Archive of Our Own ^beta

No matter how much he leaned over the counter and tried to shut himself off from the rest of the world, the air still smelled too sweet.

Jazzy beats reverberated through the room. Glasses clinked against one another. Picturesque beverages filled with colored liquid —and more colors than he’d care to identify— adorned the placemats and trembled when someone slammed a fist on the table. Sudden outbursts of laughter made him glance murderously at the throats sputtering rushed words and emotions so openly and shamelessly.

Barbaric.

If this was what a countdown party was supposed to be like, everyone seemed intent on ignoring half of the point. Nobody looked like they were counting anything, except for the empty glasses to be refilled —and not even that, for that matter.

Hurry up.

They told him he was to wear casual but cheerful, but foolish words fell on deaf ears. The cheerful bit wasn’t happening, and when he stepped out of his dorm room with a plain white shirt and jeans, his supervisor and the Superintendent General’s right hand woman, Awashima, was judging him silently with a scrutinizing stare, the kind that said —no, ordered— ‘put some effort’.

Enter some gray flannel shirt, then, and jeans. Flashy enough? Not enough to keep him safe from some elated guy with a handful of drinks passing by and elbowing him in the back, thus igniting his sudden hate for this human being no matter how good-hearted his half-slurred apology had sounded.

“Ugh, m’ bad, thought yer’ the plant.”

Fushimi glanced beside him —inebriated-guy stood between him and the flowerpot at his right— and let out a sigh, not bothering to answer.

Barbaric and rowdy.

Maybe his hair wasn’t styled enough and his gloomy fashion choice wasn’t the eighth wonder of the world, but to say he resembled a plant was a little too much; it wasn’t as if he was sitting all stiff doing nothing but absorbing some non-alcoholic drink to make everyone believe he was too busy drowning his juvenile sorrows.

All right, maybe it was like that. Maybe he could give the guy some credit.

It hadn’t been two hours and the weird amalgam of maroon, yellow and violaceous lights bouncing off every surface of the vast room made Fushimi’s eyes feel dry and sore already. It must have been affecting the rational side of his brain too, because the sudden wish to become a cactus was stronger than the thought of it being absurd.

At the near end of the bar, the bartender smiled courteously while mixing up two cocktails, or whatever those were. The two girls waiting for the drinks watched curiously as he held two tongs, one in each hand, and raised two tiny ice cubes before letting them fall onto the drinks. The liquid turned orange for a moment, then red, and the girls leaned into the counter like they were drawn to it, gaping in awe.

It was all legal, of course. What’s more, there seemed to be some mutual contract that Fushimi honestly didn’t want to know the details about between the bar’s owner and the force Fushimi worked for —or more specifically his boss, who, speaking of which, had conveniently disappeared from his sight, that bastard. Not that he expected to share his misery with that man, but he was the one always dragging them all into this.

Clicking his tongue, Fushimi turned to his glass, his elbows digging further into the wooden bar. His poor excuse of a drink tasted like carbonated grape juice and nothing else —bless Kusanagi for having something to indulge his most picky guests with— and sat obediently in front of him, and that was all he needed.

More glasses clinked against one another. More euphoric hands slammed down against tables.

Well, it couldn’t be that barbaric. No one was stupid nor drunk enough to think of causing a riot in Kusanagi’s pub, let alone if a bunch of off-duty officers took up a quarter of the room —not that anyone had recognized them, except for Awashima, maybe. This had been a recurrent activity for them, and ever since Fushimi joined the Intelligence Unit that served directly under Munakata’s orders and since he came of age, he found himself being dragged along to these... celebrations of sorts, whether it was cherry blossom viewing, the floating lanterns, Halloween, Christmas, or more.

Working for the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department had been easy, but it wasn’t until the Superintendent General himself had personally picked him up that he started to benefit from it, in a way. He hadn’t trusted Munakata at first, but Fushimi was good at what he did and Munakata was good at letting Fushimi do what he was good at. He could still feel the ghost of the plastic keys under his fingers from earlier that afternoon as he installed a tracking malware into a Zip file and sent it by e-mail to an accomplice of some scumbag they were keeping an eye on. It was always delectable, the visual confirmation that the e-mail had been received, the Zip file opened and the malware installed, a rush of anticipation bubbling up inside of him. To say that he enjoyed his job sounded too colorful, just like the drinks that were beginning to give him a headache just by looking at them.

Right, this was supposed to be a party. Fushimi should just enjoy it.

But, no. He still didn’t know how they always succumbed to the General’s wishes, honestly. ‘Munakata Reisi is such a good man, and charming, too’, everyone said, but it was ridiculous; his attempts at having his subordinates engage in bonding activities knew no limits and this year was no exception. At least it wasn’t some creepy, private talent demonstration. At least, with his boss nowhere to be seem, Fushimi was able to embrace some solitude for himself —well, what little solitude he could get in a crowded bar on the night of New Year’s Eve.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to diminish his suffering; he was a resourceful man. He had thought about bringing his laptop and catch up on some work from there, let the others enjoy themselves in this so-called blissful tradition, but the moment he had unplugged his computer and made the motion to tuck the charger into the pocket of his pants, Awashima sent him the second warning glare of the evening from the corner of her icy eyes, a scowl settled firm on her face as she slipped something inside her purse. Fushimi sighed, defeated.

He could go outside and try to find some internet café open willing to welcome a troubled, morose soul such as his, but that meant wandering into a winter night and he had left his coat in the van. And guess-who-Awashima —that’s who—had the key in her possession in a blatant display of abuse of authority. He could ask for the key, though, and she would give it to him, loathly. It would also earn him the third glare of the night.

But the future scolding? She would so give it to him, too.

He didn’t know what her problem was. Most of his work functioned behind a desk and he very much liked the control he had over a keyboard and seeing quantifiable, solid results in a screen. Nobody ever noticed he was there, pulling invisible threads and collecting data no one else but him could only see and cherish, and it was fine; he didn’t want anyone’s half, incomplete attention. He was sure no one was aware of him there now, either, so why not let him waste his time in his own way?

That was what he thought.

The lack of someone to talk to left him unaccompanied, but not quite alone.

There was a sudden laughter, a voice he recognized, and when he turned his gaze toward the guys from the main squad he was closer with —‘guys’ being a euphemism for ‘people he usually hacked magnetic doors for so that they could get in and out in one piece in time’ and ‘closer’ for ‘forced to work with even if he didn’t want to’— Enomoto had a scrunched expression on his face, his eyes tightly shut as Domyoji, who was most likely the one who laughed, patted his back a little too hard. Camo rubbed his fingers across his temple while Hidaka grinned like the sight was the funniest thing.

Awashima was some feet away, eyeing them warily but somewhat fondly while she talked to the girl from General Affairs, who had something yellowish and strikingly dense in her drink that Fushimi really, really didn’t want to know what it was.

He dragged his eyes to their right, where a girl was batting her eyelashes at a very flustered Akiyama, possibly attempting to hit on him, and allowed a sentiment of pity to creep into his mind, because she’d need more than that —a few more years, to be exact, according to his coworkers— to spark Akiyama’s interest. Benzai was next to him, drinking something in silence, with a somewhat malicious glint in his smile.

Fushimi stared at them for a bit longer, remembrance crossing behind his eyes; it had started out with small missions and a few insignificant raids, and before he realized it he had them getting too close to him and gasping every time he as much as opened the notepad window in front of them. Even Domyoji was so thrilled to ‘make his own code’ once. It was ridiculous. They’d always complain about activities like these, but didn’t seem to mind that much at the moment. They probably gave up fighting against Munakata’s bewitching aura a long time ago or none of them had a social life, it seemed.

Whatever, it was none of his business.

Fushimi took in his surroundings judgamentally one more time, at the people bonding with their acquaintances, basking in their little bubbles of ephemeral happiness, deciding that the only good thing about everyone having someone to pour their attention to was that the lack of attention on him was nonexistent and greatly appreciated.

He was losing his time. He could be hacking into some loser’s terminal, clawing at their little secrets and encrypted files so that they could arrest them later for drug trafficking or something stupider. And then, Fushimi could bask in that —in the desperation seeping through their sorry faces, all because they opened one of his little e-mails, fell into one of his traps.

A tiny smile started to creep up on his face as his hand instinctively reached down to the pocket in his pants, feeling the flat shape of his phone there. That was his field of action, not engaging in some cheap, bond-making activity.

“H-hey.”

And most definitely not engaging into meaningless conversations with strangers, either.

He had just clenched his fingers around his phone when the voice behind him spoke. It was hesitant and low, but it was there, and Fushimi turned around reluctantly, expecting to have to raise his eyes to level with the gaze of whoever was on the other side.

But he didn’t have to.

The guy was wearing a light-gray hoodie that looked slightly oversized on him and red camouflage pants that reached his ankles.

A minor?

“Please, tell me you’re single.”

Well, it seemed a simple ‘hi’ wasn’t enough. People were so desperate, lately.

The words came out a bit rushed, his voice low and hoarse. There was a flush of color in his cheeks and the way his lips twisted into a scowl made him look... small.

Fushimi had no intention to keep this up for long, but he still asked, stupidly, “What?”

“You’re with them, right?” the guy asked, nodding his head toward the area behind Fushimi, where he had been staring at a moment ago. “I’ve seen you guys before. You come when there’s a big night or something. And...” He paused to run a hand through his coppery hair, hesitating for an instant. “You’re always alone, right?”

The assumption was as good as true, but it felt irritating when someone else said it. Fushimi merely stared at him, both kind of offended and weirded out. What was he supposed to do with this information? And he had only come to this bar, what, three times?

“Are you a stalker?” Fushimi asked, eyes narrowing.

The redhead let out a mix between a gasp and a squeak, his eyes widening in mortification, clearly taken aback by the accusation. Just then Fushimi was able to see the entirety of his brilliant hazel eyes, slightly obscured by the artificial lights and all the dark wood.

“It’s not like—! Oh, shit.” His words died abruptly as he quickly looked around him, as if raising his voice had blown his cover or something, before leaning into Fushimi’s personal space to whisper-yell instead. “It’s not like that!”

Fushimi leaned back like there was a sudden allergy towering over him, not appreciating the sudden closeness, and the other did the same, backing off slowly with a kind of sullen but slightly hopeful expression on his face.

“Listen, I just... Do you like guys?”

This was all a peculiar, obnoxious way to say ‘hi’, indeed. Fushimi made a mental note not to come to this bar anytime soon; pretending to be a dead plant just did not work on everyone.

“What?”

“Shit.” The guy ran a hand down his face in clear agitation, voice getting more desperate by the second. “You don’t even have to, you know, I just need you to pretend to be with me, to... to... b-be my boyfriend.” Fushimi arched an eyebrow, not bothering to reply verbally before the redhead raised his hands defensively. “It’s gonna be okay! It’s all right, I promise! Everyone here is... um, you know... see?”

