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By the time Sakyo arrives at the alley, heaving for breath, the fight is already over.
It’s situated several hundred metres behind the supermarket, a narrow path squeezed between the back doors of a sporting goods store and a dental office. A faded pink cantilever umbrella is leaning against the brick wall of the office, sheltering a pile of broken wooden chairs and empty cardboard boxes. Rusted windchimes hang above one of the curtained windows, swaying gently in the breeze. The opposite wall is spray painted with a cluster of black graffiti, the kanji too small and loopy for Sakyo to bother trying to decipher.
The chatter of shoppers from the evening grocery rush is still clearly audible from behind him, but the bustling sounds fade out completely when Sakyo spots Fushimi leaning against the wall, head propped against the graffiti backdrop. He’s about to call out Fushimi’s name when the sharp, unmistakable scent of blood hits his nose a second later, and he instinctively freezes.
Slowly, he sweeps his gaze back over the alley, and this time he catches sight of the three bodies lying crumpled on the ground further away. Three men, likely around Fushimi’s age, and wearing nondescript grey hoodies and jeans. They’re partially hidden under the shadow of the umbrella, and Sakyo wonders if Fushimi dragged them there in case anyone heard the commotion and came to investigate, or if they simply happened to collapse in those positions from the force of Fushimi’s blows knocking them out.
He looks back. From the eerily blank expression on Fushimi’s face, it’s difficult to tell if he was even thinking at all, or simply moving on pure adrenaline and unconscious action for most of the fight. His knuckles are painted crimson, blood dripping down the fingernails of his right hand and splattering against the asphalt. His other hand is cradled at an awkward angle against his characteristic red vest, which is sporting at least five large slashes in the fabric from - Sakyo glances back at the men and notes the shine of metal gleaming beside them - a knife, presumably. Six grocery bags lie overturned at Fushimi’s feet, vegetables and canned ingredients spilling out over the dusty ground. A grey mouse is sniffing curiously at a bruised tomato, but it quickly scampers away as Sakyo approaches.
He accidentally trods over a wrapped cream pastry, and the plastic crunches loudly under his shoe. Fushimi’s head jerks up at the sound, and Sakyo nearly takes a reflexive step back at the sight of dilated pupils. This close, he can see the rapid rise and fall of Fushimi’s tattered vest is matched by his uneven breathing, the sound harsh and discordant in Sakyo’s ears, and the sheen of sweat beading along Fushimi’s brow.
Sakyo forces his tense muscles to relax. “Fushimi, it’s me,” he says carefully, holding his hands out like he’s trying to calm down a stray animal, or Sumeragi after the time Rurikawa and Miyoshi successfully tricked him into believing Sakyo had died and returned to haunt the theatre as a ghost. “You texted me, remember? You told me that you’d been cornered by someone after leaving the supermarket, and that you were going to see what they wanted so they’d stop disturbing the other shoppers.” A stupid move, in Sakyo’s opinion, but he’d been unable to convince Fushimi and his ridiculously stubborn mind otherwise. “You knew it was likely an ambush, which is why you wanted to inform me of the situation before walking away with them.”
Fushimi probably hadn’t expected Sakyo to join him, or at least not so soon, considering Sakyo had been on the other side of town on Ginsenkai business. But Sakyo hadn’t been able to stop himself from making his excuses to his associates and flagging down the first taxi he saw, not when he knew Fushimi might be in serious danger.
He’d anticipated the fight that must’ve occurred shortly after Fushimi contacted him, but the sheer devastation of this scene at half past five in the evening still surprises him. For a brief, panicked moment, Sakyo wonders if he should arrange for his own men to clean up the scene before anyone stumbles on it, but - no. Someone’s bound to come walking by too soon for that attempt to be of any use, and he’d rather prioritize treating Fushimi’s obvious injuries.
The glazed expression over Fushimi’s face is unsettling Sakyo more than he’d like to admit, and he wishes he thought to bring another Mankai Company member with him on his blind rush to the alley. Someone who was good at talking to people and calming them down. Someone with the ability to connect and empathize with others’ feelings, an ability that Sakyo has always sorely lacked.
“I told you it was a bad idea to walk straight into a trap.” The words come out overly accusing, and Sakyo winces internally, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “I suppose you didn’t think to call an ambulance, either. Were you thinking you’d walk away from an ambush unscathed, or did you plan on returning home looking exactly like someone who’d just brawled in an alley? Did you even think about how worried everyone would’ve been? How worried I was?”
