Chapter Text
The Red King had all but shrivelled up into ashes; where his heart once lay, now only a shell remained.
Fushimi had found his death unsurprising. It was obvious by the disintegrating Key in the sky that his time would come sooner or later; whenever his eyes flickered up to the sky, he watched as more and more debris crumbled down. As the other HOMURA members cried their chant, Fushimi could only stand there and attempt not to grit his teeth at the boisterous noise.
No blood! No bone! No ash!
An itching sensation suddenly tingled in his chest, and he opened the flap of his shirt to see a flow of red ebbing its way out of the burn that had seared itself into his skin. Oddly mesmerised, he watched it flow up into the sky for a silent moment, before casting a last glance at HOMURA.
Fushimi clicked his tongue. Of course, of course, Yata was crying. Of course, of all the idiots who freely let their emotions be shown, it would be the stupid idiot who wore his heart on his sleeve and could be read like an open book. He swallowed a lump in his throat, tore his gaze off of HOMURA’s members, and walked back to SCEPTER 4.
He was not a part of HOMURA’s life anymore. It had now been laid to ashes, just as Mikoto’s body had been.
-
He had a dream.
It was an oddly vivid one at that; Fushimi was never one to dream well. This time, however, he was able to remember each detail as if it was a real-life memory.
He dreamed of a warm, inviting house where he could flop on the bed and not have to worry about the cold, creepy chills washing over his backside—where soft, calloused hands could gently soothe his lingering worries out of his body. He remembered the house; it was small—probably slightly larger than his current dormitory—but it felt as if it was a place where he didn’t have to constantly cover up what he felt.
It felt so familiar, as if he had experienced this sensation before. He found himself yearning to stay, to curl up next to those same hands that had gently taken him in as if he was the most precious thing in the world. Fushimi’s eyes gently opened, and his gaze travelled up to find Yata looking down at him with the softest gaze that he had ever felt. His heart stopped for that moment, as his breath caught in his throat.
How was it possible to be so gentle?
Fushimi had known roughness all his life. He knew how to keep up his walls and to never let them down. That man had shown him how to never open up to anyone. He had been so occupied with keeping them up that he had never learnt how to take them down.
But then Yata had come along and destroyed any semblance of hostility that Fushimi had ever known. He had tugged on Fushimi’s strings simply by being boisterous and by being able to express his happiness so easily, and Fushimi was ashamed to admit that the stupid act had worked.
“Saruhiko,” Yata had whispered. “Why don’t you come back?” Fushimi remembered the way his voice had gently soothed his worries.
“Back?” Fushimi asked in return. “You don’t want me back, Misaki.”
“Come back,” Yata replied. “Come back home.”
“Home, huh…?” Fushimi repeated, before huffing to himself. “You have a new home now, Misaki. You don’t need me.”
“I do,” Yata said without skipping a heartbeat. “I need you back. This apartment feels lonely without you, Saruhiko.”
“Then…” Fushimi looked down at his body, which was fading away. He sensed that this imaginary world was coming to a close. “Then, chase after me, you idiot. I’ll be waiting. I’ll be waiting, Misaki.”
“But,” Yata started. “I can’t… I can’t chase after something that’s already gone.”
Fushimi opened his mouth to retort a response, along the lines of ‘I was never gone in the first place, idiot. I was waiting for you to catch up.’ but his world was slowly growing brighter by the second, until Yata’s face was no longer able to be seen and the warmth that had gently caressed his face had faded away—
Then, he woke up. His body felt cold and solemn against the bunk bed, nothing like the warmth that had flowed through his body in the dream. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, before feeling for his glasses and putting them on his face. He clenched the sheets tightly as the moments ran through his mind like a cassette tape.
Why had it been so vivid?
Why had he dreamed about Yata? Mikoto was dead, and the Yata he knew had faded away when they had stepped foot into that cursed bar for the first time. Yet, his mind had subconsciously fed him memories and twisted thoughts of a life where it was merely him and Yata.
In the back of his mind, the thoughts whispered, ‘It was a life once.’
He clicked his tongue, throwing the blankets over and hopping down the ladder. Staring at the mirror, his gaze fixated on the burnt mark, now nothing more than a scar. Why did HOMURA love to permanently sear themselves with marks that would inevitably fade away in the future?
He looked at the time, and it was only then that he realised what day it was.
Oh. It's been four years since that day, huh?
No wonder he was envisioning all these events related to HOMURA—on that fateful day, four years ago, he had purposely broken off his connection to HOMURA—his connection to Yata.
Maybe he was selfish for doing such a thing. He left for another organisation only because of his values.
He left so Yata could notice him once more.
Seeing the look in Yata’s eyes—his full attention finally on him once more, finally being able to be noticed fully—it both broke and mended him. He wanted to cry, to tell Yata that he just wanted to be with him once more, but it was no use; Fushimi knew that broken bonds could never be repaired.
Yata had HOMURA, now; so Fushimi faded into the background like a toy made to be discarded. It was how it was always meant to be.
However, Fushimi’s view never changed. From the start, it was only Yata. It was, and would always only be Yata.
He thought Yata felt the same. He was a fool to fall for those lies.
He clicked his tongue, scowled, before turning away from the mirror and shrugging on his uniform. Sword tucked in his sheath, he headed out of the dormitory and made his way into the main hall.
He would absolutely not face Yata today. He didn't know if he would be able to put on the crumbling mask any longer, especially today.
-
It was raining.
