[fic]Last of Days 4/5
Aug. 9th, 2013 09:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caffeine_buzzTitle: Last of Days
Fandom: K Project
Rating: T
Pairings/Warnings: Sarumi.
Summary: Sometimes it felt as if the day Fushimi had joined Homra he’d received a deep cut to the vein and he’d been bleeding out slowly ever since.
“I can’t believe you let weak guys like that take you down, Saru!” They were sitting side by side on the couch as Misaki wound bandages around Fushimi’s head.
“It wouldn’t have been a problem if someone hadn’t come bursting inside yelling and causing a ruckus everywhere,” Fushimi shot back. Now that they were back inside their apartment he was feeling a little more like himself. The headache had subsided to a dull pain in the back of his mind and his body felt like his own again.
“Well, you were taking forever! How long was I supposed to wait, huh?”
“Until I contacted you and told you to come in!”
“That kind of tactic is for weaklings anyway,” Misaki defended himself, tightening the last knot on the bandage. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go back to the bar? Kusanagi-san’s better at this kind of first aid stuff than I am. You might need to go to the hospital or something.”He moved as if to stand and Fushimi grabbed his wrist to stop him.
“This is fine.”
Misaki looked confused but sat back down on the couch anyway. The air felt calm between them and Fushimi let his eyes slide closed, leaning his body forward so that he was nearly touching Misaki.
(Lazy summer days, lying side by side on the grass, and Fushimi thought that this was the only time he really felt as though he could let himself relax…)
The couch shifted beneath him and suddenly Misaki’s warmth was gone, replaced by an empty void. Fushimi opened his eyes.
Misaki had already gotten to his feet again and was fiddling with his PDA.
“Misaki…?”
“Hmm?” Misaki glanced over at him, phone to his ear, the movement innocent and utterly thoughtless. “We should probably at least call and let Kusanagi-san and the others know we’re all right.” Misaki’s eyes lit up. “Ah, and we have to let Mikoto-san know too, that we took care of those guys! Since you got injured I’ll even let you have some of the credit, okay, Saruhiko?”
“Tch.” Fushimi looked away, digging his fingers into the couch.
Stupid. Stupid. So stupid. He didn’t know why he felt so annoyed but Fushimi couldn’t help it. Everything was always about Homra and Mikoto now.
“What’s your problem?” Misaki was looking at him again, as if he didn’t understand a thing. It was even worse than all the other irritants clogging Fushimi’s mind.
“All of it,” Fushimi muttered, the words falling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Is that all your idiot mind can think about? You could have been killed back there, and for what?”
“For Homra!” Misaki said immediately, lowering the phone as he turned to face Fushimi. Looking at Fushimi, and yet not seeing a thing. “What’s with you today, Saru? You don’t like guys like that either, right? Causing trouble in our territory like that, it makes Mikoto-san look weak letting them run around unpunished…”
“So what?” Fushimi stated. “It’s none of our business. People like those drug dealers, they’re nothing to us. Just useless trash, not worth beating up.”
“That’s exactly why we have to go after them!” Misaki argued. “Mikoto-san--”
“’Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san,’” Fushimi mocked, the word like blood on his tongue. His head was throbbing again. “Is that all your worthless mouth can ever say?”
“Hey! Are you making fun of Mikoto-san?” Misaki’s hackles rose immediately. “I won’t forgive that kind of thing, Saru!”
( “You got in trouble for fighting again?” Fushimi crossed his arms as Misaki glared up at him.
“It’s not my fault! Those assholes deserved it!” Misaki stated.
“I swear, you’re such a simple-minded idiot…” Fushimi clicked his tongue and reached for another bandage.
“But they were saying all kinds of stuff about you, there’s no way I can let people get away with crap like that!”)
Fushimi bit his lip and looked away.
It hurt. He didn’t know why, but it hurt, it hurt, a fire in his chest and his throat hotter than any flames Misaki had ever thrown.
Is that all you think about now, Mikoto-san? Is he the thing you care about most?
What about me?
What about us?
“I’m just being sensible,” Fushimi said with exaggerated boredom, standing up slowly from the couch and staring straight at Misaki’s face. Misaki looked angry and something deep inside Fushimi twisted into a smile.
