#anyways whenever I write him in fics I always referencing his appearance like this and people ask me about it so

[wayward-banana]

So I drew this in 2022. I forgor 💀

[eemoo1o-animoo]

Wdym Claude was doomed by the writing and not narrative I'm curious to see how that differe

From: (x)

You seem nice enough, so I assume you’re not here to tell me that I’m shit at using words, and for that I’m grateful. 😅

(After posting this I’m going to go back to posts which I reference/would give further explanation to my ramblings, so if by chance you read this before all the links are added, I’d recommend coming back.)

Actually, what I mean by that is that Claude’s character (general consensus thereof aside, being: flat, unreactive, dispassionate, etc., especially in contrast to Alois and, especially, Sebastian) is quite inconsistent.

In fact, from what I remember, episode one and six appear to have the most consistent Claude in comparison to the rest of the season (oh god, including “the derailment” in episode nine but that’s to be expected—but more on that in a minute).

That being said, episode six then had a minutely different Alois/undertone to episode one (episode one being the “set up” episode that I refer back to for my darling, darling sliver of the endangered “Soft Claude”), with Alois referencing “punishing Claude” when prior to and even after this it’s never brought up at all, and the esteem in which Alois holds Claude anyway disallows him from ever “punishing” him, anyway, so it feels quite out of character in that regard.

Episode nine is the blood tasting episode, if I recall correctly (or, perhaps that is at the very end of episode eight?) is, what I call, “the derailment”, for the whole series and plot completely shifts tonally and so does the characterisation of Claude.

Claude was eventually the scapegoat for the writers trying to get back on track from the “set up of recurring characters” they’d had in practice to the “season exclusive arc” they had on paper. For that, Claude’s characterisation suffered.

Hashtag Flanderisation, am I right, gamers? (Please don’t sue me.)

It wasn’t even flanderisation, technically, either! Because most of the attributes inflated (ie. “creepiness” and “perverseness”) post-blood tasting weren’t present let alone even hinted to in prior episodes, inconsistent characterisation of all season-exclusive parties aside!

I’m a big advocate for “Claude’s characterisation deserved better” (then with the immediate clarification of “not his character—just his characterisation”).

In fact, it was @indigoipsum that brought to light the popular hypothesis that each episode was written by a different writing team, hence the inconsistencies (some of which were exclusive to an episode each, like Claude’s “soft moment” in episode one or Alois’ mentions of punishing Claude in episode six, to name some, but there are more). An idea which none of us have gone back to check the season’s credits to prove, and so it just floats in the air, unproven, and we’re okay with that.

(It’s also an idea that made me a bit upset, for whatever reason, because I’d become quite attached to the “Soft Claude” scene in episode one, as I’d rewatched the episode to analyse Claude and Alois for a fic. For the record I’d pumped out like a billion bullet points after going frame by frame analysing anything I could.)

I go into further detail of it here, a post that was prompted by Indigo telling me the aforementioned theory.

As far as season two goes, someone with a better recollection than me would be @nullb1rdbones, who tends to rewatch it all on the near-daily, it seems, so off I send you for further in-detail questions about the season, and not Claude / ramblings about the writing (of which you are more than welcome to come back to me whenever you feel you must).

So I guess, what I mean by what you’re asking, is that the “narrative” would be the perspective of which he’d been put into the story (I don’t doubt he was always meant to be the season villain, but in the beginning it certainly wasn’t delivered as thoroughly as what it was later on), but the writing was… the writing made it worse, I guess is what I’m trying to say.

Hopefully, that clears some of the confusion (explaining myself is hard).

And, hopefully, I do these characters more justice than the canon ever did (and what they deserve because not believing that good writing is what they deserve makes me sad. Fuck you, estrogen 🖕) in my upcoming fic, Claudetails.

I doubt it will be hard, though. The badness of writing makes it so easy to trump it. (And yet so, so difficult.)

Thanks for the ask, anon! Hope you come again soon.

[gascon-en-exil]

yes plz

Alright.

It seems that the handful of times my writing has been referenced over on the Three Houses anon meme it’s pretty much always complaining about how I interpret Ferdibert, with a major recurring thrust being that these anons are taking issue with how strongly I read Edelgard as an analogue for Arvis and Hubert for Manfroy and use these readings to inform how I perceive their relationship and the CF postgame. This did somewhat lead me to thinking about FE’s archetypical writing, because it’s undeniable that this series likes to reuse the same plots and characters with variations between games, and whether my repeated use of this metatextual framework in my interpretations of FE16 was turning off some readers who might see me as drawing too much from all these past games they may have never played...particularly as the often-referenced Genealogy remains one of the few games in the series with no official localization and/or localized remake. That got too much into me questioning whether or not I was an elitist though, and because obviously I am - I was playing FE before it was cool, thank you very much - I didn’t think that would be a productive line of inquiry.

Instead then I got to wondering: why among all the various opinions about FE16 I advanced over the year and a half that I was active in that fandom are people specifically taking issue with the ones re: Ferdibert? Ferdibert is easily the less Problematic™ of my two main pairings, and it doesn’t receive the same amount of accusations of fandom oversaturation as the even more popular Sylvix. There is seemingly some tension between its shippers and fans of rival ships, but as all of those that I’m aware of pair either Hubert or Ferdinand with women (ex. Ferdithea, Edelbert) it’s safe to say they’re angling for a different demographic anyway. No, whenever I receive criticism for the way I talk about Ferdibert it’s always internal - that I’m not shipping them the “right” way. Among these include:

That Hubert isn’t really evil and so my comparing him to Manfroy is unwelcome, as are my comedic exaggerations of his villainy and suggestions that his attraction to Edelgard is neither healthy nor respectful and may lead to him quietly usurping power from her after CF has ended;

That I once described Ferdinand as Hubert’s “silver medal” as a way of summing up how their respective relationships to Edelgard will play into their romantic relationship, reflecting Ferdinand’s lack of narrative presence in CF and the relative triviality of the last two Ferdibert supports;

That I acknowledge that Hubert is attracted to Edelgard at all somehow diminishes both characters, rather than offering another interesting angle upon which to build the Ferdibert relationship that remains quite consistent to canon (as one-sided Edelbert is);

And the largest and most obvious of all, one that the others all play into as well - how could I ship Ferdibert when I hate (read: criticize) Edelgard? This glides over the suffocating narrative presence of Edeleth, the implied tension in the Ferdibert paired ending, and other evidence to conclude that the only possible explanation is that I’m a misogynist who will happily sideline FE16′s headlining female lead for her male subordinates just because I can argue (successfully or not) that said subordinates are better written.

Of course most of this just boils down to more petty fandom faction drama, but it still surprises me how much pushback there can be against interpretations that come with so much canonical and metatextual support - and lead to a messy, complicated queer relationship set against a dystopian backdrop and the volatile political fallout that realistically should result from CF. I seriously doubt these complaints even come from impact on fanwork, because most Ferdibert fic and art I see shies away from the political complications of a post-CF world and each of their feelings toward the emperor...they’re not a trio of gay BFFs, that’s for sure. Even non-CF Ferdibert mostly engages with them as a tragic unrealized romance cut short by Hubert’s death rather than trying to make them work in a canon-divergent scenario where the circumstances are vastly different. I’ve seen a few fics work that angle, but they’re definitely in the minority.

All this is to say that I’ll never understand why these are the FE16 opinions that the fandom* chooses to criticize me over, when I’m very clearly writing with a metatextual focus and attempting to ignore the (to me) transparent battle lines of the fandom faction war when I write about the characters I enjoy regardless of which houses they belong to. The darkly comic Ferdibert headcanons shared by me and several of my mutuals don’t even appear to have that much reach in the fandom, even if I’ll maintain that they’re substantially more interesting than some conflict-deprived fluff where the post-CF world is a utopia and Edelgard lives happily ever after with her Two Jewels. That’s just so boring to me.

*Excluding the Khalidstans, who exist in their own bubble where the game, its developers, and all its fans except for the few they like are racist about everything.

[liketonybutwithane]

Guys, I haven’t written anything in nine(ish) years. My will to write has been all but squashed out of me.  

But then Good Omens happened and I’m having all these little brain children that are probably some of the same ones the rest of the fandom are having, but if there’s something I have learned in life it’s “if you don’t write it down, you’re gonna forget it!”

So yeah, I wrote these down. 

HP!Good Omens

Aziraphale is a Syltherin pureboood with a distinct interest in muggle theology that he only indulges at Hogwarts

When he was young, his paternal aunt fell in love with, courted and married a Muslim muggleborn witch and she is the one who cultivated his interests. Having no one else to confide in, she told young Aziraphale about her love and how her family studied and followed the 'lord of the skies.' Aziraphale has copies of the Torah, the Qur'an, the Tripitaka, and both the King James Bible and Catholic Bible in his school trunk (the covers are transfigured to look like older spell book editions).

Aziraphale isn't technically allowed to communicate with his aunts, but he does it anyway. He's never understood with the big deal was. Aunt Ophelia basically raised him; why shouldn't he be allowed to speak with her whenever he wants?

He routinely writes to his Aunts Ophelia and Hafiza - they send him presents at Christmas and he always remembers to (with the help of Crowley) convert his wizard galleons into muggle money to send his Aunt Hafiza his donation for her mosque at Eid al-Fitr.

Crowley is a half-blood Hufflepuff. A bundle of sass and snark wrapped in a crispy coating with an ooey-gooey soft-hearted center and a loyalty streak that rivals the length of the Thames river.

Snake animagus Crowley, just imagine - Pseudechis porphyriacus, the red-bellied black snake. He's just so proud of his animagus form!

Raised by a partially-practicing Catholic muggle and pureblood witch, Anthony "Just Crowley!" Crowley knows his catechisms and (most of the important) saints but not much else. He still manages to impress Aziraphale with his St. Christopher (patron saint of travelers) and St. Albert the Great (patron saint of students) medals.

Crowley adores Herbology and Charms. He gets good marks on his Care of Magical Creatures O.W.Ls and of course, nearly gives his Professor a heart attack when he asks if he could raise a basilisk for extra credit?

He keeps to Aziraphale's side when he has rows with his parents. He tells his mum about the glassy hard stares the Slytherins give him when he walks to classes with Aziraphale and knows deep in his heart that Aziraphale is catching all kinds of hell for siding with "that loud-mouthed Hufflepuff who can't pick a side." 

I just have a lot of feelings about Hufflepuff!Crowley and Slytherin!Aziraphale.

NOTE: I know next-to-nothing about Islam or Catholicism and googled and wikipedia’d what is referenced here. If I am wrong or flubbed something, I beg of you, please correct me! Thank you!

~

Ballet&Ballroom!Good Omens

~ Crowley = a danseur working hard to keep his place in [Europe's equivalent to Julliard?] BUT also struggling in keeping himself alive and housed by working the only way he can think of and using his skills

He works as an under-the-table exotic dancer 5 nights a week

He is cheated more often than not by the shifty club owner but it's still more than he could make anywhere else so he keeps his mouth shut and takes the money

He dances as a female persona; his gorgeous lace-front wig (only one or two shades off from his natural hair color) and lace and silk lingerie are some of the most expensive and well cared-for things he owns (aside from his dancewear, obviously)

He only dances - no private shows, no client requests, nothing that could possibly compromise his identity and thus his place at school

~ Aziraphale = a fair-to-middling ballroom competition dancer from a wealthy family who accidentally trods on his partners toes once or twice but always apologizes profusely

Naturally, Aziraphale has no rhythm. (He knows the mechanics and kinesiology of the ballroom dances but can't make his limbs cooperate.) The only way he is as good as he is now is because he learned to keep time with iambic pentameter in his head. Mostly Shakespeare, but he hasn't told a soul - and he probably never will.

He enjoys dancing. He can keep time by retelling himself the great works of Shakespeare or Milton or Chaucer. It’s his dance partners who he finds lacking. They are haughty and pinch-faced. This should be fun! 

For some possibly (hysterical? ungodly? trippy?) reason [omg, Gabriel is totally shitfaced in the men’s room , Aziraphale ends up at Crowley’s club and that goes about as well as expected, what with the blushing, stammering and exaggerated averted gaze. That is until he first glimpses Crowley (as his dancer persona) and, as a student of kineisology and someone who has fought tooth and nail to control his own limbs, is floored by the mastery of control and discipline the dancer on stage displays over their body.

Aziraphale is mildly besotted, to say the very least...

~ 

High school!Good Omens

This is just me wanting to have Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis play parents to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is the only child to missionary-religious-scholars. They were less interested in raising the child and more in there efforts of spreading the ‘word,’ so Nanny and Brother Francis in essence raised him.

Mostly Aziraphale dealing with benign neglect from his biological parents and Crowley dealing with hardships and grief from either shitty foster homes or being some kind of scholarship student in a boarding school for old-money families. 

(I know, I always put Crowley in shitty situations! I’m sorry!)

~ 

I really wanted to write a fic where God chooses to inhabit a human to express Her approval of Aziraphale and Crowley.

At first, Aziraphale was a little cautious of the street performer taking up residence across from his shop. But she simply sings (quite well, mind you) and plays her instrument from roughly 10 to 5 every day then goes about her way.

The song I really wanted to focus on is Sinners by Lauren Aquilina. [x]

Like:

Aziraphale is sitting with Crowley in companionable silence and the lyrics drift over him. And he listens.

Then he feels the need to get up and look out the stop door. There, he sees it. Faintly, through the shine of sun beams and dust motes and drifting London smog, are wings. Multitudes of feathers and shining eyes and Aziraphale can't look away. His eyes slide to look the woman in the face and he can feel tears begin to creep from crease of his eyes to trickle down his face.

Her voice rumbles through him, as gentle and powerful and awe-inspiring as it had been at the wall, "Aziraphale." He can barely catch the breath he doesn’t even need.

And the woman glances up from her instrument and Aziraphale gasps. She smiles as though she heard him. The woman strums one last note on her instrument, inclines her head in a gracious nod and then is gone.

Crowley appears from somewhere behind Aziraphale, and asks what's gotten him so upset. Aziraphale splays a hand over his own chest, above his pounding heart, and sighs tearily. Then he half-turns and crushes Crowley in a tight hug. "Nothing. Nothing at all, my dear."