His gaze fell somewhere off to their side, urging Fushimi to do the same. Fushimi’s brow furrowed as he summoned some energy to turn his head the slightest bit to see whatever he was being shown. Seated at one of the tables were the two girls with the colorful cocktails from before, too close to each other; one was laughing giddily while the other stared at her intently. On their left, three people occupied one of the couches, the guy in the middle sleeping soundly as the man and woman at his sides stroked his hair. Near the old phonograph sitting on a corner table, Fushimi thought he recognized the wavy hair of the fortuneteller from the shopping center, and someone else by her side. A little closer to the redhead, some guy had just walked up the counter and slid an arm around his companion’s waist, another guy who smiled at him when he turned and saw whose arm it was.

Fushimi’s eyes trailed back to the distressed man in front of him. So, did he see his point, including all that unnecessary public display of affection? Yes, but he was more concerned about his intentions than his attempts at reassurance.

“I don’t know you.”

“Yata! I’m Yata!” he blurted out hastily. “And you are...?”

Just Yata? Better make things fair, then. “Fushimi.”

“F-Fushimi...” Yata gave a pause, looking like he wanted to ask more. “So, Fushimi? What do you say?”

Fushimi’s eyes narrowed further. “Why?”

Yata’s shoulders slumped, as though he had been expecting the question. “D-don’t laugh, okay?” he said, fidgeting his fingers together. “It’s my... my ex. He’s here.”

Ah, so that’s what it was. The last Fushimi wanted was to get involved in some dramatic misunderstanding with feelings in between.

“He’s a bit of a creep,” Yata went on. “He... may not talk to me if he sees me with someone else.”

“I don’t have time for this. Go bother someone else.” Fushimi adjusted in his seat, leaning into the bar and ready to go back to whatever he was thinking of losing his time with, when he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulder. The contact made him snap his head to the side to shot Yata an irritated scowl; he was tired and didn’t mean for it to look like a glare, but Yata quickly jerked his hand away like it was.

“S-sorry. Sorry,” Yata stuttered, unsure of how to continue. “I tried. I wanted to ask Kamamoto — my friend, I mean. But he has a girlfriend and everybody knows they’re together, so...” He shook his head and took a deep breath in. “Look, I’m desperate, okay? And you’re the only one, s-so... please.”

“Why don’t you just go somewhere else?”

“I can’t! My friends are gonna be here soon. Well,” he took a moment to check his wristwatch, “a few minutes before midnight, if they make it in time. They’re in a concert. And my... this guy, he... he’s right next to the exit.”

Yata’s plan sounded as hollow as the whole point of Fushimi’s presence at this party, but if Fushimi indulged him, it was just because he was a bit curious to see who was able to put up with this guy for who knew how long.

“Who even is this ex of yours?”

“Um... he’s in all white, near the fish tank.” Yata’s voice was losing a little of its initial traces of anxiety as he took the inquiry as a cue to invite himself to sit in the empty chair to Fushimi’s left, immediately leaning forward and dropping his head onto the counter in a defeated manner, or as though he was hiding. “He’s not looking over here.”

Fushimi pushed his reluctance —mixed with a little laziness— to the back of his mind as he swiveled his seat just enough to follow Yata’s vague description of the mystery man... finding it to be actually not that vague when he easily spotted him, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“The one with the white shirt,” Yata said, voice a bit muffled and disheartened. “White pants, white scarf—”

“Pashmina.”

“What?”

“It’s not a scarf.”

“Whatever.”

Seriously? That guy? Out of all the people in the city?

The world was a strange place.

Fushimi managed to keep his expression blank as he turned toward Yata, who tilted his head up to look at him.

“He’s talking to that tall guy in purple. You saw him?”

Fushimi refrained from raising an eyebrow. Didn’t he just mention the pashmina? “No. But I saw his pashmina,” he deadpanned. Hey, if people went around asking for fake boyfriends, he could be a comedian, too; the best.

“What?” Yata asked, genuinely concerned. “And what about him?”

Oh my god.

“Yes, I saw him, too,” he said dully, making a sound halfway between a laugh and a skeptical snort.

That made Yata raise his head. “What?” His brow furrowed in obvious discomfort, if not suspicion. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I can’t believe this.” Then again, it was none of his business.

“Shut up,” Yata murmured. There was a new shade of red across his cheeks as he averted his eyes, from embarrassment or something else. For some odd reason, Fushimi found it interesting, but he still clicked his tongue, regretting opening his mouth before he could stop himself from asking —he wasn’t that interested.

“How did you two even meet?”

“Uh... in the arcade.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I saw him there one time... I knew him from his videos. He has a video game channel, with videos and all.”

Fushimi gave a scornful scoff. If he heard the word ‘video’ one more time— “What else if not?”

“Yeah. Right... and he sometimes films himself, his reactions, but... he doesn’t react at all. His combos are great, though!” Yata’s voice sparked up and Fushimi grimaced, feeling something unpleasant stirring in his chest. He ignored it. “Anyway, I gotta thank you. So, yeah.... thanks,” Yata said, the comers of his mouth pulling into a small smile that looked too open for Fushimi’s taste, too sincere, but what did he know.

The scowl on his own face grew slightly deeper. “What are you thanking me for?”

“Eh?” Yata’s eyebrows quirked up in confusion. “For... helping me out?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“Wh-what?”

“I told you I don’t have time for this.” Yata merely stared at him, completely dumbstruck. Fushimi rolled his eyes. “I can see why he left you.”

“He didn’t—! W-we kinda — ugh.” Yata let out a whiny groan, and the way he crossed his elbows over the counter and dropped his head in his arms reminded Fushimi of a dog about to get medication. The scene was funny, though.

“All right,” Fushimi murmured and pulled his phone out, bringing their little exchange to an end. With no choice but to find some solace in the screen in his hand, which was small and not friendly at all for complex operations, he kept himself fairly occupied tweaking some of the new codes he had been working on to improve the firewalls on the servers at headquarters.

He still thought everything was too stupid —Munakata planning their extracurricular activities, the people in the bar, the colorful drinks, Yata’s romantic record.

“Yata-chan.”

Fushimi flicked his eyes up from the screen to see the bartender staring down at Yata with a rueful smile. Yata raised his head at the voice, too, his expression livening up a little.

“Hang in there,” Kusanagi said, “it’s not midnight, yet.”

“Ah, Kusanagi-san, can you make me one?”

“Sure thing.” Kusanagi walked off, ready to get Yata whatever he asked for.

“Thanks.”

So, Kusanagi and Yata knew each other, yet Fushimi had never seen the redhead before until now? Well, it wasn’t as if his reputation would be at stake if he had somehow missed Yata’s existence.

None of my business.

Fushimi gave a mental shrug and went back to his phone.

It lasted a good minute.

It wasn’t as if he cared about what it was, but Yata was doing something next to him, with his hands, and the shadows of his fingers —and whatever reason he was fiddling with them for— were reflecting on his screen, and it was beginning to turn a little irritating.

Clicking his tongue, Fushimi set his phone down with an exasperated sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Eh?” Yata looked taken aback, raw surprise all over his face. “Ah, I’m... practicing what I’m going to say to him.”

There was a long moment of silence as Fushimi stared at him, unconvinced, his mouth half-agape. “Seriously?”

“I-I have to be prepared!”

Prepared for what?

Fushimi didn’t know what was making his irritation grow more —if it was Yata’s vacillation or perseverance over something so petty, or both.

“Idiot,” he mumbled with a huff.

“Hah?”

He was just about to unlock the screen of his phone when Kusanagi returned with Yata’s drink, and his eyes caught on the distinctive beverage on the counter that was making the redhead beam like a dog given a treat. It was a miracle that Yata refrained from sticking his tongue out like one. Even his hair looked pettable.

But, as a rational human being in his right mind, the mere thought of petting anyone’s hair revolted Fushimi to no end.

Should he be concerned that he didn’t feel revolted? Yet?

Fushimi clenched his hand around his phone, deciding it was wise —and ridiculous, honestly, there was no way he was going to do something that stupid— to keep his fingers somewhere he could see them before the whole display of affection bullshit became contagious and made him think of wanting to bond with strangers.

Well, Fushimi knew Kusanagi, and Kusanagi knew Yata —so, technically, Yata was half stranger.

“Thanks, Kusanagi-san!”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow, mildly taken aback at how easily Yata jumped from his previous pitiful state of mind to another.

“Enjoy it, Yata-chan.”

“Yeah!”

Yata didn’t look up, too enthralled by his drink, but Fushimi did, just for the sake of it, as if Kusanagi’s words had been directed at him, and felt his breath catch a little when the eyes behind those purple shades met his. There was a fleeting instant of unspoken communication before the bartender smiled —To him? To himself?—, apparently having found something very funny, and walked away.

Fushimi followed his retreating figure with wary eyes, until Yata’s smiling face came in sight, and he found himself sitting frozen for an instant, his eyes shifting to the pink straw protruding from the snowy, bubbly surface of the glass, then following its length until it disappeared between Yata’s slightly chapped lips. As if finishing a circuit, his gaze was drawn toward Yata’s neck and the muscles of his throat tensing rhythmically as he swallowed.

Did those two even kiss, or what.

“What?” Yata asked, and when Fushimi blinked away the remnants of his thoughts, he realized Yata’s eyes were looking straight into his. He seemed absurdly content with himself, though; it was as if he had forgotten all about the issue with this ex, or whatever.

“Piña colada — are you a kid?” Fushimi mumbled under his breath and looked away, more annoyed at his heart giving a sudden leap at having been caught staring than at Yata’s infantile choices. Not that he was one to talk; if the grape juice in front of him had a face it would probably be raising a sardonic eyebrow at him.

“Huh?” Yata leaned in closer, eyebrows coming down in a frown but not quite looking nearly as offended as Fushimi expected. “I’m not a kid! And what are you drinking, huh?” he asked in an accusatory tone before making a move to grab at Fushimi’s glass, which Fushimi caught first just in time, holding it out of the redhead’s reach.

“It’s not your business.”

“Well, my business is not your business, either!”

“Whatever.” He set his drink down. “It’s kind of hard to do this when the one who asked me to pass for his boyfriend looks and acts like a middle-schooler.”

He didn’t exactly know why he said that, or why he said it like that, but when he saw Yata’s cheeks flaring up, almost matching the fiery color of his hair, he found the slip worth it and the sight much more pleasant to watch than what he originally estimated. This was fun.

“What did you just said?” Yata growled, something scalding seeping into his voice.

“The truth,” Fushimi managed with a nonchalant shrug.

“Shut up! Wh-why are you even complaining? You didn’t even want to help me!”

Fushimi clicked his tongue and turned to his phone, finally unlocking the screen and setting up the code he was working on.

Beside him, Yata murmured. “You told me you didn’t have time.”

“Not if you don’t make it quick, no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yata asked, but Fushimi didn’t respond. “Whatever. I’m losing my time.” He let out a huff of discontent as he grabbed his drink and put a feet down to lift himself off his seat. “I’ll get someone else,” he muttered grudgingly under his breath, but Fushimi’s ears picked it up almost instantly.

For some reason, the thought of that made him oddly uncomfortable, and before he could stop himself he reached out to catch Yata’s wrist. Yata stilled, turning his head to stare back at him with surprised eyes. Slightly puzzled and woozy himself, Fushimi immediately retracted his hand and looked away.

