Chapter Text
To turn back in time is a luxury they can’t afford, but to introduce themselves one more time...
- - - - - - - - - -
“You’re the biggest idiot!” Misaki sputters between gasps, “Stupid!”
His voice trembles with a mixture of despair and anger, but he doesn’t cry, despite the stinging burn in his eyes. He’s too angry, too enraged to shed tears, and he won’t allow the people whom he trusted Saruhiko’s safety with to pity him when he exits the room.
Misaki is terribly late, but there, at last.
It doesn’t surprise Saruhiko that Misaki is late and it doesn’t surprise him that Misaki knows, either; Saruhiko isn't immune to what rumors may spread of him, after all. But it does surprise him that Misaki is there in the first place, five minutes before the strict visiting hours are over, bursting into his hospital room with visible terror in his face and agitated pupils that ask too many questions but none of which leaves his mouth.
Misaki chooses not to ask, but to state facts instead, “Asshole,” he continues, and Saruhiko has to turn his head to glance at the window to hide what little surprise he’s allowing his face to expose. He feels the weight of the mattress shift when Misaki’s hands press firmly against the sheets, as if it would help his harsh words to burn deeper into Saruhiko’s memory.But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t change the fact that the redhead’s curses are too hot and vivid in his ears for him to think he’s being delusional and that the real Misaki isn’t just a few inches away from him.
“F-for going with them,” Misaki adds, and his voice breaks, “when they don’t give a shit about you, they don’t...”
Saruhiko weakly clicks his tongue and feigns a bitter laugh, but he can’t find the strength to leash the words that slip past his lips.
“Tch, and you would,” he retorts with a hoarse sigh as he chokes on his own breath, because he immediately regrets it and wishes Misaki hasn’t heard, because it’s not about what Misaki would do; he doesn’t want to involve Misaki, he can’t—won’t test his luck by asking Misaki to go ahead, see if he’s able to do what others, according to him, cannot.
“I could,” Misaki mumbles as he seems to be pondering his words carefully and glances down at Saruhiko’s extended arm, ignoring how pale his skin looks against the clear hospital sheets.
“What?”
“I could... take care of you. Protect you.”
Misaki doesn’t meet his gaze and Saruhiko wants to laugh or cry, whichever comes first, but the stupor doesn’t let him. He thinks the medication isn’t supposed to make him hallucinate, or that the nails digging into his palms should have been enough to wake him from any state of unconsciousness.
When Misaki stares at the reddened bruises and scrapes across Saruhiko’s knuckles, he finds he doesn’t mind laying a hand on top of his, and Saruhiko finds he might want to keep it there.
He notices Misaki’s frown and lets out a soft, inaudible laugh, because for all the times Saruhiko had seen him frown at him, he thinks Misaki really shouldn’t look like that. It doesn’t suit a man who lives to take on the world.
“Excuse me.”
He also notices how Misaki doesn’t let go when the nurse comes in.
“Ah, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, “I’ll have to ask you to come back tomorrow, sir.”
Saruhiko feels the need to laugh at her witty choice of words, because to ask Misaki to come back is to ask Misaki to come back to see him, and the last time they crossed each other’s path, six months ago, Misaki wouldn’t even have dreamed to want to see him—so he thinks.
Because it’s difficult to dream when you’re fighting for your life.
Right, Misaki?
Misaki nods, and his hands retract as he turns to leave.
“Misaki,” the name feels natural and alive against Saruhiko’s tongue, and when Misaki turns around and flashes him a grin, Saruhiko wishes it isn’t the medication, that it isn’t a hallucination, that he could find the words to justify him calling his name, that idiot’s name—
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
But Misaki couldn’t be back. People who leave never come back.
And when he’s gone, Saruhiko’s fists clench at his sides.
Because this pitiful state isn’t what he wants Misaki to see, even if it’s what allows Saruhiko to see him.
- - - - - - - - - -
“He... he likes seedless grapes. And green apples. Not red. The more sour the better,” Misaki explains to the nurse once outside.
“Alright! I’ll let the doctors know,” she replies with a gentle nod and a bright smile that reassures Misaki that Saruhiko is supposedly left in good hands. “Thank you.”
The Tundra Woman is still standing at the end of the long corridor, as serene and composed as she was when she gave Misaki permission to reach her subordinate’s room, and he exchanges a final glance with her from afar before leaving.
- - - - - - - - - -
The next day, Saruhiko wakes up ridiculously late. It’s eleven in the morning when the nurse slowly opens the door to check on him for what it seems like the umpteenth time, and she’s greeted with Saruhiko’s relaxed gaze.
“Ah, Fushimi-kun, you’re awake. Someone came to see you,” she says as she enters the room and places a tray with a bowl with a few slices of apples on the small table next to the bed.
Green apples, huh.
After seeking for Saruhiko’s confirmation —a slight nod—, another figure emerges from the other side of the door, raising a hand to wave at him, “Yo.”
This time, Misaki isn’t late, and it doesn’t surprise Saruhiko that Misaki is there; it should, but Misaki is the spitting image of tenacity and —sometimes— a pain in the ass, so it doesn’t. Whatever.
“You have some time before the doctor comes to check on you,” she adds, “If you’ll excuse me.”