Fushimi scowled quietly as he stood underneath the shelter, shivering slightly from the cold weather. Of course, fate loved to screw him over by providing horrible weather on the anniversary of his betrayal. It must have been their way of rubbing it in that Fushimi could never have the one thing he secretly longed for.
He was dismissed from his duties for today, as Munakata had given him a look that showed that he, too, knew what day it was. Fushimi had simply clicked his tongue and left the office, before being forced outside by Awashima.
In her words, she stated that he had needed to “relax more often”, and so disallowed him to return inside until he had spent at least half the day “in the sunshine”.
Fushimi clicked his tongue at the memory. It sure was sunny now, wasn't it, Awashima?
He began walking down the street, attempting to find somewhere to stay for the afternoon. Somehow, he found himself nearing the premises of HOMURA’s bar, and quickly backed away once he realised the familiar street that he had subconsciously walked along.
Unfortunately, he was too slow; Yata walked out the same moment that he decided to back away. He could feel Yata’s rage from behind him, all directed at Fushimi.
He smiled.
Misaki noticed me.
“Oi, you monkey!” Yata screamed. “What do you think you're doing around here?! This is our turf, alright?! You stupid Blues need to stay away!”
“Misaki…” Fushimi suddenly stopped in his tracks, turning around. The rain was drenching his clothes, and he mentally scowled at how he would most definitely get sick later. But in the moment, he couldn't care less; Yata was in front of him and his eyes were on him, and he was raging with his heart stupidly worn on his sleeve.
“Your so-called King is now dead.” Fushimi laughed mercilessly. “I could just as easily take you down right now, Mi~sa~ki~! Look at you, so powerless, so angry… you really haven't changed one bit, Mi~sa—”
“Argh!” Yata screamed, lunging at him. “You stupid monkey, why'd you have to show up?! You—you've ruined everything.” Yata grasped at Fushimi’s jacket, wrapping the fabric so tightly around his hand that it left wrinkles when he let go.
“Me?” Fushimi scoffed. “It was you, Mi~sa~ki~! And now, look where that's gotten you. I told you, I was never fit for you or your stupid punks at HOMURA, either.”
“You're the one who left HOMURA!” Yata cried, attempting to not let his rage consume him. “You just left one day, and now you think you suddenly get to come back and waltz in our fucking bar like nothing happened?!”
You're the one who left me, Fushimi wanted to retort. You're the one who left for those people at HOMURA. They're much better than me, right? So why are you still angry at me for leaving?
Why do you still care?
“Last time I recall, HOMURA’s bar was a public place, Mi~sa~ki~. ” he responded instead. He couldn't possibly let Yata know his true feelings. He'd be seen as weak, then. He would be made to look as if he still cared about Yata, which he didn't in the slightest.
He just wanted to see Yata angry. He just wanted to see him riled up, with that genuine rage flaring through his blood, with that dirty stare reserved only for Fushimi.
It made him giddy with adrenaline. Even as the blue and red auras combined, he grinned widely as he watched Yata struggle, Yata fall, Yata bleed. He loved the thrill that thrummed through his veins; he bathed in the feeling of pure hatred.
Because if Yata couldn't give him his attention in the way that he secretly longed for, then he could accept this. He could accept the insults and angry stares thrown his way across the street and the brutal attacks during their fights; because at least then, Fushimi was noticed. At least then, Yata could notice every sweat drop that fell from his chin, every movement that he made just for him. At least then, Fushimi wasn't tossed aside like he had been in HOMURA.
Yata stopped suddenly. Fushimi felt his gaze widen for just a fraction of a second, before settling into a malicious grin. “Given up already, Misaki?”
“...I don't care anymore, Saruhiko.” Yata muttered. “I'm tired.”
No, Fushimi thought suddenly. Don't say that. Don't stop caring.
“And here I thought you'd actually have some spirit, or perhaps revenge in your veins—since that's what you HOMURA hooligans are known for, Misaki.” Fushimi laughed, but the sound was hollow. He hoped that he was the only one who noticed. “You need to get a move on. Your King is dead; so what?”
“So what?!” Yata exclaimed. “Mikoto saved me—saved us. He's the reason I'm here today, instead of scrounging for spare change to try and pay for rent! Don't you remember those days, Saruhiko? Don't you remember when we struggled to find money and had to rely on your computer skills to pretend we had paid finances we didn't have?”
Fushimi scowled. “He never saved me, Misaki. I serve under the Blue King, now.”
“Yeah, well—your Blue King is a piece of shit! And so are you Blues. All of you Blues need to get a grip on reality, instead of acting all fuckin’ high and mighty as if you own this city.” Yata snarled. “Mikoto was humble. He was a good King. He treated us like family.”
“He is,” Fushimi agreed. “Munakata is seriously a pain in the ass.” He repositioned himself, and shot a cruel look at Yata. “Your King means nothing to me. I don't care what he was to you—and your so-called family—where is it now?”
“You…” Yata narrowed his eyes in anger. “You don't get to speak on what family is or not! You're the one with a broken family anyway.”
Fushimi’s eyes widened, and he swore that something cracked inside of him.
Broken family, huh?
Yata instantly noticed the change too, scrambling to take back his words.