I want to see more, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, barely heard over the pounding in his head. If you can’t look at me the way you do at Mikoto-san, then look at me just like this, Misaki.
“Drug dealers are just that. Trash.” Fushimi shrugged. “It’s not something that should concern anyone except other trash. Mikoto-san’s precious ‘territory’ is just a single bar in a corner of town. We’re not the police, we’re not Scepter 4. Cleaning up the streets, that has nothing to do with you or me.”
“I told you, this is about Homra!” Misaki insisted. “This is a matter of pride, Saru, pride! We can’t just--”
“Pride?” Fushimi couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips. “What sort of pride is that? What kind of pride does your precious Homra have? Just a bunch of gangsters hiding behind a king who’s the biggest punk of them all--”
“That’s it, you bastard!” Misaki immediately aimed a punch at him and Fushimi instinctively dodged. Misaki overbalanced, nearly falling, and Fushimi grabbed at his arm. Misaki readjusted and tried to pull away and suddenly the pain in Fushimi’s head spiked and his vision blurred. He could feel himself moving but it seemed as if his body was on automatic pilot, moving without any conscious thought at all, and the next thing he knew they were both on the ground, Misaki lying beneath him, Fushimi’s hands pinning him down by the wrists and their faces inches apart.
“….Saruhiko?” The anger had drained from Misaki’s voice, replaced by concern. Fushimi was suddenly aware that he was breathing heavily and sweat was dripping from his skin. His hands felt clammy around Misaki’s wrists.
Stupid. Pathetic. And I’m the worst of all.
He was smiling and he didn’t know why. Fushimi’s hands tightened around Misaki’s wrists and his smile only seemed to widen when Misaki yelped in pain.
“Hey, quit it! Seriously, Saru, you’re acting weird all of the sudden…”
“Am I?” Fushimi wanted to laugh again. He stared evenly down at Misaki’s face, their eyes meeting, and he felt another sharp stab of pain. Fushimi found himself leaning downward, his face so close to Misaki’s that he could feel Misaki’s breath on his skin. “Am I weird, Misaki?”
“Y-yeah.” Misaki looked taken aback, as if he didn’t understand what was happening.
But that’s nothing new, is it? Fushimi’s hands tightened on Misaki’s wrists and Misaki gave another indignant yell. Fushimi ignored it, eyes still locked on Misaki’s face. You’ve never understood me, not really.
No one has ever understood me.
There was a leaden weight in his chest and a lump in his throat. His blood pounded in his veins, each heartbeat feeling strong enough to shake his entire body.
I want—
“Saruhiko, come on, that hurts!” Misaki said, squirming underneath him. “Stop playing around, let me up already!”
I want--
Misaki’s eyes were on him and Fushimi was burning up with a need he couldn’t name. If he spoke it, if he even thought it, he was certain something would shatter. If he let himself think it, everything would change. Everything he’d worked so hard to preserve would be ground to powder beneath his hands.
(Sometimes Fushimi thought that the day he had joined Homra he’d received a deep cut to the vein, and he’d been bleeding out slowly ever since.)
“Come on, Saru, let me go!” Misaki was yelling again and it was irritating. Misaki was always irritating now. Not in the way he’d been before, the way that Fushimi understood. A different way.
It was supposed to stay like this forever. Just the two of us.
And now—
Now—
(”Mikoto-san is the best, isn’t he?”)
(“I need to work hard so I can be of use to Mikoto-san!”)
(“I can take care of it, Mikoto-san!”)
Fushimi stared down at Misaki and he knew.
Misaki was looking at him now, bewildered, angry, and it was the only thing he wanted in the world.
If I could have that gaze on me all the time, I would gladly die for it.
“Misaki.” The word tore itself from his throat and Fushimi relaxed his body, hands reaching down to clasp Misaki’s shoulders in a tight grip, face pressed against Misaki’s neck.
“S-Saruhiko…” Misaki sounded as though he hadn’t a clue in the world what was going on, and Fushimi’s fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of his shirt. “H-hey, come on, this-this is enough. Maybe you should get to bed, you’re probably sick from being in the rain…”
He couldn’t say it. No matter what, he definitely couldn’t say it. If he said it, and Misaki rejected him—
—if he said it, and Misaki left him alone--
The air in the apartment felt hot and still, as if time had stopped, and Fushimi couldn’t quite breathe. He wanted to stay like this, forever. Just him and Misaki.