When the nurse leaves, Misaki takes a seat in the chair next to his bed and the world narrows to the two of them once again.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
“The doctors say you’ll have to wait a few more days. Maybe four,” he says, never asking why Saruhiko is there in the first place, and Saruhiko looks at him dead in the eye—since when does Misaki know more about him than he does?
Misaki mistakes his silence for confusion, “For some exams—”
“Routine preventive exams,” Saruhiko sighs, “That’s their policy. If it were up to me I’d get out of here right now.”
“Y-yeah but... you can’t, so try to relax for now.”
“I can’t really relax. There’s going to be a hell of... paperwork,” he mumbles as he lays his head back and closes his eyes. “And reports to do.”
“Well, that can wait, right?”
“The Lieutenant won’t wait.”
Misaki falls silent. Saruhiko reopens his eyes and notices the redhead’s lips are pressed into a sullen line, and for a fleeting moment, he sees a mirror of his past self in the way Misaki sulks at the mere mention of someone he doesn’t seem to like, even if his previous, brief interaction with her made it easier for him to have access to Saruhiko’s room.
“Misaki,” he calls, drawing his attention, and after a deliberate stillness and seconds of indefinite staring into each other’s unblinking eyes, he asked, “Why?”
Why did you come? Why are you still here? Why are you doing this?
What are you doing?
“Hell if I know,” Misaki responds, to all and none of his questions at the same time, and avoids his gaze. “Don't ask dumb questions.”
There’s only silence, and a couple of affable minutes of effectively not asking questions and watching the sunlight seep through the blinds of the window, when Misaki points at the tray on the bedside table.
“You’re gonna eat that? They’re getting brown.”
“You want them?”
“Huh? W-well, I’m just... a bit hungry, but,” he hesitates, “just eat them, okay?”
Saruhiko has to make a special effort to not let Misaki’s amusing bashfulness curve his lips.
“I can’t eat them anyway.”
“Hah? Why?”
“I can’t,” the swordsman mutters, forcing the traces of mischief to stay away from the surface of his voice. “My hands are still numb. I can't do it by myself.”
“Saru... you’re gonna be okay—”
“Feed me, Misaki.”
Misaki's eyes widen, questioningly so as his brain registers and analyzes the request, but there isn’t a single drop of doubt in Saruhiko’s words and the sheer seriousness and sobriety in his —pleading?— expression convinces him.
Swallowing every little sign of hesitation, Misaki takes one piece of apple and lifts it to Saruhiko’s mouth with a soft, “Open up.”
But Saruhiko cannot help but react with a snort that leaves his companion disoriented and confused.
“I’m kidding, Misaki.”
“Eh—”
“You’re so gullible. You can still do it, though.”
“F-fuck you. You’re the worst.”
Saruhiko can’t stop the sudden pleasure from tickling his throat and neither can he help but let it free, savoring the satisfaction deep within his chest as he erupts in a genuine laughter, as if he had been longing for it for a long time, as if he had remembered the petty reason the both of them were still alive.
One of the nurses knocks on the door before coming in, momentarily interrupting the bliss of the spell around them.
“Fushimi-kun? The doctor is here,” she announces before glancing down at the notes on her clipboard, and turns to look at Misaki, who quickly straightens his back and braces his fists on his knees to stand up.
“I-I’ll wait outside!”
And so he does.
- - - - - - - - - -
It’s Saruhiko and the nurse alone once again, when she says, “You can ask to extend the visiting time, if you want.”
“Huh?”
“Things have been a bit... rough, lately. It’s especially more crowded than usual, so we’ve been forced to cut the visiting hours,” she admits and Saruhiko blinks, doesn’t quite get why she’s telling him such details, so his silence remains. “He’s your friend, right? Fushimi-kun is quite the heavy sleeper, it seems. But that boy’s been here since really early.”
Omitting her initial question —Saruhiko wasn’t sure what Misaki and him were—, Saruhiko contemplates the second part. Heavy sleeper? It’s actually the opposite, that’s why Misaki came earlier.
“No,” he stammers, but says no more.
The nurse holds a pair of recently folded towels in her arms, ready to leave, and before she’s out of the room, she turns to face him, her final proposal ending with a subtle wink of an eye, “So think about it, ne?”
- - - - - - - - - -
“How’d it go?”
“Boring.”
Medical speeches bore him. There isn’t much else to explain; he was told they wanted to make sure the bruises on his back weren’t as severe as they were when he first came, and that he would be dismissed in a few days—next Sunday, perhaps, just as Misaki said, bla, bla, bla.
“Hah. So everything’s okay.”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t even think about the nurse’s previous suggestion. It’s Wednesday. Days are long, and he still has three more to go.
- - - - - - - - - -
The next day, Misaki, who keeps coming into his room despite having to face the doubtful, distrusting looks of the blues in the main lobby, emphasizes the obvious.
“Oi, you didn’t eat anything yet?” he asks, because there’s a new bowl on the tray, with a pretty number of fresh pieces of apples that Saruhiko hasn’t even touched. “You don’t actually think I’m going to feed you,” he adds with a scowl before staring at the bowl, when it finally clicks in his head that the green skin is there, in every slice. “Didn’t they take the peel off yesterday... wait.”
“Tch.”
“Don’t tell me you won’t eat them unless—”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re a shitty liar, Saru. After all this hospital food you must be starving! Open up!” Misaki demands as he menacingly attempts to shove a piece of fruit into Saruhiko’s mouth.
