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Have you ever wanted to taste the flames of death?
A long time ago, Saruhiko was asked this question. He couldn’t care less, back then—he didn’t comprehend nor did he want to understand what death really was. It was merely a part of life. Live, and die. Live, and then find yourself falling six feet under forever.
What was so interesting about that?
If Saruhiko died, then okay, he could. He lacked the emotion or the care to fear the concept of ‘death’. It was inevitable, so when the day came, why wouldn’t he embrace it?
It was a nuisance, he thought, staring down at that man’s corpse. It was unfair how death could look so peaceful in the life of a man who created nothing but chaos. If he faded away one summer’s day, who would notice? The sun would keep on shining, the skies would remain the calm blue that he despised, and society would move forward without him—
But then, he arrived.
Someone else, who shone in all shades of red and gold, who smiled in blinding white and burned like orange. That boy took Saruhiko’s cold hands into his warm, fiery ones, and pulled him out of the grey into a world of light. Warmth enveloped Saruhiko’s world, and he finally felt alive .
That same warmth electrified his body, with each press of his fingers against his skin, scorching hot and red —and he wanted it all, he would swallow down each flicker of flame that he got, even if it hurt. Saruhiko would devour Misaki whole if he could, taking in each drip of gold, of the incinerating burn against his ribcage, his heart beating wildly with want and desire.
Misaki was the boy who swallowed Saruhiko whole with his smiles, and Saruhiko also wanted Misaki to experience the thrill of desire, of his cold breath against his warm skin. He wanted Misaki to shiver against him, to burn with the thawing freeze of his ice.
The worst part of it all—was that Misaki didn't even notice. He never did—never noticed the way that Saruhiko stared back, the way that his hand lingered on Misaki’s for a moment too long. He supposed there was sort of a comforting clarity in that sense, that Misaki was able to show all his emotions so openly, when he could barely do the same.
All it took for Saruhiko’s heart to stutter, for his breath to pause, was a simple smile. All he needed was a simple, blindsiding grin from Misaki, and his world felt at peace. Misaki was the sun, the brightest light in the sky, and Saruhiko was merely Icarus, pulled along by the gravity of his light.
He burned, but Saruhiko liked it. He'd take it all in, coddle each drop that he managed to catch, and hold it close to his heart. If he drank it all, he felt as if he would never be able to gain any more.
But, Misaki always came back. He always returned Saruhiko’s small smile with a big grin, eyes sparkling as he talked about mindless things with Saruhiko. He was so touchy, too—but Saruhiko never minded, leaning more than he would like to admit into those arms, clutching every skin-to-skin contact to his chest.
“Misaki is warm,” he uttered one day, the sentence completely unintentional.
“What?” Misaki’s eyes widened. “I mean, it's pretty hot, Saruhiko…”
“You're always the warmest, though,” Saruhiko mumbled.
Misaki looked at Saruhiko, a puzzled expression on his face. His eyebrow raised in confusion. “Uh… Saruhiko, you okay? Are you sick again?”
Saruhiko clicked his tongue. His hand itched to join together with Misaki’s, to intertwine his pale, sickly fingers with Misaki’s warm, comforting ones. His calloused palms provided a sense of peace for Saruhiko, wanting to trace over the patterns engraved in his hands.
“Misaki…” Saruhiko muttered. “Let me touch you.”
“W–What?!” Misaki stammered. “Like… Like, where?”
Saruhiko inched his hand closer to Misaki’s own, still not daring to go any further. He leaned his body closer, until their faces were inches apart. Saruhiko took a moment to study Misaki’s flushed face, noting each speckle that appeared in his golden gaze, and each freckle that dotted his cheeks.
So warm.
“Here,” Saruhiko whispered, his other hand moving up to tuck a hair behind his ear. Misaki watched Saruhiko intently, eyes not wavering from his face. It felt so intense, but Saruhiko wanted more. He felt so wanted, being the center of Misaki’s unbridled attention, eyes only on him, and no one else.
“A–Ah,” Misaki said, eyes suddenly averting Saruhiko. Saruhiko found himself frowning, but let his hand linger against the side of Misaki’s face. “Is… Is that all?”
Saruhiko found himself slightly taken aback at the comment, but smiled. “No,” Saruhiko replied.
I'll never have enough of you.
He then leaned his hand against Misaki’s cheek, the warmth from Misaki’s evident flush transferring to his cold, still hand. Misaki’s eyes widened without a beat at the movement, unguarded and raw with emotion—and Saruhiko felt himself swallow a gulp, because Misaki was always so, so warm, and Saruhiko would do anything to keep his warmth at bay.
Saruhiko leaned in wordlessly, lips barely inches apart. Misaki breathed heavily against him, hot breaths fogged against Saruhiko’s lips.
His mind spun. Misaki was so close, and his warmth was barely tolerable—but it was Misaki, and Saruhiko found himself always being able to tolerate Misaki. He'd incinerate himself in Misaki’s flames if it meant he got to stay within Misaki’s presence, alive and burning.
“You,” Saruhiko murmured. “You're always warm.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Never,” Saruhiko replied, without skipping a beat. “It never did, Misaki.”
“Then hurry up and take it,” Misaki whispered, his voice wavering. “Before it burns out.”
Saruhiko didn't need to be told twice—his lips gently crashed against Misaki’s, hand ever-so-gently cradling Misaki’s cheek.
Warm, warm, warm, Saruhiko repeated, because his lips were warm and his cheek was warm and he was warm, bursting with a warmth that thawed even Saruhiko’s heart. It should've been impossible to be bursting with colours in all shades of red, but Misaki somehow did and Saruhiko couldn't find it in himself to complain.
Eventually, he retreated from the kiss, opting to lean his forehead against Misaki’s own.
“Misaki,” Saruhiko mumbled. “Misaki is always the warmest.”
Misaki smiled. “You're the only one who can handle it, though.”
“Then, everyone else is just too weak.”
I've burnt myself in your flames too many times to care.
Misaki then laughs, and the noise is one of utter bliss to Saruhiko’s ears. It's almost a twinkle of the sun, almost, and Saruhiko finds himself wanting more of Misaki’s laughs that are so infectious, that he fails to suppress his own smile.
“Ah, Saruhiko,” Misaki smiled, his eyes flitting up to meet Saruhiko’s gaze. Saruhiko’s eyes instinctively softened—how could he keep a straight gaze, when Misaki’s eyes burned brighter than the sun? “You haven't changed a single bit, huh.”
Saruhiko shrugged. “I wasn't aware that I was meant to change.”
“Oi, now you're twisting my words, monkey.”
Saruhiko lets out a huff of laughter—it was nothing compared to Misaki’s mirthful laughter, bubbling over and spilling into Saruhiko’s heart.
“Idiot,” he muttered, but it was endearing. “Never change, Misaki.”
Misaki’s eyes widened. “Only if you don't, Saru.”
“Never,” Saruhiko uttered. “I'd never change.” And though it was merely a sentence, Saruhiko felt only honesty laced in those words.
And, as Saruhiko thought back to that question from so long ago—
Have you ever wanted to taste the flames of death?
He found himself refusing—for what is the point of burning, if it wasn't Misaki’s flames that he blackened in?