Fushimi had been living his whole life locked in a cage of his own making, walls built by his own two hands. He knew that. He’d always known that. It was the safest thing, to stay behind those walls. And then Misaki had come and he’d unlatched the door just a bit, just enough to let Misaki inside. Maybe he had still been in the cage even then, but it had never mattered, not as long as Misaki was there with him.
A cage with only us two is better than a world without walls and a hundred strangers between us. Misaki was squirming underneath him and saying something but Fushimi couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart. Don’t leave without me. Don’t leave me in this place alone.
I don’t care if it’s a cage. Just stay here with me.
Just look only at me, Misaki.
“I said, get off!” A sudden sharp stab of pain knocked his breath from his lungs as Misaki’s leg connected hard with his side. Fushimi found himself thrown onto his back, gasping for breath as Misaki clambered to his feet in front of him. Misaki’s face was red and he was breathing hard.
“…Misaki.” Fushimi gingerly sat up, barely hiding a wince as an insistent throbbing pain radiated up his side. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see a small spot of red where Misaki’s leg had unknowingly connected with Fushimi’s earlier wound.
“W-what the hell is wrong with you, Saru?” Misaki demanded. “You’ve—you’ve been acting strange all day! First you run off without telling anyone, and you keep saying all this crap about Mikoto-san and Homra like it’s no big deal--”
“That’s strange?” Fushimi laughed as he stood, one armed wrapped protectively around his torso. The red stain on his shirt was spreading and it was as if he could see beneath the fabric to the blood pooling beneath. Fushimi had the wild thought that if he stared hard enough maybe he could see all of it, the blood pumping in his veins and arteries, tissues and organs all beneath the skin, his entire body laid bare like a surgeon’s dummy. If Misaki only looked at him long enough maybe he’d be able to see it too, all the useless functions of a body that no one had ever had any need for. “You’re always such an idiot, Mi-sa-ki.” He stretched the name out as far as it would go, each syllable a throwing knife, and felt strangely gratified when Misaki blanched.
That had hurt, and Fushimi was happy about it. He had cut Misaki, at last.
Every time Misaki looked away it was like a dagger in his chest, so it was just as well that Misaki should feel that sting too.
“If you’re just going to act like an asshole then I’m going back to the bar,” Misaki stated.
Fushimi laughed at that and the small part of him that was still functioning normally noted the slightly crazed edge to it.
“Go on, then,” Fushimi sneered. “Back to your precious Mikoto-san.”
“Listen you shitty monkey, if you don’t--” Misaki suddenly cut off sharply, staring at Fushimi’s side. Fushimi followed his gaze and realized that the entire side of his shirt had gone red with blood. “H-hey, Saruhiko, what the hell…? I didn’t kick you that hard, what--” He reached for the wound and Fushimi half-stumbled backwards away from him.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Stop acting like a little kid, let me see it--”
“Don’t touch me!” The words were practically a shriek, and Misaki froze in mid-movement. The apartment suddenly felt too hot and too close and Fushimi could feel his breath coming in short gasps. It reminded him of the way he felt whenever Mikoto was around and he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“I’m leaving,” Fushimi said curtly, heading for the door.
“Wait a minute, Saru, you’re hurt!” Misaki immediately moved to intercept him.
“I’m fine,” Fushimi snapped, hand on the door handle. The fever that had been burning in his veins moments before felt as though it was draining out from the opened wound in his side along with the blood. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine by myself. I don’t need you, or Homra, or Mikoto-san. I’m fine on my own.”
With that he wrenched open the door and stumbled out, ignoring the way Misaki angrily yelled his name after him.
The rain from earlier had subsided into a dull hanging mist. Fushimi stumbled forward blindly, not really sure where he was going or what he intended to do. His body felt slow and sluggish and his steps were unsteady. He had one hand pressed tightly against his bleeding side. The other reached up to touch the Homra tattoo on his chest and he found his fingers digging into the skin, as if he could tear it off and throw it away.
Misaki. Misaki. Misaki. The word repeated in his mind like a holy mantra.
It wasn’t the same anymore. Misaki, himself, everything. When they’d first joined Homra he had told himself that he could endure it, endure the stupidity and the false camaraderie and everything. He’d told himself that it would all be fine in the end, as long as he still had Misaki next to him. As long as Misaki was there, it was all he needed.