“Oi, cut it out.”
“Not until you eat them, dumbass. They’re just apples.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Open your mouth—the skin’s good for you!”
“Stop it already!”
“Dammit, Saru—!”
“Fushimi-kun.”
A third masculine voice, unheard by Misaki in a long time but well recorded in his mind, and coated with a solemn and almost portentous timbre, intrudes their innocent and frivolous yet significant bickering.
“And also Yatagarasu. Or should I say... Yata Misaki,” Munakata Reisi adds.
“You—you bastard!”
Misaki snaps, recognizes the pompous tone that matches the one in that singular well inside his head where only bitter memories linger before even turning around, and feels the sudden rancorous taste of vengeance rushing through his veins, the brutal need to stomp on that guy’s face that dares to show up before them with no visible hints of remorse.
How dare he leave the scene unscathed, how dare he mock them with his phlegmatic presence when the bruises along Saruhiko’s hands have turned as dark as the uniform he boasts about, how dare he—
Misaki lunges at him, his fists quickly clenching around the ascot over his shirt, and growls, “You finally show your face, huh?!” and even though he manages to wipe the smile off the Blue King’s face, it riles him up that Munakata isn’t even fighting, as if accepting his fate in the hands of, fuck yeah, Yatagarasu. So be it then.
Misaki thinks he hears Saruhiko calling for him—that’s right, Saruhiko must be encouraging his actions, his anger, his intention of giving that bastard what he deserves—
“Misaki!”
Except Saruhiko is not—he raises his voice, loud and firm, and utters the vanguard’s name for a second time, and when Misaki turns to look at him, seeking in those eyes a sign of complicity and approval that Saruhiko can’t respond to, Saruhiko lowers his gaze instead, and if Misaki doesn’t cry, despite the stinging burn in his eyes, is because he’s too angry, too enraged to shed tears.
But when his hands let go, Saruhiko’s eyes are back on him, and for the first time since Misaki came to see him, Saruhiko sees fragments of tears welling up in the corner of the redhead’s eyes before he takes a step back and walks out the room.
The door closes with a soft click.
“Still as spirited as ever, I see,” Munakata observes when Misaki is gone. “That’s good news.”
“Yeah.”
“This room seems livelier too, compared to the first time I came.”
“It’s not like a lot happened in one day.”
“Did it not?”
Munakata’s face is graced with a smile when Saruhiko clicks his tongue, and takes some steps forward, making his way to the small closet on the other side of the room. “For when you're leaving,” he explains as he places down a small bag that Saruhiko identifies as a change of casual clothes his Captain must have gotten from his dorm.
“What about the fugitives?”
“Thanks to your squadron’s efforts, the culprits were apprehended,” Munakata responds, offering him a serene, apologetic smile. “Although the havoc they caused left me with no choice but to attend some matters personally. I would have loved to come yesterday.”
“That’s fine. I didn’t ask anyone to come. That goes for you, too.”
“I imagined you would say that,” he lowers his gaze, gracious smile still plastered on his face. “Well, everyone will be thrilled to hear that you can join us again tomorrow. We should probable arrange a welcome-back party, hm...”
Taking a hand to his chin, Munakata meditates on the joyous idea in his head, momentarily missing the surprise on Saruhiko’s mien.
“Tomorrow?” Saruhiko asks, “I thought I wouldn’t be out until Sunday.”
“Oh, that’s right. All results were within normal limits, so I was informed no further examination was necessary,” he pauses, “Ah, my apologies. Perhaps you wanted the doctor to be the first to tell you personally.”
“No, it’s okay,” he says, and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks about yesterday, about the nurse’s suggestion, since it’s Thursday and he has few hours left to go.
Munakata catches him lost in his own thoughts, having sensed a different spark of dullness in his voice, that doesn’t match the one Saruhiko is usually associated with, and hums, “Mm? I thought you would be eager to leave.”
Saruhiko’s tone is monotonous, “Yes. The faster the better.”
“Really? In that case, I should go,” Saruhiko’s perplexed gaze quickly meets his as he continues, “I believe there’s another person who’s more worth your time.”
“Tch. Do as you want.”
“Then, we’ll see each other soon. Excuse me.”
Just as Munakata’s hand rests on the handle of the door, Saruhiko rolls his eyes, sensing his Captain isn’t opening the door, turning around one last time instead.
“Ah, although a welcome-back party sounds thrilling, you should probably take a few days off.”
“I’m fine. This is nothing.”
“Mm, but the doctors agree,” he continues, omitting Saruhiko’s protests, “that it is advisable to stay a few days in a rather relaxed, precious place before getting back to work.”
Somewhere precious?
“Do you have anywhere in mind?” Munakata asks.
Saruhiko doesn’t—can’t respond to that, because there’s only incertitude, when he should be able to reply with conviction.
“I’ll take care of Subaru for you,” Munakata smiles, “See you soon, Fushimi-kun.”
“Yeah.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Misaki impatiently takes a peek through Saruhiko’s door.
“Is he gone?” he asks, despite having seen the Blue King leave the building with his own eyes, and doesn’t wait for confirmation, shamelessly inviting himself to the room.
“This isn’t your house, you know.”
“No. My house is way better,” he jokes, “and doesn’t reek of latex.”