“F-Fushimi?”

Of course he’d felt uncomfortable. Being disposed of was one thing; being replaced was something entirely else. It had to be that. It was only natural. Besides, out of everyone in the room, he was currently the most competent and sober enough, right? Who knew what mess this —this Yata could get into and leave for him, a police employee, to clean up?

“You stood too fast.” Fushimi couldn’t keep the words from slipping out, but he was relieved that his voice didn’t falter. “You’re going to hit your head, idiot,” he said, and never had he wanted someone to pat him on the back for such a well carried out comeback.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Yata looked up dumbly at the glass rack over the counter and all the wine glasses hanging upside down that were too far from reaching his head. He then asked, truly perplexed, “With what?”

Fushimi still felt disoriented. “With... alcohol.” Wrong answer, but Yata didn’t seem to notice.

“This barely has any alcohol.”

Point for Fushimi, which he celebrated by letting his lips curve up slightly and greeting the air rushing back into his body. “Ah, so you are a kid after all.”

“Oh — shut up.”

“Whatever, I didn’t say no, either,” he said hurriedly.

Yata stared at him speechless for a moment, tilting his head to the side when the words sunk in. “Really?”

“Hm.” Oh, he wanted to ask himself that. “I was busy, and you made me waste my time — you better make it worth it,” he explained drearily.

“The hell? You should have told me. How is that my fault?”

“I told you. You didn’t listen.” Fushimi shrugged. “And it’s not. I’m just stating a fact.”

Fushimi felt a strange sense of consolation when Yata slumped back in his seat. “You’re weird.”

“Says the one with the creepy ex.”

Yata didn’t refute that, but he made a soft snorting sound, as though validating Fushimi’s point. “So... now what?”

Fushimi went back to his phone. He didn’t have the answer to that. The jumble of mixed thoughts in his head was already whirling at such speed that he found himself scarcely able to control his actions —that little episode in which his hand hadn’t wanted to let Yata go had been his first and hopefully last imprudent move of the night, though, so he was still fine.

So, no, he didn’t have the energy to tell others what to do. This was Yata’s idea in the first place.

The harmony he soon found in the neat lines of characters and symbols perfectly aligned as he typed them made up for the general mess in the bar and his mind.

“Hey,” Yata said, “what’s so important on your damn—”

Fushimi was just about to close a section when he heard the rustle of Yata’s hoodie against the counter as he leaned over, followed by an audible gasp.

“Holy shit. Is that, like, a computer thing?”

A computer thing. “Hm, you’re not as unintelligent as you look.”

“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Yata said, as-a-matter-of-factly, and one could practically hear the moment he pushed Fushimi’s insult out of his ears, his voice gaining a more lively tone. “But that’s the thing they do in movies, right? When they’re gonna wreck shit up and all that.”

Fushimi finally glanced up from the screen; there was only so much his ears could take and Yata’s vocabulary was treading dangerously close to a brink that Fushimi almost found offensive to his IQ if he as much as looked and listened to him at the same time. But he turned, anyway, and Yata looked... excited, more than when he was staring at the slice of pineapple in his stupid drink.

Fair enough. Not that Fushimi wanted to compete against a fruit.

It was just a bit intriguing.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said.

“You kidding? That shit looks hell complicated.” Yata took a sip of his drink, swallowing audibly before asking, “And what’s all that?”

“I’m working on a firewall.”

“Cool! A what?”

Fushimi rolled his eyes, thinking of a way to make him understand. “It keeps viruses away.” Kind of.

As expected, Yata nodded vigorously. “Ah, gotcha, gotcha. Viruses suck!” He grinned then, propping an elbow onto the counter and resting his chin in his hand. “So, you’re one of the good guys.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Yeah! You’re, like... a genius!”

Fushimi wasn’t expecting Yata to make any sense, but he wasn’t expecting to feel a sort of warm tightness in his chest, either. It must have been all the alcohol he’d been smelling in the air, not consuming. Definitely.

“A good genius,” Yata felt the need to clarify for whatever reason, extending his index finger beneath his chin for emphasis.

For all he knew, the redhead probably had no idea what Fushimi was doing; he could be typing out different insults in another language and lots of ‘t#¡5 5uCK$’ and ‘y0ur v3rY $h0r7’ and he wouldn’t even notice the difference. But something about something, whatever it was, that had been lingering around, made him think that all the time he’d wasted that miserable night had been slightly worth it. Just a little.

“How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty one.”

“Me too!” Yata said, a little too excitedly. “You have a video channel, or something?” Fushimi shook his head gently, and Yata raised an eyebrow, a disheartening look crossing his face. “A website?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you make one?”

“Why?”

Yata shrugged. “I don’t know. So that people see what you can do? You don’t want that?”

“Not really.” He had contemplated it, once, but something about that fleeting, half-assed interest made him push that thought away, made him feel used, a mere novelty.

“Man, if I could get half the stuff that you do, I’d make my own videos, and all.” Yata said, stretching his arms over the counter.

“You don’t even know what I do.”

Yata frowned a little, a tiny pout forming on his mouth, like he could still guess it. “It’s gotta be some... computer stuff, right?”

“Hm,” Fushimi hummed, looking down, his lips tilting up a little.

“So, what do you do?” Yata swiveled in his seat and leaned his body back with his elbows over the counter. His posture was open and welcoming as his lips curled into a smile.

Fushimi felt the nature of the conversation begin to shift, Yata’s original proposition long forgotten as he pried into a more personal territory than just superficialities. Of all the consequences that arose out of social interplay, talking about himself was what Fushimi disliked the most, but he found he didn’t really mind, this time.

He opened his mouth to speak, when he saw Yata’s eyes flicker to the front and his face instantly transfigure with stupefaction, eyes slowly widening with something akin to disbelief. Disappointingly, all the traces of his grin naturally faded away, as well.

“Shit.” Yata turned around hastily, lowering his head into his shoulders as if protecting himself from everything around him.

“What?” Fushimi asked, mildly intrigued.

“Shit.”

“I don’t speak barbarian.”

“He — he saw me. He’s coming, isn’t he?”

Fushimi turned his head just enough to see the man in question approaching them at a solid pace with light footfalls, his ever so cryptic and airy aura accompanying those thin, pale lips that pressed together into the condescending little smile that Fushimi was so familiar with, if only because it irked him to no end. Instantly feeling his mood sour, he dragged his gaze back toward the bar, awaiting the inevitable. He didn’t feel like speaking to anybody else, much less with that guy.

Well, guess there’s no running away from this, anyway.

“Saruhiko.”

“Hisui,” Fushimi replied with a sigh, turning halfway to face him and show the bare minimum amount of respect with a slight nod.

Beside him, he heard Yata gasp. When he saw him out of the corner of his eye, his mouth was hung open, a look of utter disbelief crossing over his face as his big eyes bore into Fushimi’s face.

“What a coincidence.”

“Indeed,” Fushimi said, his gaze back to Hisui. He didn’t have to struggle to keep his voice blank and devoid of emotion. “I didn’t know you came to these things.”

Hisui’s smile was still there, getting uglier now that he was up close. It wasn’t his fault, though, it wasn’t that he tried, Saruhiko concluded long ago. But still.

“That’s not incorrect. This is my first attendance here. Our New Year’s Eve meetings are usually held somewhere near my office.” Hisui made a pause, and then his eyes were glinting with something that Fushimi couldn’t decipher. “But the suburbs aren’t that bad, once in a while.”

That was it. The first thing he was going to do when he got back to headquarters was sit at his computer and send half a gigabyte worth of spam to his boss’ e-mail account. Just because. And for making him deal with unexpected encounters like this one. Not that it was directly his fault. And so what if the junk filter he’d designed and built himself would block anything he’d send —if he had to work on a stronger spambot and destroy his own barriers in the process, so be it.

But that sounded too tiresome already, so the least he could do was to edit some Wikipedia pages with —more— inaccurate information, maybe hack into some random mobster’s phone. Ten mobsters, tops.

“Ah,” Fushimi said.

Hisui then turned to the redhead, who was still frozen on his spot, trying to process what was happening before his eyes. “Misaki.”

Now, that made Fushimi’s ears perk up.

Misaki, huh.

So, were they really on a first-name basis? Or was it just Hisui? It was hard to know, since that was how Hisui worked with people, believing he could freely intrude anyone’s personal barriers and make himself at home, playing with their endurance as a kid would with a toy.

It was probably just Hisui, all right.

Yata shook his head, recovering from his stupor albeit reluctantly. “Y-yo, Nagare.”

It wasn’t.

Fushimi frowned at that.

Just ten mobsters? Scratch that. Make it twenty.

A disapproving sneer settled on Yata’s face as he whispered, “And for the last time, don’t call me that.”

Maybe spread some creepypasta bullshit while he was at it, too.

Also, was it just a feeling or was Yata somehow scooting closer to Fushimi’s seat?

“Oh.” Hisui’s smile fell away. He looked genuinely confounded for a moment before his lips curved up again, in a calmer manner. “It’s a good thing you’re here.”

“Huh?” Yata straightened up, expression slightly puzzled but devoid of any previous hints of nervousness as Hisui pulled his phone out and held it for him to see. The screen glowed with a green light that scattered into tiny cubes before a menu titled ‘JUNGLE - Experimental Phase’ popped up, displaying simple commands like ‘START’, ‘CONTINUE’ and ‘OPTIONS’. Fushimi’s face scrunched up in disgust.

So... he abhorred the whole social interaction thing and was no expert on the matter, but if this was Yata’s ex, shouldn’t Hisui fret a little like Yata was a moment ago? Just a little bit? Nothing? What was with the lack of awkwardness and the natural friendliness?

What’s going on here?

“The first experimental level is complete,” Hisui explained.

“R-really?” Something about Yata’s hesitant enthusiasm made Fushimi suddenly feel out of place.

“Do you want to test it?”

“E-eh?” More hesitation. More confusion. “Is it all right?”

“Of course. I plan to launch the official demonstration next week.”

Yata’s fingers were twitching on his lap, unsure of how to react —hell, he was fidgeting so much that it made Fushimi irritable, so he’d better take the damn phone or tell Hisui to go to hell before Fushimi gave in to the urge to pour grape juice over his hands to keep them still, or to hold them.

Wait.

What?

“Oh. Okay.”

Despite his indecision, Yata eventually took the phone and turned it to a horizontal position. Upon selecting one of the options, the application started running. Apparently, it was a game, and the player was to select certain items before they moved out of the screen, to pile up combos and whatnot.

“T-This... this is awesome!” Yata said, clearly forgetting he was supposed to feel uncomfortable by the whole situation in the first place.

Fushimi would have snorted, but what made his throat unable to function was the glint in Yata’s eyes as his thumbs danced across the screen with ease, the little curve on his lips evolving dangerously toward a smile, his expression too genuine and too close to the one that lit his face when he saw Fushimi do that thing that people did in movies.

So much for being creepy, that Hisui.