Stupid. Fushimi clenched his fist against his chest. He could feel the cut deep inside he’d received the day he’d taken Mikoto’s hand and accepted his power bleeding out again, blood pooling between his fingers.
( “Mikoto-san’s so cool!”)
(“Because I’m Homra’s Yatagarasu!”)
Fushimi had never been a person who got close to other people. There was no point to it, he knew that, the same way he knew the sky was blue or the sun was warm. The closed world had always been fine with him, because it kept him safe. He couldn’t even remember now, why he’d let Misaki inside in the first place.
(”All right, has everyone formed their groups? Hm? Oh, Fushimi-kun, you still haven’t got a group? Come on, someone must want to be your partner.”)
He didn’t care. It didn’t hurt, it had never hurt. He had never let it hurt. Being in a group only led to trouble in the long run. Affection, bonds, ties to other people…that had never been something Fushimi had needed or wanted.
(”Surely someone in the class wants to make a group with Fushimi-kun?”)
Then Misaki had been there. And soon it was as if Misaki had always been there, as if there had never been a time when it hadn’t been Fushimi and Misaki, a matched set. As if there had never been a time when they weren't side by side, back to back, always together, never needing anyone else.
Until now. Until Homra.
He was still Misaki’s comrade, but so was everyone else. To Misaki, all of Homra was his ally, everyone a friend. No one was any more special than anyone else, no one except Mikoto. Everyone else was just a part of the whole, a single figure in a growing world.
But that isn’t what I want. The realization took his breath away and Fushimi stopped dead. He could see it clearly now, in his head. He was fading from Misaki’s world, becoming just another person in the crowd.
( “You’re my partner, right?”)
‘Partner,’ Misaki would say. ‘Comrade.’ Words that would apply to anyone else Misaki was fighting alongside at that given moment. Just one of many, all painted with the same brush.
No one understands Misaki as well as I do. No one cares for Misaki as much as I do. But Misaki…
Misaki…
Fushimi leaned his head back, staring up dully at the gray clouds above. He could feel his entire body shaking with something beyond pain, something that cut so hard inside that he thought he could go mad from it.
Misaki…what do I have to do to become a special existence to you?
There was a sudden squealing of tires and Fushimi nearly fell backwards, inches away from being run over by a car. He stared uncomprehendingly upwards as the window slowly rolled down, revealing a coolly amused face.
“Ah, Fushimi-kun. How strange to run into you here.”
A hundred caustic replies ran through Fushimi’s head as he stared blankly at the Blue King. He could feel the other man’s power radiating around him, as calm and unruffled as Munakata himself.
The same as Mikoto’s, and yet entirely different. Fushimi could still breathe here. His pulse didn’t pound, his body didn’t scream to run. Fushimi rose on unsteady feet, clicking his tongue and doing his best to look as if he hadn't been at all startled.
“I believe I told you to get that wound looked at,” Munakata continued, and Fushimi couldn’t stop himself from clasping a hand guiltily over the red stain coating his side. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” The words tasted like acid on his tongue, a lie he was finally sick of telling. Munakata only smiled.
“My earlier offer still stands,” he said, ignoring Fushimi’s glare. “We have medical personnel at Scepter 4 headquarters. If you’d like to join me, I’m certain we can help you.”
Fushimi wanted to laugh in his face. ‘Help?’ He was already beyond that.
Unless you can close the world, there’s no help you can give me.
Fushimi opened his mouth to reply but no words seemed to come. He could only stare stupidly at Munakata, feeling dizzy and sick and tired of the entire world.
“You appear in need of some assistance,” Munakata said. “I assure you, I don’t intend this as a trick. You assisted us in defeating that Strain earlier. I’m only returning that favor.” He held out a hand. “Well, Fushimi-kun?”
Fushimi stared at the proffered hand, head pounding with the memories of an earlier time and another hand coated in red that he now knew he should never have taken.
His PDA suddenly buzzed and Fushimi dug it out of his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the name of the incoming caller on the screen.
Yata Misaki.
Fushimi’s hand tightened around the PDA and he could feel his body burn with a fire hotter than the Red King’s power that slept inside him.