Saruhiko wonders; he had always imagined a mess when he thought of Misaki’s room—a pool of crumpled clothes instead of water, and dust, and asphalt, and autumn leaves. But now he wonders what it really looks like, after all these years.
Would it fit more than one person—
“Hey,” Misaki says, glancing at his wrist watch, “Kusanagi-san called. He wants me to do something for him.”
Kusanagi-san, who is still young, but was always too old nonetheless to get involved in their insolent squabbles; who would always wear a smile on his face despite the sorrow clawing his life; who would care little about Saruhiko’s motives.
“Ugh, that freak boss of yours stayed for a long time,” he scowls, “so, uh... I’ll be back later, ‘kay?”
Saruhiko averts his eyes, “Do what you want.”
“You better eat your dinner before I’m back.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Misaki huffs for the thousandth time because there’s nothing on TV; nothing he’s interesting in, at least. And he can’t nag Saruhiko about his diet either because he had already eaten his dinner by the time he got back.
“Oi.”
And he’s been shaking his head back and forth for about a whole minute, until Saruhiko’s voice jerks him awake.
“Go ask for a pillow, idiot.”
“What pillow,” Misaki mutters absently, his drowsy eyes widening abruptly when he actually registered the word. “Pillow? Wait... r-really?”
“Tch. Don’t ask.”
Misaki’s jaw hangs open and he asks anyway, “I-I can stay here?” his voice coated with a layer of something that sounds close to hope, maybe.
Saruhiko is too busy ignoring him and biting his lower lip, and Misaki takes that as a maybe, if you’re not too loud—I don’t know or do whatever you want.
“If you go now and fall asleep in the streets, people are going to blame it on me,” Saruhiko says with gritted teeth.
“I-I’ll be right back!” Misaki exclaims, jumping from the chair with a visible excitement he doesn’t mind exposing.
When Misaki is back, there’s a white pillow under his arm and the scene is absolutely adorable and ridiculously amusing, too, but Saruhiko doesn’t even think of commenting on it.
They don’t talk about anything that has to do with Saruhiko’s current condition. They happen to stumble across some robot anime on TV instead, with spectacular three-dimensional transformations and some weird plot Misaki is fascinated with, even though he doesn’t get more than Saruhiko does, until they doze off.
- - - - - - - - - -
When Saruhiko wakes up, at four a.m., Misaki is still there, sitting on the uncomfortable chair, while the pillow lies on the floor.
He looks down at the sleeping figure, at Misaki’s head resting peacefully on his folded arms on the bed, at his closed eyes, hidden beneath strands of chestnut hair, and remembers the storm.
He remembers six months ago, when the fugitive Strain lunged at his back and Misaki shoved him aside to take the blow in his stead. He remembers when a venomous curtain engulfed Misaki's body whole and poisoned his skin and lungs. Remembers Misaki’s body collapsing and the rain washing away the poisoned blood in his lips and hands; he remembers its density and color, that is was as viscid as oil and as black as death. He doesn’t remember much else, except Misaki breathing what it looked like his last seconds of life.
And then, he felt it, the blue, and saw the Blue King unleashing his magnanimity upon their enemy.
He remembers when it was him visiting Misaki’s hospital room —before he woke up two and a half week later— and gazing at the dull immutability of his face, the disheveled strands of chestnut hair, the fiery eyes concealed by pale eyelids, the oxygen mask, his parted lips and the lethargic pace of his breathing.
“Misaki is strong,” he remembers he heard Anna say with enviable fortitude once, and Saruhiko stifled a sarcastic laugh, because strong does not equal common sense. They were human, not deities.
Anna continued, “Izumo is downstairs,” and as if reading Saruhiko’s mind, as if not facing anyone else —to remind him it was him who was meant to take Misaki’s place— would bring him any relief, she added, “Just him.”
He then watched her place the pink lotus flower she was holding in her petite hands the whole time on the table next to Misaki’s bed, remarking as she did so, “It means rebirth.”
“Rebirth, huh,” Saruhiko tasted the word on his tongue, and thought out loud, “Is that even possible.”
“Misaki has faith. He believes,” she turned around, her red eyes as inscrutable as ever, “it’s a new beginning.”
Beginnings, hah.
Beginnings are tortuous—whether it’s the moment humans are born, the moment two friends have to let new people into their lives, the moment someone fights for his life on a hospital bed—
“And this is the price?”
“Saruhiko is alive.”
“Tch. It’s like you’re saying I’m the reason he’s like this.”
“Yes,” Anna declared with no shame in her lack of hesitation, and it’s just so funny; never had he thought he would hear the actual blame coming from that child’s lips, he should have known better— “But,” she went on, “Misaki is still fighting.”
Anna. The reason why Saruhiko left HOMRA wasn’t because of this—Anna, who seemed to speak in riddles, could have been the perfect excuse for having done so, had he had the chance to see her doing it years before, if he had only interacted more with her.
“Saruhiko is alive because Misaki wants to protect,” she stated, Saruhiko’s silence urging her to keep talking, “Misaki believes that as long as he can pay the price, he will protect, and he’s happy—”
What is there to protect—
“—that it wasn’t Saruhiko. That Saruhiko—”
“So he thinks I’m not strong enough for this?! But he is?!” he cut her off sharply, his hands turning into burning fists until the nails digging into his palms reminded him of when Misaki pushed him and his hands scraped against the wet, rough asphalt.
