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First week on the new job, and it was already unbearably boring. But Fushimi really couldn’t complain; everything was boring. Monotonous. And this was certainly better than where he had been before. He could finally do something, use his skills, be of some use (not that he needed to be, it just kept him occupied). Follow some semblance of order and routine. And not be roped into useless “friendships” and attachments.
No attachments, no camaraderie, no watching people drift away.
As long as his boss stopped with the annoying pleasantries. Though Fushimi knew that somewhere, he should be grateful, since it was this man that gave him this opportunity. And hopefully, with this, his dreadful life would improve just a little.
There was just one thing missing. But that was what drove him to this. And that motivation, all those emotions (and ugh, having feelings was not something he would recommend), everything would be dealt with. He knew how. He always had a plan, for everything.
Sometimes, though, executing said plans was not an action he wanted to take.
Fushimi Saruhiko looked into the small mirror of the simple bathroom. Uniform on. Blank expression. No one would be able to guess how young he was.
For once, he had actually done something with his hair (if his job was formal, he should at least look like he tries), only to find that it made him look a lot like the male factor in the biological disaster that had resulted in his existence. Which, surprisingly, didn’t bother him. He thought he would keep it.
(The fact that it didn’t bother him was what bothered him, if anything.)
The “center of the universe” does, technically, exist.
Scepter 4 headquarters. Clean, organized, (mostly) quiet. Plenty of places to be alone in. Fushimi stopped for a moment before he entered, looking up at the door. He took a deep breath and crossed the threshold (then told himself it was ridiculous; it isn’t a big deal).
He made his way to his station, took a seat, began whatever mundane work he had to do. But of course, just as soon as he had found some quiet, relaxed into his environment, he heard the familiar sound of heels clicking behind him. Then stopping.
“Fushimi-kun,” she said. Awashima. That was her name.
A sharp exhale. He didn’t bother turning around (what was the point in doing so, anyway?) “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I apologize for the late notice, but you’re on patrol today.”
Fushimi tilted his head over the back of the chair as he leaned away from his desk. “Why?”
She opened her mouth to say something (probably a scolding for talking back or using that tone or some bullshit like that), then stopped. “Original called in sick, you’re next up,” she said instead. She smiled, though it was more exasperated than anything.
Fushimi didn’t respond, just sat upright in his chair again and finished the paperwork he had started.
It can be, and is, everywhere. But it’s not the center of orbit or gravity; it’s expansion.
The streets were different, now. Nothing about them themselves had changed, but the circumstances certainly had; last time Fushimi had been in this particular area, he had been a different person. And it didn’t take him long to realize which particular bar his patrol area was close to.
More of those disgusting things called “feelings” forced their way into his mind, and he clicked his tongue in annoyance. At himself? His thoughts? His situation? He wasn’t sure. Neither about the target of the annoyance, nor exactly what he was feeling. (But it wasn’t worth dwelling on. It had nothing to do with the task at hand.)
Remorse? Excitement? Anger? Anticipation? (He found himself thinking about it, anyway.)
Hope?
(Ugh. No.)
And then he heard an all-too-familiar sound around a corner, a mix of a (comforting) voice and the grinding of a skateboard’s wheels.
He shouldn’t go after it. He shouldn’t turn that corner.
But oh, he did. (He must be an idiot.)
He only peered around at first, making sure. He was right. (God, he never knew how much he had wanted to see that face again.)
Yata was waving goodbye to someone out of sight, a smile on his face, but emptier than Fushimi remembered. (It was nothing when it didn’t reach his eyes.)
He had already made a mistake by checking it out. Saying something would be a bad idea. But he couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face, his heart rate quickening (though not in the same way it used to around the kid), the anticipation and urge he had been suppressing.
At any possible point in the universe, everything else is moving away at the same rate.
He stepped out. it was only the two of them. “Oi, Misaki.”
The boy in question froze, then turned around a few seconds later. Slow, cautious, and tense (just like the atmosphere).
Fushimi tried to keep his expression the same as Yata’s kept changing, subtly, a million emotions all mixed into one. Eventually, he spoke, his face settling on anger.
“Don’t call me that anymore,” he said, voice barely audible over the distance.
Fushimi took a step forward. He shouldn’t be enjoying this, the hate, but it was the same feeling he had when in that alley. Yata was looking at him, paying attention to him, and at the moment Fushimi knew he was the only thing that mattered to him.
Finally.
“Why not, Misaki?”
“I said,” he replied, slower but louder, “don’t call me that. You have no right .”
“Oh, why not?” (He tried to ignore the stab in his gut he felt at that. A past conversation flashed through his mind.) The smug grin grew, drawing from the emotions it was masking.
(Was it really masking them anymore?)
The expression came naturally.
“You know why.” Yata’s voice almost broke on the last word, and he looked away. Something in his face shifted, too. Letting go of any hope. Any wishful thinking.
(About time, because Fushimi wasn’t coming back.)
Yata spared one more glance upwards. “Don’t talk to me again.” With that, he turned around and rolled away.
Fushimi watched him go, the grin lingering on his face. Some form of twisted laugh escaping his lips, just barely.
(As long as I keep pushing you away like this, I’ll finally be the only thing that matters to you.)