It’s easy to forget when Fushimi greets everyone with a cheerful smile in the morning and reminds them to grab their lunch bento before he himself leaves for work. It’s easy to forget when he plays mediator during Autumn Troupe practice sessions, separating Settsu and Hyodo before they can claw out each other’s throats and derailing their arguments with practiced ease. It’s easy to forget when it’s normal to find Fushimi cooking in the kitchen late at night, testing new recipes and marking the ones he thinks a particular member will enjoy with a quick scribble of their name.
It’s all too easy to forget, sometimes, that Fushimi’s past is every bit as dark and violent as his.
Sakyo steps closer and squats down beside him. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and grabs Fushimi’s uninjured hand. “You’re the one who accepted when I asked you out six months ago,” he mutters. “So of course I’m going to worry when you deliberately put yourself in danger.” He squeezes his hand, ignoring the blood smearing onto his palm. “Even when I came as fast as I could, it wasn’t fast enough, and...Fushimi, sometimes you need to think about your own well-being first. Have you seen your own injuries?”
It’s obviously a rhetorical question, but it somehow works to clear the terrifyingly empty expression from Fushimi’s face. He blinks, shaking his head in a puppy-like manner that reminds Sakyo vaguely of Nanao, and brown eyes focus on him. “Sakyo-san?”
Sakyo gives him an unimpressed frown that hopefully doesn’t give away the painful relief loosening the vice around his heart. “Fushimi.”
Fushimi grimaces. “Sorry, I - I don’t know what came over me. Those guys -”
“They’re unconscious. Thanks to you, I assume.”
“Oh. Okay, that’s good.” He looks past him, taking in the scene, and Sakyo doesn’t miss the shadow falling over his expression as he does so. “Sorry about the groceries. I tried to put them out of the way, but I accidentally tripped over them during the fight.”
Of course Fushimi’s first concern is the groceries. Sakyo doesn’t know why he was expecting otherwise.
“I don’t care about the groceries,” Sakyo snaps. It’s not a lie, exactly - he is mourning the wasted money and mentally organizing a list of what they’ll need to cut from next month’s budget to make up for the cost of buying everything again, but he’s far more worried about the tense line of Fushimi’s body as he tries to hide his pain. Maybe it would fool anyone else, but Sakyo, who’s unfortunately familiar with the action, is not fooled. “You need to go to the hospital.”
Fushimi starts. “I’m fi -”
“You better not be about to say I’m fine.”
The sheepish grin Fushimi offers is strained at the edges. “Really, I am. I used to get a lot more beat up than this back in my gang days.”
“You’re not in a gang anymore,” Sakyo reminds him. “And unless you’ve been secretly going out at night to pick fights, you haven’t been beaten up like this in years. You need the hospital.”
Fushimi jerks his head at the three bodies. “They need the hospital more than me.”
“I’m not asking them. I’m asking you.”
They regard each other in silence. Sakyo channels all of the strong disapproval he’d honed through his years of raising Azami into his glare, and Fushimi cracks quickly under the pressure.
“Fine,” he relents. “But I don’t need an ambulance or anything. I can walk.”
Sakyo levels him with an incredulous look. “Do you realize you have a broken wrist?” he demands. “And that you’re bleeding from half a dozen knife wounds? You’re going to pass out on the sidewalk if we try to walk to Veludo Hospital.”
“I don’t think my wrist is broken,” Fushimi observes, cautiously twisting the limb. “Just sprained.”
“That’s not the point. Why don’t you want to take an ambulance?”
Fushimi sighs. “I’m not - It would be bad if someone recognized us, right? I don’t want anyone taking pictures of me when I’m in this condition, and an ambulance would attract a lot of attention.”
Considering Fushimi's first concern was about the damn groceries when he was bleeding out on the pavement, this shouldn't have surprised Sakyo, either. Yet it does, because Sakyo is constantly underestimating Fushimi's capacity for self-sacrifice to the point of idiocy.
"I understand that you're worried about the reputation of the company," he says slowly, "but anyone would agree that your health is more important. If bloodied images of you happen to leak onto the internet, we can deal with that later. If you faint on the way to the hospital, I'll be forced to scrape you off the sidewalk and carry you the rest of the way."
“...No offense, Sakyo-san, but I don’t think you can lift me up.”