“Wait,” Yata started, “I didn't—I didn't mean to—”
“No,” Fushimi smiled coldly. “You're right, Misaki. I'm the product of a broken family—of a mother who didn't care, and a father who did nothing but torture me—so I shouldn't get a say on what a family means. Ding, ding, Mi~sa~ki~! No one cares for me; you're probably wondering why I'm still here. The truth is—”
“You—you fucking dumbass,” Yata interrupted, his teeth grit and his fists clenched. Fushimi made the mistake of making contact with his eyes—god, why were they so vivid? “Did you really think that?”
Fushimi was slightly taken aback, and found himself speechless.
“You're right,” Yata said. “I know you don't care about Mikoto like I do, and I know that you don't care about HOMURA anymore.”
“Stating the obvious now—”
“But you—you have no right to say no one cares about you! Why else were you accepted into the Blues so easily?! Why else did that stupid Munakata guy let you join the ranks that easily?! It was so easy for you, it's fucking ridiculous.”
“Munakata sees me as a piece of the puzzle,” Fushimi laughed. “He doesn't care for me. To him, I'm a useful tool. So I have to make the most of it.”
“What about those other Blues—”
“They're scared of me,” Fushimi snickered. “No one hangs out with me, even amongst SCEPTER 4. So, what's it now, Mi~sa~ki~? ”
Yata stilled for a second, casting his gaze down to the ground. He grit his teeth, as his fists clenched together. It was as if he was struggling with his internal thoughts.
“...I…”
Fushimi's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes widened marginally.
“...I still care,” Yata muttered, his eyes cast downward to the ground. “...And I hate that I do.”
Fushimi stood there, amongst the pouring rain, eyes widened as Yata’s words replayed in his head.
I still care.
Fushimi looked at Yata, his gaze unwavering.
“You…” Fushimi trailed off, before huffing out an amused, cold laugh. “Why? I left HOMURA.”
Yata grit his teeth, clearly unwilling to talk about the situation at hand. “I don't know, okay?! I just do. Even when I try not to, I—it ends up never working.”
This is what Fushimi wanted. All he wanted was for Yata to care about him, to not pretend that he was an outcast to society—but yet, this wasn't how he wanted it.
He didn't want Yata to be on the verge of tears, softly admitting that despite it all, he had still found it in his heart to care for Fushimi.
Fushimi couldn't accept it. How could someone as caring as Yata have it in his heart to still care for someone who broke the connection?
“Then try harder,” Fushimi spat. “Stop caring for me, Misaki. I stopped caring for you a long time ago. Learn to do the same.” With that, he promptly walked off into the depths of the soaking rain, leaving a shivering Yata out on the side paths to silently sob into his sleeve.
As he walked away, he swore he heard Yata mutter something under his breath, but ignored it in favour of getting back.
It seemed that this rain would not cease any time soon.
-
Fushimi was sick.
He complained to Awashima as soon as he had gotten back, and the bastard had the audacity to look surprised while also asking him why he hadn't come back as soon as the rain started, to which Fushimi rolled his eyes.
“You're the one who forbade me from coming back until at least half a day had passed,” he grumbled, before walking past and stumbling into the private shower room that Munakata had reserved for him.
Stripping off his clothing, he sniffled once before retreating into the shower, letting the hot water slide over his body. It instantly relaxed his muscles, and he breathed in the steam that slowly curled around his skin. It was almost as relaxing as that dream, where there was nothing but warmth and tenderness all over again.
Almost.
He let his body hit the tiled walls, laughing to himself about the pathetic state of mind he was in. He had purposely pushed Yata away, had purposely said he didn’t care about Yata anymore, so Yata could stop chasing him like the loyal dog Fushimi had always despised.
Despite it all, he still wanted Yata to come back to him.
The soreness in his body when he stepped out was all-too-familiar from back then, when the world was nothing more than two prepubescent teenage boys with an all-too-large dream of being able to take over the world.
“I gotta say, Saruhiko, if it’s you, I feel like you can even take over the world!”
“So cool! Saruhiko is so cool!”
“You and I, we’ll fly away to somewhere huge, and together, do amazing things.”
Fushimi chuckled. Him and Yata? Yata could barely look at him without that burning hatred accompanying his fists, and the rage flooding through his veins—
I still care.
That was said as nothing more than an attempt to throw him over the radar, to get him to react in a way that would allow Yata to take advantage of the situation, Fushimi concluded. He didn’t care about Fushimi. What he said was nothing more than a lie.
Otherwise, why would he leave Fushimi behind?
He felt a series of coughs coming on as he exited the bathroom, haphazardly slipping on a jumper and some pants before heading to his room. Groggily, he slumped against the bedpost of his bunk bed, staring at the empty lower bed.
Back then, that would have been Yata’s sleeping post.
If he had gotten sick like this when they had their living arrangements together, he would have gotten a harsh scolding from Yata, before being escorted into his bed with Yata’s warm, warm hands. Yata would have stopped all remaining activities for the day (which was usually never much), and rested alongside Fushimi, keeping him company with conversations that Fushimi never seemed to pay much attention to—but he liked the constant buzz of Yata’s voice in his ears, even if Fushimi found him loud at times.
It reminded him that someone else lived in the house where he stayed, and that he wasn’t going to be alone tonight.
Now, he had found himself back in the position in his old house, where that man resided and tortured every aspect of his mental wellbeing possible. Except this time, there was nothing but solitude to accompany him; where a voice once was, now only silence remained.
Fushimi fell asleep in that exact spot that night—the next morning, he unsurprisingly found himself waking up to a shivering body and a stuffy nose.
Fushimi clicked his tongue, before instantly coughing into his sleeve. A knock at the door came soon after, with Awashima asking, “Fushimi, are you there?”