After a much longer silence, Anna spoke, “No,” and waited for Saruhiko to calm down, “If the worst were to happen, Saruhiko can change the world.”
Saruhiko nearly choked on his breath.
He turned his head and dared to look Anna in the eyes, when she said, “Better Misaki than Saruhiko.”
...
You don’t get to decide who lives and who—
Who—
“Is he an idiot? I won’t forgive him. If he wakes up—”
“When Misaki wakes up,” Anna politely corrected him, “Saruhiko can tell him personally.”
After that, Saruhiko straightened his back and headed to the door when Anna’s voice stopped him, “Do I tell Misaki that Saruhiko came?”
He took a pause before replying, “Do as you want.”
True to Anna’s word, Izumo was downstairs, bidding Saruhiko good-bye with a smile when he walked past him while he replied with a nod.
Six months later, Saruhiko looks down at the sleeping figure, at Misaki’s closed eyes, hidden beneath strands of chestnut hair, and this time, he brushes a few bangs from his face.
- - - - - - - - - -
The first thing Misaki notices when he rubs his eyes and speculates that the silhouette standing out against the beams of light shining through the blinds must belong to Saruhiko is that his neck fucking hurts. And that Saruhiko is out of bed.
And he’s getting dressed.
“Huh? Saru?” he mumbles, voice raspy from his somnolent state, before taking a quick look at his watch, reading almost four in the afternoon. “Shit—I slept all morning?”
“We both did,” Saruhiko’s back is still facing him as he buttons up the clean, white shirt of the uniform he had come with and that the hospital personnel had washed the evening he arrived.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m off.”
“What?”
“I’m discharged,” he clarifies, imagining the way Misaki’s mouth is probably opening in confusion. “Today.”
Misaki gasps, “Y-you wanna break out of the hospital!”
“I don’t, idiot!”
“Heh, r-right... so, where are you going?”
“Wherever I want,” which is not a lie.
“Huh? What does that mean?”
“They want me to take the day off.”
Misaki frowns, because he has been deliberately avoiding bringing up work and SCEPTER 4 and duty, but Saruhiko indirectly mentions it anyways.
“So... you’re gonna take the day off,” he means to ask, but the words come out as an affirmation, and there’s a doubtful silence when Saruhiko heads to the closet, where the bag with his spare clothes is, and replies with a sigh.
“I don't have anywhere else to go.”
“Then... where are you staying?” Misaki rephrases, hoping to get a less ambiguous answer.
Saruhiko considers it. For a moment—
How stupid.
“I’m going back to headquarters.”
“Hah?!”
“What?”
“Well, they gave you the day off for a reason!”
“A stupid reason,” he huffs, because Munakata does that sometimes, and he couldn’t have guessed Saruhiko wanted more time, if not in the hospital, anywhere else. He just couldn’t. “I’m fine.”
“B-but,” Misaki stammers, looking for persuasive words to convince Saruhiko that—that going back is a terrible decision. “Wouldn’t it be better to... y’know, rest? From all that?”
“My things are there, Misaki,” Saruhiko points out, although there’s neither malice nor irritation in his tone, but a light sense of disorientation from Misaki’s consistent questioning. “You want me to wander around the streets all day for no reason at all?”
“W-well...”
Misaki feels the uncomfortable hesitation crawling to his throat as he brings a hand to the back of his neck and shifts his gaze to the floor—despite the striking indecision, however, his tongue is faster, and thoughtless, “You could come to my—”
Just as thoughtless and instinctive is Saruhiko’s answer, “No,” he cuts him off while his hands tighten around the bag with his clothes and the folded blue coat next to it, and he finds it odd that he doesn’t quite revel in the way the refusal automatically left his mouth with such unstoppable inertia and spontaneity, that he has to add, “I don’t have any money,” which, he realizes, is a stupid and unintelligent excuse—so much as to make him want to slam his head between the doors of the empty closet.
Misaki’s excitement is slightly hurt, hence the silence that follows, but not more discouraged than before, and he has to raise a puzzled eyebrow and sputter a loud ‘huh?’ because Saruhiko is so fucking difficult to read, but it’s also so fucking difficult for Misaki to ask him to just follow him. Home.
“I don’t—” Saruhiko repeats as Anna’s words ring in his head and he imagines her telling him something as disgustingly tender as it’s not a beginning if it’s never given a chance to start anew.
But before concluding his response, Misaki is already on the other side of the room, pushing him aside and snatching his belongings with a swift motion, including the hideous coat he hates so much and that he would not hesitate to accuse of giving him rashes later.
“Come on, monkey, let’s get you some food. You’re so fucking starving that you can’t even think properly,” Misaki demands with a feral growl, just a few steps away from the door. “Then you can go back playing knights and swords.”
“Oi, that’s—”
“You’ll get them back,” Misaki cuts him off, raising the fist holding Saruhiko’s clothes and coat, “once you get your damn breakfast.”
“It’s almost... half past four.”
Misaki snarls as he heads out, “You’ll get them back once you get your damn breakfast.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Saruhiko gets his damn breakfast, at roughly six p.m., and in any other context, historical era and circumstances, he would have thought he was damned, too, for accepting Misaki's invitation —which felt more like a forceful obligation that left no room for a refusal—, for not putting up a fight when Misaki made him follow him all over the city to his apartment —luckily for him, with a bus trip in between—, or for turning his little adventure into some twisted Stockholm syndrome situation.