A good minute passed and Fushimi had no idea how he’d been managing to kill the time. Why did it feel like he was the only one affected by all this?

They were interrupted by a sudden buzzing noise in Yata’s hands.

“Uh, this... is a call?”

“Ah, it must be Iwa-san.”

“Ah, sure,” Yata said, handing the phone back.

“Thank you. Excuse me for a moment.” Hisui gave a courteous nod and walked away to answer.

Fushimi clicked his tongue in annoyance, hating the way he felt himself relax in his seat, but the heavy uncertainness was still spiraling around his throat and he needed to get it out of his system.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered, low and exasperated, like he had just run a mile.

“I have no idea,” Yata deadpanned, and Fushimi shot him a sharp glare, making him jolt in his seat. “S-seriously!”

“Hisui Nagare is your ex?”

Yata’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “And you — why do you know him?!” he asked, more shocked than intrigued.

“I don’t know him.”

“You knew his name! A-and he knew your name! Was that your name? S-Saruhiko?”

Fushimi looked away, clicking his tongue again, not bothering to reply to that. “We worked together. Once. A few times.” To say that they actually worked together was an understatement. They tolerated each other, while trying to work together. More specifically, Fushimi tried to tolerate him. He was sure Hisui detested Munakata, and the feeling seemed to be very mutual, honestly, but he still assisted, lending his services when he was called, for he had people working on online forums and message boards —Fushimi was sure half of the attacks against personal accounts of several governmental personalities were Hisui’s doings— and they were usually able to get their hands on specific kind of information in a faster way than Fushimi would like to admit.

More often than not, it turned into a competition to see who could reach the goal first, even if Hisui wasn’t even aware of it. And the guy still had the time and the guts to run a gaming channel.

It pissed Fushimi off then, and it was pissing him off now. Would it be too obvious if he spread some nasty fake rumors about Hisui that very same night? Maybe that he cheated during his walkthroughs?

“You worked... together?” Yata repeated, trying to piece the information together. “Was it com—”

“Computer stuff. Yes.”

“Right.” There was a pause. “Was he always that... you know?”

“Patronizing and ostentatious?” Fushimi scoffed, the words easily flowing from his mouth.

Yata smiled a bit. “I was gonna say eager.”

Eager? “Hisui?”

“Yeah.” There was a bashful look on Yata’s face all of a sudden as he rubbed his neck. “W-well, I’ve only known him for two months, but...”

“You mean two years?”

“Eh? No, two months.”

Huh?

Fushimi looked at him dead in the eyes. “Two... what?” He was definitely no expert, but wasn’t that too... soon? “Did you two really...” Date? Know each other? Kiss? What did it matter to Fushimi, anyway? Why did it matter?

Yata didn’t need him to go on, catching the hint immediately. “Y-yeah!”

“He didn’t seem to care.”

“I-I know!” The incertitude in Yata’s face wasn’t feigned, at least not that Fushimi could tell; they both seemed to be just as surprised. “I haven’t talked to him ever since... since his last e-mail.”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued, if only to try to unravel whatever was happening with the little data he had. That was it. Nothing more. “E-mail?”

“Ah, yeah. I still have them.” Yata pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket, his thumb swiping across the screen like it was navigating through a list. “We hung out a few times in the arcade, because he likes going there a lot, and then we exchanged e-mails. He was working on this game and used to e-mail me almost every day with updates and other things I didn’t really understand. And... it started to get a bit annoying, honestly, because I had this new job and I was getting the messages when I was at work.” Yata’s shoulders slumped down, cheeks slightly flushed, ashamed that he had to admit that. “So I told him to stop sending them, then he said something about... being in the ex zone, or something.”

“Ex zone?” Fushimi felt dumb for repeating Yata’s words.

“Yeah, that’s how they call it when you... break up with someone? And you’re in the ex phase? Like, in English? Literally in English.” Yata said, fiddling with his index fingers.

In English, or in French, as far as Fushimi was concerned, but that wasn’t the main point. “Why in English? Why not in Japanese?”

“I know!” Yata exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air in dramatic exasperation. “I think he wanted to do it like in movies. Also, I think he’s bilingual.” He paused. “No, trilingual.”

As mundane and inane as Yata’s story sounded, Fushimi refrained from clicking his tongue; there was still something he was missing, because the apathetic, blank-as-a-ghost Hisui that Fushimi could allow himself to say he knew to a certain extent —regardless of what he’d said to Yata—, just wouldn’t...

And who began dating someone just like that, and without the other knowing?

Hisui? No, not hungry-for-control-and-exactitude Hisui.

Fushimi still wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought of being in Yata’s shoes.

“I-I didn’t know that... he saw me like that,” Yata continued, expression still reserved, cheeks still flushed, but there was a worried frown on his forehead. “I never liked him... like that.”

It all sounded very weird, but Fushimi had long suspected that Yata didn’t respond to Hisui’s supposed feelings, and now he had an explicit confirmation.

He didn’t know when he started to feel a bit relieved.

Still, Yata didn’t have to make that awestruck face when he was playing that stupid game.

“When I told my friends, they told me I screwed up. And Nagare... he didn’t send anything else after that.”

Yata seemed to find what he was looking for, because he held out his phone to Fushimi, who found himself staring dumbly at it for a moment before tucking his own phone in the pocket of his jeans and taking Yata’s with a sigh. He recognized the interface on the screen as an e-mail application, which displayed a column with all the exchanged e-mails between Yata and Hisui. Trailing a lazy finger over the surface, Fushimi skimmed over some of their latest messages just to have a vague idea of their —ugh— relationship of sorts, deliberately ignoring any variations of ‘awesome’ and ‘great’ in Yata’s responses and highlighting, inside his head, the way Hisui’s monotonous words seemed to resemble those of an emotionless rock.

Fushimi paused for a moment to glance up at Yata, who was staring expectantly at him, and turned back to the phone, eventually reaching the last message, his eyes already narrowing skeptically at it.

To: Hisui Nagare
Date: Monday, December 21, 10.25 AM
Subject: Re: BETA STATE

hey nagare! i got a new job and i cant check my mail at wrk so u don’t have to keep sending me stuff anymore but tell m when u finish the game i wanna see it!! any idea when its gonna be up??

So, apparently, that had been what triggered their break-up. And what Hisui said after...

To: YATA MISAKI
Date: Monday, December 21, 10.26 AM
Subject: Re: BETA STATE

ALL RIGHT, MISAKI.
WE ARE ENTERING THE EX PHASE.
CONCLUDING DATE SCHEDULED FOR DECEMBER 31ST.

The words ‘ex phase’ were written in Latin letters, in English. The rest was kanji.

Ex phase?

Didn’t Hisui mention something about an experimental something? Wasn’t his game called Jungle something—

Experimental Phase?

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Yata’s voice chimed in. “And today’s the thirty-first! Is that why he’s here?”

Fushimi raised his head, facing the guy with fiery, messy hair, oversized hoodie and red pants, who had ordered a piña colada and was still looking fixedly at him, waiting to hear his verdict on the subject like he held the truth of the universe in his mouth.

All right, so Hisui’s phrasing was cold and stiff and anyone could wonder if one was talking to a human being or if the emotionless rock had upgraded itself to an emotionless metallic spoon —at least it had a shape. Hisui was, after all, the kind of person a normal human being couldn’t easily keep up with, and anyone could misinterpret his words. Fushimi’s point still stood, and Hisui still was a condescending fool. It didn’t surprise him that Yata might have misinterpreted everything, but...

Really?

He thinks too much or too little!

And no one told him?

Yata was a bigger idiot than he thought.

“Idiot,” Fushimi muttered. He almost felt sorry for him.

“Wh-what?”

He handed Yata his phone back. “So, you went out with him.”

“W-well... yeah? A few times...”

“On dates.”

“I guess?”

“Did you even kiss?”

“Uh... eh?” Yata’s cheeks flared a bright pink and Fushimi had to refrain himself from staring too much at them and remember to keep eye contact. “N-no, he never tried to.”

Because it wasn’t like that, idiot.

“So, you just started hanging out,” Fushimi said, tone dismissive and tinged with a controlled condescendence to further illustrate his point as he rolled his eyes. “Sent a few mails to each other, and you told your friends that he called you his ex — in another language, mind you — and your friends told you that you two were together.”

Yata gave a pause, assembling the facts, and then nodded curtly. “Kinda, yeah.”

For the first time in the night, Fushimi didn’t know how to deal, neither with Yata, who looked like he was still waiting for him to say more, nor with the strange feeling of relief that had been lurking around for a good while now and was washing over him, irrational and fleeting, without him knowing why.

“You—”

“It was Iwa-san.” Hisui’s composed voice beat him to it, as it did his sudden return. Fushimi glared up at him, not missing the way Yata was still looking at him out of the corner of his eye, turning his head slowly toward Hisui only when the other spoke up again. “He lost his way in one of the intersections, but he’ll arrive shortly. In a minute, to be exact.”

Fushimi resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance; it was all useless information, as if what Hisui was saying was equally or more important than what Fushimi had to say, including what he didn’t know what to say —it didn’t matter.

“Misaki,” Hisui called, and both of them straightened up. “You can continue with the level. It has an auto-save feature, so that your progress isn’t lost in case of an interruption.”

Fushimi felt something tug at his chest when Misaki glanced down at the phone that was being offered to him. His eyebrows quirked up with something akin to curiosity, and one of his hands that had been resting on his thigh was lifting slowly. It was all solved; they were never going out, so Fushimi could simply walk away and detach himself from the scene before his eyes. It wasn’t his business, but he couldn’t fathom why he felt a weight being lifted off his chest yet a chaining feeling pulling on him, some bitter residue hovering on his tongue. Yata was an idiot, but there was something just kind of nice slowly making its way up to his face, and Fushimi swallowed thickly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to wipe that expression off his flushed cheeks only to induce it himself.

“Misaki,” Fushimi tried, tasting the novelty of the name in his mouth, wanting to smile a little at how easily it flowed and how quickly Yata responded to it, how readily he turned his head to face him.

Fushimi decided he liked that, finding himself freezing for a moment —maybe reconsidering, maybe not caring at all— before leaning forward as if to whisper something. Yata didn’t made the slightest attempt to move away, remaining still in his seat and looking at Fushimi through the melting bronze of his mildly puzzled eyes.

Fushimi was completely unprepared when his hand found Yata’s face and their skin met for the first time, soft and burning, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was because of Yata or the unfamiliar sensation of feeling someone against the sensible nerves on his palm. He should have felt repelled, and his first instinct told him to pull his hand away, but if he struggled to press it firmer instead, cupping Yata’s cheek and marveling for a brief moment at the sharp contrast between the slightly darkened skin and his pale fingers, Yata never noticed it.

He couldn’t name what exactly came over him; if it was greed or the need to protect something so frail and exceptionally dumb from the guy in front of them, or if it was his own selfish whim and possessiveness pouring out of him, igniting after what had been accumulating and building up inside of him. It was probably a mix of the two, so he brazenly clung to that reasoning, and tilted his head slightly to the side as he leaned in, the tip of Yata’s nose burning as it bumped into his cheek.