Fushimi coughed again, before replying hoarsely, “Yes, ma’am.” He stood up and attempted to fix his hair quickly before opening the door.
“Fushimi—” Awashima took a step back, startled. “You look incredibly ill.”
Fushimi resisted the urge to click his tongue or to retort with the response, “I wonder whose fault that was.” Instead, he looked up and sniffled. “I am currently not feeling well.”
Awashima grimaced slightly, as if she had realised the cause of Fushimi’s current illness. “Yes, so it seems. I will notify the Captain that you will be taking a leave day today.” She turned to leave, but before she shut the door, she added, “And, Fushimi… please take care of yourself. You are a necessary asset to SCEPTER 4.”
Fushimi clicked his tongue, looking away. “Awashima,” he said. Awashima turned around, her eyes slightly widening.
“Yes, Fushimi?”
“...There is someone who can take care of me.”
Awashima raised an eyebrow. “Our doctors and nurses are perfectly capable of tending to your health—”
“No,” Fushimi coughed. “I don't want them near me. Bring… Bring me Misaki Yatagarasu from HOMURA.”
Awashima’s face turned into one of alarm. “Fushimi, that's dangerous. You can't possibly invite someone of an opposing clan into SCEPTER 4’s headquarters so openly! I can bring a doctor, but not Yatagarasu.” she said sternly.
Fushimi clicked his tongue and pulled out his PDA. “Fine… I'll do it myself.” His finger was inches away from hitting the call button when Awashima exclaimed, “Stop!”
“What's wrong?” Fushimi mused. “I was just doing what you weren't able to.”
“Are you disobeying orders from your Lieutenant?” Awashima’s eyes narrowed.
Fushimi clenched his PDA tightly, before turning back around and slamming the door. “Tell Captain that I'm taking the day off.”
Awashima stood silently for a moment, before walking off in the direction of Munakata’s office. Fushimi scrounged around his room for some pain-relief tablets, quickly downing one and washing the dry aftertaste down with some bottled water that had been lying on the ground for a while.
He then slowly clambered the stairs up to his bunk bed, lying down and attempting to breathe without accidentally triggering a coughing fit.
Being sick was a curse. At least back then, being sick felt a bit more tolerable.
-
“Don't touch me, you stupid Blues!”
“Please remain calm—”
“Why did I even agree to this? I want to burn this stupid place down.”
Fushimi woke up to the sound of yelling outside, slowly sitting up to take in his surroundings. They steadily grew louder, as he discerned the voices behind his bedroom door.
Misaki? He thought, clenching his shirt as the scar instantly began to itch once more. And… Awashima?
He remained put in his bed, as there was a loud knock at the door.
“Fushimi,” Awashima's voice resonated from the other side of the door. “You have a visitor—”
“Visitor?!” Yata’s voice interrupted. “Like hell I would ever visit him. You—”
Fushimi opened the door at that moment, and Yata’s arguing ceased immediately. He looked at Awashima, who was clearly unimpressed, before looking back at Yata with a plastic bag in his hands.
“You said—” Fushimi started, but Awashima sighed.
“It wasn't me,” Awashima said, looking away ashamedly. “Captain’s orders.”
He looked back at Yata, who was avoiding Fushimi’s gaze.
“...Misaki,” he said, quietly.
“Che,” Yata tutted. “You look like absolute dogshit, Saruhiko.”
Fushimi couldn't find it in him to retort a response, coughing loudly instead. Yata shot a glare at Awashima, who narrowed her eyes slightly in response and turned on her heel to walk off.
“So, are you going to let me in, or what?” Yata furrowed his eyebrows. “I look like an idiot just standing outside your door.”
“You were always an idiot,” Fushimi mused. “What's in that bag?”
Yata flushed slightly, embarrassed. “S–Shut up,” he muttered. “I'll show you when I get inside.”
“No,” Fushimi said. “Show me what's in that bag right now.”
“Are you really going to act so selfish even when I came all the way here?!” Yata gritted his teeth. “Why do I have to show you out here? I can just leave right now, you know. I wasn't obligated to come here.”
“Then leave,” Fushimi said. “Why did you come here, Misaki?”
“That lady leader of yours, or whatever—it was her. She dragged me here!”
“You didn't answer my question, idiot. If you don't want to show me what's in your bag, then leave.” Fushimi glared at him.
Yata's hands balled into fists. “You…” he started. The two stood in silence for a long moment, before Yata sighed and put the bag down. “It's just food,” Yata muttered. He pulled out the contents of what seemed to be food for a hot pot, as if they had been freshly bought from the store. Finally, he pulled out the portable stove before placing everything back into the bag. “I made sure… to not buy any greens. But there are still tangerines and pineapples, because you have to eat your vegetables, you dumb monkey.”
Fushimi's eyes widened. Yata had gone to such lengths to buy food for him? And at that, he remembered Fushimi’s extreme dislikes and likes. A foreign feeling bloomed in his chest for a millisecond, akin to the emotions that were experienced in the dream.
Fushimi clicked his tongue before stepping aside. “Get in,” he muttered, avoiding Yata's gaze as the other stepped inside his room. “And make sure to wipe your shoes on the mat.”
“I know, I know,” Yata scoffed. “I have manners, unlike you.” He took his shoes off, before noticing the sad state that Fushimi's room was in.