The rather suspicious-looking, large, shady corridor they have to walk through before reaching Misaki’s door is just what Saruhiko needs to support his theory that Misaki haven’t changed a lot—that absurd fascination with danger and the adrenaline of what the underworld has to offer seem to match the cold, dark walls at their sides, and that’s the kind of place Misaki would live in, he thinks.
But for being someone who boasts about knowing the little details in Misaki’s like, and who doesn’t fancy retracting his words, it surprises him to admit he was wrong.
When Misaki opens the door and turns the lights on, there isn’t any pile of clothes —or whatever item he can think of— facing their feet and the floor is an unbelievably neat surface Saruhiko doesn’t find the will to step on. There are just a few pieces of furniture, which is no more than what Misaki alone really needs, while a few items lay scattered around the —Saruhiko assumes— only and biggest room in the apartment; it’s not a mess, but not a complete order, either.
The lighting and the sun filtering through a window make the room look bigger, even though it clearly isn’t; it feels bigger, though, and warmer, unlike the walls along the outer corridor.
Misaki’s eyes widen when he turns around to lock the door and sees Saruhiko, immobile, still by the door frame.
“Uh... you can come in,” he says, and sensing the hesitation in Saruhiko’s body, Misaki doesn’t feel the need to rush him and waits for his guest to get in on his own before closing the door behind his back and hanging his blue coat on the hook on the wall next to it.
“Alright,” Misaki mutters as he kicks his shoes off, and marks each subsequent word with a gesture of his index finger, signaling their respective location. “Shoes. Bathroom. Kitchen... not that you need to go there.”
Saruhiko arches a skeptical eyebrow.
“O—kay... you probably want to, uh...” Misaki falters as he hands Saruhiko his belongings. “Take a shower,” he orders softly with a sheepish look settled on his face as his gaze lowers to the ground. “There’s hot water, so...”
“I’m fine,” Saruhiko mumbles in an inaudible tone that makes Misaki raise his head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he replies instantly, and flicks his head at the door Misaki had identified as the bathroom minutes before. “There?”
“Ah, yeah. There’s a towel in the cabinet.”
“I know.”
“Hah?”
Saruhiko leaves Misaki behind, preventing himself from unleashing more hints that gave away how he remembered the mundane details of when they lived together. Once he steps into the bathroom, and upon closing the door and opening the cabinet next to the sink, his eyes are automatically drawn to the lowest shelf in an instinctive reflex, finding a spare towel right where Misaki used to keep them—the only place that allowed someone with his particular height to keep things handy, actually.
That hadn’t changed.
Upon inspecting his bag and finding that Munakata had been considerate enough —or something— to pack a new toothbrush, Saruhiko turns the shower on, exhaling deeply when the hot water hits his stiff shoulders.
- - - - - - - - - -
Misaki stands in the kitchen and sighs in relief, glad that he had gone to the grocery store two days before and had enough provisions to cook something for him and a famished Saruhiko.
He thinks about what could have happened the moment he first visited Saruhiko in the hospital that ended up with him dragging his ex partner to his place three days later and facing zero resistance, and for someone who’s used to culminating with a bruise or two, the situation felt too foreign.
Misaki isn’t left with a lot of time to think about anything, however; when he hears the oil beginning to sizzle in the pan, he also feels his PDA buzz in his pocket, and instantaneously picks up, ignoring the ‘Unknown Caller’legend flashing on the screen.
“Good day, Yata-kun.”
That voice.
“What do you want,” Misaki mumbles with gritted teeth, almost in a whisper, forcing his voice to stay low and calm as he turns the fire off; because he has the feeling it’s conversation that’s going to last a good while, and he’s not going to let an insignificant distraction ruin his meal or making him end up with something that smells like burnt and inedible.
“Is Fushimi-kun with you?”
“Hah? And what does that matter to you?”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the older man pauses, “Fushimi-kun is one of SCEPTER 4’s employees. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that.”
Misaki snarls —how could he, if about three years of his life revolved around digesting the fact that Saruhiko wasn’t coming back— and retorts with yet another question. “How did you get this number?”
“Oh? I hope you do not think there really is any impediment in tracking your number. This is a child's play. I’m sure you know better, of all people.”
Freaking stalker. “Shut up. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Well, that is not the reason why I’m calling, though.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want to make sure,” Munakata takes a deliberate pause and the dearth of sympathy in his following words makes them sound like an order. “You will not hurt Fushimi-kun.”
“What—are you crazy?!”
“If I really ought to answer to that, no. It is simply my duty to ensure the well-being of my subordinates.”
Well, it’s kinda late for that.
There are many things Misaki senses are wrong in that statement, commencing with the fact that Munakata’s tone sounds as heartless as he always imagined it to be, and that Misaki isn’t following some stupid protocol he’d rather shove down the man’s throat; he didn’t make it his duty to take Saru home, and Saru is not just some subordinate. Hah, they were so lucky to take Saru away from him, who they think of as a mere pawn; they don’t know what they’re missing, what they have in front of them until someone snatches him away from them for a second, and then they expect to have him—
It sounds all too damn familiar it makes Misaki sick.
There are many things Misaki wants to say to burn away the bitterness in his chest.