“You make that face so easily,” Fushimi said, their lips brushing as he spoke, before meeting in a kiss.

He heard Yata’s breath hitch, his body stiffening a little, but neither pulled away. The thought of closing his eyes crossed his mind at some point, but Yata’s were fully focused on his, wide and glowing under the dim, purplish light of the pub, never once straying away despite the slight wavering in them, in a way Fushimi found mesmerizing, and there was no way he was going to miss that.

There wasn’t much else for him to do, except to try to keep their lips firmly together and vaguely breathe in the superficial scent of pineapple on the chapped surface of Yata’s lips. It wasn’t as if Fushimi had the most remote idea of what to do, but he kind of knew when he was doing all the work by doing... nothing at all, actually, when it was supposed to be a mutual-way thing. There was a small tinge of satisfaction making his stomach flutter warmly and the chains pulling on his muscles come a bit loose... which counterbalanced the fact that Yata wasn’t kissing him back nor pushing him away, eventually leaving him in a neutral, empty area.

No reaction. No profit. No lost. Zero.

He actually felt a little disappointed.

“Oya.”

The new, gravelly voice sounded too close; not enough to make Fushimi pull back from Yata’s lips, but just enough to stir his sense of alertness and borrow his slightest attention, his sharp eyes glancing up toward his side. The sudden interruption was almost appreciated, and accompanying it, along with the slight divergence of the light and a shadow that loomed over them, was the man known as Iwafune Tenkei.

Or, as Hisui called him, “Iwa-san.” Hisui had turned to face him, the very same impassive expression in the blue eyes that were locked on him and Yata a brief moment ago was now welcoming the man by his side. “I’m glad you made it.”

This was getting too awkward and tiresome. Fushimi could feel the growing irritation prickling under his skin, so when his glower met Iwafune’s gaze, he swore he sensed some deity taking pity of him, because the next second Iwafune was smiling wryly, placing a hand on Hisui’s shoulder and nodding somewhere toward some table Fushimi’s eyes didn’t care to follow.

“Hey, Nagare, let’s give the lovebirds some privacy, shall we? The others are waiting.”

Thank goodness, someone in this bar had a functional sense of perception.

“All right. If you say so, Iwa-san.” Hisui nodded gently, sparing a last look at them both. “See you soon. Misaki. Saruhiko.”

And they were gone.

A good three long seconds passed without either making any move, before Fushimi finally drew back with a sigh and a ghost of a shudder he managed to repress as he swiveled his seat and leaned his arms on the counter. The absence of Yata’s lips felt... cold as he bit his own and tasted the sweet remnants of pineapple and coconut.

“Wh-what — what did—” Yata managed in broken sputters that Fushimi could already piece together before he worked up some patience to look to his side. Yata was staring back at him dumbfounded and confused, mouth trembling and shaping little ‘o’s and ‘a’s as if wanting to say something but not so sure what to say first.

“What?”

“Wh-what — what the fuck—” A heavy bag of mixed emotions pulled at Yata’s vocal cords. He was clearly trying to keep his voice down and vocalize his shock at the same time, but all he managed was a somewhat tremulous but uninterrupted, “What was that?!”

Literally? Fushimi believed Yata was able to figure it out by himself. Figuratively? Yata’s hot breath had left a light dampness against Fushimi’s cheek that cooled down too soon and made his skin tingle in reaction. His palms were sweaty and his neck was burning, too.

He hoped Yata wanted the literal answer.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Fushimi clicked his tongue and slumped back heavily against his seat, rushing a hand through his hair, a desperate kind of discontent tone creeping into his voice. “What you’re supposed to do on a date, idiot.”

“B-but... but—”

“What does it matter? He’s gone now, isn’t he?” And technically not because of Fushimi’s actions, but because of Iwafune’s arrival, who seemed to be better at the whole reading-the-atmosphere thing than Hisui. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Yata stared at him silently for a moment, and then averted his gaze, eyes still wide like they were still taking in the facts. “That means... he doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore, right?” There was an edge of hopefulness in Yata’s voice tone that Fushimi found comforting for some reason he couldn’t name —well, not that anything that happened that night made any reasonable sense at all, anyway.

“What are you looking so surprised for? You two were never together in the first place,” Fushimi muttered with indignation, hating the way his voice came out strained and owing it to his mental exhaustion.

“What?” Yata blinked at him in confusion, frozen in his seat. “What do you mean?” he uttered, louder and clearer, his head tilted toward Fushimi as if demanding an explanation. It was weird how truly exposed Yata reacted to Fushimi’s words.

“Tell me, Misaki,” Fushimi said, and had to take a deep breath through his nose, glad that Yata seemed to be mulling over something, because he too needed a moment to register the way Yata’s name had slipped into his speech without him noticing like it was a natural fit. It felt good, though. “Did it ever occur to you that he was talking about his game?”

“What?”

He sighed heavily, turning away and pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s a no.”

“What do you mean?”

“There isn’t any phase, or whatever, between you. He wasn’t talking about you, Misaki. It was about his game.”

“The game.” Yata murmured, then his eyes widened. “B-but... but my friends said...”

“Your friends?” Fushimi spitted the word with disdain. If Yata reacted so strongly to what he said, just how much did he trust his friends? A lot, apparently. “And I take it your friends have plenty of experience with these kind of things.”

“Uh... no... I mean...” Yata hesitated for a moment. “Not all of them.”

“Are you serious?” Fushimi turned his eyes back to him. Yata’s gaze had dropped to the floor. “What kind of idiot do you have to be to think someone’s breaking up with you in another language?”

“S-shut up!” Yata growled in a hushed tone, snapping his head up, a crimson blush rising on his cheeks as his hands clenched into fists. “I-I didn’t know! I... It’s just never happened to me before.”

Fushimi stared blankly at him for a moment, taking in the frown over his nose, glassy eyes and the way a corner of his upper lip lifted ever so slightly to show his teeth. He found the latter endearing; the rest, not so much.

“Clearly. Now you know,” he said, low and lamely.

“Dammit!” Yata looked away in embarrassment, the reddish glow in his face now reaching some of his ears. He sounded more angered with himself than with the truth in Fushimi’s statement.

Yata really was an idiot, but...

Fushimi found himself relaxing at the fact that he was just as inexperienced as him, even if he was a simple-minded moron. Because that was all this was about, because he had just met Yata that night and there was no way Fushimi had taken the slightest interest in someone who couldn’t understand the simplest things. Yata could have had twenty words to introduce himself, yet Fushimi had already judged him from his first six. It was simply something he was used to, collecting information and comparing actual facts to his knowledge, and the current outcome including the reactions of the man beside him had met his expectations...

Halfway.

That’s it. Life was complex and complicated. No one could turn it easy. Asking a stranger for a favor without measuring the consequences? Making a video channel? Yata was a natural flatterer, wasn’t he? So honest and open for his own good. Shouldn’t he be more careful?

Fushimi wondered what would have changed had they met before, or if out of all the people in this bar, Yata hadn’t picked the most secluded and solitary guest, and the thought of someone else taking advantage of his situation sounded all too funny in a hypothetical scenario, but too disgustingly personal, too.

He wandered around that feeling for a little bit but it did nothing to fill the emptiness within, and only when he assimilated how personal he had let it all become, he realized that at some point in the night he had forgotten to lock the cage in his mind guarding all those impulsive feelings of anticipation, and that he had been expecting something else rather than his own judgment of Yata’s persona.

Whatever that was, hadn’t came, and he couldn’t quite put a name to it because he wasn’t sure when he had started to actually expect something else out of this.

It stung, a little.

This was a mess. That’s why he was better off on his own. Like a plant. Or more like a patch of dried grass in a desert, with its sunny sand, warm and golden like Yata’s skin tone.

Ugh.

Without anything intelligent to say, Fushimi drew a deep, shaky breath —only to destabilize himself when the scent of pineapple dragged along with it and coated his palate. He had to turn his head back to the bar hurriedly and let his eyes slide shut.

Pineapple. Pineapple. Misaki’s lips.

Ugh.

There was the issue about what he did.

Fushimi felt his face growing hot. He was losing his mind.

“Dammit!” Yata cussed louder, to no avail, both his voice and the sound of his fist colliding firmly against the counter drowned out by the music and the murmuring ambience all around them. “Those bastards... I’m gonna kill them!” He ran his trembling fingers through his face, grumbling under his breath. “That explains everything! I was right. I was right. No way were we going out. He — he never said anything and we never even ki—”

Yata paused abruptly, and so did Fushimi’s breath; having a vague idea of what was going to come next as he felt the redhead’s eyes piercing the side of his face. Fushimi clicked his tongue in reaction, eyes shifting slightly to look at him with a weak glare.

“Th-then — wh-wh-why did you kiss me?!” Yata blurted out exasperatedly. The words escaped his throat with a high-pitched kind of squeal just as the music in the bar halted for a few beats and picked up again. A couple of chuckles from behind reached Yata’s ears, whose expression quickly contorted in shock and horror, and several curious diners stared at him only for a split of a second, too concerned with their own business to bother to give him more than a sympathetic smile and a shook of their heads as they turned back to their conversations.

Yata kept his head down, his shoulders slumping forward heavily as he slouched over the counter defeatedly. It made him look smaller.

“T-this is all your fault,” he murmured.

“Ah, yes. I came up with this brilliant plan.” Fushimi clicked his tongue again as he rolled his eyes —he could live with that, though, a lot of things he caused to others weren’t usually his doings but his fault. He went through that every day, with every click and every tap of his keyboard.

But his neck still felt hot, and his chest and stomach swirled with nerves and that wasn’t just his fault alone.

Yata then glanced up at Fushimi with a mixture of self-consciousness and curiosity. “Y-you knew it? That we weren’t... before you k-k—kissed—”

“And you didn’t want him to talk to you. I only did what you asked for, so stop thinking about it already.” Fushimi said tiredly.

“But—”

Fushimi’s breath stuttered, and he found himself murmuring through gritting teeth, not being able to stop and needing to get the bothersome feeling off of his tongue. “If you hadn’t acted all happy he would have gone away sooner.”

“Wh-what?”

For the moment, Fushimi really needed to take his mind somewhere else before he blurted out more unnecessary things. Clinging to the voice in his mind shoving him toward that thought, he pushed himself off the seat like a bolt and instantly regretted not having given his legs more time to process what they were supposed to do. Yata didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, his still confounded gaze remained locked on Fushimi’s face even as Fushimi rested a shaky hand on the counter to steady himself and stop his knees from trembling.

“W-wait, where are you—”

“Washroom. Do you need me to spell it in English, too?”

Yata made a startled noise and averted his eyes nervously, and Fushimi was free to cast one last glance at the now too familiar reddish glow creeping up his face before walking away and isolating himself in the long corridor leading to the washroom.

The moment he pushed the door open, the rustle of the utensils and the heat of the human murmuring faded away almost immediately, leaving only the remains of a muffled whisper blocked out by the ceramic walls. The reddish fire-like traits were still a recurrent theme in the walls and some other details in the room, but it didn’t bother him as much as it should have, and Fushimi felt his mind relax and shut off for an instant. The spacious, cold change was pleasingly welcomed. Needless to say, the absence of anyone but himself was more than appreciated, as well.