“What the—” Yata started. “Who cleans your rooms?!” He was visibly disgusted at the growing piles of trash scattered along the room, looking back at Fushimi. “You Blues need to learn some proper hygiene.”
“I'm not the one who decides where the funding goes,” Fushimi replied, with another scoff ready on the tip of his tongue. “I'm going back to sleep.”
“Oi—” Yata started. “You can't just tell me to come here and then not speak!” Yata shook his head afterwards, reluctantly picking up Fushimi’s rubbish and placing it into the designated trash bin.
Silence fell over the room for a while, and Fushimi briefly thought that this silence didn't feel so lonely for once.
“This reminds me of middle school,” Yata chuckled slightly. “When you got sick, and then I visited your house and made you food… and then the times after that, in… our apartment…” Yata trailed off, not wanting to diverge down that path.
Our apartment, Fushimi thought.
“Do you still live there?” he asked, mainly out of curiosity.
Yata remained still, his eyes looking at the ground instead of at the task at hand.
“...Yeah.”
Fushimi laughed. “Even after all this time, Misa— ” His taunting was cut short by a series of coughs, which prompted Yata to rush onto the bunk bed.
“Honestly, you monkey, it's a miracle you're still alive.” Yata grit his teeth, feeling Fushimi’s forehead. “Shit,” Yata muttered, “you're burning up.”
Fushimi wanted to swat Yata’s hand off his head, to tell him that his hand burned and it hurt, but he was too weak. He hoarsely breathed in and out, attempting to stay calm underneath Yata’s touch. It was too reminiscent of those times, and he hated that a mere touch opened the gates and the memories that he had been attempting to suppress flooded back in.
It was irritating. Even now, Yata still felt so bright—and Fushimi had selfishly asked him here, as if Yata didn’t have other duties to tend to. It wasn’t like back then; now, both of them had jobs and roles to fulfil, and people to talk to and things to complete. His only question was: Why had Yata come back here?
I still care.
Fushimi felt something bloom in his chest at those words. Why? He wanted to ask. What’s the point?
“Hot pot, huh?” He said instead. Yata looked down at the plastic bag he had brought in, still untouched, before turning away, embarrassed. Fushimi wanted to grab the stray hand that lay near the pillow he was lying on, to place it back on his face, and to tell Yata to not let go.
“...Yeah,” Yata said awkwardly. “Look, it wasn’t on purpose, okay?! I just went to the store to get some quick food… and then…” He trailed off, before huffing and hopping off the bunk. “Anyway, I’ll start it up now. I’ve cleared enough of your room that there’s actually a place to sit. Geez, you never change.”
Fushimi found a small smile threatening to take over his face at that comment. Instead, he rolled over, secretly watching as Misaki started up the portable stove and began boiling some water. Then, he pulled out a chopping board and began cutting the contents of the bag that he had shown Fushimi earlier. Fushimi glanced over at Yata’s hands, swiftly chopping the meat and the contents of the hot pot.
He’s just as quick as I remember, Fushimi thought. He rolled back over to face the wall, and let his eyes droop, until he eventually closed his eyes.
It’s only for one night, Fushimi reminded himself as he lost consciousness of his thoughts. Only one night.
-
The aroma of Yata’s familiar hotpot stirred him awake, and he looked down to see Yata finalising the hotpot with spices.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Yata said, looking up to Fushimi, who was still in his bed. “The hot pot is ready.” Fushimi rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses on and clambering down the bunk. Suddenly, he slipped on one of the rungs and fell off, and Yata stood up to catch him in time before he fell onto the ground.
“You dumbass!” Yata chided. “You need to take care of yourself more instead of trying to do everything yourself.” Their faces were unbearably close, and Fushimi could feel his heart threatening to leap out of his mouth at this very instant.
This is unfair, Fushimi thought, even as Yata lectured him about how much of a stupid idiot he was to be doing everything himself. This is seriously unfair. How was Fushimi supposed to focus on exchanging witty remarks and snide insults when all he could focus on was the way Yata’s eyes glimmered underneath the dim lights of his room and the way his skin seemed to glow a muted gold? How could he focus on anything else other than the way his fiery red hair danced amongst the light breeze coming from the air conditioner?
“I get it, Misaki,” Fushimi grumbled, tearing his eyes away from Yata’s face. He needed to get out now, or else he would soon find himself not wanting to leave Yata’s grasp. “Let me go.”
Yata seemed to finally realise what he was actually doing and quickly let go of Fushimi, a slight flush appearing on his cheeks. Fushimi clicked his tongue before settling on the ground.
“Anyway,” Yata said, setting out the bowls and plates on the ground. “I couldn’t bring a table with me, so we have to eat on the floor. God, the Blue’s rooms are so small.”
Fushimi tutted. “At least they’re not large and empty,” he retorted, emphasising the word empty. Yata flared up at this, but decided not to respond to Fushimi’s retort.
“You’re lucky that you’re sick,” Yata tutted. “Otherwise, I would’ve smashed your head into the ground right now.” He pointed to the food that was in the hot pot. “Now, eat. I didn’t make this for nothing.”
Fushimi gingerly lifted his chopsticks, picking out various items of food to eat. Yata noticed the way he attempted to avoid the pineapples and tangerines that were boiling in the hot pot and pointed it out. “Oi!” Yata spoke loudly. Fushimi looked up, acting as if he had done nothing wrong. “I bought those for you to eat. I can’t be the one eating it all!”
