and Misha decides that if he’s going to get anywhere with this shopping trip, he’ll need to make it his life’s mission to see it again.
They eventually, (and not without disruption,) make it out of the dorms with a list that was five items longer than originally planned. Sakyo grumbles under his breath and takes out a pen to scratch out the additions, but Misha locks his fingers around his wrist.
“See, this is why you need to hang out with the kids more,” Misha starts, dragging Sakyo by the wrist in the sun instead of being dragged in the rain, “So you stop being so grumpy!”
Sakyo mumbles something again, (but not loud enough for Misha to consider it a complaint,) and three blocks later they’re standing outside the same grocery store that Misha frequents once a week for marshmallows.
It’s definitely, positively, not raining when Misha steps into the store with Sakyo this time, and he's grateful for that.