So he slid his eyes shut with a sigh, restricting himself to breathe and let the coolness of the tiled walls seep through his skin. When he reopened them, he walked up to the sink, placing his hands on the marble top and gazing up at the mirror. He didn’t know just how much worse he was expecting, but the normality he found in his reflection was relieving. There was just a slight tinge of color on his cheeks that he blamed on the intrusive lights and the human warmth, and all the alcohol he hadn’t consumed.

Piña colada didn’t count.

Fushimi frowned, his mouth pressing instinctively into a tight line, recalling the feeling of Yata’s lips on his.

A kiss. A first kiss.

No, he didn’t believe in that.

Just a kiss. Was that even a kiss? It was as if their lips were just touching —more accurately, his own trying to touch Yata’s. What made it a kiss, anyway? The prickling on his skin? The goose bumps beneath his shirt? He couldn’t be the only one affected by just a little display that didn’t have any special meaning behind it other than to get something Fushimi found obnoxious over with, right? Right. Hisui’s presence just didn’t sit well with him, Fushimi’s eyes were sore, the music was loud —not really—, the people were louder, the taste of pineapple was sweet, he wanted to taste more, but not in a glass—

No.

Why Yata, anyway?

As if on cue, the less rational part of his mind somehow found the way to summon the redhead’s face in the mirror, next to him, but that lively expression didn’t live up to the real thing, making Fushimi wonder how it would look in broad daylight, without the artificial lights giving his tanned skin a coppery hue merely a few shades lighter than his hair.

This was stupid. Why was he thinking about him? He was going to see him again in a few seconds.

The tiled walls were beginning to lose its insulating effect, the previously forgotten anxious feeling beginning to rise up again the more Fushimi let his thoughts roam free. He tucked his glasses in the front pocket of his shirt and ran the tap to splash a suitable handful of fresh water on his face, only to frown irritably when he felt it turn warm in his hands, his cheeks hot against his palms.

He didn’t bother to glance at his reflection as he grabbed a bunch of paper towels to dry his face off before exiting the room, slipping his glasses on. He might have scrubbed too hard, but the moment he stepped out and back into the corridor leading to the main room it was all boisterous, stinging heat, anyway, and he didn’t care.

Yata was still there, leaning over the counter with his back hunched as he looked at something on his phone. As Fushimi stepped closer, he recognized the interface of his e-mail inbox on the screen, and Yata was browsing through his messages like he was rereading them with his newly acquired information and the revelation he was presented with a moment ago.

Fushimi had to take a breath before walking up to the bar, serenely retaking his seat by the redhead who tilted his head up to look at him gingerly.

“Uh, hey,” Yata mumbled out after a couple of seconds in a sort of greeting, his voice sounding beaten as he glanced up. Fushimi didn’t respond, but his breath caught a little when Yata flipped his phone shut and left it on the counter. It didn’t look at if he was hiding anything, more like he wasn’t doing anything important besides just... killing time until Fushimi was back, and Fushimi didn’t know what to make of that.

Yata didn’t seem affected by his lack of response, but he was turning his gaze when something caught his eye and made his head snap back up to him. “You okay?”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow, eyeing him warily, confused. “Why?”

“Nothing, just... your face is all red.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue and looked away —so he did scrub hard after all, but, whatever.

“Okay, then,” Yata murmured.

There was an uncomfortable awkwardness in the silence that followed.

The next time Yata spoke, his voice was low and disheartened. “You must think I’m stupid, huh.”

Fushimi let out a sigh, but felt himself land on a more secure, familiar territory. “I thought you were stupid the moment you first talked to me.”

Yata scowled. “Wow, thanks, you’re so nice,” he spat bitterly, and then muttered under his breath, “Dick.” More silence, except a moment later he was leaning back and groaning like a dog moaning in its sleep for what lasted a good couple of seconds. “Anyway, thanks,” he said at last, like he had mixed feelings about showing that much gratitude.

“Why?”

“For helping me out, in the end? I guess?” Yata gazed off to the side, expression less stern and a little bashful now. “You were more help than my friends.”

Fushimi couldn’t retort to that. There were many things he could say, though, about Yata’s carelessness and too-honest, happy-go-lucky attitude of his. He had only known him for less than an hour, and he felt he had unwrapped most of him. There was nothing for him to hide, only raw emotions left out in the open like a fresh wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fushimi could see Yata bouncing his leg nervously, hesitating for a moment before deciding to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

He refrained from pointing out that he already was, telling himself he shouldn’t feel like listening to whatever Yata was going to ask, but it was pointless. “What?”

“Um...” Yata averted his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his shoulders twitching in little, restless motions, and Fushimi was greatly thankful that he hadn’t touched his juice when he asked, “Do you like me?”

Even though he should have seen it coming, it still caught him off guard; Fushimi had to take a moment, blink a few times, try to keep his expression as blank as he could before turning his head to stare dumbly at Yata’s face, looking for some sign of a catch —something.

Nothing.

“Why do you ask that?” he asked instead. Very lamely, though.

“Well, b-because you kissed me and... I don’t know.”

Breathe. Breathe.

“I already told you.” Fushimi’s eyebrows tensed a little. “Don’t think too much into it.”

Yata’s lips opened to say something, but nothing came out. Then, after a moment’s pause, “Oh. Okay,” he said, his gaze off somewhere to the bar.

He sounded dull. Sad? Unsatisfied? Was it because he had lost two potential partners in the same night? The thought was ridiculous, but it was hard to tell, and Fushimi didn’t expect that conformist attitude to bother him so much. He kind of hated that he actually hadn’t answered Yata’s question, and while the fact that Yata accepted what he’d said just like that should have been relieving—

It was disappointing.

Sensing his eyes on his face, Yata’s gaze turned ever so slightly toward him, a little flustered. “Wh-what?”

“Nothing.” Fushimi looked away.

Did Yata really dismiss it that easily? Some part of Fushimi might have wanted Yata to keep pestering him about it. Fushimi couldn’t be the only one exasperated, right? Was that all it took to make this stop? He still hadn’t figured out what he had been expecting from this.

He didn’t feel like wasting time on his code anymore, and a quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar told him that the night was close to being over, which made him feel strange, all things considered. In less than half an hour, people would jump off their seats and wish each other a prosperous new year even if it was a night like any other.

“Hey.” Surprisingly or not, Yata was the one to break the silence. Fushimi looked at him sideways. “Why aren’t you with the others?” he said, nodding toward Fushimi’s coworkers, who still sounded very loud and happy.

Fushimi shrugged. “No reason.”

“You’re not friends with them?”

“I work with them. They’re not my friends.”

“Oh. Like... in a club or something like that?”

“Something like that.” It wasn’t precisely a lie, but God forbid Munakata from hearing that happy, sappy term.

“And what about her? The policewoman. That blonde.” Yata’s eyes locked somewhere across the room, presumably on Awashima. “With the big b-b—” he stuttered and looked away embarrassingly, an immediate blush flooding his face. “She — she’s talking to one of them.” He cleared his throat. “Did you know she works for the police?”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow, not bothering to turn around. If he thought about it, it made sense that Yata hadn’t recognized any of them. Even if they were in the same unit, they had their own specific orders —unlike Awashima, who was always everywhere— and unless Yata was a smuggler or a kidnapper, he had no reason to know them.

“Is that so,” Fushimi said boredly.

“Yeah. Weird.” Yata visibly cringed, then turned his gaze back to Fushimi. “So, your — those guys — do they all do comp—um... the same thing you were doing on your phone?”

Coincidentally, all the sudden grilling reminded him of Awashima’s infamous and strenuous interrogation sessions he’d been blessed to observe from the outside. Frankly, Fushimi didn’t mind answering these. “No.”

“So, they left you on your own because you had work to do?” Fushimi looked at him, puzzled and a little bit curious. Yata raised a finger to scratch his cheek nervously. “You were working, right? On that firey thing.”

“I was—” Fushimi’s voice wavered. He wasn’t really working as much as just looking for a pseudo-distraction. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about that.” Yata brought his hand to his neck, smiling timidly. “If... if I hadn’t dragged you into this, you could have, you know, finished that, right?” he asked, nodding toward Fushimi’s phone in his pants pocket, then making a pause as he raised an eyebrow in sympathy. “Do they always make you work after hours? Even on New Year’s?”

“No.” Fushimi stilled, trying to grasp the words. “I did it because I wanted to,” he said, not sure of which question he was answering.

Yata’s brow furrowed, but he was still smiling. “Oh.”

There was another moment of silence that Fushimi didn’t mind, but he hadn’t minded Yata’s voice, either. So, when Yata looked up again, his mouth opening to say something, Fushimi kept his eyes on him, genuinely attentive.

“You know, I... I’m not good at reading people, I guess,” Yata said. “S-so they told me. So, thanks. For being patient with me. And for helping me understand what was going on, or, whatever.”

“Or... whatever?” Fushimi managed, slightly amused.

“You know what I mean,” Yata protested with a pout.

Fushimi rolled his eyes teasingly and hummed, a smile pulling at his mouth. “Hm. I guess.”

Yata laughed, softly and giddily, and it was too hard for Fushimi not to let his own smile grow. “And...” He sounded hesitant, and Fushimi turned his eyes back to him. “I-I’m not mad at you, or anything, for...” His voice was low, his gaze off to the side as he evoked that particular memory and the itchy heat crawling down Fushimi’s neck that Fushimi thought he was doing just fine without. “I-I don’t mean anything by that!” Yata sputtered hurriedly, and immediately raised a fist to his mouth to fake a cough, probably in an attempt to recover his composure. “Y-yeah. S-so, don’t worry.” He cleared his throat one last time before crossing his arms over his chest, looking extremely proud. “About it.”

But it clearly meant something, though, because Fushimi was feeling something swell, inside his chest, or perhaps closer to his throat; he wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, was reaching his jaw and tickling his nape, and maybe raising some goose bumps down his arms.

Who is worrying?

Not him. Never. Not at all.

Well. At least he was now fully certain that he wasn’t the only one. Phew.

Just when Fushimi thought he could breath more easily, there was a sudden movement by his side, followed by something hard pushing against his back before he found himself being thrown forward; he barely managed to plant a foot firmly on the floor to steady himself and to brace his right hand on the counter to keep his body from landing on Yata, his other reaching up to adjust his glasses.

“Whoops! Sorry, mate,” said the gruff voice too close to his back; someone probably too lacking in manners to simply ask instead of having his body making its way through someone like a freaking rocket. “‘m just gonna grab some salt.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, regardless, not bothering to look anywhere but at a gloomy corner of the ceiling until it was all over, muttering irritably, “It’s fine,” as his mind muttered curses, to the guy and the salt.