Fushimi turned off the PDA and took the Blue King’s hand.
Fandom: K Project
Rating: T
Pairings/Warnings: Sarumi.
Summary: Sometimes it felt as if the day Fushimi had joined Homra he’d received a deep cut to the vein and he’d been bleeding out slowly ever since.
“I can’t believe you let weak guys like that take you down, Saru!” They were sitting side by side on the couch as Misaki wound bandages around Fushimi’s head.
“It wouldn’t have been a problem if someone hadn’t come bursting inside yelling and causing a ruckus everywhere,” Fushimi shot back. Now that they were back inside their apartment he was feeling a little more like himself. The headache had subsided to a dull pain in the back of his mind and his body felt like his own again.
“Well, you were taking forever! How long was I supposed to wait, huh?”
“Until I contacted you and told you to come in!”
“That kind of tactic is for weaklings anyway,” Misaki defended himself, tightening the last knot on the bandage. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go back to the bar? Kusanagi-san’s better at this kind of first aid stuff than I am. You might need to go to the hospital or something.”He moved as if to stand and Fushimi grabbed his wrist to stop him.
“This is fine.”
Misaki looked confused but sat back down on the couch anyway. The air felt calm between them and Fushimi let his eyes slide closed, leaning his body forward so that he was nearly touching Misaki.
(Lazy summer days, lying side by side on the grass, and Fushimi thought that this was the only time he really felt as though he could let himself relax…)
The couch shifted beneath him and suddenly Misaki’s warmth was gone, replaced by an empty void. Fushimi opened his eyes.
Misaki had already gotten to his feet again and was fiddling with his PDA.
“Misaki…?”
“Hmm?” Misaki glanced over at him, phone to his ear, the movement innocent and utterly thoughtless. “We should probably at least call and let Kusanagi-san and the others know we’re all right.” Misaki’s eyes lit up. “Ah, and we have to let Mikoto-san know too, that we took care of those guys! Since you got injured I’ll even let you have some of the credit, okay, Saruhiko?”
“Tch.” Fushimi looked away, digging his fingers into the couch.
Stupid. Stupid. So stupid. He didn’t know why he felt so annoyed but Fushimi couldn’t help it. Everything was always about Homra and Mikoto now.
“What’s your problem?” Misaki was looking at him again, as if he didn’t understand a thing. It was even worse than all the other irritants clogging Fushimi’s mind.
“All of it,” Fushimi muttered, the words falling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Is that all your idiot mind can think about? You could have been killed back there, and for what?”
“For Homra!” Misaki said immediately, lowering the phone as he turned to face Fushimi. Looking at Fushimi, and yet not seeing a thing. “What’s with you today, Saru? You don’t like guys like that either, right? Causing trouble in our territory like that, it makes Mikoto-san look weak letting them run around unpunished…”
“So what?” Fushimi stated. “It’s none of our business. People like those drug dealers, they’re nothing to us. Just useless trash, not worth beating up.”
“That’s exactly why we have to go after them!” Misaki argued. “Mikoto-san--”
“’Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san,’” Fushimi mocked, the word like blood on his tongue. His head was throbbing again. “Is that all your worthless mouth can ever say?”
“Hey! Are you making fun of Mikoto-san?” Misaki’s hackles rose immediately. “I won’t forgive that kind of thing, Saru!”
( “You got in trouble for fighting again?” Fushimi crossed his arms as Misaki glared up at him.
“It’s not my fault! Those assholes deserved it!” Misaki stated.
“I swear, you’re such a simple-minded idiot…” Fushimi clicked his tongue and reached for another bandage.
“But they were saying all kinds of stuff about you, there’s no way I can let people get away with crap like that!”)
Fushimi bit his lip and looked away.
It hurt. He didn’t know why, but it hurt, it hurt, a fire in his chest and his throat hotter than any flames Misaki had ever thrown.
Is that all you think about now, Mikoto-san? Is he the thing you care about most?
What about me?
What about us?
“I’m just being sensible,” Fushimi said with exaggerated boredom, standing up slowly from the couch and staring straight at Misaki’s face. Misaki looked angry and something deep inside Fushimi twisted into a smile.
I want to see more, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, barely heard over the pounding in his head. If you can’t look at me the way you do at Mikoto-san, then look at me just like this, Misaki.