[kenjkats]

Reconciliation (TRR Fic)

Note: Ok @fairydustandsarcasm​ requested Liam and Drake fighting and making up and HOLY I was insta-inspired and had to write ASAP. Also bc I’m pretty sure PB is going to make them unrealistically makeup too quickly so… here’s my take before canon blows it all to hell XD And yeah okay it turned into a fic becaused I liked it a lot and it would’ve been too wordy for an HC lol

Also I apologize in advance if any referenced events from Book 1 or general courtly workings are wrong, this was kind rushed because I got excited and just wanted to write XD

Pairing: Drake x Riley OTP; Drake x Liam BROTP

Word count: 2243 LOL that’s ridiculous

Summary: Drake and Riley feel horrible about what their feelings for each other are doing to Liam, and Drake takes it upon himself to make things right.

Riley sits beside Drake, crying.

They met up shortly after the disaster proposal between her and Liam. She sits there with her head buried in her hands, recounting the ordeal to Drake, telling him how bad she feels in between sobs. Drake holds her in his arms, letting her rest her head against his shoulder. 

“I told him, Drake,” she says fighting back another surge of tears, “I told him I love you.”

Riley thinks she feels his body stiffen. 

“Riley…” he can’t seem to find the words. Moments pass and as Riley starts to regret letting those words out into the open, he turns her face towards his, his hands framing her face as he gently wipes away her tears.

He’s looking at her, unsure, but at the same time his eyes filled with tenderness and longing. Her heart is racing, afraid that telling him she loves him was too much too soon. And yet, all of it melted away when he pressed his lips to hers, and she was sure he felt the same.

Drake pulls away and leans his forehead against hers, a faint smile painted on his lips.

“I love you, too,” he whispers. For a moment all her guilt and sadness fade away into happiness. She frowns when Drake pulls away from her. 

He runs his fingers through his hair, “I need to talk to Liam. Before anything else happens,I have to talk to him. I owe him that much, at least.”

“Have you had the chance to talk to him?”

Riley approached Drake who stood at the back of the crowd gathered at the palace, awaiting the King’s announcement. The announcement that was supposed to be her being engaged to him had things gone another way.

Drake sighs, “No. I haven’t been able to get near him. I think he’s avoiding me.”

“How do you know?”

“I can usually barge into his room whenever I need to talk to him. Or he invites me. Suddenly his guards ignore me and tell me he’s busy all the time and to go away. I don’t blame him though, I-” he’s interrupted when the crowd begins to stir as Liam appears to address them. 

Drake’s gaze follows his best friend as he strides across the room, looking confident as always. This was the first time he saw Liam since New York and he felt a pang of guilt as their eyes met briefly across the room.

It was only a moment, but the way Liam looked at him when he recognized Drake among the crowd was… cold. His kingly charm and smile faltering for a second, before he averted his gaze and composed himself, preparing to speak.

Drake and Riley stood in silence as they listened to Liam, both of them barely breathing, anxious of what Liam would say.

“–and having rescinded my engagement with Lady Madeleine, there is the matter of my taking a wife and the queen of Cordonia.”

The crowd of nobles murmur with excitement.

“As you all know Lady Riley was framed with a scandal to remove her from the list of candidates to be queen and her name has now been cleared.”

The crowd gasps and Riley can feel dozens of eyes turn towards her in anticipation.

“However,” Liam continues, “she was not the only Lady forced out of the running that night during the Coronation. Lady Olivia was also a victim of the same plot against Lady Riley. With the other ladies having conceded to Lady Madeleine prior to my choosing her that night, Lady Riley and Lady Olivia are now the only two that remain as candidates to be queen, and if she will have me, I would like to ask Lady Olivia to be my wife and Queen.”

A wave of gasps and chatter resonate throughout the palace. Riley glances over at Olivia, whose eyes were widened in surprise, jaw dropped open. Their eyes meet and she mouths a, “What is going on?” to Riley.

Riley musters a smile despite her shock and grief at all that’s been happening lately and nods her head toward Liam, mouthing back a, “go.”

All eyes turn towards Olivia and the people part to make a path for her to meet the King. She composes herself and plasters on one of her most lady-like smiles and almost glides toward Liam.

Riley watches as Olivia places a kiss on Liam’s cheek and she gives a few words to the public.

“At least I didn’t totally ruin things for Cordonia. Clearing my name cleared hers and now you guys have a queen.”

Drake snorts, “Yeah, another one that hates me.”

After a few more words, Liam and Olivia are set to depart, and Drake sees it as a chance to speak with him. He gives a quick goodbye to Riley and moves past groups of nobles to get to Liam. He stops in his tracks when Drake grabs his arm to get his attention.

“Hey, we need to talk,” Drake says under his breath. He follows Liam’s gaze which was looking past him, and Drake turns around to find Riley behind him.

“You two certainly don’t waste time, do you,” he says coldly, brushing Drake’s hand away as he hurried towards the door with Olivia. Guards had already blocked the way before Drake could get another word in.

Liam is alone in his chambers, removing all the buckles and ribbons of his formal suit, when Drake barges through his door.

“Drake! What are you–how did you get in here?”

“Your fiance’ agreed to help me get in here as a favor,” Drake shrugs.

“She hates you.”

“I guess getting engaged put her in a good mood. Plus she may have lost a bet in New York and owes me.”

Liam lets out a sharp breath and turns his back to Drake. He continues to loosen the bow around his collar.

“So, what is this? Have you come to gloat?”

“What?”

“You two were quick to be together in public.”

“Jesus, Liam, she’s still a lady of the court she had to attend and I’m always at these things for you.”

“You speak as if we’re still friends and that should matter.”

Drake shakes his head in disbelief. Liam is always so level-headed and reasonable. Rarely has he seen him like this. But he has seen him like this. Liam was still a man, and he broke down when the worst happened in his life, just like anyone else.

“Damn it, Liam, you know how hard this feelings crap is for us both, but you’re usually up to talking about it when we get pissed at each other so… I’m sorry. I am really, really sorry for what happened between you and Riley, and that it was because of me.”

His words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Liam silently, calmly removed his sash and coat jacket, folding them neatly on the foot of his bed. Drake fumbled for the right words. His mind was racing, the silence pressured him into saying anything he thought would help.

“Liam you have to know that I didn’t pursue her. I didn’t steal her from you. I didn’t even plan on liking her it all just… happened. I didn’t–”

“And yet she loves you and not me,” Liam says resentfully, finally facing Drake. His face was twisted, slowly shifting from angry to pained to broken, “all of those times we snuck away from the court to hang out together and you two were sneaking around behind my back.”

Liam turns away again and Drake’s heart sinks. His best friend can’t even look at him and it’s his fault, he thinks.

“I treated you like a brother, Drake, how could you at least not tell me?” 

Drake wonders the same thing, even though his reasons at the time seemed valid.

“You were dealing with a lot, Liam. It was never a good time to even bring this mess up. And this may not be what you want to hear and it’s probably a shitty excuse but, I thought she would pick you anyway. I didn’t think it would get to this, that there was anything to tell you about.”

“And you think that makes it all okay? That you didn't know?” Liam whirls around, pointing a finger at Drake.

“No, of course not I’m just explaining that–”

“Did you sleep with her? While I was courting her? While there were nights when I went on and on about how I was falling in love with her?” 

Drake wonders how long he’s been holding onto that thought. How it must have eaten at him thinking that it had gotten that far right under his nose.

“What? No. No. Liam I wouldn’t dare. You’re my best friend. I fell for her, yes, but I wasn’t going to make a mess of things by taking it that far before we spoke.”

Liam studies him, an unreadable expression on his face, “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

“You’re claiming you what, kept her at arm’s length? Yet she fell in love you. You must have done something.”

Drake can feel his frustration boil into anger. How could Liam accuse him of lying to him? 

“We talked! All those times you asked me to look after her and we would just talk and we got to know each other, that’s it,” Drake says grabbing his arm, imploring him to listen, “We care about you, Liam, we wouldn’t do this to you on purpose! I’m sorry it happened and that it happened this way. I was prepared to let her go and be with you if that was what she wanted.”

He know he’s hurt Liam beyond measure. Though he hopes he could at least ease the pain and reassure his friend that it wasn’t a malicious move against him. That he always thought of Liam first, even if he wanted to be with Riley with every part of his being.

“Intent doesn’t matter, Drake,” Liam yanks his arm away from Drake, “I looked like a fool down on one knee, prepared to give my life to a woman who didn’t love me.”

Drake winces at the bitterness and grief in his voice. The silence that follows seems to last an eternity. 

“I’m sorry. All I can say now is I’m sorry,” he pleads, reaching for Liam again.

“Get your hands off me!” Liam shoves Drake away and he stumbles backward.

"Go ahead!” he yells back, “Yell at me some more if you want, punch me in the face if you need to, I probably deserve it, come on.”

Drake is egging him on, hoping that if words couldn’t get through, maybe getting Liam to express it this way would help.

“I just might if you don’t get out of my face, Drake,” Liam warns.

“Do it, come on!”

Liam squares his shoulders and his chest puffs out as he takes a step towards Drake. His fist clenches at his side, and in the next moment, releases.

Liam shakes his head, “Just go, Drake. Please.”

Drake frowns. He turns to leave, giving up hope that this would get anywhere. He thinks about how admirable his friend is. How, if the tables were turned, he would’ve taken that punch, and now he feels worse knowing that even when his friend was broken, he refused to hurt others. Drake stops at the door.

“No. I am not leaving until we sort something out. I’ll be damned if I let you do this again.”

“Do what,” Liam scoffs.

“Disappear! Retreat into yourself. You locked yourself away when there was that attempt on your life years ago and I know you. You’re going to do it all again because we hurt you and you don’t know how to deal with it. You have been a brother to me, Liam, so I will always be here for you, too. I’m not leaving.”

Liam faces Drake, his anger waning. Liam is exhausted from all of the pain and resentment. He rubs his temples and walks over to the mini-bar in the corner of his chambers. Liam pours two glasses of whiskey and hands one to Drake as he gulps down the other.

They both sit on the edge of Liam’s bed for a long time, drinking whiskey.

“I know you two didn’t mean to,” Liam says, breaking the silence.

Drake is almost unsure of what he heard and looks at Liam in surprise.

“I told Riley that day that as upset as I am, I’m… happy for you both. I’m happy for you, Drake. You have always been there for me through all of these courtly functions. You tolerate it all and watch the world revolve around me. You deserve your own happiness.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Drake smiles. He’s glad Liam is so forgiving, but it always makes him feel worse at the same, “and thank you.”

“I just need time to adjust to the idea of you two. You understand, I hope.”

“Of course,” he says, clapping Liam on the shoulder. 

Liam smiles at that, and he returns the gesture, “Still, I hope you would be willing to be my best man when I get married?”

Drake scoffs, “Olivia would kill you.”

“I’m sure you’d enjoy her disappointment anyway. She’ll understand.”

They laugh.

“Seriously though, Liam. Me? Would they even let you? I’m not–”

“I am the King, and I can have my best friend by my side as my best man.”

Drake chuckles and raises his glass to Liam, “So be it.”

[roxy-davenport]

My Future

Pairing: AU Endverse Dean x Reader

Word count:  2,737

Beta: The awesome @raspberrymama :D

A/N: This was written for @paigeinastory Paige’s Country Song Fic/Sentence Prompt Challenge with the prompts, “When She Calls Me Baby” by Jason Aldean and “I don’t know what it is but damn.” This was also written for @jessica-bones-winchester’s Dating Dean Writing Challenge with the prompt, being called sweetheart. As well as for @dancingalone21 Lau’s AU Funny Quote challenge with the prompt,“That was scary!” AU slightly with Future!Dean. Romance, smut vaguely referenced. Hella fluffy. These are snippets of moments between endverse Dean and the reader. This is told from Dean’s POV

Also on AO3

Some days it’s tough just gettin’ up

Throwin’ on these boots and makin’ that climb

Some days I’d rather be a no show

Lay low ‘fore I go out of my mind

When Balthazar first came to drag me out of the future, I fought him off fiercely. First of all, in my time he was dead. So I was quite confused how and why he was here. He said some bs about wanting to give me some happiness away from “heaven’s drama”. Of course I looked at him like he grew two heads. But can you blame me, really? I growled, spat at him, even shot him but in the end, I was so happy he did it. I owe my happiness to him. I surely would have died in that timeline either by the Croatoan virus or by how hard and cruel I had become.

Balthazar placed me back in my previous timeline before there was any talk of Sam being Lucifer’s vessel, back to the good old days, just me and Sam hunting like we used to. No more apocalypse, Lucifer Sam, no more virus, just simple cases. Of course, I remembered the other timeline but I had a chance now to change it, maybe even get out of the life.

Naturally it took a while to conform to the “real” world but Sam was very understanding. Balthazar explained that he rescued me from a different timeline. Sam took it in stride because I was his brother after all, timelines or not. Sam taught me how to act in the world again with civilization. I could tell he wanted to ask which timeline but he didn’t and I didn’t tell him. There was no sense in burdening Sam with the truth.

I got right back into hunting like riding a bike. I guess a hunter never forgets how to hunt. And through hunting I met Y/N. I never thought I’d love anyone. I never thought I could. Y/N thawed out my cold heart and reminded me what it felt like to feel.

I love calling girls sweetheart. That’s my MO in relationships and dating. Some girls liked baby but I liked that used for me. I’m baby, she’s sweetheart. On rough days, I would close my eyes and remember our first date, the first time I called her sweetheart. It was after a hunt actually. We ran to the motel to clean up and then went to a dinner together.

I was shaky and about to back out when Sam urged me to go and gave me the mother of all pep talks. I sat across from her, my leg shaking underneath the table. I offset my nervousness by being extra cocky. The second I sat down I felt butterflies in my stomach. My eyes were on her almost the entire time. Y/N wore a dress and I got to see her shapely legs. She looked amazing in that dress. I could tell she was nervous, too, because she was fidgeting with her sleeves. I could stare at her all day.

Clearing my throat and tearing my eyes away from her for a second to look down at my menu I said, “You look a lot better without-.”

Y/N cut me off and smirked stating, “So do you, handsome.” I blushed - actually blushed...  like a girl. How embarrassing.

“What can I get you two?” Y/N looked up and I saw her frown. I followed her eyes and looked up at the waitress. She was definitely my type, well before I met Y/N that is. My eyes quickly returned to Y/N. A cocky smile appeared on my face as I shook my head and very obviously looked Y/N up and down. I took in her blushed face and the way she bit her lip. I wanted to make sure she knew the waitress while attractive, had nothing on her.

