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“So… How do I know that person likes me?” Fujishima was asking casually, and in Yata’s opinion, there was nothing less casual than that.
“Told ya. You offer them a white ribbon and, if they like you,” Chitose answered, as casually as Fujishima - and glancing obviously at Eric while doing so - “Well… They have to tie it up somewhere on them or their stuff before the end of the day.”
It was almost sickening, the way half of bar HOMRA was pushing Fujishima toward the couch Eric was sulking on. Eric remained his usual self, either too oblivious or too shy or… “This ‘s just dense. I’m going home. See ya!” Yata eventually cut them off, rolling his eyes to express his utter boredom.
“Whatever you do, don’t forget to wrap Fushimi in white ribbons,” Eric said, not missing a beat.
Yata almost dropped his skateboard and glared back at the blond boy before opening the double doors of the bar. Then he closed them a bit too forcefully, muffling the good-heartedly laughter inside the bar. These idiots have no idea! He thought while hopping on his board to head back to his shared apartment with Saruhiko.
-.
The fact remained that if Saruhiko had been there at the bar during that stupid conversation, he wouldn’t be staring at that ribbon like it was some alien antic coming from Yata the next morning.
The thing was… They were back to living together, for what was almost six months, and things weren’t easy. Not mentioning the multiple times when they had been at each other’s throats, really reconciling only through some wholehearted fights and angry shouts, at the very beginning… Then also not mentioning the long period for re-acclimating to the other’s presence… And certainly not mentioning their current weekly fights over the smallest things in life now that they actually lived together… Yata had found out pretty soon that the feelings he had acknowledged when he was a teenager could be put into words and that these words belonged to the lexical field of love.
In other, very simple words: he was majorly fucked. Because one didn’t simply fall in love with Fushimi Saruhiko, the gloomy hidden weapons holder and third in command of Scepter 4.
From the moment they had actually talked things through to reconcile, it wasn’t like Saruhiko was big on showing feelings or speaking his heart out. Damn, the guy could keep a straight face in every situation possible and never say an actual word about how he really felt (except for when he was complaining about Misaki’s cooking, which was a start but not a pleasant one).
Thus, the remaining option was the language of the body. Something Yata was pretty comfortable with, since the hot headed vanguard was all impulse and energy, and just acted before he talked most of the time. But usually it was to throw a bat at someone or rush into things on his skateboard. Not to hold hands or stroke someone’s back, late at night on the couch when you were lazily sprawled before a movie with said someone.
And all-of-those-idiots-slash-still-friends-from-HOMRA knew how desperate he was to do such things with Saruhiko. Even more when that reserved and composed person never bothered to put his feelings into words but didn’t hesitate to mess with Misaki’s feeling by doing such things as pressing behind his back while he was cooking, chin resting on the vanguard’s shoulder, in contemplation. Or worst… being a restless and clingy sleeper, grabbing at Misaki’s limbs and whole body in his sleep.
Yes, because there was that too. They fucking slept together, in one same bed; and, ok, yes, it was a double bed but that notion did seem to be a very vague concept for Saruhiko and his own interpretation of personal space.
“Fuck that,” Yata muttered under his breath, watching from the doorstep of the bedroom.
Saruhiko, sitting in front of part of the breakfast Misaki had prepared the day before, before going to bed, wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the ribbon, held between his thumb and index, and hanging in the air before his puzzled face.
“Yo Saruhiko!” the vanguard greeted him, stepping out of the bedroom in his tank and shorts, hair still ruffled from the sleep.
Saruhiko’s attention shifted from the ribbon to Misaki. The quizzical look left his face and he raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re awake,” he deadpanned, looking almost suspicious.
Yata strode to the table and sat opposite him, grabbing the orange juice Saruhiko had bothered to set out on the table. “I’m awake,” the vanguard answered, feeling nervous for no reason and certainly not glancing at the ribbon.
“It’s Monday. And it’s six. Why are you up? You don’t work today,” the blue clansman felt obliged to remind him, his hand now resting on the table and gripping the ribbon tightly.
“So what? You don’t work today either and I’m not trying to piss you off first thing in the morning for that, am I?” Yata glared at him and poured himself some juice, hiding quickly in his glass.
Saruhiko didn’t answer that, his cold blue eyes narrowing instead. The vanguard noticed him putting the ribbon away to attack his breakfast and tried not to feel too disappointed at that.
-.
When lunch time was over and they slouched on the couch to play some games, Yata really regretted that Saruhiko was such an anti-social freak who knew shit about social conventions and standards, because it was humiliating, now, the way the gloomy swordsman looked at that second ribbon (rolled up strategically around his usual and personal controller).
He was still scrutinizing it, like he was trying to figure out if that new thing was something dangerous or not, and still not uttering a word about it. Yata felt his face burning disagreeably while looking at the scene.