“Drug dealers are just that. Trash.” Fushimi shrugged. “It’s not something that should concern anyone except other trash. Mikoto-san’s precious ‘territory’ is just a single bar in a corner of town. We’re not the police, we’re not Scepter 4. Cleaning up the streets, that has nothing to do with you or me.”
“I told you, this is about Homra!” Misaki insisted. “This is a matter of pride, Saru, pride! We can’t just--”
“Pride?” Fushimi couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips. “What sort of pride is that? What kind of pride does your precious Homra have? Just a bunch of gangsters hiding behind a king who’s the biggest punk of them all--”
“That’s it, you bastard!” Misaki immediately aimed a punch at him and Fushimi instinctively dodged. Misaki overbalanced, nearly falling, and Fushimi grabbed at his arm. Misaki readjusted and tried to pull away and suddenly the pain in Fushimi’s head spiked and his vision blurred. He could feel himself moving but it seemed as if his body was on automatic pilot, moving without any conscious thought at all, and the next thing he knew they were both on the ground, Misaki lying beneath him, Fushimi’s hands pinning him down by the wrists and their faces inches apart.
“….Saruhiko?” The anger had drained from Misaki’s voice, replaced by concern. Fushimi was suddenly aware that he was breathing heavily and sweat was dripping from his skin. His hands felt clammy around Misaki’s wrists.
Stupid. Pathetic. And I’m the worst of all.
He was smiling and he didn’t know why. Fushimi’s hands tightened around Misaki’s wrists and his smile only seemed to widen when Misaki yelped in pain.
“Hey, quit it! Seriously, Saru, you’re acting weird all of the sudden…”
“Am I?” Fushimi wanted to laugh again. He stared evenly down at Misaki’s face, their eyes meeting, and he felt another sharp stab of pain. Fushimi found himself leaning downward, his face so close to Misaki’s that he could feel Misaki’s breath on his skin. “Am I weird, Misaki?”
“Y-yeah.” Misaki looked taken aback, as if he didn’t understand what was happening.
But that’s nothing new, is it? Fushimi’s hands tightened on Misaki’s wrists and Misaki gave another indignant yell. Fushimi ignored it, eyes still locked on Misaki’s face. You’ve never understood me, not really.
No one has ever understood me.
There was a leaden weight in his chest and a lump in his throat. His blood pounded in his veins, each heartbeat feeling strong enough to shake his entire body.
I want—
“Saruhiko, come on, that hurts!” Misaki said, squirming underneath him. “Stop playing around, let me up already!”
I want--
Misaki’s eyes were on him and Fushimi was burning up with a need he couldn’t name. If he spoke it, if he even thought it, he was certain something would shatter. If he let himself think it, everything would change. Everything he’d worked so hard to preserve would be ground to powder beneath his hands.
(Sometimes Fushimi thought that the day he had joined Homra he’d received a deep cut to the vein, and he’d been bleeding out slowly ever since.)
“Come on, Saru, let me go!” Misaki was yelling again and it was irritating. Misaki was always irritating now. Not in the way he’d been before, the way that Fushimi understood. A different way.
It was supposed to stay like this forever. Just the two of us.
And now—
Now—
(”Mikoto-san is the best, isn’t he?”)
(“I need to work hard so I can be of use to Mikoto-san!”)
(“I can take care of it, Mikoto-san!”)
Fushimi stared down at Misaki and he knew.
Misaki was looking at him now, bewildered, angry, and it was the only thing he wanted in the world.
If I could have that gaze on me all the time, I would gladly die for it.
“Misaki.” The word tore itself from his throat and Fushimi relaxed his body, hands reaching down to clasp Misaki’s shoulders in a tight grip, face pressed against Misaki’s neck.
“S-Saruhiko…” Misaki sounded as though he hadn’t a clue in the world what was going on, and Fushimi’s fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of his shirt. “H-hey, come on, this-this is enough. Maybe you should get to bed, you’re probably sick from being in the rain…”
He couldn’t say it. No matter what, he definitely couldn’t say it. If he said it, and Misaki rejected him—
—if he said it, and Misaki left him alone--
The air in the apartment felt hot and still, as if time had stopped, and Fushimi couldn’t quite breathe. He wanted to stay like this, forever. Just him and Misaki.