“I’ll have an omelette.” Y/N replied.

Nodding Dean added, “Same with a beer...Sam Adams if you got it, if not then a Guinness will be fine.”

The waitress nodded and left. I saw out of the corner of my eye, a longing look from the waitress but my attention was on Y/N. It would always be on Y/N. No girl would ever satisfy me again. No more one night stands and that’s one of the reason why I was nervous to go on this date. But once on it, I couldn’t wait to claim Y/N as mine.

“So sweetheart how did you get started in hunting?”

“My father is Crowley.”

My eyes went wide as I spit out my water all over the table. Y/N giggled and offered me napkins.

“Never got that response before.”

Curiously and tentatively I probed Y/n, “What’s the usual response?”

“Really? You? Or just running away but not spilling water everywhere. That’s a new one.”

Y/N spoke again answering the unasked question.“I hunt because I refuse to be my father’s daughter.”

Her past, like mine, doesn’t define her. She isn’t her father, she’s my light in the darkness, my rock. She pulled me out of myself and showed me that I deserved to be happy.

That night we started with no lies. I told her how I got into the business, the timeline I came from, everything. By the time we finished eating, I felt like I had known her for years. I put my arm around her as we walked back to the car. I called her sweetheart every day since. I feel lucky to hold her hand and call her mine. Sam is grossed out by the massive amount of PDA but he’s happy I found someone I love.

But when she says baby

Oh don’t matter what comes

Ain’t goin’ nowhere

She runs her fingers through my hair

And saves me

Yeah that look in her eyes got me comin’ alive

And drivin’ me a good kind a crazy

When she says baby

Oh when she says baby

She’s still asleep. I always wake up early just to watch over her. She looks so peaceful. On days away from her, I get no sleep. I need to feel her body against mine. I need to hold her.

She stirs before her alarm clock goes off and she turns in my arms murmuring, “baby.” She nuzzles into my chest as i reach over and turn the alarm clock off. Slowly she lifts her head up and looks into my eyes.

I reach down and stroke her cheek. “I don’t know what it is, but damn. You had me at hello.” She laughs at the corny but true line. God, do I wish I could make her laugh all the time. Her face crinkles in the most adorable way and she has the cutest dimples.

I hug her close to me and kiss her forehead. Her fingers cart through my hair and I moan happy to have her hands on my body. I’m happy to have made it back to her again. I’ve had a bad hunt, deep cuts, a worried Sam and one hell of a fight to gank that mofo but here, I’m saved. Here, none of that matters, it’s only me and her. I can be the real me. I can tell her what really happened on the hunt and she takes it all away. She eats the pain and suffering and replaces it with love. She’s my own personal sin eater.  

I look down at her and see her eyes are filled with such love and a hint of mischief. When her lips find mine, she kisses me without abandon. I melt into the kiss and hold her tight against me. She knows what I need without me having to say it. She’s determined to remind me how much she loves me. Every touch, every word, every moan she releases from me reminds me that I am hers. Her tongue, her whole mouth is like magic. She has hardly any gag reflex and can take me inside her warm mouth all the way to my pubic hairs. She licks the underside of my cock and I’m already fighting not to cum. Even if I’m trying hard not to come, she’ll make me come in a matter of minutes.

She’s a goddess in the bedroom. She knows how to read my body and I know how to read hers. Whenever I have a bad hunt like today, she gives me free reign over her body. She lets me take her anyway, in any position, anywhere I want. Nothing is off limits. How can I resist that? How can I focus on the hunt with a proposal like that? Which is exactly the point.

I missed her soft skin, her delicious curves, the way her body responded to me. It all drew me in. I‘m a breast man. I like asses and she has an amazing one but breasts are infinitely more fun. I can play and fondle them to my heart's content and watch her writhe and moan under me, begging me to fuck her. I love teasing my sweetheart. And when she cums, it’s the most gorgeous look ever. She says my name over and over again along with the word baby almost reverently like I’m everything to her. And in truth, she’s everything to me. 

Every time I’m on a hunt or in a motel room, she’s on my mind.

Some nights I come home fightin’ mad

Feel like runnin’ my fist through the wall

Is it even worth what I’m fightin’ for anymore

Feelin’ torn, oh the hell with it all

I came home again, another bad hunt. She could’ve told me to stop, I was making quite the mess but she didn’t. She let me get out my rage. She started throwing things into the center of the room; a bunch of pillows, some papers, a lamp she always hated and a couple of knick knacks. She just let me tear things apart. She gets that sometimes I need to just destroy, vent, and scream, especially on hunts where Sam and I nearly die.

She took a pillow and held it up to her mouth screaming into it. I copied her screaming into mine over and over again. I felt better. She always makes me feel better. I offer to explain but she puts a finger on my lips.

“I don’t need to know, baby. The point is that it bothered you to the point of rage. Tell me one thing...is Sam okay?”

“Yeah he is.”

“Good, then let it all go, baby. Forget the hunt. You’re with me now and nothing else matters.”

I get lost in her embrace, her kiss and just submit to our desires. The trigger to let go is always the way she calls me baby. Some might think that’s ridiculous but if you heard how she said it, you’d understand.

But when she says baby

Oh don’t matter what comes

Ain’t goin’ nowhere

She runs her fingers through my hair

And saves me

Yeah that look in her eyes got me comin’ alive

And drivin’ me a good kind a crazy

When she says baby

Oh when she says baby

I had to go on a hunt with Sam. I really considered just getting out of the life, I was married for Chuck’s sake, but as much as I tried to deny it, hunting was in my blood. I would sit and eat breakfast with her and read the newspaper and see people in pain, suffering knowing what monster it was and that I could help. She understands. She knows I have to be the hero and she’s okay with it. This hunt goes without a hitch. Instead of calling her or facetiming, I just barrel out of the hunt like a bat out of hell. Sam is holding on for dear life while I make sharp turn after sharp turn till I get to my baby.

Everything gonna be alright

Just lay down by my side

Let me love you through this life

She’s a perfect shot of faith

When every bit of mine is gone

Somethin’ I can believe in

A best friend, a heaven sent

Love to lean on

When I get home, I find her looking at the wedding video. It was simple. Elegant with only close friends and fellow hunters there. Jody Mills helped document it. The camera work was on the shaky side but Jody caught all the quiet moments, all the moments I whispered to a nervous and happy Y/N about how much I loved her and how much I wished I could take off her wedding dress and make love to her right then and there. In fact, I made her cum with my tongue five minutes later in the woods. I watched myself and her on that video and remembered all over again why I loved her. We looked so young and idealistic then.

She looked like an angel in that dress. I looked amazing in that suit. I had to hand it to Crowley for letting me borrow his new tailor. No one questioned that the King of Hell was our officiant or that Y/N was his daughter. Everyone just accepted our happiness and left it at that. 

Y/N got up to a segment where me and Sam were talking about her. I didn’t know Jody was filming us at the time.  

“Hey congratulations, Dean. You found your soulmate. After everything, you deserve to be happy.”

Clapping Sam on the back I added, “Thanks Sammy, now we gotta find you a girl.” Sam smiled at me and nodded before giving me a bear hug.

When the hug ended, I took a deep breath out and confessed, “That was scary!”

Sam looked at me confused, “Scary? How so Dean?”

“Well she’s my everything and I don’t do chick-flick moments.”

“Or so you say.”

“Not helping Sam, anyway, It took me a week of staring at her. We stumbled into the same hunt and every hour we did research, my eyes went to her. God, was I creepy. Finally she helped me out and gave me her number. After the first hunt, we kept hunting together, flirted with each other and man did we have a bunch of sexual tension.”

“Had sex, finally. You waited for two months for it, remarkable really.”

Ignoring Sam’s comment Dean continued, “And then we just moved in together. We never talked about it, it just happened-”

Sam interjected, “Or she basically showed up with stuff and you beamed at her nodding.”

“Same thing.” Dean stated quickly.

“Anyway it was scary asking Y/N to marry me. I’ve been with other girls but never felt a connection like with her. She was my tether to this world, my reason, my life, my everything and so it took me days to get the courage up to ask her. Right after she killed a werewolf to save me, I just bent down on one knee and whipped open the ring box. I wanted it to be romantic but with the adrenaline pumping, my fear was gone, I didn’t trip over my own words they just spewed out. She cried and chanted yes and baby so many times. I really am the luckiest man in the world.”

“And I still am,” speaking loud enough for her to hear me over the noises from the TV.

She looked away from the tv and ran into my arms. “I have more good news to tell you Dean.”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

She stepped back and put her hand on her belly. My eyes widened and she nodded. I cried, not able to stop myself. I finally had a family. It wasn’t just me and Sammy anymore. I had a life, a future. I had no idea what would come next or whether I would keep hunting now that Y/N was pregnant but I knew that whatever did happen, we’d do it together.

But when she says baby

Oh don’t matter what comes

Ain’t goin’ nowhere

She runs her fingers through my hair

And saves me

Yeah that look in her eyes got me comin’ alive

And drivin’ me a good kind a crazy

When she says baby

Oh when she says baby

Yeah that look in her eyes got me comin’ alive

And drivin’ me a good kind a crazy

Tagging

Forevers: @purgatoan, @killerofthesouth, @charliebradbury1104, @chaos-and-the-calm67, @chelsea072498, @everyday-supernatural-af, @kalliravenne, @toogardenenthusiast, @winchesterprincessbride, @one-shots-supernatural, @take-me-tonirvana, @hellsmother, @ellen-reincarnated1967, @faegal04, @deals-with-demons, @mamaredd123, @atc74, @hamartiamacguffin, @donnaintx

Dean Folks from my list: @buckysmetallicstump, @faith-in-dean, @bennyyh, @ruprecht0420 @supernatural-jackles, @jesspfly, @webcricket

@aprofoundbondwithdean, @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @dr-dean, @nichelle-my-belle, @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid, @thegreatficmaster, @salvachester, @blushingsamgirl, @bkwrm523, @whispersandwhiskerburn, @lipstickandwhiskey, @impala-dreamer, @samsgoddess, @frenchybell, @scorpiongirl1, @for-the-love-of-dean, @jelly-beans-and-gstrings, @fiveleaf, @deansleather, @curliesallovertheplace, @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname, @waywardjoy, @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious, @kayteonline, @supernatural-jackles, @idreamofhazel, @wevegotworktodo, @ilovedean-spn2 , @quiddy-writes, @wi-deangirl77, @deantbh, @mysaintsasinner, @chelsea-winchester, @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki, @fandommaniacx, @teamfreewillimagines, @deanwinchesterforpromqueen, @castieltrash1, @supernaturallyobsessed, @memariana91, @writingbeautifulmen, @captain-princess-rose, @plaidstiel-wormstache, @idreamofhazel, @revwinchester, @supermoonpanda, @ageekchiclife, @i-dont-know-how-to-write, @vintagevalentinexx, @ohwritever, @ruinedbydestiel, @winchester-writes, @mysupernaturalfics, @thinkwritexpress, @sammit-janet @bowtiesandapplepie, @itsemmyb, @ezauraemmaline, @matteson-crazed, @castielspahdehrah, @charliesbackbitches, @crzcorgi, @gryffindorable713, @deerlululucy, @walkingencyclopediaoffandom, @MrsJohnSmith, @manawhaat, @growleytria, @thegleegeneration, @samtomydeanwinchester, @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki, @i-never-said-a-pilot, @thewinchestielboys, @supermoonpanda, @sis-tafics, @amaranthinecastiel, @kittenofdoomage, @samanddeanwinchester67, @prettyxwickedxthings, @ferferelli @lilyoflothlorien, @myfand0msandm0re, @olitzisbae, @iridianuniverse, @the-morning-star-falls,  @shortandlongstories, @strange-inhumanity-blog, @ackleslaugh @noisilyyoungpuppy, @fangirling-instead-of-working, @eyes-of-a-disney-princess, @chrisatplay, @kayteonline, @spnsimpleman, @faith-in-dean, @gimmethepieandnoonegetshurt, @for-the-love-of-dean, @mamaimpala, @zanthiasplace, @sleep-silent-angel, @pada-ackles-reads, @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, @gadreelsforbiddenfruit, @trenchcoats-and-bees, @curliesallovertheplace, @jencharlan, @not-so-natural-spn, @skybinx-blog, @thebunkerismyhome, @feelmyroarrrr, @beachy2014, @fandom-book-nerd, @tia58, @sams-little-toy, @sunriserose1023, @saving-things-hunting-family, @winchesterswoonathon, @jotink78, @lucifer-in-leather,  @babypieandwhiskey, @howmanytuesdaysdidyouhave, @supernatural-jackles, @avasmommy224, @angelwingsandsupernaturalthings, @mysaintsasinner, @chelsea-winchester, @besslincoln-bruh, @wheresthekillswitch, @maraisabellegrey, @notnaturalanahi

[brynne-lagaao]

(Fanfic) All That We Are - Chapter Nine

Title: All That We Are

Chapter: 9/12

Rating: M

Mirrors: AO3 | FF.NET | Website

Summary: There wasn’t any real need to find out whether or not they were soulmates if they were both sure of the answer. But Yata’s answer was different from Fushimi’s, and that was just another of the dividing points they couldn’t reconcile.

Note: Once again, thank you to my wonderful betas, @dropletons and @candylit for their hard work and for not giving up on me over the course of writing this fic! You guys rock!

A large part of this fic takes place behind the scenes of certain canon events. Whenever it’s material outside of the anime (season one, Missing Kings, and Return of Kings), I’ll try to provide notes stating which materials are referenced. The fic should still stand decently without reading those things, but certain parts will make more sense in context.

Chapter note: This chapter contains a reference to the Fushimi and Yata after story, Cola, set after Return of Kings. There are also small references made to events in Lost Small World.

“Yata-san…” Kamamoto’s voice broke into the intense staring match Yata had started with his PDA. His friend offered a sympathetic sort of half-smile when he looked up. “You’ve been frowning like that for a while now. Can’t be that hard a call to make, can it?”

Yata scowled back, frustrated, and let out a sharp ‘ch’ before turning his glare off to the side. “Yeah, easy for you to say,” he grumbled, hefting his skateboard under his free arm a bit. He accidentally made eye contact with a woman in a business suit as they passed on the street, and she averted her gaze before he could even get embarrassed, hurrying along as though nervous.

