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When Misaki asks him to ride the train together after their high school entrance exams, he shrugs and follows Misaki to the station. He wonders, of course he does, why Misaki is taking public transport when his house is just a five minute walk away from the exam hall, but he doesn’t bother to ask. He leaves it to his own speculation, like he always does, mulling over whether it is the summer heat that deterred Misaki or the dejectedness from flunking an important exam.
“What if we don’t get into the same high school, Saru?”
He nearly misses Misaki’s whisper, buried under the sound of wheels skating over bumpy rails and the steady whirr of air conditioner. He raises his head to observe his friend, puzzling out whether the creases on Misaki’s forehead stems from worry of being alone again, or fear on behalf of Saruhiko, fear that Saruhiko will lapse back to his unsmiling days accompanied only by wisps of his father’s lingering touch and stinging insults. He dismisses the latter; he knows it’s just selfish, wishful thinking.
“Well, that will be too bad, I guess,” he answers.
The look he gets makes him regret everything immediately. It’s hurt, he thinks, and betrayal. It says I know it is, but that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to at least pretend that it matters, even if you don’t think so. He’s about to open his mouth to somehow correct his words, but Misaki’s face relaxes and he smiles slightly.
“Well, that just means I have to try extra hard to catch up with you, right?”
“You already took the exams, Misaki.”
“Then I’ll go beg the headmaster myself to let me in!”
“Ha, an idiot like you? That’s hopeless. It can’t be helped then, I’ll just lower my standards and go to whatever school you end up scraping into.”
Misaki pouts at him briefly before stepping forward and hugging him tightly. He freezes at the contact, telling himself to breathe, to relax and enjoy the display of affection, but all he can think of is his mocking father’s fake gestures of love in front of teachers and colleagues. Misaki looks up.
“Shit, I’m sorry Saru, I forgot, I won’t do it again I swear,” his friend stutters, quickly stepping back. “I just got emotional all of a sudden, I swear it’s not intentional--”
He nods. Then he reaches to place his hand on Misaki’s shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting way.
“It’s okay.” A pause, then he adds, “and you know I wasn’t kidding about going to whatever high school you end up right? It doesn’t really make a difference to me.”
Misaki’s worried face clears and he grins, fist shooting forward to bump Saruhiko’s chest area. Saruhiko doesn’t hesitate returning the gesture.
“Hey wait, we missed your stop, you idiot!”
“It’s okay. Can I stay over at yours tonight?”
That trademark cheeky grin whenever Misaki succeeds in tricking Saruhiko.
He thought he was getting good at reading Misaki, but apparently the other’s relatively simple motives behind intentional slip-ups still evade him.
*
When he boards the train, hands stuffed in uniform pockets, his eyes are immediately drawn towards tufts of orange hair to the far right of him.
It takes all his effort to force his head the other way, and even then he can’t help but seek out the achingly familiar figure reflected on the glass panels. His eyes take in the image hungrily--the new addition of a beanie, the headphones, the oversized shirt. The messier locks, the previously-nonexistent arm muscles, the tanner skin.
He tells himself that it’s okay if he stares, he tells himself it’s okay as long as Misaki doesn’t turn and see him.
He memorizes Misaki’s jawline and wonders when his fingertips have started longing to trace the outline of it. He catalogues the shape of Misaki’s lips and wonders when his heart has started fluttering at the occasional flick of tongue wetting the chapped skin. He picks out the shade of Misaki’s flush from the heat and wonders when he started hoping to be the reason for the pink on Misaki’s cheeks.
He also wonders when he started seeing Misaki only in reflections or photos, and never directly.
Misaki nearly catches him staring via the train window. Saruhiko considers himself lucky that train barrels into a station then. He alights, a hundred scenarios running through his mind, a hundred guesses and predictions of what Misaki would do now that he’s been spotted.
A desperate yell turning a hundred heads and earning fifty scowls.
A break for the closing train doors accompanied by two indignant complaints about the younger generation and five horrified squeaks.
A tug on his jacket followed by six sob-ridden sentences before a complete breakdown.
The pre-recorded warning for closing train doors ring loud in his ears and the thud of colliding panes sealing shut fish him out of his hundred predictions of what Misaki would do.
He turns, too quick to be hopeful. He thinks--in the split second of facing forward and turning to glimpse at the past--he thinks it’s too good for the 0.01% chance scenario of being real. He's not wrong, he's soon to discover.