Fushimi had been living his whole life locked in a cage of his own making, walls built by his own two hands. He knew that. He’d always known that. It was the safest thing, to stay behind those walls. And then Misaki had come and he’d unlatched the door just a bit, just enough to let Misaki inside. Maybe he had still been in the cage even then, but it had never mattered, not as long as Misaki was there with him.
A cage with only us two is better than a world without walls and a hundred strangers between us. Misaki was squirming underneath him and saying something but Fushimi couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his own heart. Don’t leave without me. Don’t leave me in this place alone.
I don’t care if it’s a cage. Just stay here with me.
Just look only at me, Misaki.
“I said, get off!” A sudden sharp stab of pain knocked his breath from his lungs as Misaki’s leg connected hard with his side. Fushimi found himself thrown onto his back, gasping for breath as Misaki clambered to his feet in front of him. Misaki’s face was red and he was breathing hard.
“…Misaki.” Fushimi gingerly sat up, barely hiding a wince as an insistent throbbing pain radiated up his side. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see a small spot of red where Misaki’s leg had unknowingly connected with Fushimi’s earlier wound.
“W-what the hell is wrong with you, Saru?” Misaki demanded. “You’ve—you’ve been acting strange all day! First you run off without telling anyone, and you keep saying all this crap about Mikoto-san and Homra like it’s no big deal--”
“That’s strange?” Fushimi laughed as he stood, one armed wrapped protectively around his torso. The red stain on his shirt was spreading and it was as if he could see beneath the fabric to the blood pooling beneath. Fushimi had the wild thought that if he stared hard enough maybe he could see all of it, the blood pumping in his veins and arteries, tissues and organs all beneath the skin, his entire body laid bare like a surgeon’s dummy. If Misaki only looked at him long enough maybe he’d be able to see it too, all the useless functions of a body that no one had ever had any need for. “You’re always such an idiot, Mi-sa-ki.” He stretched the name out as far as it would go, each syllable a throwing knife, and felt strangely gratified when Misaki blanched.
That had hurt, and Fushimi was happy about it. He had cut Misaki, at last.
Every time Misaki looked away it was like a dagger in his chest, so it was just as well that Misaki should feel that sting too.
“If you’re just going to act like an asshole then I’m going back to the bar,” Misaki stated.
Fushimi laughed at that and the small part of him that was still functioning normally noted the slightly crazed edge to it.
“Go on, then,” Fushimi sneered. “Back to your precious Mikoto-san.”
“Listen you shitty monkey, if you don’t--” Misaki suddenly cut off sharply, staring at Fushimi’s side. Fushimi followed his gaze and realized that the entire side of his shirt had gone red with blood. “H-hey, Saruhiko, what the hell…? I didn’t kick you that hard, what--” He reached for the wound and Fushimi half-stumbled backwards away from him.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Stop acting like a little kid, let me see it--”
“Don’t touch me!” The words were practically a shriek, and Misaki froze in mid-movement. The apartment suddenly felt too hot and too close and Fushimi could feel his breath coming in short gasps. It reminded him of the way he felt whenever Mikoto was around and he clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“I’m leaving,” Fushimi said curtly, heading for the door.
“Wait a minute, Saru, you’re hurt!” Misaki immediately moved to intercept him.
“I’m fine,” Fushimi snapped, hand on the door handle. The fever that had been burning in his veins moments before felt as though it was draining out from the opened wound in his side along with the blood. “I don’t need your help. I’m fine by myself. I don’t need you, or Homra, or Mikoto-san. I’m fine on my own.”
With that he wrenched open the door and stumbled out, ignoring the way Misaki angrily yelled his name after him.
The rain from earlier had subsided into a dull hanging mist. Fushimi stumbled forward blindly, not really sure where he was going or what he intended to do. His body felt slow and sluggish and his steps were unsteady. He had one hand pressed tightly against his bleeding side. The other reached up to touch the Homra tattoo on his chest and he found his fingers digging into the skin, as if he could tear it off and throw it away.
Misaki. Misaki. Misaki. The word repeated in his mind like a holy mantra.
It wasn’t the same anymore. Misaki, himself, everything. When they’d first joined Homra he had told himself that he could endure it, endure the stupidity and the false camaraderie and everything. He’d told himself that it would all be fine in the end, as long as he still had Misaki next to him. As long as Misaki was there, it was all he needed.