A half-mortified flush spread up his face; Yata cleared his throat, trying to get past the moment. Don’t accidentally scare people, goddamnit! He and Kamamoto probably looked like street punks walking around downtown Shizume in broad daylight, which was almost the truth. Despite the fact that they were working to fix up the mess of strains and stray color-users left behind by the Slate, just their appearance was bound to make ‘normal’ people nervous.

It had been weeks now – weeks, and the most contact he’d had with Saruhiko had been getting into arguments with him over clan territory.

Yata reached up to scratch the back of his head with agitation, ignoring Kamamoto’s searching gaze. Things were… different between them. He should’ve been grateful. After that tense moment in Jungle’s base, it felt like he and Saruhiko had reached something of an understanding, but it was still just a dent made in the huge wall they’d built between them over time. The atmosphere was awkward at best – tense at worst – and every time they spoke, even if they weren’t arguing, it felt like they were both dancing around the heart of the issue. It was as if neither of them knew how to act around each other.

Sometimes, when he let doubt consume him, he wondered if Saruhiko even wanted to try…

As if that guy wouldn’t say so if that was it. Yata tried to brush that insecure thought from his head, narrowing his eyes as he thought it through. If Saruhiko didn’t want to try, he wouldn’t have been awkward about it at all. He would’ve made it clear that Yata’s efforts were unwelcome. It wasn’t like he was the type to ever hold back when something was annoying him, after all. That had been one of the things Yata liked about him – one of the things they had in common, actually.

The fact that the nervous energy between them felt entirely mutual actually gave him some hope in a weird way. Saruhiko wouldn’t have been anxious if this wasn’t as important to him as it was to Yata. Right?

“You should just do it, Yata-san,” Kamamoto rumbled at him. When Yata glanced up at him, he offered a grin and a thumbs-up. “That’s your signature style, right? Dive in head-first, and let the details work themselves out?”

That was kinda true. Yata shot him a disgruntled look. “This isn’t a fight, dumbass – it’s totally different!”

Kamamoto shrugged, looking a little bemused at the clarification. “Right, if you say so, but what’s so difficult about making a phone call? Is it some kinda sensitive family business, or…?”

Yata blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard, and then let out a rueful ‘heh’, shoulders slumping as he released his breath in a huff. “Yeah, something like that.”

‘Family’ really wasn’t far off, because the truth was that his mother had been pushing the whole thing about bringing Saruhiko over for dinner much harder lately, and he was starting to run out of excuses. Avoiding her calls only made it worse when she managed to catch him off-guard with one later on too. It wasn’t like he was opposed to going home – it was gonna be awkward, sure, but now that things had settled down, it was doable. But bringing Saruhiko over, when they hadn’t even settled things between the two of them properly yet…

Hell. He wasn’t even sure Saruhiko wouldn’t laugh in his face when he brought it up.

Yata grimaced, trying to shove back that thought. There had been too many years of Saruhiko pushing him away and deliberately stepping on his feelings. Despite knowing that there had to be something more complicated behind it than derision or hatred and that things were gonna be different now, he couldn’t shake the pattern off so easily. Honestly, he still hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea of them being on good terms again. He was happy, sure, but it kinda felt like the whole thing could fall apart if he looked at it funny. It made all of his moves and actions come out clumsy and tentative, and he was starting to get really frustrated with himself for that.

In short, something had to give.

Kamamoto was shaking his head, oblivious to Yata’s inner thoughts. “You won’t get anywhere avoiding family, Yata-san,” he pointed out, with something of a rueful note in his own voice. “You’d better call ‘em and sort it out before it gets bad. Just” – he brought up a hand and clenched it into a fist, with an encouraging grin – “rush in head-on and sort it out. Right?”

Those were his own words; he was sure he’d said that exact thing before. Yata shot his friend a flat look. “Look, this isn’t your business, okay?”

Kamamoto seemed to deflate a little at that. “Yeah, f’you say so.”

Past the irritation, he couldn’t say it wasn’t decent advice. Yata reached up to scratch at the back of his neck again, aggravated, and waited a few more paces as they came out to an alley. “Just… Okay, fine. Wait here.” He stopped by the entrance to fix his friend with a scowl. “Don’t listen in, got it?”

The stupid grin he got back came with an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up as well. “Got it! Good luck, Yata-san!”

‘Good luck’, he says… Yata slouched into the alley and slumped against the wall, setting his skateboard to the side and trying not to think too hard about the last time he’d called Saruhiko in a place like this. He wasn’t sure what Kamamoto would have to say about who he was calling either. Maybe nothing – maybe he’d get a dubious look and a rough sigh.

He’d probably deserve it, too, because this was dumb! There was no reason he should be afraid to call.

Still, even with that, once he’d got the screen up and scrolled down to the right place in his contacts, his finger hovered over the name ‘Fushimi Saruhiko’ indecisively for a second or two.

Goddamnit… Yata scowled, frustrated with himself, and forced his hand to move. I’ll just… figure it out. Whatever.

The ‘calling’ screen flashed up and he listened to it ring, trying to ignore the anxiety brewing in his stomach. It only went off twice before the ‘click’ of the call connecting sounded, and then… silence.

What the fuck? Yata felt his eyebrows knit together, frowning at his PDA in bafflement. “Saruhiko? You there?”

A brief pause, the sound of some motion, and then Saruhiko’s low drawl came across the line. “You’re breaking your trend. I expected to be yelled at.”

“Hah?” The frown twisted down into a scowl, a little twinge of irritation rising. “I’m not always yelling!”

If he thought back, though… Guiltily, Yata realized he had only been calling lately when he had some beef with the Blues. Things had been hectic. And he wasn’t quite used to normal conversations with Saruhiko. And… maybe if he was being honest, he kinda didn’t want to be the one to initiate this time. Every single time something important happened between them, it was always him pushing. Was it really that bad if he wanted Saruhiko to come to him with that explanation he’d promised?

Yeah, I’ll probably never get it in that case.

“If you say so,” Saruhiko responded breezily. “So? If you’re not calling to yell, what is it?”

Right. That. Yata grimaced, and then decided ‘fuck it’ and dove right into it. “Mom’s been bugging me about you and me going over for dinner sometime soon.”

There was a marked pause, punctuated by a very audible intake of breath. Yata was just starting to squirm, ready to brush off the whole thing and take it back when Saruhiko responded, tone wary. “How soon is ‘soon’?”

“Eh?” Yata blinked – he hadn’t expected that. “Uh… well… long as I give her a date, I think it’s good? When’s your next day off?”

“Hm.” Saruhiko drew out that hum, clearly thinking it over. “Two days from now. I’ll have to let them know I’m actually taking it, though.”

“You seriously work on your days off?” Somehow, that wasn’t surprising. Yata found himself grinning a bit ruefully. “Damn, you government types don’t like taking breaks, huh?”

“Things are busy right now, if you hadn’t noticed,” Saruhiko responded. His tone was flat, but there didn’t seem to be any irritation or mockery in it. “Anyway, since I’m off all day, just figure out a time with your family and let me know. I can meet you by the bar.”

“You’ll go?” A little wave of surprised pleasure surged up through Yata’s body. Somehow, he’d expected to have to fight for it a bit more… He really is trying, huh? Even that tiny bit of proof had him shutting his eyes for a brief second, savoring the relief and happiness. “Awesome! I’ll call her right away!”

“Fine. Just message me the details.”

“Right.” Now that they’d reached this point, Yata was at a loss. He could feel a million and one other questions at the tip of his tongue – You wanna hang out on one of those days off, maybe? Should we just message each other random shit like we used to? Are you ever gonna really talk to me? Explain stuff like you said you would? – but he wasn’t sure of the timing. Or if he even wanted to put them out there.

Why’s it always me? That self-conscious thought kept those questions in. Yata cleared his throat. “Well, see ya, then.”

“See you,” Saruhiko echoed, in that soft mumble. There was an edge of something that might have been hesitance or maybe even fondness – unless that was wishful thinking – and his tone drew out like it sometimes did.

It made Yata shiver, a little twinge of something that definitely wasn’t remotely platonic starting in his belly and spreading out through his body as the call clicked off. He lowered his hand and leaned heavily against the wall behind him, letting his head fall back with a thud. What am I doing?

All the times in the past when he’d thought about his feelings, it hadn’t been this stupid and awkward. But then he’d always had some kind of ‘out’. When they were younger, it was because he’d convinced himself they were soulmates. That made it easy – he didn’t have to be worried or anxious or uncertain because Saruhiko was going to be beside him regardless. And then later on, when he’d sorted that out, it had been more important to find Saruhiko and figure out where they stood.

Well, now they were friends again – sorta – and he still didn’t know where they stood.

Maybe he’s just not into it. Yata swallowed hard, lifting his head. Despite the number of times they’d kissed and the remembered intensity in every encounter, the truth was that he didn’t know how to interpret Saruhiko’s actions towards him. It had felt like things were going well – and he’d enjoyed it while it was happening; had thought that Saruhiko enjoyed it just as much – but after everything that had happened, he had trouble trusting his own instincts. He couldn’t separate how desperately he wanted there to be something more-than-friends between them from trying to piece together whether there actually was.

There was also the fact that Saruhiko had always been the one to pull back and put an end to things, even if he’d initiated it. Maybe it was just some twisted form of messing with him, taunting him with his own soulmate obsession and the feelings that brought it up. Saruhiko had done a lot of that, so how was Yata supposed to know one way or another if any of it had been genuine?

When it came down to it, they’d fucking kissed, and even more than kissed, but he had no idea how Saruhiko felt about him.

So lame. Yata let out a huff, partly amused and partly frustrated. He didn’t really have it in him to wonder if he and Saruhiko were soulmates, either. That was kind of a secondary concern, if it was even a concern any more. He wasn’t totally sure about that part, but he was sure that he… had feelings for Saruhiko. If there was something to be pursued between them, he wanted to do it.

On top of all of the other problems, there was also the fact that he couldn’t do it as Homra’s Yatagarasu. And he definitely couldn’t do it assuming he was Saruhiko’s soulmate. But he didn’t know how to act as just plain Yata Misaki, either.

“Don’t forget that’s only a part of who you are as a whole,” was what Kusanagi had said. But he hadn’t said how to figure out what the other parts were. Did personalities even section off like that? It was confusing.

“Yata-san!” Kamamoto’s voice called out from the head of the alley. He was peering in curiously. “Did you call yet? How’d it go?”

That was an effective distraction. Yata shot him a glare, waving impatiently. “I told you to wait, stupid!” He raised his other arm, bringing up the PDA again. “I gotta make one more call, so just stay put, will you?”

“Got it!” Kamamoto responded, flashing him another thumbs-up before ducking back out of view.

Yata busied himself with bringing up his mother’s number, successfully pushing the more complicated stuff back as he focused on the immediate matter. But still, that one persistent question nagged at him, tugging at the back of his mind even as he tried to ignore it.

Now what?

Now what? That was the first thought to surface in Fushimi’s brain as he stared dumbly down at the neatly folded shirt he’d been handed.

“I’ll leave the basket here for you to put your dirty shirts in,” Misaki’s mother said, fixing them both with a stern look. “I’m taking Megumi to the store to pick up dinner ingredients. Wash up and change while I’m gone, and I’ll get the laundry and dinner going when I’m back. Got that?”

“Yes,” Fushimi answered automatically, at the same time as Misaki mumbled, “Yeah, mom.” They exchanged a sheepish look.

Honestly, it was like being thirteen again.

The entire day had felt like that, though – ever since they’d met up to visit Misaki’s family together. From talking about inconsequential things to teaming up automatically so they could save Misaki’s sister from an errant Slate-caused accident and all the way to spraying themselves with soda, despite the fact that it had been an accident on his part and Misaki’s way of making him feel better about it on his part.

And now here they were being scolded right in Misaki’s family’s tiny, neat bathroom, and ordered to wash up by Misaki’s mother.

It was nostalgic. Maybe too nostalgic, honestly…

Fushimi couldn’t help but turn his eyes aside, avoiding Misaki’s direct gaze. It felt like they were trying to fall back on a previous rhythm without any idea of how to interact now as adults. He was having trouble avoiding the pitfall of those easy patterns, despite the fact that he could recognize them. It was awkward, trying to find a space and a level of comfort to start talking – and since he hadn’t, Misaki was pushing forward instead, making assumptions like he had before and taking over the difficult work of what should’ve been communication between them. Hitting the mark too, which had a seductive security to it. But…

That’s not what I want now, is it? He got the impression that it wasn’t what Misaki wanted either; despite the casual ease, a lot of it felt like desperation. Tugging at the frayed ends of what was there once, at a loss on how to piece together something natural.

Out of all that, the only certain thing in Fushimi’s mind was that he wanted there to be something natural between them. Some closeness, a bond, a sense of shared feelings… Trust, maybe. Probably.

It was easier said than done, of course. Given their history, he couldn’t exactly blame Misaki for not trusting him. It stung, but he had no choice but to accept it, seeing as how it was a direct consequence of his own actions. Logically, that meant if there was going to be trust, he was going to have to take the lead, but the idea of trusting someone other than himself, even Misaki – or maybe ‘especially Misaki’, considering how much potential there was for pain – went against every ingrained instinct he possessed. Despite recognizing that he would have to do it if he wanted this to go anywhere, he didn’t have the slightest clue how to lower those particular walls.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to, honestly, despite the longing that still churned about in his body. The idea of putting himself out there like that was… unnerving.

Regardless, it was clear that they couldn’t build anything substantial between them by relying on their previous habits. There wasn’t enough there. And they’d changed. Which they obviously both knew, and it was causing no small amount of awkwardness and strain.

Fushimi clicked his tongue. Emotions were so needlessly complicated…

“All right. I’ll leave you boys to sort out who washes first.” Misaki’s mother offered them a fond smile, turning to step back out of the room. “Minoru will be home from his study session in a half hour or so, so don’t drain the tub water, Misaki!”

“Got it,” Misaki muttered at her retreating back. He turned to face Fushimi with something of an apologetic look. “So, uh, we can both wash, but sharing the tub might be kind of…” At that, he reached up to rub at the back of his neck, embarrassment clear in his expression. “Y’know.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine – there was already a knot in his stomach before he’d even considered the implications of ‘washing together’, much less ‘sharing a tub’. Fushimi turned his back, feeling awkward as he reached down for the hem of his shirt and trying hard not to let it show. “You go ahead.”