Sakyo doesn't dignify that with a response. "Veludo Hospital is at least a thirty minute walk away. In your condition, it would probably take an hour. If anyone else in the troupe got into a fight, would you ask them to walk that distance afterwards?"
Fushimi presses his lips together. "That's different."
"Why should it be any different? You're also a valued troupe member. I'd even say more than most, considering that half the troupe would starve without you there." Sakyo's eyes narrow. "So why, exactly, do you feel like you don't deserve treatment in this situation?"
"...I didn't say that."
"But you meant it." Sakyo doesn't bother asking if he's right. "Do you remember what you said to me the night I confessed I had feelings for you?"
Fushimi blinks, clearly caught off guard by the change of subject. "Er...I don't remember."
“You said, ‘I know.’” Sakyo shifts his grip on Fushimi's hand so he can entwine their fingers. “You said, 'Because you can't hide the important things from me.' That goes for me, too. This - whatever reason or feelings you have - I don't want you to feel like you have to hide them from me. You can tell me anything.”
A fascinating stain of pink blooms acros Fushimi's cheeks and he swallows, ducking his head. "You know, most people don't believe me when I tell them how kind you are," he says, voice sounding oddly strangled, "but Sakyo-san, you really are very kind."
"We're in a relationship," Sakyo grumbles, shoving his glasses up his nose. "I would argue this barely meets the standard of requisite kindness."
Fushimi squeezes his hand. “There's no such thing as requisite kindness in relationships. We just do our best. We try to be kind, try to be supportive, try…” His smile dims. “We try to be honest.”
Sakyo pauses. “I hope you know I simply want to help,” he says carefully. “I’m not trying to push you into telling me something you don’t want to.”
“I know,” says Fushimi, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “And I appreciate it. But you know just as well as I do that since those guys were after me, it’s possible they could target Mankai Company next.” A bitter note creeps into his voice. “I may have dragged everyone into it, so it’s not only my problem anymore.”
Sakyo acknowledges him with a nod. “You’re right,” he says. “Even so, I have no intention of prying into matters you may not wish to disclose to anyone.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Fushimi insists. “It’s just - it’s not something I -”
“Fushimi.” Sakyo brushes his thumb over the back of Fushimi’s hand. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I know.”
Fushimi’s next inhale is whisper-soft, fragile as the windchimes ringing gently in the breeze, and the blankness that’d shadowed his gaze earlier slides back over his face.
Sakyo knows that look. It’s the same look he knows he has when someone in the company asks him about his work in Ginsenkai. When pedestrians take one look and cross the street to avoid him. When he catches sight of himself in the mirror on particularly bad days, and can’t stop the flood of his worst memories and self-deprecating thoughts from replaying in his brain like he’s stuck in a broken camcorder that’s been too battered by the years to remember how to function normally anymore.
It’s caution. It’s doubt. It’s fearing that the worst aspects of himself are unlovable, that fear and fury and violence are forever cloaked over his skin like a suit of armour impossible to remove. It’s the desire to polish his more appealing qualities until they shine brightly enough to overshadow all the imperfect facets, and redirect everyone’s attention when the chips start to show through.
His time in Mankai Company has helped him, made Sakyo believe that more could be more than a mere daydream on wistful mornings, but a tree can’t be pulled from its roots overnight. Living with one foot in the yakuza underworld and the other underneath the bright lights of the theatre is a process he’s still learning to adapt to. Maybe it’s not the same situation as Fushimi, who resolutely turned his back on his dark past and what he used to fight for, but it’s similar enough that he understands. Similar enough that, even before Sakyo fumbled his way through asking Fushimi on a date, there had been times where they’d met eyes from across the room when the conversation turned to certain subjects, and Sakyo had felt the thrill of that connection - of someone else knowing exactly what he was feeling.
“Yeah.” Fushimi exhales the word like it’s a benediction. “You do. I know that. It’s why I agreed to go on that date with you.”
Sakyo arches a brow. “That was the only reason?”
“Well...it was also really cute to see you blushing so much. How could I have turned you down?”
“I’m going to assume the blood loss is affecting your brain,” Sakyo says dryly, “and that’s the only reason why I’m not punching you for that comment.”
Fushimi chokes on a laugh, and Sakyo is reluctantly amused until Fushimi doubles over, pulling his hand from Sakyo’s in order to cough frantically into the crook of his elbow. Before Sakyo has time to be alarmed about the possibility of a punctured lung, the bout passes and Fushimi rubs at his throat, leaning back against the wall.