Stupid. Fushimi clenched his fist against his chest. He could feel the cut deep inside he’d received the day he’d taken Mikoto’s hand and accepted his power bleeding out again, blood pooling between his fingers.
( “Mikoto-san’s so cool!”)
(“Because I’m Homra’s Yatagarasu!”)
Fushimi had never been a person who got close to other people. There was no point to it, he knew that, the same way he knew the sky was blue or the sun was warm. The closed world had always been fine with him, because it kept him safe. He couldn’t even remember now, why he’d let Misaki inside in the first place.
(”All right, has everyone formed their groups? Hm? Oh, Fushimi-kun, you still haven’t got a group? Come on, someone must want to be your partner.”)
He didn’t care. It didn’t hurt, it had never hurt. He had never let it hurt. Being in a group only led to trouble in the long run. Affection, bonds, ties to other people…that had never been something Fushimi had needed or wanted.
(”Surely someone in the class wants to make a group with Fushimi-kun?”)
Then Misaki had been there. And soon it was as if Misaki had always been there, as if there had never been a time when it hadn’t been Fushimi and Misaki, a matched set. As if there had never been a time when they weren't side by side, back to back, always together, never needing anyone else.
Until now. Until Homra.
He was still Misaki’s comrade, but so was everyone else. To Misaki, all of Homra was his ally, everyone a friend. No one was any more special than anyone else, no one except Mikoto. Everyone else was just a part of the whole, a single figure in a growing world.
But that isn’t what I want. The realization took his breath away and Fushimi stopped dead. He could see it clearly now, in his head. He was fading from Misaki’s world, becoming just another person in the crowd.
( “You’re my partner, right?”)
‘Partner,’ Misaki would say. ‘Comrade.’ Words that would apply to anyone else Misaki was fighting alongside at that given moment. Just one of many, all painted with the same brush.
No one understands Misaki as well as I do. No one cares for Misaki as much as I do. But Misaki…
Misaki…
Fushimi leaned his head back, staring up dully at the gray clouds above. He could feel his entire body shaking with something beyond pain, something that cut so hard inside that he thought he could go mad from it.
Misaki…what do I have to do to become a special existence to you?
There was a sudden squealing of tires and Fushimi nearly fell backwards, inches away from being run over by a car. He stared uncomprehendingly upwards as the window slowly rolled down, revealing a coolly amused face.
“Ah, Fushimi-kun. How strange to run into you here.”
A hundred caustic replies ran through Fushimi’s head as he stared blankly at the Blue King. He could feel the other man’s power radiating around him, as calm and unruffled as Munakata himself.
The same as Mikoto’s, and yet entirely different. Fushimi could still breathe here. His pulse didn’t pound, his body didn’t scream to run. Fushimi rose on unsteady feet, clicking his tongue and doing his best to look as if he hadn't been at all startled.
“I believe I told you to get that wound looked at,” Munakata continued, and Fushimi couldn’t stop himself from clasping a hand guiltily over the red stain coating his side. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” The words tasted like acid on his tongue, a lie he was finally sick of telling. Munakata only smiled.
“My earlier offer still stands,” he said, ignoring Fushimi’s glare. “We have medical personnel at Scepter 4 headquarters. If you’d like to join me, I’m certain we can help you.”
Fushimi wanted to laugh in his face. ‘Help?’ He was already beyond that.
Unless you can close the world, there’s no help you can give me.
Fushimi opened his mouth to reply but no words seemed to come. He could only stare stupidly at Munakata, feeling dizzy and sick and tired of the entire world.
“You appear in need of some assistance,” Munakata said. “I assure you, I don’t intend this as a trick. You assisted us in defeating that Strain earlier. I’m only returning that favor.” He held out a hand. “Well, Fushimi-kun?”
Fushimi stared at the proffered hand, head pounding with the memories of an earlier time and another hand coated in red that he now knew he should never have taken.
His PDA suddenly buzzed and Fushimi dug it out of his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the name of the incoming caller on the screen.
Yata Misaki.
Fushimi’s hand tightened around the PDA and he could feel his body burn with a fire hotter than the Red King’s power that slept inside him.
Fushimi turned off the PDA and took the Blue King’s hand.