“You sure?” There was the sound of rustling behind him – Misaki following his lead, no doubt. Fushimi tried not to think about it as he lifted the shirt over his head.

“I’m not doing you any favors,” he drawled back. “If someone has to go out and make small talk with your family while waiting, I’d rather it wasn’t me.”

Misaki huffed out a laugh – muffled slightly by fabric as he was probably doing the same thing Fushimi had just done. “Yeah, shoulda guessed. Jerk.” His voice came out with a kind of rueful fondness, but before there was time to react to that, Fushimi heard more sharp rustling behind him followed by the soft ‘thwack’ of Misaki’s shirt hitting the basket as the result of a careless toss.

That didn’t help with the earlier thoughts. Fushimi made a low, distracted hum in response to the good-natured insult, eyeing the article of clothing for a moment. He was suddenly and uncomfortably aware that its presence meant that Misaki was standing behind him naked from the waist up. It made him keenly conscious of his own uncovered skin, the fine hairs rising at the back of his neck in response, and he had to fight the urge to click his tongue as he slid his own shirt the rest of the way free, discarding it directly on top of Misaki’s.

What a pain...

It was impossible to quell the awkward curiosity stirring within him now. He hadn’t seen Misaki without clothing since they were teenagers trying to conserve water in their cheap apartment. And that had stopped after the first failed attempt to confirm a soulmate bond, thanks to his discomfort and how easy it was to arrange things so that the timing didn’t work out.

In short, it had been years, and things were different. They were different. Physically as well as anything else. He knew it well; there were places he’d touched on Misaki’s body, soft and firm points that he’d mapped out with his fingers without ever having –

Don’t be stupid. Fushimi firmly clamped down on that errant thought, making a ruthless attempt to discard it as he started to undo the waistband of his pants. He scowled at the discolored panels on the wall in front of him, frustrated with his lack of control. This wasn’t the time, and it definitely was not the place.

If there ever will be a time and place for that kind of thing… He didn’t even bother to suppress the cynical voice that slid across his mind in response, bending to remove his jeans. It was true, after all. That kind of relationship wasn’t a sure thing, even if he and Misaki both wanted it. Things were… complicated.

That Misaki cared about him, he’d stopped doubting. Misaki had come after him, without understanding and with nothing between them aside from a broken and twisted relationship. It was one of those overwhelming truths that Fushimi still struggled with. Misaki’s attachment had survived in the face of all the hate Fushimi had carefully and meticulously tried to cultivate in him. The depth of those feelings felt unrealistic – an illusion; something he didn’t have any right to.

As if that matters when it comes to feelings… He was starting to realize that in the process of coming to terms with his own. Emotions didn’t follow logic. There was no objective ‘right’ to any of it. Things just were, whether they made sense or not. In the end, he and Misaki were just two people who were drawn together – that was the simple and yet powerful truth of it.

Unfortunately, that was where the simplicity ended. Fushimi forced himself to consider the cold, hard logic at the core of the issue. Feelings may have been uncontrollable, but actions were not – and they typically had consequences.

In short, even if none of the other complicated factors between them existed, he couldn’t avoid the fact that acting on those feelings meant that eventually the problem of soulmate bonding was going to come up.

There’s no guarantee that we are. It was the first thought to jump up in response to the subject, his hackles raising in immediate defense. That was the thing that nagged at him as he considered how to approach the topic. If something did happen between them and it turned out they weren’t, would Misaki be okay with it?

If it turned out they were, would he be okay with it?

In the end, it came down to trust again – of Misaki, and of himself. And frankly, he didn’t know that he was capable of either.

Sometimes, though… when he thought about the moment he’d exhausted his resources, facing down the high probability of death, and he’d heard the sound of Misaki’s voice calling out to him…

Maybe…

It’s useless to think about that now. It was only going to make things more awkward. Fushimi finished undressing and set the rest of his clothing aside, wrapping one of Misaki’s family’s towels around his waist. It was softer than the ones at the Scepter 4 dorms. This room was tidier too, despite the cramped quarters. The lighting was dim but pleasant and the air was fresh, although it felt stifling at the moment considering everything.

Behind him, he heard Misaki take in a deep breath, and then let it out in a long ‘whoosh’. “Hey. You ready?”

At least he wasn’t the only anxious one. Oddly, that gave Fushimi a little more confidence about the situation. “You say that like we’re getting ready for a fight.”

“Shut up! This is weird, okay?” Misaki’s voice was an odd blend of frustrated and flustered. Without waiting for a response, he blustered on. “All right! Fine! I’m – I’m turning around. Got it?”

Do you really need to announce it? Fushimi felt the smile curling warm at the corners of his mouth, and didn’t bother to stop it even as he turned as well. “Yeah, yeah.”

They somehow managed to face each other at approximately the same moment. Fushimi caught the way Misaki’s eyes widened slightly and felt his own breath halt abruptly in his throat. His skin prickled with mingled surprise and embarrassment, a warm tendril of something that was a little too sharp to be quite pleasant stirring slyly to life within him.

Misaki was stunning. He’d known it, been powerlessly charmed by the play of wiry muscle and the thin, smooth line of waist and hips even when they were covered, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the intensity of his own reaction. It was as if his previous logic had flown entirely out of his head, any cautionary thoughts stilling momentarily as his eyes trailed over the flat plane of Misaki’s stomach and the slender but firm muscles of his calves and arms. An appealing flush seemed to spill from Misaki’s face down along the line of his neck; as Fushimi stared, fascinated, the muscles in his throat moved in a nervous swallow.

There was heat on Fushimi’s face as well, an uncomfortable warmth that he couldn’t help but be conscious of despite everything. He was aware of Misaki’s gaze on him, searing into his skin in return, but it felt like a secondary consideration. He’s... Misaki is…

Even as he wracked his brain for a word to finish that thought, it occurred to him that he didn’t really expect to find one that would do both the sight in front of him and the feelings coursing through him any kind of justice.

It was stupid, but probably couldn’t be helped.

Fushimi’s eyes found the proud outline of the Homra insignia on Misaki’s collar barely a second later, and he had only a second to feel the beginnings of apprehension before the swift intake of Misaki’s breath told him they were in sync there as well.

Right…

That was it, wasn’t it? Their unfinished business.

“Why – ?” The word came out fast and harsh, thick with emotion and just as quickly halted, as though Misaki had blurted it without thinking but then caught himself. When Fushimi raised his gaze, it was almost exactly as Misaki turned his away, eyebrows bunching together and lips tightening down in a scowl. The play of desperate emotion in his eyes was impossible to miss; he seemed to be making an effort to get himself under control.

‘Why’, huh? Something inside of Fushimi seemed to twist painfully. That’s the big question, isn’t it?

He didn’t have a chance to act on the feeling, even if he could have worked out what to do, because the next second Misaki was clearing his throat, drawing in a breath, and then abruptly lifting his head again, a sharp grin on his face. “Why didn’t you get someone to look at that already, dumbass?” He braced a hand on his hip, waving the other vaguely in the direction of Fushimi’s collar and raising an eyebrow. “It looks like shit.”

“Oh, really?” The flippant responses was out before he could process, his brain falling back on the habit of allowing Misaki to direct the flow of conversation even as the blatant disconnect in the atmosphere registered. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He wanted to ask something else, though, didn’t he? Discomfort was already building at the pit of his stomach; the urge to turn aside and brush this off was strong. Fushimi clenched his teeth, fighting with himself – forcing himself to examine the strange dissonance in Misaki’s behavior. So why…?

There it was again: ‘why’. Always, always ‘why’.

“Heh.” That came out as something of an amused huff. Misaki shut his eyes with the easy grin still on his face, apparently willing to do the work of brushing the moment off all on his own. “The hell? Aren’t you s’posed to be the smart one here?” He shifted, as if to turn toward the shower head. “Anyway, let’s – ”

“’Smart’?” The sharp repeat was out of his mouth before he’d properly thought about it. Fushimi’s fingers twitched in reflex as something dark churned within him, discomfort and anxiety rising. He forced himself to swallow, lowering his voice to a mumble as Misaki turned again to shoot him a startled look. “Is that what you think?”

“Saruhiko?” Misaki’s voice was confused, but there was a note of underlying wariness. It was there in the way Misaki looked at him, too – a kind of inward cringing, as though he were bracing himself for a blow. “What’s up?”

It stung. More than he would’ve expected. Which was ridiculous, because he had cultivated that look himself. Quite purposefully too, over the years of baiting and taunting and trying to match his laugh with the echo of a ghost he should’ve exorcised long before. What right did he have to be hurt now that Misaki didn’t trust him?

No right. Fushimi drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to continue to meet Misaki’s direct, questioning gaze as he fought the instincts screaming for him to back down and let this pass. The path of least resistance stood before him: say something vague, brush it off as nothing, and go ahead with bathing and having dinner as if nothing were wrong. He could do just that and there’d be no consequences. No risk. No putting himself out there, no laying himself bare and at the mercy of someone else’s judgement. Misaki wouldn’t even question him.

Misaki wouldn’t question him, even though he desperately wanted to.

Nobody would push him to put himself out there.

Nothing would change.

In that instant that he stood there, momentarily paralyzed with indecision, the vivid memory of Jungle’s darkened base rose sharply in his mind. In front of him, Misaki’s face seemed to blur out into the smudged and sweaty version of that time, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a wide, unrestrained smile. In the depth of his gaze, a myriad of emotions played out: surprise, pleasure... relief. There was something cathartic in it – not only from Fushimi having made the halting promise to explain himself, but also from Misaki’s elated reaction. In that moment, there had been no room for doubts.

He wanted that moment back. More than anything. More than his own comfort.

As the vision faded, leaving him faced with Misaki’s furrowed brow and puzzled frown, Fushimi felt a certainty form in his brain, mingled with dread and a nearly overwhelming anxiety. There was only one path he could see that would lead in that direction now.

Trust has to be earned, after all. Doesn’t it?

His fingers were trembling. Deliberately, Fushimi reached up with his right hand and ran a fingertip lightly under the line of his burn scar. He could hear the way Misaki’s breath shuddered, eyes following the motion with unconscious intensity. “If I were really so smart,” Fushimi murmured, keeping his voice low to avoid the possibility that it would shake, “I wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”

At that, Misaki’s gaze rose to meet his, lips set in a firm line. He didn’t speak, but the way his jaw visibly clenched said enough. Go on, that look seemed to urge. Don’t stop now.

“You said the Blue King was my King all along, but that’s not the way I saw it back then.” Now that he was speaking, it was a tiny bit easier to let the confused mess of his previous mentality bubble to the surface. Fushimi lowered his finger, sliding his hand up instead to brace it in front of the scar. “I was stagnating in Homra – it was sweltering. You don’t know – ” He drew in a frustrated breath, cutting that line of thought off ruthlessly. “Anyway, that’s not the point. There were a lot of things happening.”

Someday, maybe, he’d tell Misaki the details. About his family and their peculiar cruelty. About Aya and her involvement with Jungle. About his irrational fear of Mikoto and the sense of inferiority it had brought with it. All of those little points of insecurity and vulnerability that had converged inside of him, causing his resentment and frustration to brew to a boiling point.

Right then, he didn’t think he could manage that much; it would have to be enough to summarize it. “To be honest, I wanted to feel useful. Needed.” He could feel the small, sardonic curve of his lips and didn’t bother to hold it back. “There were a lot of reasons for it, but I wasn’t getting that feeling where I was.”

“How can you say that?” Misaki blurted, abruptly breaking his silence. His face had contorted, an angry red starting to pool under his eyes and his furious gaze wavering with thick emotion. He sucked in a breath, seeming to try and get hold of himself again. “I mean – I get it, yeah, you’re better suited for the Blues, but we needed you!” His mouth trembled; he visibly forced it into a scowl. “I needed you, goddamnit!” He shook his head furiously. “Just… for right now, forget about Homra, forget clans, forget Kings – forget all of that stuff!” When his face lifted again, his expression was a twisted blend of indignation and anguish. “Why did you destroy it, Saruhiko? Why’d you have to fuck us up?”

There it was again… One hundred points. The thought felt hollow alongside the ache that was rising fast at the back of Fushimi’s throat, his heart thundering in his chest as he stared back at Misaki’s furious, pained face. That system had been designed to rate his own satisfaction at his most important person’s efforts, and it was only in this moment that he realized how fucked up it had been – how fucked up he had been. Maybe how fucked up he still was, if he’d started to fall back into that habit. This wasn’t a game. Misaki had aimed right at the heart of it, but it wasn’t for Fushimi’s benefit alone.

It wasn’t just his feelings on the line here. This was both of them. Everything that was ‘them’.

There was no other choice but to be brutally honest from this point on. “Why do you think? I was stupid.” Fushimi shook his head, allowing a helpless little smirk to spread on his lips. It was the only way he could keep from drowning at the moment. “You keep saying you’re the idiot, but do you know what kind of thoughts I had back then? I thought this mark” – he tapped a finger meaningfully on his covered scar – “was all you’d wanted from me. Any sort of matching marks, right?” Registering the sharp intake of breath and the way Misaki flinched back at the words, he continued, dragging the words forth painfully. “It seemed easier to keep your eyes on me if they were full of hatred. Like that, you’d never forget me.”

“You… fucking – !” Once again, Misaki sharply cut himself off, jerking his head to the side and down as his shoulders bunched up, hands balling into fists at his sides. His face twisted again, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed against the dangerous shake in them. His body trembled noticeably as he fought for control of his emotions; when he swung his gaze back up, it was fiercer than Fushimi had seen it. “What the hell were you thinking, ‘all I wanted’? D’you have any idea how fucking important you were to me?”

“Was I?” Somehow, that assertion lit a fire in Fushimi’s belly; despite everything, he still found the sharp edges of a grudge that had simmered at the base of his soul. His eyes narrowed, bitterness beginning to run its old, familiar course through him. “Did I even stand out from the crowd, when you had Mikoto-san in your sight?” The hot defensive note in his own voice felt like it carried barbs with it, scraping against his throat as he finally released them. “Was I your first choice to talk to, to laugh with, to spend your free time on? Maybe you forgot that I was sitting there, with all your new friends and your shiny, important King to impress.” Something hot and painful stung at the edges of his eyes and the topside of his mouth; he lowered his voice. “Maybe since you didn’t need a soulmate bond any more, you didn’t need anything from me.”