“Tch. I don’t want to hear that from you. It’s your side’s fault he ended up in the hospital in the first place.”
“Is that so? I see your enviable persistence is as famous as they say, Yatagarasu, as so is your stubbornness.”
“Hey—”
“However,” Munakata cuts him off, “I trust you. It wouldn’t hurt Fushimi-kun to stay in your hands for a bit before coming back, even if it is just for a day.”
“Tch. Right.”
“Make the most of it.”
“Yeah, bye... wait—”
“If this is your way of returning the favor, then it’s fine. See you, then.”
“What do you—hey!” Misaki exclaims, desperate to get answers, but the dead line on the other side of the phone doesn’t give him time to respond to the Blue King’s enigmatic charades. “What a creep.”
He didn’t expect any of this; he didn’t expect finding the courage to bring Saruhiko to his place, lending him his shower, much less having to tell him, later, they were supposed to sleep in the same room, if Saruhiko decided to stay. It disconcerted him a little that he didn’t get any protest when he convinced him of following him, unless Saruhiko had wanted to follow him all along, honoring Munakata’s previous words—
If this is your way of returning the favor, then it’s fine.
—which insinuates that Misaki owes something to someone, and he doesn’t even know what that is, neither does he like the idea.
What... favor?
- - - - - - - - - -
Saruhiko is left waiting in the main room, sat on the floor and fiddling with his PDA, surrounded by the sounds of utensils bouncing off the counter of the kitchen while a few cool drops trickle down from his hair.
When Misaki is back, he gets his damn breakfast, at roughly six p.m., and in any other context, historical era and circumstances, he would have thought he was damned, too, but he can’t really feel damned when Misaki’s so-called breakfast, consisting of beef and an omelet —because, in Misaki’s words, Saruhiko needed the proteins—, looks so simple, but tastes far better than any hospital food or the faint memory of the improvised dishes made by a much younger Misaki from about a decade ago fooling his mind but never touching his tongue nor reaching his stomach.
Misaki is the first to break the silence when he glances up at him, “How is it?”
Saruhiko pauses, only to glimpse at Misaki once, then at the meal before them. “Only you would call a six p.m. meal a breakfast.”
“Well, it’s better than having none at all.”
After another instant of silence, Saruhiko responds, “It’s good.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“Thanks,” Saruhiko mutters once Misaki is finished carrying all the dishes to the kitchen, “for the meal.”
It earns him a curious gaze from the redhead as he comes back from the kitchen and sits down opposite him once again, but when Misaki senses Saruhiko’s muscles tensing, his hands ready to be used as leverage to stand up, he interrupts Saruhiko right before he’s able to lift himself off the floor. “Where are you going?”
“Misaki.”
“Stay,” Misaki persists, “The place is... nice. There aren’t noises or leaks. I said I could take care of you for today, so let me do that,” he continues, Saruhiko’s silence giving him all the room he needs to keep talking. “I don’t’ care what you do—if you just... want to sleep or do nothing at all, that’s fine.”
“Fine.”
- - - - - - - - - -
“S-so, speaking of which—are you tired?”
Saruhiko doesn’t answer; he glances up at the sudden change in Misaki’s expression instead.
“There!” Misaki exclaims, excitedly pointing with his index finger at the western futon on the other side of the room, next the window.
Saruhiko follows the direction, “Mm?”
“It’s a western futon!”
“I know what it is.”
“You see—it’s awesome,” Misaki continues, ignoring Saruhiko’s remark as he stands up and walks up to the futon. “You push it back and it opens and—”
Saruhiko senses where the conversation is going, and cuts him off, “Where do you sleep?”
“Uh... I use it for sleeping.”
“Where do you want me to sleep, then?” he rephrased.
“W-well...”
Saruhiko sighs, utters Misaki’s name as he stands up, “Misaki—”
“W-wait, listen, it’s big enough when it’s open, I promise,” Misaki stammers, raising his hands in a defensive gesture before walking up to the futon and placing a palm firmly around the wood frame at the back. “Look, I’m just gonna—I’ve never really used it like this, but Kusanagi-san helped me carry it here and he told me—where was it... ah,” he explains, the strain perceptible in his voice as he pushes the back of the futon down, the folded mattress flattening and turning the previous couch into some sort of a small double-bed. “There! Pretty cool, huh?”
In spite of not finding anything cool about a bed, Saruhiko takes one of its cushions and walks up to the mattress to lie down on his side without uttering a word, turning his back to a solaced Misaki.
“A-alright... you rest, okay? I'll catch up... later,” Misaki says, despite Saruhiko already revealing his decision, and retreats to the kitchen.
Saruhiko falls asleep with the sound of the water running down the sink.
After finishing washing the dishes and allowing himself a late-night treat, Misaki stands in the middle of the dark room with a pillow under his arm, staring at his ex partner sleeping on one side of his bed. He hesitates, but he eventually settles next to him.
- - - - - - - - - -
Misaki can’t sleep. He isn’t sure he wants to, either.
He has a lot to think about, despite the fact that he’s not used to allowing a lot of things into his mind, to dealing with the feeling of having something as intangible as thoughts and emotions blitzing his mind, all at the same time. He’s also not used to having little pieces from the past coming back to him. Or having Saruhiko lying next to him.
He doesn’t want to sleep anything away, lose the bits of memories he had gained that week and that day.