“Yeah, it shines, bud, like a diamond. It’s beautiful. ‘m almost done.” A good half minute passed, and the guy was gone just as quick as he came, which was a relief and Fushimi couldn’t wait to sit back down; the last time he trusted his feet like that his knees had threatened to collapse. Thankfully, it was different now, and when he fixed his glasses and lowered his eyes—

Fushimi froze in his place. It felt too cramped all of a sudden.

Yata’s face was close, not as close as it had been once, but enough to make Fushimi’s pulse pound faster, his face growing warm. He wasn’t sure if the thrum of his heart was making his body shake or if it was just the strained muscles in his arm making his hand tremble as it clutched at the counter in an uncomfortable grip, preventing him from losing his balance and towering over Yata more than he already was. He could feel the heat radiating off that face, and Yata —Yata was fitting into the small gap between his seat and Fushimi’s body, looking up at him, a sort of a hazy darkness edging into those hazel irises. It was weird; Yata looked off, but not quite, like he was spacing out and not focusing on anything strongly enough.

Fushimi couldn’t speak, a lump burning in his throat where words were supposed to form, but he still parted his lips, unconsciously —perhaps to let in some air, regardless of how hot and dense it was— and Yata did the same, his mouth opening slightly, his eyes still fixed down.

Down?

Fushimi sought his eyes, then, and that’s when he looked closer and realized Yata wasn’t staring at him, but at... his mouth?

It shouldn’t have made him feel anything, but he was feeling something. Many things. He swallowed audibly, his heart taking a leap when Yata’s eyes moved upwards slowly to meet his gaze and blink up at him with that sleepy, unfocused look.

His short eyelashes batted more steadily by the second.

His brow furrowed slightly, in confusion.

It was Yata’s turn to freeze; his eyes widened then, bewilderment crossing his face for an instant, realizing Fushimi’s stare already locked on him. His gaze gradually contorted into a mix of shock and nervousness, his eyelashes trembling rapidly and blinking the daze away as fast as he could. He leaned back slowly, like he was assimilating the rest of Fushimi, before jerking his head away until all Fushimi could see was the side of his neck and ear becoming awfully red.

Fushimi felt his phone buzz before he could replay the last seconds in his mind, leaving him little time to digest whatever just happened. The vibration was accompanied by a familiar high-pitched ring that lasted no more than its usual two seconds, and Fushimi withdrew his phone from his pocket, half appreciating the distraction, half reluctantly, his mood dropping a little as he fell back into his seat.

When he unlocked the screen, an emergency alert was taking up most of the screen and glowing with a brilliant red. He lowered his phone on the counter with a heavy sigh and turned to look at the squad. Yoshino had joined them but apparently none had received the order; either they had ignored it —which was unlikely— or were still too immersed in their world to pay attention to their phones. Awashima was nowhere to be seen, though.

His eyes narrowed. It was odd, but he made no move to bring them the news himself, and when he turned around, Yata was staring at his phone’s screen with curiosity. He looked like he was getting over some of his embarrassment, for the moment, and his voice was fairly even when he spoke.

“If that your firey thing?”

“No. Work.” And admitting it out loud made him feel more irritated.

“And... you have to go?”

Fushimi blinked a few times, and made a low sound of assent as he returned his phone into his pocket.

Yata stared at him for a few seconds, before one of his eyebrows arched subtly. “What did you say you did—” His words ground to a halt, his eyes becoming impossibly wide, or just too much. And Fushimi hadn’t done anything extraordinary, this time.

“It’s Mikoto-san,” he said, stare fixed somewhere behind and beyond Fushimi.

Fushimi frowned slightly. There was only one Mikoto he knew —and just barely, and what little he knew, he didn’t like— and he wouldn’t be surprised to find him at that bar. Yata’s reaction did surprise him, though, and it bothered him a little.

“Hey! Miko—ugh.” Yata let his arm drop as quickly as he’d raised it before the name left his lips a second time, his enthusiasm flattening. “Ugh,” he whined again. “He’s with that guy again.”

Fushimi’s eyebrow quirked up in interest. He had a hunch, and when he turned around and pushed some of the standing diners and guests out of his focus, he saw them.

Ha.

Suoh Mikoto was leaning against the rails on the stairs at the far corner of the room, lighting up a cigarette. Standing beside him was Fushimi’s boss, who was apparently perfectly okay with sharing the same square meter as the man he supposedly found irritant and insensitively unreasonable, at best. He had his coat on and a concentrated look on his face as he typed something on his phone. So, there was an emergency.

But it wasn’t that important. What was important was that, on his left, Yata was grumbling like a tiny dog and glaring daggers at Munakata like he was the mailman. Fushimi found the sight hilarious.

“So, what?” he asked.

“I don’t like him,” Yata said, something bitter and dry in his tone. “He’s the police. Fuck the police.”

Something cold prickled in Fushimi’s chest, and he let the corner of his lips tug up to cover it up.

“Yeah?”

“They think they’re above us, acting all superior.”

“I can think of some people they’re superior to. Intellectually speaking, at least.” Fushimi smirked, eyeing him lazily from top to bottom. “And physically.”

“Huh? What?”

He shrugged. “So, who is this Mikoto?”

Yata’s eyes lit up, his fingers curling into fists. “He’s the best bodyguard in the city!”

“A bodyguard, huh?” Fushimi tilted his head lazily to the side. He was sure there had to be a ‘thug’ somewhere in that biased definition. Whatever. “So, you like him, huh. That Mikoto,” he managed to say without feeling too repulsed.

“Yeah!”

“Does he know?”

“Eh?” Yata froze, the curve of his cheeks beginning to grow pink, but Fushimi wasn’t given enough time to mull over how bad that expression looked on him when it came after Mikoto’s name, because the next second Yata was looking at him with a disgusted look, his face scrunched up in a pained expression. “No! Not like that!”

The conversation had a déjà vu feel to it, reminding Fushimi of the initial dissatisfaction he felt upon their meeting. Right now, however, it was filled with something more... optimistic.

“Ah.”

Yata stared at him for a moment with a dubious look, until he gazed back toward the stairs and the hardness eased from his face. “Ah — he’s looking over here! Hey! Mikoto-san!”

Fushimi flinched back, starting a little, deciding that Yata shouldn’t yell like that —it was making his ears hurt and a bit of something inside of him, really. Not that he’d ever admit that. He had nothing to admit. Right. He was green and dry and spiky, like the miserable mistletoe hanging over everybody’s stupid heads on Christmas Eve, and Yata could be the dog chewing at it like a toy, or the tiny flame reaching out and burning its prickly edges.

An hour ago, to say he was uncomfortable with the way Yata’s canines bit into his bottom lip as he grinned was a subtle understatement; he didn’t know what his own feelings were doing at the time. Now, he felt like watching him, and his stupid grin, and his unruly hair, and those ears that weren’t red at all, and those cheeks that weren’t darkened with blood, and Fushimi had to swallow a laugh, because —all that? That was up to him, wasn’t it?

Jeez. What a job.

And good, because he maybe, kind of—

About Yata—

They had met that night, and what about it? Nobody knew anybody, until they did someday.

Which is why he felt mix of anticipation and anxiety warring within him; none won, the sudden tingle of excitement rising in his body engulfing everything in its path instead. He wasn’t sure how loud Yata had to be to be heard from the other end of the room, but he didn’t bother to turn and check if anyone had seen him, this time.

“Misaki,” he said as he raised his hand, dimly aware of how easy it was to slide his fingers through Yata’s hair; so easy that it was a bit intimidating, what he’d been missing. The corner of his lips were already twitching even before Yata brought his gaze back to him, bright eyes widening slowly as they worked to focus on Fushimi’s face. The motion lasted less than a second, but Fushimi felt it replaying over and over before he stored it somewhere in his mind. He’d later put it on repeat.

Very carefully and without really thinking, Fushimi leaned forward until their foreheads touched, feeling both relaxed and self-conscious, and weird; one day he’d hissed at the thought of fraternizing with living beings, the other he had his skin against someone else’s, another face so up close to him, and he wasn’t being repulsed by it.

His voice dropped to a low murmur. “Keep looking.”

“Wh-where?” Yata asked, cautiously. And there it was, the little glint in his eyes that made Fushimi think he might hold the truth of the world in his mouth, after all. He hoped Yata wouldn’t mind if he shared it with him —his truth, in his mouth.

Accordingly.

Unable to contain his smile, Fushimi hummed softly, and before the laughter bubbling up dangerously in his throat escaped his lips, he moved his hand behind Yata’s head and drew him in to bring their lips together. Yata’s lips were soft like the first time, and perhaps a little bit more slack, like he was somehow expecting it. The sensation was much like the first time, actually, but Fushimi closed his eyes, even if Yata didn’t, as he pushed for more, even if Yata wasn’t.

Even if it all fed the stinging feeling in his chest he thought had died down.

But Fushimi was determined to make it quick, wanted it to be just a kiss. A proper kiss, not just a touch between lips. He hadn’t kissed Yata back then, so he deliberately pursed his lips, sucking at Yata’s pliant mouth as he pulled away. The soft, smacking sound as their lips parted echoed pleasantly in his ears and was gone too fast, but it was all the airy proof he needed.

It was quick. The kiss lasted less than the first time, but when he opened his eyes he wasn’t expecting to find that Yata’s eyelids were down, too, twitching over his tanned cheeks, his pointy eyebrows quirking as his eyes fluttered open slowly, meeting Fushimi’s gaze with a hazy, heavy-lidded look.

This... this could be something he could be satisfied with.

Fushimi let go of Yata’s hair, and the sudden emptiness in his hand felt cold and distressing. He intended to refill it with something, anything, so he began to lean back in his seat, half turning to take his phone from the counter when Yata reached out to grab his wrist in a sudden grip that was firm, but also tremulous.

Something in Yata’s gaze snapped, eyes widening alarmingly and blinking rapidly as if trying to regain focus before it was too late.

“Wait,” he said. There was a determined frown on his face as he stared up fixedly at Fushimi with a burning intensity in his eyes and a furious blush creeping up his cheeks, and Fushimi found himself considering looking away. He was sure Yata wasn’t even trying to look that good, yet here he was, making Fushimi’s pulse throb under his scalding fingers.

Yata tugged at his wrist, the rest of Fushimi’s body inevitably following, and then he was able to grasp some idea of what he’d been fearfully expecting all this time, and when Yata leaned in to press their mouths together again, the traces of that itching anxiety that had been nagging at the back of his mind faded into something more vertiginous and mushy that descended into the pit of his stomach and lulled his tensed muscles with warmth, and coziness, and requital —like the feeling of something validating itself and closing the cycle of uncertainties, a fleeting spark that ignited when Yata himself sought him out.

Yata’s eyes were firmly shut, and Fushimi’s eyelids suddenly felt heavy so he let them drop, too, basking in the new promising sensations enhancing his other senses. Yata let out a little, muffled noise as he let go of his wrist, using both of his hands to latch tentatively onto Fushimi’s shirt.

The little thrill of excitement running up his spine made him laugh a high-pitched, pathetic little chuckle that reverberated in his throat and made his belly tense merrily. “Pineapple,” he murmured helplessly against Yata’s mouth with a wide, sly grin that made his cheeks almost hurt but otherwise felt too right and comfortable on his lips.