“About that ambulance,” he starts, voice hoarse.
“It’s not a question anymore,” Sakyo snaps, yanking his phone from his pocket.
The call takes less than a minute. After he’s assured that they’ll be receiving help within fifteen minutes, he hangs up and turns to find Fushimi’s eyes fixed on the bodies of the three men. Dead leaves from the street had blown into the alley, scattering around their prone forms. From this angle, Sakyo can see small flecks of blood strewn over the pavement, shimmering in the evening sunset.
“They’re members of a rival gang.”
Sakyo remains quiet.
“We’d fought them a couple times. Over stupid things, mostly, like someone deliberately picking a fight or petty arguments blowing out of proportion. It was during one of those fights that Nachi got hurt pretty badly. It was probably an accident, but one of the other guys was fighting with brass knuckles and caught Nachi in the side of his head. He went down, and it was so dark that I couldn't tell if he was conscious, or if he was even alive. I only saw him on the ground with a pool of blood around his head, and I saw red.”
Fushimi's mouth twists into a scowl. It’s wrong, looks out of place on his normally gentle features, and made even worse by Sakyo knowing it’s self-directed. “I lost it. I attacked the guy who dared to hurt Nachi. I beat him up so badly that my own friends had to pull me off of him before I did any permanent damage. And that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that I couldn't bring myself to regret it. I vividly remembered his bones shattering under my fist, and his blood caking under my fingernails, and it didn't matter to me. Because I only cared that he'd hurt Nachi, and that he had to pay." His free hand clenches into a fist. "Even when his friends from the same group told me how severely I'd injured him and swore they'd get revenge one day, I didn't care.”
Sakyo casts a look over at the men. “So those three are…”
“The guy I’d injured and his friends, yeah.” Fushimi’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t even recognize him. I’d forgotten about that incident completely, until we walked here and he told me the reason why he was picking a fight with me.”
Something in Sakyo’s gut sinks at the admission. Not because of Fushimi’s forgetfulness - unlike him, he’s not that concerned about the moral implications of not caring about the well-being of his enemies - but because of the way Fushimi delivers the line like he’s waiting for judgement. Like he’s playing the villain during their final scene, having confessed to all their sins, and now waiting for the hero to pronounce them guilty.
It’s something he never wanted to hear from Fushimi’s mouth off the stage.
“I didn’t want to fight them again.” Sakyo almost wishes Fushimi’s voice was pleading, instead of this horrible contrition. “I told one of them - the one who’d approached me outside the supermarket - that I’d disbanded Wolf a long time ago, but he said their grudge was only against me. He refused to let me leave without a fight. I tried to fake a punch and slip by him, but that’s when the other two jumped out and attacked me. The guy I’d injured that day was the one who had the knife, and -” He gestures at his slashed vest, expression wry. “That didn’t turn out so well.”
Anger simmers low in his gut, along with a surge of emotion Sakyo belatedly identifies as protectiveness. Which is ridiculous. He knows Fushimi is perfectly capable of standing up for himself, as evidenced by him taking on three men who definitely had more experience in fighting and winning despite that, but between the cuts on his body and the wounded look on Fushimi's face, Sakyo's caught in the inexplicable desire to march in front of Fushimi, arms outstretched, and declare that he’ll shield him from any further harm.
Hm. Perhaps the dramatics of the younger troupe members are rubbing off on him.
“At that point, I was still trying to find an opportunity to escape," Fushimi continues. "I was only fighting back to defend myself. But -” he swallows visibly - “the guy I'd hurt back then, he brought up Nachi's name. I guess they'd never heard about his passing. He was making fun of him, talking about how easily he was knocked out and calling him a coward for running away after our group broke up. And - I knew he was just trying to goad me into a fight. Most of the things he was saying weren't even true. But it still made me mad. Furious enough to forget what would happen if someone filmed me beating up three guys and posted it online.”
“You were in an otherwise deserted alley," Sakyo points out. "It's normal to assume that no one would've seen you.”
Fushimi pointedly eyes the multiple windows set in the flanking buildings. “It wasn't a good assumption. Besides, I wasn't even thinking about that. I was only thinking about how badly I wanted to get back at them for bringing up Nachi's name.”
“Your deceased friend was being slandered to your face. Of course you would be upset.”