Empty rails face him and there’s no Misaki.
He thought he was getting good at predicting what people would do, but sometimes he forgets to predict what Misaki wouldn’t do.
*
When he finally listens to the voicemail after six weeks of procrastination, he wonders why he didn’t do so earlier when such a message has been what he’s craving for since leaving HOMRA.
Saru, you said we’d talk. I’m waiting. Train station. Sunday.
I’m not giving up until you show up.
He checks the date of the voicemail again, despite having seen it again and again while debating whether to click it or not. No change, six weeks ago.
He’s sure that Misaki’s given up by now; hell, he definitely would if their positions were switched. If they can be apart for four years, it doesn’t really matter if they never talk things out right? Besides, who has that much patience to deal with an asshole who gives empty promises after being saved?
He decides that he needs some fresh air to drown his guilt and initiate a second Get-Over-Yata-Misaki plan. He grabs his coat and wears it like a temporary cape despite the summer heat outdoors.
Summer. Almost all of his memories regarding Misaki are made in the summer. Those ones are also the ones easier to remember, maybe because the weather compliments Misaki's fiery personality well, or maybe because he deals with overheating way better than freezing, so he never really lapses into a numb lull of blankness during interactions. It's not a pleasant feeling, sweating through layers of clothes, but he finds it easier to tune out than shivering alone.
He doesn’t realize he’s walking down the stairs leading to the local station until he’s on the platform, trains roaring past him on both sides. Summer isn't the only commonality between many of his memories--trains are too; the rides are therapeutic to him in a way. He's not alone, definitely not, squeezing amidst a sea of people, but everyone keeps to their own business most of the time and he likes that. He likes the superficial intimacy he shares with these strangers met through chance. He likes the unspoken agreement of mutual ignorance. He finds something substantial within these interactions, something he hasn't quite pinpointed yet, something about how when eyes meet on the train, both quickly look away. How when doors open and passengers surge in, everyone tries to squeeze into a clump while maintaining the highest possible spread to minimize contact with everyone. It's something borderlining respect but also a general unwillingness to mingle despite humans apparently being social animals. He thinks it's weird to appreciate something so mundane and common, to appreciate something that's almost instinctual to every person on this planet, but sometimes that's just what he needs to comfort himself when swallowed by loneliness.
He makes his way to the ticket booth, wondering where he should cool his head. Preferably somewhere he isn't familiar with--he'll just end up in circles with his thoughts again if there's no pressing need to stay alert for navigation. Besides, wandering in an unfamiliar city is more than appealing right now.
He's almost there when he catches sight of a lump on a nearby bench. Said lump is currently staring at a wristwatch, and let him be damned if he can't recognize his own handiwork on the first glance. Sure enough, walking around the pillar obstructing half his view reveals a beanie and orange hair sticking out messily.
It's a coincidence, is the first thing he can think of.
“What. Misaki, don’t tell me you’ve been camping here for six weeks in a row," is the first thing he blurts out when he's close enough to the other man.
Misaki's reaction is a blundering mess. He tries to hide his wristwatch arm behind his back, other hand pushing against the bench to reposition himself so he's facing Saruhiko completely. Then he looks up, and upon processing the statement hanging in the air, turns his head to stare at his half-undone shoelaces.
“Oh hell no,” Misaki says sheepishly, fingers twirling a tuft of hair poking out from his beanie. “I just happen to pass by here every Sunday so I wait a couple of hours every time.”
“A couple?”
Saruhiko feels a smirk tugging at his lips. It's almost unbelievable, how they're talking and not bickering despite four whole years of exchanging nothing but spite and sarcasm.
“Maybe half the day? From eleven till ten?”
"I don't think that's half a day, Misaki."
He's surprised to hear how quiet and gentle his own voice is. He thinks Misaki must've missed it, because silence settles between them. He doesn't mind it though, so he doesn't repeat the tease.
Misaki leans into Saruhiko, resting his head on his shoulder. Saruhiko can feel some loose strands of hair poking against his face, and he lets his neck muscles relax as his cheek presses against the fabric of Misaki's beanie.
Later, when Misaki asks him to ride the train together, he ignores his two hundred and three guesses and says, "Why?"
"So we can get lost together, again," Misaki whispers.
Saruhiko thought he could live on assumptions and predictions of his own, but he finally realizes that his hundred racing scenarios can never compare to Misaki's simplistic, hundred-mark responses.