“Shuddup,” Yata growled, low and raspy, resolutely taking the taunt as an invitation to bring their lips together even harder, childishly and as though it was physically possible, his hands balling tightly into Fushimi’s collar almost in frustration and definitely with greater confidence.

Fushimi forced himself to swallow down another laugh, feeling his cheeks heat up. Bringing his hand back up to Yata’s hair, the other reached up to cup his neck, finding the heat radiating off his neck utterly fascinating. Holding Yata’s head in place, he tilted his and pressed into the kiss with more enthusiasm without thinking —he thought he was supposed not to—, so when he parted his lips and flicked his tongue over Yata’s mouth, savoring the plush curve of his lower lip, he wasn’t ready to feel the nerves on Yata’s neck grow tense in his hand, his breath hitching audibly.

They both stiffened. Maybe it was too soon, Fushimi thought. He had no experience himself, and while Yata did seem to be the type to dive in head first into many things, this just wasn’t the same. Fushimi panicked a little, eyes still closed and dead set to remain that way, afraid to see, but whatever little flicker of hesitation that made them both freeze momentarily vanished just as quick when Yata inhaled heavily and then opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to swipe against Fushimi’s heartily before prodding between his lips, slick and soft and decisively persuasive.

Fushimi felt himself breathing again —well, as much as he could breathe with Yata’s tongue caressing the inside of his mouth— and he inhaled sharply through his nose. The scent of soap and leaves and something carbonized that filled his lungs was exhilarating and pushed him forward to meet Yata’s gentle eagerness, their tongues finally touching and meeting with shy, quick licks, getting used to the newfound feeling and discovering which flicks and motions made the other react the most.

It turned out that getting the hang of it was easy.

Then their teeth clacked awkwardly, making them jolt in reaction and stop briefly, allowing the slightest gap between their lips to breathe before chasing their mouths one more time, skipping what little technique they thought they had.

Perhaps it was easy because it was clumsy and unplanned. And feeling a little pain was easy.

Fushimi breathed into Yata’s mouth, letting out the occasional, involuntary sighs, overwhelmed by everything despite how slow they moved and egged on by Yata’s needy, little moans and eager groans in return as their tongues intertwined and rolled against one other leisurely, tasting what their lips couldn’t reach. The flavor of pineapple in Yata’s mouth was mostly gone, washed away in their gossiping. Now, it was mostly this person —this Yata Misaki and his obvious lack of experience. Of course Yata had no experience, and considering who he had allegedly been dating, it didn’t surprise him. It didn’t matter, either, because Fushimi couldn’t compare this to anything he’d felt before anyway nor was he willing to stop and see if someone else in this petty bar could do it better. They probably could, but not at the same time; kissing Yata was awkward and clumsy, Fushimi’s glasses were in the way, their noses brushed not so gently against each other more often than not, but this was good, and Fushimi did not only like it, he wanted more of it, even if he couldn’t deal with more than what he was having.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts, Fushimi stalled, his mouth going slack. The sudden and unexpected sensation of his lips closing around Yata’s tongue started them both and their hands froze, but their hold on each other didn’t loosen. Fushimi’s mind blanked out for a second, unable to stop the shiver rippling up his spine and the fluttering in his stomach, his confidence stumbling on thin ice for a brief moment, but when he sucked lightly on it, with no technique, just raw curiosity and a shameless attempt to regain some control, the sweet moan that rattled in Yata’s throat and the desperate tightening of his fists on his shirt made up for it.

Yata groaned, retracting his tongue slowly and rubbing his lips softly against Fushimi’s to push them apart, urging him to open his mouth. Fushimi made a huffed sound that sounded like a sigh and a laugh as he took Yata’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking it gently into his mouth.

He had expected Yata to be aggressive, eager to release all the pent-up frustrations that had piled up inside of him, but despite the strong hands bunched in his shirt, his touch and motions weren’t forceful at all, but soft and cautious, with such mildness that Fushimi didn’t know what to do with it.

He knew what he was going to do later, though. He still had an emergency to attend to, after all, and Yata —Yata surely had others thing to do.

He still had Yata’s lip caught between his when he started to pull back, because he knew they had to stop.

Yata chased him blindly, pushing closer until Fushimi moved a hand down his shoulder, squeezing gently, and Yata seemed to take the hint, drawing back slowly.

The disunion was not desired, nor detested, but certainly needed. They had to process what happened, didn’t they? Because this didn’t just feel personal; it had become really personal. Fushimi didn’t just walk into bars and let anyone make him feel like he needed to know more about someone. He certainly didn’t kiss, either, but the ghost of the flesh of Yata’s lips between his teeth was a sensation he wanted to preserve.

He didn’t kiss. He wasn’t kissed.

He kissed. He was kissed back.

They leaned back slowly, untangling their hands from each other with care as they opened their eyes. There was still a heavy pressure on Fushimi’s chest where Yata’s fingers used to be, and as he became aware of the fuzzy edges of his vision, he rested an elbow on the counter, just in case, blinking the haze away until he was able to focus on Yata’s face again. Yata kept his hands on his lap, balled in loose fists. His lips were slightly puffed, glistening and a shade brighter, his eyes hooded and glazed but willing to return to normal, big and clear. In fact, they did, and quite fast.

Their chests rose and fell slowly and steadily with each breath. For the first time in the night while they were staring at one another, they had nothing to say, but Fushimi decided that just watching Yata —his eyes brightening up as the hint of a timid smile began to creep onto his flushed face, the sharp edges of his canines waiting patiently for the moment they could reveal themselves— was rewarding all the same.

Yata’s expression was beginning to seep through him, and he almost returned that look.

“Beer.”

The incoming voice intruding their wordless exchange hit them too close and familiar to ignore. Fushimi forced himself to look over the top of Yata’s hair at the man taking the seat next to the redhead. He supposed Yata still had his mind somewhere else, because he remained unruffled and was still looking fixedly at him, making Fushimi’s face hot, feeling suddenly bashful but content.

At least until it spoke up again, that croaky voice, as drowsily as ever but a bit louder. “You wanted something, Yata?”

Yata jumped, letting out a choked noise, halfway between a gasp and a hiccup. There was a dubious look on his face before he turned to face Mikoto’s half-closed, hard eyes, unsure of how to respond.

“Eh?” He paused, his ears staining red again. “N-no—yes! I mean — nothing!”

A part of him felt sorry that Yata wasn’t able to recover his temper so easily, but the other part felt a twinge of satisfaction. The aftermath of Fushimi’s actions was still there, fresh and swirling around Yata’s mind as it was in Fushimi’s, and that was... comforting, that little bit of permanence.

The pink flush on Yata’s face was enthralling, as always, but not bothering to keep watching more than necessary, Fushimi turned to face the counter more squarely, leaning on his elbows and sipping the last quarter of his drink.

Kusanagi’s figure came out from behind the bar, beer in hand, and Fushimi made the foolish mistake of bringing his eyes to his face. The bartender was staring back at him out of the corner of his eyes, returning his gaze with a slight crooked smile, one of his eyebrows cocking up in a smug, questionable look. Those cunning eyes then flicked toward Yata, and then Kusanagi lowered his head, smiling widely to himself before retreating to the end of the bar.

Fushimi felt an unfortunate twinge of self consciousness rushing over him as he took his glasses off to wipe them clean with a napkin. He needed the distraction.

Not a minute later, he saw Yata slowly turn back toward him and look up, something behind Fushimi catching his eye and crushing his bashful expression in an instant. His face set in a defensive scowl, his mouth turning down in a frown. It was nearly the same sour look that took over his face when he first spotted Mikoto at the stairs, along with—

“Keh. You—” Yata murmured, almost in a hissing whisper.

At least Fushimi got a warning; he was eternally grateful that the third person to intrude into his personal space from behind him that night hadn’t omitted his existence by elbowing him in the gut or almost knocking him out like the others. Instead, there was a gentle voice.

“Fushimi-kun.” Fushimi slid his glasses on and turned around lazily, raising his eyes just enough to meet Munakata’s composed gaze and gracious smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. There has been an emergency,” he said.

And, beside him, he heard Yata gasp. Loudly. For the second time of the night.

Well, guess there’s no running away from this, either.

Work was work. Even plants needed water and food.

Fushimi exhaled heavily as he pushed himself off the seat. “I know.” The rest of the squad must have been alerted sometime earlier, because when he glanced sideways toward their tables, they were all gone.

“Awashima-kun and the rest of the team are making the necessary arrangements,” Munakata said, as if reading his thoughts, and Fushimi quickly straightened his back and turned his gaze back to him.

“Yes, sir.”

There was something very suspicious-looking about the way Munakata’s eyes flickered to Yata, if the mysterious glint in his eyes and the unsettling way the light reflected off his glasses was anything to go by. Fushimi thought he saw his smile grow broader, too.

Then he brought his gaze back to Fushimi. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting outside,” he said and walked away unhurriedly, making his way calmly through the cheery standing crowd to the exit like he was parting a sea. When Fushimi glanced back at Yata one last time, his wide eyes were still locked on his boss —although he looked more astounded than angered— even when he had already left the pub and the door closed automatically with him on the other side.

The night was over.

Fushimi looked away and tucked his hands in the pockets of his pants, letting out as soft sigh before stepping forward to follow his boss.

He’ll find a way to—

Maybe—

If Yata wanted to contact him—

Or something, later—

Once he pushed the door open and stepped out he wasted no time in bemoaning the cold air cutting him like a knife down to the bone, and the steady march of his feet never halted as he walked back toward the van they had all came in, parked half a block away from the entrance.

He never got to hear the click of the door closing itself behind his back.

“Hey! Wait! Sa... Saruhiko!”

Fushimi stopped on his tracks, his shoulders tensing with a small shiver.

“I mean, Fushimi — y-you know that guy? N-no, that’s... not what I...” Yata paused, indecisively. The couple of meters between them didn’t do much to cover up the slight tremble in his voice. “Who are you?” he asked, more firmly.

Fushimi felt his mouth twitch, and he told himself it was a coping mechanism, to resist the biting cold with the warmth stirring up in his belly and the insecurities pulsing beneath his skin. That he wasn’t able to stop the edges of his lips from curving up was just a side effect of it, a gratifying one.

I’m the guy you’ll want to know more about, maybe.

He half turned to look at Yata, finding him standing under the wooden awning at the entrance. Far away from the neon lights and the myriad of indoor hues staining his skin, under the candor of the street lamps and the gleam of the moon —raw, untainted and wild, Yata really looked more dazzling.

Fushimi tilted his head back just enough to expose his bare throat to the frosty air, the nightly breeze chilling the fever on his neck warring pleasingly with the warm tingle spreading throughout his back. His eyebrows came down almost in a sad, satirical look, and maybe in a bit of resignation, and maybe in a bit of faith and expectation, too, hoping that Yata would still want to ask more and let Fushimi respond and not think too badly of him.

Yata’s eyes were wide and so full of questions, and Fushimi’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug as he answered the first one.

“I’m the police.”