Fushimi stared at the pineapples and tangerines as a disgusted look made its way onto his face. “I don’t want to eat those,” he said, clicking his tongue. He then placed the other food into his mouth and attempted to not show exactly how much he was savouring the taste of Yata’s hotpot.
“The taste…” Fushimi trailed off. “It’s familiar.”
Reminds me of back then, he wanted to add on.
“Well, it’s not like I really changed up the recipe…” Yata trailed off. He picked up a tangerine with his chopsticks and placed it in Fushimi’s bowl. Fushimi looked at the tangerine before looking back up at him, disgusted. Yata closed his eyes, annoyed. “Eat the stupid tangerine, Saruhiko. It’s not going to kill you.”
Fushimi muttered under his breath about how it would kill him because Yata was the one who put it in his bowl, but then hesitantly picked it up and placed it in his mouth. Instantly, he felt his gag reflexes kicking in, attempting to keep the tangerine in his mouth as he gingerly chewed the goddamn thing. He swallowed the remains of the tangerine thickly, before looking back at Yata.
“I hated it,” he said. “I’m not eating another one.”
Yata sighed before placing a tangerine in his own mouth. He chewed the fruit with ease, before swallowing it whole. “It isn’t that bad, Saruhiko. You’re just so fucking picky.”
“Whatever,” Fushimi muttered, eating the other parts of the hotpot. “You’re not making me eat another tangerine.”
“At least try eating a piece of pineapple!”
“Eugh,” Fushimi shuddered. “They’re too tangy and they sting my tongue.”
“You’re such a baby,” Yata chided. “This is why you’re so lanky.”
“You’re the shorter one,” Fushimi retorted, before coughing. “You stopped growing at the age of fifteen. Even after all these years, you can still never beat my height, Misaki— and we’re both twenty years old.”
“I did grow!” Yata grumbled. “I measured my height against the wall of our apartment with a measuring stick every year. I grew five centimetres!”
“Congratulations,” Fushimi deadpanned. “Would you like a certificate with that, Misaki? How pathetic, measuring your height like that. It’s obvious you’ll always stay a virgin.”
“Hah?!” Yata screamed. “You have no idea what the hell is going on in my life now, not since you left. That includes girls!”
“The last time I saw you, you were too flustered to even approach one calmly, let alone talk to one. You want me to believe you’re not a virgin? Then act like it, Mi~sa~ki~!”
“Che!” Yata angrily chewed on a piece of meat, before picking up a piece of pineapple, quickly leaning over and shoving it into Fushimi’s mouth. Somehow, he managed to not tip over the boiling hot pan; they both fell onto the side, Fushimi attempting to spit out the pineapple and Yata attempting to force him to chew the piece of pineapple.
“It’s just a pineapple!” Yata exclaimed. “Eat it!”
“I told you, I don’t like pineapples!”
“You’re such a kid,” Yata retorted. “Just try it!”
Fushimi glared at him before smirking. “Then make me, Misaki.”
Yata stilled for a second. Fushimi felt the triumph wash over him, but Yata kept staring into his eyes as if he was searching for something. Fushimi was dangling the piece of pineapple halfway into his mouth, secured in between his upper and lower jaw.
“Hah,” Fushimi grinned mischievously. “I’ve—”
Yata suddenly leaned forward and closed the space in between them, biting off the chunk of pineapple that was hanging off of Fushimi’s lips and swallowing the remains in his mouth. Their lips brushed briefly, but Fushimi thought that it was the most fiery feeling that he had experienced in a while. The shock caused Fushimi to swallow the pineapple chunk, and he cursed himself for doing so.
“You…” Fushimi trailed off, as Yata sat up, equally embarrassed.
“I mean, you—you swallowed the pineapple chunk, right?!” Yata stammered, his face at least three times redder than the shade of his hair. “I won the bet, r–right?”
Fushimi didn’t answer, still processing the incredibly bold move that Yata had just made. He regrettably found himself yearning for more of the ashes that Yata had left behind on his lips, his mouth tingling with the taste of Yata and pineapples.
If someone had told him a week ago that he would end up sharing a pineapple with Yata through kissing, Fushimi would have put a sword to their throat, taking their foretelling as mockery.
Yet here he was; sick, a pineapple in his mouth, and kissed by Misaki Yata.
“...I’m sick,” Fushimi said plainly. What else could he say? Admit that he actually liked it and that he wanted to try it again? “You’re going to get sick too, idiot.” His insults carried no sting. He awkwardly picked up the bowl again, watching the pot simmer and picked out another piece of meat, placing it in his bowl.
“...Yeah,” Yata awkwardly replied. The tension in the room was thickening and crumbling into an awkward atmosphere. Fushimi silently wished that Yata would say something, because a quiet Yata was much, much worse than a loud, boisterous one.
“Misaki,” Fushimi spoke, breaking the awkward silence. Yata looked up, cheeks slightly flushed.
“W–What?”
“When will you be leaving?”
Yata hesitated, before narrowing his eyes in shame. “I guess after this meal…” The two then ate in silence, watching as the contents of Yata’s bag emptied until there was only pineapples and tangerines left in the pot.
“So…” Yata started. “Did you like… the pineapple?”
Fushimi flushed, before promptly turning his head away. His ears were bright red—even his hair couldn’t hide the flushed cheeks that he was currently sporting. “Shut up,” he muttered. God, please, shut up, he thought. “It was horrible. I told you I wouldn’t like it, idiot.”