When it felt like too much and he knew his ears were probably bright red, he bumped his shoulder against Saruhiko’s, his personal controller in his hands, snapping the swordsman out of his reverie. “You gonna press Start or what? Postponing the game won’t make the defeat less crushing,” Yata grumbled.
Again, Saruhiko tossed the ribbon away (this time carelessly somewhere on the couch) and turned toward Misaki, folding his legs under him. His eyes sparked mischievously. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re trying to convince yourself here, Misaki?”
“You wish!” The vanguard answered, more confidently, a bold grin growing on his face.
“I’m taking the white team,” Saruhiko deadpanned. Misaki’s grin vanished.
-.
The last attempt was beyond humiliating. Saruhiko didn’t even grab the ribbon displayed on the closed box containing his part of the take-out they had ordered earlier. He just waved his hand as if trying to shoo away a particularly annoying bug to make the poor white ribbon disappear and land on the floor.
Yata felt nauseated, and started to regret every single bit of white surrounding them. He had been so stupid, and it was a miracle Saruhiko was oblivious to humans’ traditions and antics because otherwise, he’d have been exposed miserably. But, really, now, the littlest bit of white made him want to throw up, and resisting the urge to change his plain white tee-shirt into another one was really hard. If he had to choose, he’d have taken a black one, to illustrate his current mood. And despair. And his relationship with Saruhiko. Basically, the fucking meaning of his life right now.
“You’re not eating?” an unconcerned voice asked above him, and he snapped his head up to meet Saruhiko’s eyes.
Yata nodded frantically and started to unwrap his things, twisting his chopsticks between his fingers nervously. He didn’t feel like eating this wonderful Chinese food, fuck no. But he didn’t feel like disappearing into the bedroom to sulk either.
What did he expect, anyway? He had tried, okay? Tried to make things subtle for Saruhiko, because that stupid monkey wouldn’t do it in an obvious way if it was him. It had to be twisted, and complicated and… If Yata had to choose, delicate, because Saruhiko – all knives and sword as he was – was delicate.
But it had turned wrong and maybe it was for the best, because Yata couldn’t face the humiliation of a straight “No”.
He didn’t feel like answering when Saruhiko poked him in the cheek with the tip of his chopstick after an overly long and disturbing silence, either.
-.
It was past eleven when Yata decided it was past time for him to go to bed. He had long lost any hope, and waiting for the magical hour to see the carriage turning back into a pumpkin wasn’t a part of his plans. He stretched on the couch, yawning, then gently pushed Saruhiko’s head from his lap – because that not-interested-in-him-romantically-speaking-fucker liked to make his life miserable – and got to his feet.
Saruhiko, already half asleep, looked at him through half-lidded eyes and yawned in his turn, rubbing his eyes sleepily when Misaki turned to head for the bedroom.
“’night, Saruhiko,” he mumbled before stepping into the darkness of the room, already pulling his tee-shirt over his head.
What a fucked up day. He didn’t need to turn the lights on, the door still open, to see the white of the material of his shirt. He didn’t want to see it more clearly either. White day! What a fucking joke!
A joke so bad it knocked the air out of his lungs.
That or it might have been the lanky body colliding with his back and tackling him to the bed. More likely that second option, yes.
The vanguard yelped, eyes widening, and even though they had adjusted enough to the dark, he found out he wasn’t seeing clearly when he was rolled over and pinned back to the mattress again. Because, surely, it wasn’t possible that Saruhiko was holding him down like that. Even less that he was catching his wrists in a death-strong grip to tie them with some big piece of clothing.
A big and white piece of clothing. Misaki’s tee-shirt.
“I heard I can either tie the ribbon on myself or some of my belongings,” the blue clansman drawled, sitting back to straddle the vanguard’s hips. “Is that how things work, Misaki?” he then whispered, leaning so that his upper body was almost laying on top of Yata’s, his joined hands trapped between them.
The vanguard gulped down miserably, failing at forming any word in reply. He could only stare into the blue gleaming eyes, finding the mix of wonder and possessiveness in them totally endearing.
Eventually he nodded. Saruhiko seemed to relax, his hands slightly loosening their grip on Misaki’s wrists, but still holding them pressed between their chests.
“I thought you—you know I thought,” Yata tried to speak again, closing his eyes because he couldn’t focus that way.
“I thought you wanted me to find ways to express things so that even an idiot like you could understand, and here you are playing games too subtle for you, Misaki,” Saruhiko said, his hot breathe caressing Misaki’s lips maddeningly.
Yata dared to crack an eye open, his heart drumming in his chest.
“So… Is my answer subtle enough?” Saruhiko asked, a bit tentatively.
Misaki didn’t need words to answer that.