“Upset? If I was only upset, I would have pushed them aside and stormed away. Sakyo-san, you didn't see me. I didn’t go easy on them." Fushimi drags a hand down his face, eyes squeezed shut. "I was so blinded by rage that I stopped thinking about Mankai Company and the possible consequences of my actions. It wasn't - I was supposed to have learned from my past, but I haven't. I haven't changed at all "
Sakyo pauses, considering, then shuffles closer until he's sitting shoulder to shoulder with Fushimi. His body is a warm weight against him, and Sakyo tentatively nudges into him until Fushimi takes the hint and leans into the touch with a soft sigh.
“Fushimi,” he says, once he can speak past the lump in his throat, “no one expects you to be perfect.”
Fushimi frowns. “I know I’m far from perfect.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Sakyo breathes out, curling his fingers by his side. He’s itching to take Fushimi’s hand again, to press more warmth into him, but something holds him back. “I once found Sakoda on the doorstep of Ginsenkai headquarters, after he’d gotten beaten within an inch of his life.”
Fushimi shifts slightly, the fabric of his clothing rustling in the silence of the alley.
“It was another gang, one that wanted to challenge Ginsenkai for their territory.” Sakyo tips his head back, recalling the still, curled form of Sakoda, the double black eyes and puffy split lip, and the rage that had coiled inside his chest like a living, fire-breathing creature. “That was their idea of throwing down the gauntlet, so to speak. I suppose they were new to Tokyo and didn’t realize what a colossally stupid idea that was. I led a handful of men and we crushed the group that same afternoon. I personally took care of the leader until he begged me to let him live.” He meets Fushimi’s eyes. “Would you say that I was lost to my anger, and that I shouldn’t have gone to such lengths to avenge Sakoda? Do you think less of me for it?”
“Of course not! But that’s not the same thing,” Fushimi protests. “You weren’t a part of Mankai Company then.”
“True. I didn’t have the company to worry about yet. But I doubt it would have changed anything even if I did. Just as you said you stopped thinking about Mankai Company, I’d also stopped thinking about anything else. There’s a difference between knowing revenge doesn’t solve anything, and remembering that when revenge is all you can think about. If you do something you regret, you have to forgive yourself and move on.”
Fushimi laughs weakly. “I’m pretty sure I remember you lecturing Taichi and Banri the other day about owning up to their mistakes.”
Sakyo rolls his eyes. “They broke one of Tsukioka’s flower pots and tried to bury the evidence in the courtyard. That’s not even comparable to this case.”
“Most people would say hiding shards of pottery in dirt is preferable to violently attacking other people.” Fushimi’s tone is light, but Sakyo can sense him studying him, gauging his reaction.
“Most people aren’t yakuza or ex-gang leaders,” says Sakyo. “We have different experiences, and the only standards you should hold yourself to are your own.” He folds his hands together. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be aware of maintaining a professional image while you’re outside the dorms. But Fushimi, you’re a human before you’re an actor. It’s fine to mess up and be a little selfish sometimes. Especially you - trust me when I say that nothing you could do would change how the rest of the troupe looks up to you. That includes me.”
Sakyo doesn’t hold any illusions to his own worth as a person. He’s not a prince from Sakisaka’s beloved shoujo manga, nor a hero from Chigasaki’s treasured RPG video games. Similarly, he knows Fushimi isn’t the saint so many liken him to.
And that’s okay. Sakyo didn’t fall for Fushimi because of his image of perfection. He fell for Fushimi’s kindness towards the younger troupe members, and his banter with the rest. He enjoys Fushimi’s acting, his cooking, and his company. More than anything, he wants to learn everything about Fushimi, all the beautiful and imperfect sides of him, and share his own unappealing parts of himself in return.
Perhaps that’s selfish of him. But Sakyo is learning to be a little selfish sometimes, too.
Fushimi laughs again, but this time it’s tinged with something like awe. “Sakyo-san?”
“Hm?”
“You’re incredible.”
Before Sakyo can respond, there’s a hand sliding over his cheek and under his chin, tilting his head up, and warm lips press against his own. The kiss tastes like blood and dust, and Fushimi’s sprained wrist is splayed awkwardly on Sakyo’s thigh, but Sakyo returns it eagerly, fingers digging into Fushimi’s shoulders. It doesn’t last long, barely more than five seconds before Fushimi is drawing back with a pained hiss.