“Fuck you, Saruhiko! Is that what you fucking thought?” Misaki was glowering furiously at him now, his eyes noticeably wet and his teeth bared. “Yeah, maybe I had new friends! Maybe I looked up to Mikoto-san – he saved your goddamn life, asshole! And maybe I found it awkward to be around you sometimes – can you blame me? You think I didn’t notice you pulling away from me? I fucking did! I thought – ” His face contorted again, mouth working for a bare second as he struggled. “I thought it was me! Because of that – that failed… when we tried to be soulmates!” The red on his face was spreading like a rash. “It’s weird, right? Isn’t that why you got all moody? You pushed me away, you didn’t want me – what the hell was I s’posed to do with all those feelings? I thought if I laid off for a while, you’d – ”

“’Laid off’?” Fushimi repeated, cutting into that heated rant abruptly. “Is that what you call leaving me to sit in a corner by myself while you laugh and boast and show off for Mikoto-san? Don’t make me laugh!” He returned the glare with all of the venom and resentment still steeped in the back of his consciousness. “When I told you I was leaving, all you cared about was ‘Homra’s pride’ this, ‘matching marks’ that – if I hadn’t done what I did, you’d have branded me a traitor all on your own!”

That hung in the air between them for what felt like a very long moment.

Misaki looked about ready to punch him in the face, lips curled back from his teeth and shoulders shaking as if his body were incapable of containing the emotion escaping through his eyes. He was clearly fighting himself. After a second or two of almost unbearable silence, he gritted out, “You didn’t even try to explain. Not a goddamn word.” The muscles in his throat moved in what looked like a painful manner as he swallowed. “You didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t give us a chance. You seriously – ” At that, he had to stop and take in a sharp breath before choking out, “You seriously didn’t think anything was worth saving between us?”

The hurt that throbbed in his voice resonated against the stinging at the back of Fushimi’s eyes. He breathed out, releasing his hold at a last on the simmering poison that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. Now that it was out there, all of his pettiness and insecurity and envy, he felt both renewed and empty, a blend of relief and weariness washing over him. “I didn’t,” he admitted heavily, lowering his voice again and feeling another stab of guilt when Misaki flinched again. “But… I never was good at sorting out my own feelings.”

Misaki’s mouth twisted in a scowl; he let out a bitter-sounding ‘ch’. “No fucking kidding.”

“I’m glad we can agree on my emotional incompetence,” Fushimi responded dryly. The interjection made it easier to breathe; the air felt clearer. “Just to make it clear, I didn’t tell you all of that so we could argue about it or because I believe it justifies anything. That’s just the ugly truth of it.” He drew in another long breath, trying without success to steady his quickened pulse. “And for the record, it was never about whether or not the things between us were worth it. I didn’t believe they could be saved, and the only thing on my mind was keeping you in my life, however I had to do it. It was selfish and twisted.” That came with another sardonic little smile he couldn’t keep in. “It turns out I was the one who didn’t understand anything. Pathetic, huh?”

Misaki grimaced in response. “Not just you.” Part of that glare had softened, but the depth of emotion in his eyes was piercing. “You’re not the only selfish one. There’s a lot of things I didn’t even try to understand.” He let out a long, shaky breath, and then offered a weak grin. “Easier to deal if you just assume everyone thinks and feels like you, huh?”

The unexpected candor caught him off-guard. Fushimi stared for a moment, caught up in a sudden rush of seductive gratification that came with the raw admission. Then he shook his head sharply, rejecting the easy escape hatch. “Well, it’s not like I told you otherwise. And there are a lot of excuses I could make for that” – there hadn’t exactly been an abundance of healthy relationship models in his early life, had there? – “but it’d be a waste of breath. Excuses don’t change facts, do they?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, so the lack of response in that pause wasn’t surprising. Misaki was giving him something of an uncertain look now, but the set of his shoulders and jaw gave the impression of being poised for action. Maybe he was debating whether to challenge that assertion – to excuse everything on basis of intentions and wipe the slate clean. That was how Misaki thought, at least where it concerned offenses committed against him.

Not this time. That deliberate thought was enough for Fushimi to steel himself against what was coming. He wasn’t interested in having his pride or his feelings spared at the expense of letting things go at this point. It was painful, and he felt like he was suffocating, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not with the stakes this high.

“I can’t even say I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured. The truth behind those words was sobering now that he could process the implications. “I did. I wanted to. I wanted your attention, however I could get it. There’s nothing redeemable at all in it.” Getting that harsh reality aired brought back the sting at the back of his throat and eyes. When he spoke again, it came out in a miserable mumble. “I’m sorry.”

Misaki sucked in a breath, looking momentarily stunned. He opened his mouth, clearly looking to interject, and Fushimi cut him off again, determined to force the rest of it out before any response could be made. “You know… I used to think you could only be either at zero or a hundred, but in reality, it was me. I was the one who could only accept either all or nothing from you, and if it was less than all, I’d make it nothing.” With the throbbing of an ache in his throat, even that low mumble came out sounding wretched, but he kept going. “For what it’s worth, I could never erase your importance in my life no matter what I tried.” He shut his eyes against the persistent sting. “I should have tried to understand sooner. For that, on top of everything else… I’m sorry.”

There was a lengthy pause as that settled in the air between them.

It was broken by Misaki sucking in a breath, shaky and ragged, and the sound of it had Fushimi’s eyes opening. “You asshole,” Misaki choked out, and that seemed to be enough to release the flood on his end. His eyes overflowed, angry tears streaming down his face as his mouth tightened into a frown against the violent trembling of his lips. It took him several fierce, determined breaths before he could gather himself enough to continue. “What the hell were you thinking, keeping all this bullshit to yourself, huh?” His tone was defensively pugnacious. “I dunno what the fuck that means – ‘zero’ or ‘a hundred’ or whatever – but you’re not the only one being ‘all or nothing’! You can’t hog all the blame to yourself!” He reached up to swipe furiously at his cheeks, scowling as if his own tears had pissed him off. “If we’re talking selfish, how ‘bout the way I thought? You had to be Homra, and my soulmate, because I fucking wanted you to be, so there was no room for you to be anything else.” He grimaced again. “I kept telling myself if we were soulmates, it’d fix everything, but really, I just wanted you to be what I expected. Even when I was trying to understand, I never stopped and thought about what you wanted to be.” At that, his fists tightened at his sides, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing as if to focus the intensity of his gaze. “Yeah, okay, you fucked up, but so did I! We’re both idiots in the end.”

With that last assertion, the energy seemed to drain out of him at once, shoulders slumping and fists going slack at his sides, but he managed to look up and fix Fushimi with a small, weary smile all the same. “So I’m sorry too. And I’m sick of this, goddamnit! I want – ” At that he hesitated, a hint of apprehension his gaze, before stubbornness settled over his expression again. “I want you. Not you as part of Homra or you as my soulmate or any of that garbage I told myself. Just you, Fushimi Saruhiko, the person I couldn’t let go of no matter what.”

His eyes weren’t sparkling, his grin wasn’t bright, and there was no unabashed admiration in his tone, but it felt like Fushimi’s heart gave a squeeze in his chest, his breath stolen. The Misaki in front of him wouldn’t have fit on so neat a scale as ‘zero or a hundred’. Not with the uncertainty and the wariness and the myriad of cracks and imperfections spelled out in the dull gleam in his eyes, the desperate edge to his smile, the worried crease on his forehead. This wasn’t his memory of Misaki in the past, who’d pulled him along with bright smiles and unwavering enthusiasm, introducing him to affection that he hadn’t recognized at the time. This was Misaki as a whole: unquestioningly flawed and with a painful past behind him, shattered in ways that Fushimi didn’t understand yet – maybe never would – and still willing to stand and dust himself off to face the world with a brash grin and hope in his heart.

That imperfect reality set Fushimi’s soul on fire. The depth of longing – of want – within him was more than he’d thought himself capable of.

He was still struggling to come to terms with that when Misaki ducked his head, reaching up with an unsteady hand to rub almost defensively at the back of his head. “Ah… my bad.” The corners of his mouth quirked, gaze skittering off to the side nervously. “I got carried away. It’s just… I mean, it’s true, that’s how I feel… but…” The red on his face didn’t seem to be entirely from the earlier emotional outburst; it was spreading all the way to his ears. Misaki made a soft, frustrated sound and jerked his head up again, eyes brimming with stubborn embarrassment. “It’s not like I’m expecting a response or anything! You don’t have to – to let me down easy or – I mean…” He swore under his breath, scowl deepening, but his gaze was intent. “It – it’s fine if you don’t want me, all right? I get it.”

He thinks that? Fushimi stared back, torn between bafflement and frustration. It hadn’t occurred to him that there was any ambiguity when it came to his attraction. “What are you talking about?” he muttered, falling back to a defensive tone on instinct. “I don’t want you? You’re the one who was only interested in soulmates this whole time.”

“Hah?” Misaki stared at him incredulously. “The fuck? Every time that – that sort of stuff happens, you pull back and mess with me! Why wouldn’t I think you don’t want me? You’re confusing as hell!” He let out a low, frustrated growl. “Goddamnit! Anyway, I don’t give a shit if you’re my soulmate or not! I said I want you, remember?” His jaw set stubbornly, gaze turning into a glare. “And if you’re not my soulmate, then – then fuck soulmates! Who cares about that bullshit anyway?”

‘Who cares’… Those words set off something of a ‘ping’ at the back of his chest. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but I think ‘fuck soulmates’ is kind of the point,” he drawled, instantly falling back on an easy response to cover the moment. Unfortunately, it was impossible to keep his voice from shaking.

He doesn’t care?

Misaki’s shot him a disgruntled look, the color on his face intensifying. “Shut up – you know what I meant!”

He did – it was starting to sink in, and now that he had the space to process it, the sincerity of that assertion felt like the last piece of a puzzle he’d been working at for ages. Not just about Misaki’s feelings, but also his own. Everything about the soulmate system that he’d allowed himself to grow bitter over – that he’d speculated about in terms of the people around him. The pair of black and white dice above that hateful smirk. The intricate sword that Munakata refused to regret even after it had vanished from his skin. The marks that Awashima and Kusanagi could’ve had that they’d never felt the need to try for. The kitten face on the inside of Akiyama’s arm that he could smile fondly at just for the reminder of the connection it represented.

“It wasn’t like it would change things between us,” the echo of Akiyama’s voice reminded him, and he couldn’t help but shut his eyes, the helpless edge of a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Right. Either way, it doesn’t change things, does it?

Maybe it was a strange thought to be comforted by, but it didn’t matter. Fushimi let out a small huff of breath and met Misaki’s gaze squarely. “I don’t care either.” That sting was back behind his eyes – the direct result of the emotions welling up within him. “I want you. If that means a cheesy picture on my forehead, then fine, I’ll take it.” He paused to swallow back the lump rising at the back of his throat, and his voice came out low and suspiciously thick when he continued. “There’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted as much as you.”

Misaki’s eyes wobbled dangerously, mouth twitching for a moment as he struggled, and then he seemed to gather himself all at once. The intensity in those eyes triggered a sudden and instinctive response within Fushimi, and when Misaki surged up, reaching to grab hold of the back of his neck and pull him in, he was already moving to match that action, taking hold of Misaki’s shoulder and all but falling down into him. They crashed together in the middle, lips connecting with urgency, and it was as if the world around them shattered into insignificant pieces.

The warm, desperate pressure of Misaki’s mouth… the uneven rhythm of their breath fanning out frantically between their faces as they adjusted… the scent of sweat and cola and that unique something that he associated with this person who was so important to him… Nothing else could have possibly mattered more in that moment. The intoxicating feel of their lips working together, mutual desire passing between their bodies as their mouths opened hot and eager to each other, felt like the culmination of a lifetime of longing.

It was several long seconds before reality seemed to reinstate itself, the desperate roar of confirmed feelings settling into a more manageable rushing of satisfaction and physical sensation.

Misaki’s tongue was slick and active against his, shoulder tense beneath his hand. Fushimi was suddenly aware of the warm skin against his fingers – of Misaki’s near naked body so close to his own that he could almost feel what it would be like to press them together. His fingers tingled, and he had the errant thought that he could reach out and put his free hand on Misaki’s hip, could feel more of his skin and the firm muscle beneath…

The pleasant ache that notion stirred in his body was overwhelming. Fushimi made a soft, unconscious noise against Misaki’s mouth, torn between the natural inclination to pull back and stop this before it got out of hand and the powerful urge to keep going and see where it led.

He’d never really been good at resisting – not with this kind of temptation, anyway. But…

Misaki made the choice for him before he could spend too much thought on it, turning his head to break the kiss as he braced both hands on Fushimi’s shoulders to push him back. “Sorry,” he muttered, before Fushimi could do more than blink against the dizzying disconnect as they separated. When their eyes met, he was flushed with desire but his gaze was serious. “I can’t… I mean, fuck, this is my parents’ house.” He grimaced again. “Plus, I think… I dunno… I need time to… uh…”

Now that the immediacy was over and his head was clearing, Fushimi couldn’t help but feel a tiny stream of relief trickling through. “Yeah,” he murmured, sparing Misaki from any further stuttering. The moment was too raw – too fragile. Even if they had been in a better location, with his emotions on edge and the understanding between them so fresh, he didn’t think he would’ve been in a good headspace for it.

Unfortunately, his body seemed to not have gotten the message, but that was only a minor nuisance. Fushimi reached up to readjust his glasses, which had gotten jostled during the kiss, and tried not to think about it. “I agree.”

The tension seemed to leave Misaki’s shoulders at that; he grinned back, eyes softening with relief as he stared back at Fushimi’s face. “Right? Anyway, I was thinking maybe… we should start over. Or something. Not like forgetting the past or anything, but just…” He reached out with his right hand to take hold of Fushimi’s left, carefully sliding his fingers into the spaces between Fushimi’s. His gaze flitted back up from their joined hands, and he offered a half-smile. “Something new. Y’know?”

That tiny gesture was enough to stir a frenzy in his chest. “Yeah. Probably.” Building things from scratch again, huh? It didn’t scare him as much as he might’ve expected. Fushimi squeezed his fingers just a bit, taking in Misaki’s hopeful face. An idea had just occurred to him – if he wanted to start off in good faith, it was probably the best way to make his intentions clear. I’ll need a clean slate, after all. He cleared his throat and added, “Fine by me. Yata.”