Yata’s expression dropped slightly, and Fushimi cursed at how he noticed such a subtle change. “Ah,” he simply replied. “Hey, Saru…” Yata gripped the bowl tightly, before sighing and continuing on.
“Why did you leave?”
Fushimi’s eyes slightly widened, before laughing heartlessly. “I told you, a million times—I never fit in with you or HOMURA.”
“I’m not asking why you left HOMURA!” Yata exclaimed. “I’m asking why you left… in general.”
Fushimi chuckled darkly. “You really want to go down that path, Misaki? You really think I’m the one who left?”
Yata’s eyes narrowed. “If I was the one that left, I wouldn’t still be living in our empty apartment.”
Fushimi placed his bowl down. “Forget it, Misaki. You’d never understand, anyway.”
Yata clenched his fists. “Then—then, at least try to! Don’t act like I can’t at least try to do stuff. You never even gave me a chance, you stupid monkey.”
“There’s no point in explaining things to someone who doesn’t bother understanding me in the first place.”
“...And how can I understand someone like you?”
“Exactly,” Fushimi smiled coldly. “I’m a traitor. You can’t understand people like me—so just leave , Misaki. Focus on what matters—your broken family, HOMURA.”
Don’t bother with me. Don’t even try, because all that awaits is ruin.
Yata breathed in slowly, before beginning to pack up the portable stove. “I don't get it,” he said. “Yesterday, you told me to stop caring. But today, you wanted me here… so which one is it? I can't be at your beck and call, Saruhiko.”
“It was a request,” Fushimi tutted. “I didn't expect Awashima to actually turn up with you.”
“So what is it, then? Am I just someone to turn to when you need something?”
“Wasn't I?”
Yata widened his eyes. “What do you—”
“When Anna got captured,” Fushimi explained. “You called me because you had no one else. Such a hypocrite, Misaki—you should remember your own words.”
“Then you should remember yours too! Either you want me, or you don't, Saruhiko. I'm so fucking tired of your games!” Yata screamed. He clutched the bag tightly, tilting his head downwards so Fushimi wouldn't see his expression. “Just fucking say it, you goddamn monkey. Don't toy with me like this.”
Fushimi clicked his tongue, promptly standing up. “Hurry up and get out.” he spat, pointing towards the door.
“You—”
“Get out,” Fushimi seethed. “Now.”
Yata promptly stood up, casting a glare towards Fushimi.
“God, I hate you. You, and your stupid games. You—” Yata stopped himself. “Che,” he tutted. “Whatever.”
Fushimi watched as Yata left the door, slamming it behind him before he slid onto the floor instantaneously. His hand brushed his lips, where Yata’s own had once been. His eyes threatened to spill with tears, and he laughed hollowly.
He really was set for hell, wasn't he?
-
The next time they met was during Fushimi’s battle against Sukuna.
It had been tough—Fushimi knew he wasn't a match for Sukuna’s raw, unparalleled energy that seemed to ooze out of him as if he was overflowing with the lust for battle.
As he stumbled onto the ground after feeling his own blade dig into his leg, the dreadful feeling of it all being over overwhelmed him to the core. Of all ways to die, this was not one that he had expected in the slightest.
Still, he had known that there was a possibility of his life coming to an end by undertaking this mission; Munakata had warned him about this before he had accepted the mission. Yet, he had stuck out until the end—whether it was out of a sense of loyalty or the dissatisfaction of not trying until the end, Fushimi wouldn’t be able to know.
Sukuna loomed above him, grinning as his scythe was raised in the air. The green glow almost taunted Fushimi menacingly, as if to say, “Your downfall will be by the glow of the green you swore to destroy.”
Then, down in a flash, the scythe swung down, green edging towards a pale canvas—
It struck a grey, hard surface instead.
“I'm not letting you kill him now, bastard…!” a voice shouted, and Fushimi had to look up, because—
Misaki?
Why is he here?
Fushimi attempted to keep himself in check; to pretend that his ex-best friend of more than seven years hadn't suddenly appeared to save Fushimi once again, when he could have handled himself just fine.
He hated Misaki for that—he never once bothered to think about his own safety—it was always them, them, them.
“You're in my way,” Sukuna grit his teeth. “Or did a new player decide to join the game? Either way, this’ll be extra fun for me! More points!”
“Go home, kid,” Yata spat, and Fushimi momentarily forgot about the knife that was embedded in his thigh to admire the way Yata’s eyes burned with a passion to save—to save him; whom Fushimi had already given up on. It was marvelling, to see someone still wholeheartedly believe in him, despite everything he had done to damage himself and his reputation.
“Home? Not until I reap my rewards,” Sukuna laughed, before the two exchanged blades in a fierce duel. Red clashed against green, lightning versus fire. Fushimi attempted to grab a dagger, wincing as he pulled out the blade from his thigh. He gripped the dagger around the palm of his hand, using his remaining strength to throw it at Sukuna, who was wildly laughing against a struggling Yata.
The blade instantly pierced his arm, tearing through his jacket and forcing him to let go of the scythe. Sukuna fell, and Yata took that moment to channel his energy into his fist, ramming it with all his might into Sukuna’s stomach.
“Go home, kid! I said it the first time!” Yata roared, as Sukuna’s eyes widened in defeat. The two watched on as he descended down the hole that had been caused from the earthquake, before Yata turned to Fushimi. Fushimi’s mouth was agape in surprise as a fleeting feeling bounced past his heart.
“Misaki…” Fushimi muttered.