“Fuck,” he says roughly, prodding gingerly at one of the larger cuts on his abdomen with a wince. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”
Sakyo probably shouldn't find Fushimi cursing, for lack of a better word, hot, and fully blames the influence of the shoujo manga appreciation club. He clears his throat a bit too loudly. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just stretched it too far. Making out will have to wait.”
A startled laugh bursts from his chest before Sakyo can stop himself. “It’s not like you to be so forward. Is it safe for me to assume that the blood loss really has affected your brain?”
“Me?” says Fushimi, sounding amused. “I’m not used to you being so forward, Sakyo-san. You’ve been trying to make me feel better this whole time, haven’t you?”
“...Don’t tell the brats about that. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“I won’t.” Fushimi flashes him a bashful grin. “I think I’d like to keep this gentle side of you to myself, anyway.” Before Sakyo can turn over and examine all the implications of that sentence, he continues. “It surprised me when I saw a hint of it when you confessed to me that day, but…” His grin turns softer, more relaxed. “I was really happy. And these past six months have kept making me happier than I could’ve ever dreamed of. So - thank you, Sakyo-san. For everything.”
Sakyo stares at him, suddenly and clearly aware of his heart beating a staccato rhythm in his chest. “I never did anything you need to thank me for,” he manages to say. “You deserve to be happy.”
Fushimi’s answering beam is brighter than the sunset glowing orange against the brick walls. “Somehow, when you’re the one saying it,” he says, “I start to believe it.”
Sakyo, helpless to do anything else, smiles back. “Well, you helped me start to believe in myself, too. I suppose it’s only fair I do the same.”
“Yeah.” Fushimi looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still, I worried you, didn’t I? I am sorry about that.”
“I wasn’t worried.” A complete lie, but Fushimi doesn’t need to know the six stages of flustered panic Sakyo experienced during his taxi ride to the supermarket. “I’ve seen you fight. I know you can take care of yourself.”
“Not just the fighting. The aftermath of it, too.” Fushimi looks up, watching as a pair of birds perched on the roof of the building take flight. “I’m glad you were here with me.”
Heat crawls up Sakyo’s cheeks. “You’d do the same for me.”
“Yeah, I would.”
It’s not just a pretty platitude. Sakyo is more than aware that growth isn’t linear, and there’s still days he falls into the same spiralling pit that Fushimi did. Days where he thinks it might’ve been easier for him, and better for everyone, if he’d given up on his dream of acting and devoted the rest of his life to the chairman and Ginsenkai.
But it always passes. With the help of Fushimi, Izumi, Sakoda, Yukishiro, Autumn Troupe, and so many others, he’s been able to claw his way out from that kind of thinking every time. He’s resolved not to waste the hands they keep holding out to lift him up, not after he’s accumulated so many memories and treasures and people he’s determined not to lose.
He’s outstretched his own permanent helping hand to Fushimi, now, and he knows Fushimi well enough to see that he recognizes the metaphorical gesture for what it is.
Nearby, the familiar sound of ambulance sirens begin to blare. In unison, Sakyo and Fushimi glance in its direction, and Fushimi heaves a groan before folding in his legs, bracing his hands against the asphalt. Sakyo doesn’t hesitate in grasping Fushimi’s arm, slipping it over his own shoulders as Fushimi pushes himself to his feet.
“What about those guys?” asks Fushimi, gesturing at them with his uninjured hand.
Sakyo scowls. “I’d leave them there since their injuries aren’t life-threatening, but something tells me you’re going to ask the paramedics to pick them up, too, even though they’re the ones who ambushed you in the first place.”
Fushimi’s mouth quirks up. “Guilty as charged. Sorry.”
He sighs. “Whatever. I don’t care. Besides -” Sakyo gives a small shrug that isn’t half as careless as it looks - “I like the side of you that’s an idiot, too.”
Fushimi snorts, leaning further into Sakyo’s hold. “Careful, or I might start thinking you like everything about me.”
It’s a joke, Sakyo knows Fushimi is just teasing him, but - “I do.”
Fushimi’s gaze softens. “I know. And - I won’t claim to know everything about you yet, but I feel the same way.”
Sakyo thinks about all the things Fushimi has done for him without question, over the course of their three years as troupemates, then friends, then something else. Thinks about Fushimi trusting him when he's injured and vulnerable, looking up at Sakyo in a way so few people in his life have ever done. Thinks about the myriad of possibilities still open in the future, even for people like them.
He grips Fushimi’s shoulder tightly. “Let's go.”
Together, they walk out of the alley.