If he was going to earn that trust back, he’d do it thoroughly and without cutting corners.

For an instant, Yata’s eyes widened. He blinked once, and then his face split into a wide grin.

“Yeah!”

[brynne-lagaao]

(Fanfic) All That We Are - Chapter Four

Title: All That We Are

Chapter: 4/12

Rating: M

Mirrors: AO3 | FF.NET | Website

Summary: There wasn’t any real need to find out whether or not they were soulmates if they were both sure of the answer. But Yata’s answer was different from Fushimi’s, and that was just another of the dividing points they couldn’t reconcile.

Note: Once again, thank you to my wonderful betas, @dropletons and @candylit for their hard work and for not giving up on me over the course of writing this fic! You guys rock!

A large part of this fic takes place behind the scenes of certain canon events. Whenever it’s material outside of the anime (season one, Missing Kings, and Return of Kings), I’ll try to provide notes stating which materials are referenced. The fic should still stand decently without reading those things, but certain parts will make more sense in context.

One of the things Fushimi learned shortly after taking over the position of commander of the Special Operations Squad was that Scepter 4 had bi-annual conferences with the prime minister's office. It wasn't terribly surprising; despite the fact that the Gold King – and by extension Scepter 4 – maintained autonomy over the country's actual elected leader, the meetings helped to maintain the illusion of unity.

As if the Captain won't just do whatever he pleases anyway...

Well, it was no concern to him in the end, but as third in the line of direct command at Scepter 4, he was apparently expected to attend the conferences when not otherwise engaged, and he hadn't been able to come up with a good enough excuse to satisfy Munakata, so there he was.

I swear that man is a sadist. Fushimi clicked his tongue, moving at a slow pace around the large banquet hall. So far, the combination of the motion and keeping his focus on what work he could manage from his PDA seemed to give the others in the room the impression that he was busy with something important, because he hadn't been approached for any inane small talk since they'd dissolved the conference for this "social break". He hadn't bothered to even make a pass at the food trays that had been set out. There were servers making rounds with fancy-looking drinks, but he'd avoided them as well, wanting to keep the impression that he was engaged with business of some sort and not looking for idle conversation.

Idle was the right word for just about everything here, too. The room was not as opulent as most of Scepter 4's main headquarters, but the walls were lined with the moving wallpapers that were currently in style: in this case, garish red stars circling on sparkling gold background with thin white lines sliding down the frames behind them. The ceiling was vaulted, and the lights appeared to be imitation chandelier - tiny mountings lined with digital "crystals" to give them the appearance of grandeur.

That was Fushimi's impression of the prime minister's office in general: a fake fancy exterior to mask the lack of substance within. These so-called "conferences" really were just a waste of time.

On one side of the room, he could see Munakata talking with the prime minister and several attendants. On another, Awashima seemed to be giving instructions to Akiyama and Benzai, who had been the "escort" for this event – which in Fushimi's opinion was a waste of their time and talent.

As his eyes fell in that direction, he noticed the two of them glancing towards each other; Akiyama gave a small nod and Benzai's lip twitched, as if he wanted to smile but was still in control of his professional appearance.

Something anxious stirred in the pit of his stomach. Don't be stupid. Fushimi clicked his tongue and turned his gaze sharply back to his PDA, deliberately repressing any discomfort. He was still not used to the idea of a soulmate bonding that actually seemed to function, despite all of the hype suggesting that this was closer to the usual experience. But he'd spent enough time around those two to have his doubts squashed, at least as far as their match was concerned. Their partnership was efficient, they seemed to be on unreasonably good terms personally, and there was an air of contentment about them that was almost impossible to ignore. It was unnerving.

Well, not everyone can be on that guy's level, can they? The image of black and white dice over a wicked smirk flickered at the back of his mind.

Whatever mood that hadn't been soured before definitely was now. Fushimi deepened his frown, glancing furtively around the room for anything that would allow for an acceptable exit plan. Despite the airy, temperature-controlled atmosphere, the place felt suddenly stifling and he needed a break of some sort.

There was a small balcony near the back of the room that overlooked the grounds; after a few second's thought, he made his way in that direction. Technically, I won't be leaving the area, so it's not like anyone can complain. It wouldn't be difficult to find him if he was needed for something, anyway.

It was actually warmer outside than it was inside, which was a bit jarring but not too uncomfortable. Summer was just starting to bleed into fall at that point, so there was a hint of crisp chill that lingered despite the warmth from the sun.

The seasonal crossover was always annoying. Fushimi clicked his tongue, moving away from the door and eyeing his surroundings without much real interest. The balcony was large and had an ornate gating around it – solid wood painted white and carved to look like marble. It matched the interior in that sense, though the color scheme was markedly different.

On the corners of the gate's ledge, someone had secured flower pots, and when he caught sight of those, Fushimi momentarily paused, struck by a sudden and vivid memory.

Tiny blue and white blossoms, each contained in a separate bundle.

The sense of seasonal crossover in the air, warm and cool mingling uncomfortably.

Misaki's eyes, bright and sparkling, above a vivid careless grin. "Thanks, Saruhiko!"

How useless. Despite the thought, he moved towards one of the pots, reaching out to idly brush one of the tiny white blossoms with a finger. When mingled with the near purple of the blue flowers, somehow they seemed less of a pure shade than before – more of an off-white.

Then again, maybe it was his own blindness that had made them seem so pure before. Fushimi felt a sudden, irrational surge of something like bitterness and longing rise up within him. Trusting any kind of emotion hadn't ever led to anything worthwhile. Even now, he was still clinging to the memory of Misaki's impossibly wide smile and the way his eyes had shone... It was disgusting. He could summon a rage from Misaki easily. That alone could light a fire in his soul and give him all the gratification he needed.

But still, he felt dissatisfied, somehow – even hollow. If that made any sense.

"You're fond of flowers, Fushimi-kun?" Munakata's voice interjected itself into his silent musing.

Fushimi withdrew his finger immediately, turning to give his boss an irritated look. "I'm not really fond of having people sneak up on me," he responded, ignoring the question.

"My apologies. It was not my intent." Munakata smiled back, unperturbed. He stepped forward, gaze sliding from Fushimi to the flower pot. "This is an attractive combination. Forget-me-not and lily-of-the-valley, if I'm not mistaken."

What does it matter? "I wouldn't know."

"Is that so?" He got another sidelong gaze. "Gardening can be an enriching area for study. You might consider it sometime if you ever feel the urge to expand your field of knowledge." Munakata's eyes returned to the arrangement, a thoughtful sort of look in them. "These two flowers are quite interesting if you consider the meaning behind them, for instance."

There was a pause, as if he were waiting for a response. Fushimi didn't bother to give him one, despite the faint edge of curiosity. Knowing the meaning of a flower was pretty much useless when you got down to it; if it wasn't explained, he didn't lose anything.

Well, if I really wanted to know, I could look it up.

Munakata's smile widened just a tiny bit – Fushimi got the sense he'd just been seen through. After years at Scepter 4, he was starting to get used to the feeling, but it was still kind of irritating. "The forget-me-not is said to be associated with the concept of undying love. A connection that endures over time, and remembrance through parting." Once again, Munakata turned his gaze, this time inclining his head slightly as well. "Given that, I would say it's been aptly named – wouldn't you agree?"

Fushimi clicked his tongue, a little unnerved at the way that casual description seemed to strike home. He deliberately pushed the feeling down. "It would be stupid if they hadn't bothered to match them."

"Indeed." Munakata made a small, amused sound, turning back to the flowers once more. "Lily of the valley, on the other hand, takes its root in the meanings associated with all manner of lilies: purity, chastity, and humility, for instance. But there is one that I find rather intriguing." When he turned again, there was a knowing edge in his gaze. "'The return of happiness'."

That simple pronouncement had Fushimi's skin prickling beneath his work coat. He clicked his tongue again, turning from his boss's keen eyes. "That's pretty arbitrary."

"Perhaps. But then, it is not the flowers themselves that hold meaning." Munakata unexpectedly leaned in, bending forward as if to take in the scent from the bouquet. "It is the humans who encounter them that find and take meaning from such things."

That doesn't make it less arbitrary. Fushimi frowned, intending to say as much, and was brought up short when he turned his gaze back to his boss. With his body bent forward and his head tilted at that angle, it was possible to see the back of Munakata's neck, normally obscured by the high collar of his uniform. There was a bright, flawlessly crafted image imprinted in that stretch of skin: a sleek, burnished red sword. Not like the Sword of Damocles that appeared when he activated his sanctum, but a standard broadsword with an elaborate hilt that was encrusted with dark blue gems.

That kind of unnaturally precise image could only be a soulmate mark.

For a long moment, Fushimi was silent, pinpricks of shock spreading along his skin. Seriously...?

"Is something the matter, Fushimi-kun?" Munakata straightened, and the image of the sword was once again concealed. Their gazes locked, and there was a short beat before he smiled again, shutting his eyes. "Ah. You noticed that... irregularity, did you?"

Fushimi quickly recovered his equilibrium, clicking his tongue in response. "You didn't take a lot of pains to hide it just now."

"No. I did not." Munakata once again opened his eyes, calmly returning Fushimi’s stare. "Though, to be clear, it was not my intention that this should remain hidden, necessarily. More to the point, it is not of significant importance." He reached up to press his glasses higher on his nose, momentarily blocking his eyes from sight. "Merely a distraction."

So you say. It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together from that much information – and the fact that there was no sign of a regular lover on the side. Not that Fushimi took particular pains to keep tabs on his boss, but Munakata could generally be found at headquarters during all hours of the day unless there was an emergency situation to be dealt with. If he did have a lover, they would have to be incredibly patient – or one of his clansmen.

Somehow, that prospect seemed unlikely. Rather, based on the nature of the mark, Fushimi had a feeling…

He clicked his tongue, pushing that stray suspicion aside, and muttered, “Soulmates really are useless, aren’t they?”

It was meant to be an offhand observation, but Munakata seemed to take it as a conversational opening. “Oh?” His tone was one of keen interest, but surprisingly, the next words out of his mouth were, “As a matter of fact, I agree. However, I must confess to being curious.” His gaze was speculative when Fushimi bothered to meet it again. “What reason do you have for making such a contrary statement, Fushimi-kun?”

He could still see the black and white dice clearly in his head, a memory that had etched itself onto his brain for life, apparently. How depressing. Fushimi deliberately set that aside, crossing his arms and keeping his tone neutral despite the discomfort building in the pit of his stomach. “Nothing that special. There are too many flaws.” Once he’d started on the subject, it was easier to carry it forward, listing the things that came to mind immediately. “The matching system can’t be proved to be anything but completely arbitrary, it blatantly excludes anyone who can’t physically participate, and there’s no way to remove a mark if you find out later that your so-called partner isn’t who you thought they were when you made your hasty decision.” Another little shiver of unpleasant nostalgia wormed its way through his body at that; he deliberately ignored it. “You could end up wearing the brand of someone you loathe until the day one of you dies, all because you couldn’t resist the prospect of fifteen minutes swapping bodily fluids with them in a seedy motel room.”

He paused there just long enough to recover his breath and to confirm that Munakata was still patiently waiting for the rest of his response, and then continued. “Good luck finding someone else if you don’t want whoever you’re stuck with in that case. More than likely, people just stay in unpleasant situations out of fear of being alone.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s a system that might as well be designed for abuse. Those who want to take advantage will, and those who aren’t bright enough to see through it will become victims.”

“I see.” Munakata spoke again once he’d confirmed that Fushimi had finished. “So your objections lie with the way in which the system is utilized by those who are subject to it.” His gaze had a thoughtful edge to it. “Of course, there is no argument to make against the potential of such matches occurring. Indeed, there is evidence to show that your concerns are, in fact, founded in certain cases.” There was a brief pause, and then he smiled again. “However, my objections lie with the interpretation of the term ‘soulmate’.”

It was always difficult to know what to expect with him, but Fushimi still found the edge of confusion that came with those kinds of statements to be slightly disorienting. He frowned in response. “How do you mean?”

“In my observations, it appears that the common practice is to equate the term with ‘life partner’,” Munakata explained, turning to regard the flowers again with calm, thoughtful eyes. “I am not of the opinion that the two are related – at least, not under the terms that seem to result in the so-titled ‘soulmate’ matches.” He reached up again to push his glasses on his nose. “There seems to be a base level of compatibility required for a match to be formed, but no consideration made for the situation, feelings, or personal choice of the participants.” At that he shut his eyes, making a small, amused noise. “Rather a short-sighted system for lifetime partnerships, if one takes into account the varying complications resulting from human thought and emotion.”

Fushimi hadn’t considered that angle – not that he gave soulmates a lot of his time and energy these days other than where they related to his complicated relationship with Misaki. He narrowed his eyes. “You hate this ridiculous system as much as I do, then.”

“No.” Munakata turned again to regard him, with perfect calm. “By my estimation, the system itself is neutral. It is the interpretation of the terms that will lead one astray.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Are you being cryptic for the sake of it?”

“My apologies. Allow me to explain in greater detail.” Munakata shut his eyes again. “Upon being presented with a soulmate match, one is being granted information. The choice of how best to apply the knowledge lies in the hands of the participants.” When he opened his eyes again, the depth of emotion in them was difficult to place. “Regardless of the social narrative, in many cases the wisest course of action may simply be to abandon the match.”

Somehow, the words resonated. Fushimi stared back, feeling like his soul shivered lightly within his body. He couldn’t seem to muster a proper response.

“However, such is not always the case.” The mood seemed to lift; Munakata smiled beatifically, tilting his chin and directing his gaze back to the glass doors leading inside.

When Fushimi followed the gaze, his eyes caught on Akiyama and Benzai engaged in a polite but clearly intent conversation inside the room. Neither was smiling openly, but there was a subtle lean in their posture, as if they were drawn in towards each other. It was simply and casually intimate, without breaking professional conduct in the slightest.

The shiver within him intensified.

“It is not a pair of soulmate marks which results in a functional match,” Munakata continued, a hint of gentle fondness in his tone. “Regardless of how any relationship is formed, it requires constant maintenance and open communication from the participants.” When Fushimi turned to face him again, he offered another cryptic smile. “The rewards, however, are many.”