Misaki really has a lot to think about, and he wonders if Saruhiko does, too.
As he shifts on the mattress, he jolts slightly when he turns around, and what little he can make out from the moonlight shining through the window and hitting their bodies weakly, is enough for him to notice Saruhiko is just as awake as he is, and staring at him.
“Uh... can’t sleep?”
“How did you find out?”
They may have all the time in the world —for how long, though— but Saruhiko wastes no second to ask, his firm tone rendering Misaki completely unprepared to give him an immediate answer.
Misaki had been abstaining from asking about the reasons that led Saruhiko to be hospitalized when he visited him, and about anything that had to do with it when he was let out, but there was a flicker of an unspoken need in Saruhiko’s eyes that seemed to be begging for some understanding, and told Misaki that he knew, and better tell him, what the other wanted to know.
“We were at the bar. It was all over the news,” Misaki manages to hold his gaze despite the influx of images playing before his eyes; a blurred collection of pictures that lingers between Saruhiko’s face and his own, in which he sees the debris, the smoke and the glimpses of blue uniforms— “I didn’t know until later, I...”
They stay quiet, immobile, unfamiliar with the lack of the habitual clash of noise and disruption that so naturally swathe around them every time they meet—even though Misaki feels his heart pounding faster, the foreign silence soothes him. And while he struggles to annex some cohesion to his words, and to kill the thought that with every syllable released from his lips a new bruise on each of Saruhiko’s knuckles would be born, Saruhiko doesn’t rush him, silently paying heed to every sound, every sentence Misaki says and doesn’t say, despite the bitter taste in his mouth—six months ago, Misaki’s name wasn’t even close to being mentioned in the news and he didn’t recall hearing about those who were with him either, not when the heroic great deeds of the police force was all the media was after, and—that was okay, fine, back then, for Saruhiko would keep all the sorrow to himself, if he had to.
The occasional lights coming from the vehicles going and disappearing into the night filter through the window, fading within seconds as Misaki finds the energy and the words to go on.
“It took a while. The phones lines were down after that. It was crazy. And then Kusanagi-san called someone and...” Misaki explains, slowly, and struggles with the confusion or the relief of remembering the link between the second-in-command he looks up to and someone else from their enemy side—because that, as illogical as it sounded all these years, that kind of connection might be just what Misaki wants, needs, right now. “And then he told me. That was two hours after they took you in, I think.”
Saruhiko’s eyes are still on him, recreating the scenes in his head but not paying any less attention to Misaki’s face, or the way his hazel eyes narrow and flicker down, or the way his lips part and close before he says, “They told me you were conscious, but... I had to see...”
And after that, Saruhiko lets his eyes fall shut, since to close his eyes is to test his safety, to expose himself before Misaki’s gaze and feel what it tastes like, before turning around to lie on his other side, trusting his back to him, because it has been enough for a day and he’s still feeling the real fatigue weighing down on him—or perhaps it’s the sudden traffic of memories overwhelming both his mind and body.
Misaki doesn’t mind; he’s glad to be able to see Saruhiko’s back one more time, with no threats in between, nor any hospital gowns, and right next to him, no less, especially after tasting what loss and defeat were like—in the shape of a friend holding his last breath on a terrace while embraced by both Misaki’s arms and death itself; or when the tears won’t stop soaking his cheeks, cold and numb from the falling snow in a somber December; or when he is told, while watching the news, that Saru was there.
Misaki is glad that there isn’t any loss to mourn this time, and he smiles contentedly, until a silly idea comes to his mind.
“Hey, let’s do something,” he says with an explicit enthusiasm, bracing a hand on the mattress to support his body.
“Mm?”
“I wanna check if you hit your head.”
Saruhiko doesn’t reply right away, “So?”
“So... what’s your name?”
He is then obliged to open his eyes and turn on his back, staring up at Misaki from below with a skeptical look, “What?”
“Introduce yourself.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“Aw, come on!” Misaki whines, albeit accepting the fact that Saruhiko would not make the first step. “So, um... Yata. Your turn.”
Saruhiko raises an eyebrow, “Just Yata?”
“Come on!”
And damn if the little sparks of emotion in Misaki’s eyes aren’t what Saruhiko needs to humor him, “Fushimi.”
“Aaand?” Misaki drawls.
“Saruhiko.”
“Good. Nice t’meet you.”
“Misaki, huh?” Saruhiko utters his name in a way he hadn’t in a long time. “Charming.”
“Shut up!” Misaki grumbles loudly, ignoring the flagrant darkness supposed to remind him it was the middle of the night. “And you’re cheating. I didn’t tell you that.”
“For old times’ sake, Mi—sa—ki~”
“That’s against the point!”
Saruhiko lets out a soft hum and turns his back at Misaki once again, allowing a rejuvenated satisfaction and a strange sense of fulfillment to curve his lips as he closes his eyes. Misaki sinks down onto the bed again, and after just a few seconds, Saruhiko feels Misaki's forehead pressing against his back.
“Hey... Saru?” Misaki whispers.
“What?”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Forty-five minutes later, Saruhiko is still awake when he hears Misaki murmur in his sleep, voice drowsy and lethargic, “I'm not... returning the favor.”
Saruhiko remembers six months ago; he remembers when it was him visiting Misaki’s hospital room, gazing at his parted lips and the lethargic pace of his breathing.
I know... I don’t want you to.