“Saruhiko,” Yata murmured back. The air was silent and tense, with neither of them wanting to break the contact. Yata knelt down, brushing his fingers past Fushimi’s hurt thigh, as the two watched the blood seep onto Yata’s fingertips. “You’re hurt.”
Fushimi was about to retort a sarcastic remark, but found that he had no energy to. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’m hurt.”
“Why… Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Yata asked quietly. His gaze dropped to the ground, his hands curling up into fists.
“It’s a classified mission for a reason, Misaki,” Fushimi scoffed, but it lacked its usual bite.
“Yeah, but…” Yata looked at his bleeding thigh. “You’re hurt… and I can’t…”
Fushimi clicked his tongue. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered. “Go save your king.”
Yata nodded his head, but his throat was thick with tears and he seemed as if he wanted to say more, to do more. “Before I go, Saruhiko…”
Fushimi looked up. Yata was looking down.
“What is it, Misaki?”
Yata grit his teeth. “...Tell me why you left.”
Fushimi chuckled. “This again, Misaki?”
“No, Saruhiko. I’m serious this time… I want to know. You’re not a traitor… not in the slightest. Your loyalty lies with the Blue King, and I can respect that. I just… I want to know what made you go. Why… you left—HOMURA.”
Fushimi smiled. “I wouldn't be able to explain it to you, even if I tried.”
There’s no point .
“Then try! Explain it again, and—and again, until you get it through my thick skull! Yeah, I’m an idiot. That’s why you have to tell me these things. I can’t—I can’t read your mind, Saruhiko. I wish—I wish you’d tell me more things.” Fushimi watched as a single tear dropped onto the ground, and Yata’s shoulders shook slightly.
“Misaki,” Fushimi whispered. “Misaki, look at me.” He slid his hands underneath Yata’s jaw, lifting his head up to face Fushimi. Yata’s eyes were watering, and Fushimi felt his heart tighten for just a fraction—because why was Fushimi reacting to such a feeling?
Yata tried to wipe his tears away with his sleeve, but Fushimi let his thumb swipe along Yata’s cheek. Yata’s eyes widened at this, as more tears slipped down and onto Fushimi’s hands. Fushimi kept wiping them away gently, waiting until the tears gradually slowed down to a stop. The throbbing pain in his thigh was almost nonexistent compared to the beating heart against his ribcage.
He hadn’t felt this alive in so long.
“I’m sorry,” Yata muttered, slightly leaning his cheek into Fushimi’s hand. “I’m such a crybaby,” he chuckled. “I cried when Totsuka died, and now this…”
“I like it,” Fushimi muttered, and Yata’s face scrunched up into one of incredulity.
“What?”
“I like it when you show emotion. It makes me believe that people are capable of feeling. It makes me believe that… I’m capable.”
That I’m capable of feeling emotion.
“Are you dumb?” Yata said, before chuckling. “And to think I thought you were the smart one here…” Yata suddenly leaned closer, staring right into Fushimi’s eyes. Gingerly, he touched Fushimi’s hair with his fingers, before sliding his hand into Fushimi’s hair. Tousling his blue locks, he let his hand rest in between Fushimi’s strands of hair. “You do feel emotion, idiot. You feel so strongly, that it’s hard for even my flames to overpower you. That’s how HOMURA runs. Your power is linked to how much emotion you have. There’s a reason you and I were the strongest duo, Saruhiko. Even now, your heart beats loudly. Isn’t that enough proof that you’re not emotionless?”
He’s so close, I can barely breathe.
Fushimi’s heart pounded loudly in response. It thrummed in his ears, and danced along his veins. He could feel his heartbeat in every inch of his body, and his body screamed for him to do something, anything to relax his heartbeat.
So he did.
In a flash, he leaned forward slightly and bridged the distance between them. It was almost reminiscent of that time, where they had been playing around with a pineapple and a hotpot—except this time, there was nothing but pure emotion and a heartbeat that filled his ears. He was bursting with emotion, and it spilled out into Yata, who reciprocated it softly, gently. With anyone else, he might have been acutely aware of the feeling of their mouth, of the crevices along their lips, of the texture of their skin—but with Yata, it didn’t feel like anything else but right.
Yata gently pulled away, and Fushimi stared at Yata with flushed cheeks.
“I lied,” Fushimi said. “About the pineapple… It’s true that I didn’t like it in the slightest—but… I liked how it felt.”
How you felt against me.
Yata flushed brightly. “Oi, cut that out!” he stammered slightly, looking away. “I don’t—I don’t know what overcame me that night...”
“But, Misaki,” Fushimi continued. “I’ll think about it. I’ll think about a way to tell you.”
Yata’s eyes widened, a glimmer appearing in his irises. Fushimi admired the way he shone.
“Yeah,” he smiled. “Thank you, Saruhiko.”
Fushimi closed his eyes, smiling slightly. “Now, go save your King. She’s waiting.”
“But—what about you?”
“I’ll find a way out,” Fushimi said. “Go, Misaki.” He waved him away, slightly beckoning him to stand up. Yata hesitantly stood up, not wanting to leave. He grimaced slightly, before looking back at Fushimi.
“Don’t die, Saruhiko,” Yata said softly. “I want to hear your explanation.”
“Do you take me for a weakling?” Fushimi scoffed. “Go.”
Yata backed away, before nodding and leaving. Fushimi looked at the blood stain pooling around his thigh, before chuckling.
I like you so much, Misaki, that I might mistake it for love someday.