Something small and restless stirred to life in his stomach, an edge of longing for something that he couldn’t define. It was similar to the bitterness that clung to the back end of his encounters with Misaki – the dissatisfaction that lurked at the outskirts of his thoughts when they fell in that direction. Fushimi clicked his tongue, struggling against the ache in his chest.

He was fine without Misaki’s affection. It was a choice he still considered the best of his options, back then. But in his weaker moments, his thoughts were haunted by that warm smile and those fond, sparkling eyes. By the taste of Misaki’s cooking and the sound of his laughter.

The press of his lips, the warmth of his body, the tentative touch of his fingers on Fushimi’s skin…

Don’t be stupid. Forcibly pushing those thoughts back, Fushimi deepened his frown. “You know – ”

“Captain.” Awashima’s crisp, businesslike voice interrupted him. When he turned, she was standing at the door, her PDA held out in her hand. “I’ve received some intel regarding a Class 5 criminal strain engaged in a hostage situation at the outskirts of Shizume City. I’ll need your authorization before proceeding.”

“My, my.” Munakata turned to step towards her, his eyes going sharp with keen engagement as he did. “It appears that our visitation will have an abrupt end.” As she automatically shifted aside, he moved past her into the hall. “Please begin preparations as you see fit. I shall make our apologies to the prime minister.”

“Yes, sir.” She inclined her head with brusque respect, before looking up sternly. “You too, Fushimi.”

He clicked his tongue, without much feeling. “Got it.”

She tucked away her PDA while waiting for him to move through the doorway and then fell in step beside him. “I’ll need to inform Akiyama and Benzai as well – we’ll prepare the vehicle while waiting for the Captain.”

That was just logical – Fushimi responded with an automatic affirmative before giving her a sidelong glance. “Intel about a strain on the outskirts of Shizume, huh? Whose intel would that be?”

Her return gaze was cool and even, with only a raised eyebrow to mar it. “I won’t waste my breath answering questions you’ve already answered for yourself.” A short sigh came with that. “He and I agreed to trade information when it didn’t interfere with the interests of our clans. It’s been beneficial in a number of ways.”

Beneficial, is it? Fushimi clicked his tongue again, not bothering to reply. Not for the first time, he wondered if she and Kusanagi might have a matching set of marks in some easily hidden place. And like every other time, he immediately dismissed that line of thinking. Not like it matters to me.

It wasn’t like any of it mattered – not her, not Akiyama and Benzai, and not Munakata with his so-called “distraction”. He hadn’t joined Scepter 4 to make friends in the first place.

All the same, that sense of restless discontent continued to plague him.

The Homra bar was closed.

It was past two in the morning so that wasn’t unusual, but it was unusual for the lights to still be on and for there to still be people sitting inside in perfect silence. A fresh haze of cigarette smoke hung over the room, contributed to by the two adults who had gone through who knew how many without even speaking once. The atmosphere was thick and heavy.

Yata wasn’t sure when the others had left. It was just the three of them now – Kusanagi behind the counter, Mikoto on the couch, and he with his elbows resting on the bar, staring at its surface as he tried to make some sense of the emotions that raged stormlike in his head.

Totsuka-san… There was an ache in his chest. In his throat. All through his body. He trembled with it.

After the funeral, his grief had been nearly overpowered by fury, and it had been easy to retain his energy. He was going to find the bastard that had killed Totsuka and beat him to death with his own hands if he could. That rock-solid certainty had kept him going, his mind burning with thoughts of vengeance all through the trek back to Homra from Totsuka’s final resting place.

Now, with no viable actions to take and only the shared grief to keep him company, he couldn’t seem to muster it. Totsuka was gone, and Bar Homra felt unbearably cold, despite the stuffy atmosphere.

Yata swallowed hard. There was weakness settling in his body and soul, his helplessness from the previous night still lingering. For the first time in years, he had felt powerless – unable to save a precious friend even as he held that friend in his own arms. Unable to do anything as Totsuka’s breath left him, his body growing heavy and his eyes dark and sightless. The scent of blood was still sharp and overpowering in his memory, almost choking him even now.

I should’ve gone with him. I could’ve done something. Those thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone – the what-ifs that he couldn’t silence. In front of him, his hands clenched into fists, so tightly that his knuckled ached.

At least it dulled the pain inside of him just a little.

A heavy sigh from the couch cut into his thoughts; Yata lifted his head as Mikoto rose to his feet, putting out his cigarette on the ashtray sitting on the low table in front of him as he did. “I’m going up,” he said slowly.

Kusanagi nodded. “Check on Anna, will you?” he asked, voice subdued.

“Yeah.” As Mikoto turned, his gaze met Yata’s. He didn’t immediately say anything and it didn’t seem like his expression changed. His steps were heavy and measured as he detoured slightly by the bar. As he was about to pass, he reached out with one large hand and set it on Yata’s head over the beanie. Holding it there for a single, almost comforting beat, he said in an even lower tone, “Get some rest.”

It wasn’t often that Mikoto made gestures like that. Yata turned on his seat to stare after him, reaching up with one hand to tentatively touch the same place that his King just had. Mikoto’s retreating back was wide, his fur-collared jacket giving him a wild edge. He was still every inch the titan that Yata had placed all of his hopes and dreams on when he’d joined Homra.

Still, when their eyes had met just then, there had been something impossibly tired in his hero’s gaze.

In the midst of his grief, he couldn’t help but wonder… If Mikoto really did have a soulmate, where were they? Wouldn’t they rush to his side at a time like this? He’d never seen any trace of this person and their absence was a huge jarring disconnect, especially right then. He still wasn’t sure if they were really there or if it had just been teasing on Totsuka’s –

Ah.

Even just thinking about him in passing had Yata’s eyes stinging, the ache in his body throbbing in response. He swallowed again, lowering his hand and struggling to recover his equilibrium. Totsuka-san…

“We’ll get that bastard for sure, Mikoto-san!” he managed to choke out, drawing up a fervent determination from the very base of his soul. “I won’t stop until I find him, I swear it!”

Mikoto didn’t turn, but he did pause on the stairs – just long enough to rumble back, “Yeah,” before continuing on.

Yata clenched his hands into fists again in his lap. His eyes were burning now, unshed tears gathering around the edges of them and causing his vision to wobble. The anger churning in his belly was like the tiny flame of a match next to the raging inferno of his grief, but it helped to keep him grounded.

“You should do as he says,” Kusanagi told him. He sounded weary as well, but it didn’t seem as if he was planning to head out any time soon. When Yata turned back to face him, he was lighting another cigarette. After he’d finished, he added, “There won’t be much time for breaks from now on. Rest up while you can.” Their eyes met, and a hint of knowing sympathy crossed his features. “You can take the couch downstairs if you’d rather not leave, Yata-chan.”

For a moment, Yata blinked at him, not quite catching up, and then he managed a small nod, hands slackening again as the offer processed. “Ah… thanks.”

Honestly, he hadn’t been home – or slept – since… then. After they’d brought Totsuka’s body to the bar, Kusanagi had told him to wash up and go home, and he’d gone along with it but he hadn’t returned to his apartment at all. He didn’t remember much of the night, only that he’d skated for hours by himself, grief and fury and pain clouding his thoughts as he pushed his body to the limit. He could only recall the sting of the wind on his face, the tears that wouldn’t stop blurring his vision, and the comforting feel of the wheels beneath his feet grinding against the pavement.

The sun had come up and he’d been back at the bar within the hour, finding the doors open and Kusanagi at the counter already. Neither of them had bothered to ask if the other had slept.

“Don’t worry about it.” Kusanagi lifted the cigarette from his lips, one corner of his mouth tilting upward without much feeling. “Just go try and sleep, if you can. I’ll wake you when it’s time, all right?”

There wasn’t much point in asking ‘time for what?’ Yata nodded again, turning on his stool to hop to his feet. He wasn’t the only one focused on revenge right now. When he looked back again, Kusanagi had replaced his cigarette. There were shadows on his face, both ominous and weary all at once.

“Kusanagi-san…” His voice was foggy and hoarse. Yata cleared his throat and tried again. “Aren’t you gonna sleep?”

He got another small smile for that, this time with a hint of fond tolerance. “Don’t worry about me, Yata-chan – I’ve been around long enough to know my limits.” His eyes turned serious. “You should go lie down, at least.”

A million possible responses were fighting for the chance to jump up the back of Yata’s throat. ‘What if I can’t stop picturing it?’ ‘Maybe we could stay up together.’ ‘Are you thinking about what it was like as much as I am?’ ‘Can’t we just talk for a while?’

The one that nearly made it was, ‘I dunno if I wanna be alone.’

It would’ve been lame of him to say it. More than lame – he’d be a burden on Kusanagi. Yata clenched his hands into fists again, swallowing back all of that weakness. He was Yatagarasu, Homra’s vanguard, not some scared little kid. “Yeah, I got it.”

Tomorrow, they’d be turning Shizume City upside down and shaking it to flush out Totsuka’s killer. Homra was out for blood, and he wanted as much of a piece of that as he could get. Yata drew up his fury and determination with all of his remaining energy, letting them fill him and tempering his resolve. “I’ll find that guy, Kusanagi-san,” he declared fiercely. “I won’t let him get away with this!”

Kusanagi nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll be counting on you.” He blew out a puff of smoke, face still shadowed. “Go sleep while you can.”

That was a clear enough dismissal. Yata trudged out of the room, leaving his skateboard at the bar and heading down the stairs leading into the basement.

This was where they’d set up the projector to play back Totsuka’s videos. The lights were off, but with moonlight filtering in through the window in that small brick room, he couldn’t help but see it as he turned at the bottom of the stairs to face the couch. The pale bluish-white light glinted off of the metal parts, causing it to stand out: a shadowed specter in the dark.

It felt as though his chest squeezed inward at the sight. Momentarily struggling for breath, Yata stepped forward, turning automatically when he reached the couch to face the wall where the videos would have been projected.

There weren’t going to be any new ones now. Not videos, or songs, or strange new recipes. No gently teasing smiles. No warm enthusiasm. No more joking around about silly things or talking cheerfully while they cooked together.

“Totsuka-san,” he mumbled under his breath, feeling his eyes sting again. His head was starting to throb now too, as if in counterpart with the ache in his body. Breathing hadn’t become any easier. “Sorry.”

As if that single word unlatched a floodgate within him, there were tears obscuring his vision yet again, fast overflowing and running down his face. Yata allowed his legs to give out, sitting heavily on the firm surface of the couch and letting his head drop, elbows braced on his knees and forehead on his clasped hands. He shut his eyes, tears squeezing out from behind the lids and sliding down his nose.

There was no shutting out the reality. Totsuka was gone.

In that empty, dark room with no one to either burden or confide in, Yata let himself cry openly.

It wasn’t the first time that Fushimi had worked alone after hours, but the melancholy atmosphere in that dark room was new.

Part of that may have been because he hadn’t bothered to turn the light on after returning to headquarters and setting to work. There was something ridiculously melodramatic about sitting alone in the dark with moonlight seeping in through the open window and the glow and hum of his laptop illuminating his immediate surroundings even further. But he could’ve turned the light on – could’ve got up from his seat and done it right then – and he hadn’t. Somehow, being alone in the dark stilled that restless uncertainty within him. The air felt stale, and the lack of presence in the room was calming.

It was ridiculous that he even needed to be calmed – that there were even feelings he needed to quiet in this way – but there was no denying it.

Right at that moment, it helped to focus on practical matters. There was a pile of paperwork that had been steadily growing as Scepter 4 focused on the hunt for Totsuka’s killer, and with the death of the Red King, those conditions were unlikely to improve any time soon.

The death of the Red King. Fushimi’s fingers stilled on the keys. He couldn’t seem to keep the weight of that reality from his thoughts for long.

It shouldn’t have affected him, one way or another. He had always been scared of Suoh Mikoto – even now, that feeling of being suffocated hadn’t vanished when they were near each other. He’d barely been able to look the man in the eye without flinching. And Totsuka Tatara had been a thorn in his side in many ways – always poking in with that unflinching curiosity and his uncanny habit of ferreting out the secrets Fushimi kept locked away from even himself. There was no reason to feel much for the passing of either one.

And yet, he couldn’t forget…

The deep, measured voice: What do you want to do?

The deceptively light tone: Why did you choose this path?

A surge of feelings that were either unfamiliar or simply too troublesome to classify rose up, and Fushimi shut his eyes to block it back. That was a mistake as well – behind his eyelids, he could see the memory of Misaki’s diminutive frame amongst his fellow clansmen, tears streaming openly down his face as he stomped his foot and shook his fist and chanted with all his might.

“Stupid Saru!”

He hadn’t been aware that Misaki had known he was watching until he’d shouted that out.

It was possible he’d just guessed. One of those rare moments of perception that Fushimi had classified with a points system – 100 points – years ago. All the same, his skin had prickled and his stomach had twisted uncomfortably. But he hadn’t looked away, even when Misaki turned and met his gaze with a furious, grief-stricken expression. That look had given him chills, and even if he had the kind of memory that let him forget things, he didn’t think he’d have ever forgotten that.

The restlessness within his body seemed to churn to the surface, but he still had no idea where to direct it. Restless and aimless – those were the words he could use to classify his feelings right then.

There was a gentle step behind him. “Working late, are you, Fushimi-kun?”

Fushimi opened his eyes, not bothering to turn as he made a small sound of acknowledgement. “I could ask you the same.”

“I suppose you could.” Munakata came to a stop next to his chair, falling silent at the same moment. The air was thick between them during that small break, as if all the words they wouldn’t or couldn’t speak were crammed into the empty space. Then he spoke again. “It would be remiss of me if I failed to remind you that there is no obligation to remain, regardless of the work load. Such things can wait, after all.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue half-heartedly, still without looking up from his screen. “It’s less of a pain if I do it now.”

“I see.” The pitch of Munakata’s voice had softened slightly. “Do as you see fit.”

Nothing in the silence that spread between them had cleared; it still stretched out heavily, as if carrying the burden of the things weighing on Fushimi’s mind that he didn’t particularly want to acknowledge. He stared resolutely forward for a moment, unable to properly focus on the words displayed on his screen.

Homra is really over now. He’d felt it coming with Totsuka’s murder – there was no way Mikoto would be able to continue as King without the tapering his presence provided. But this was the first time he’d thought it so clearly, and with such finality.

The Red King was dead, and the Red Clan would dissipate. It was inevitable.

For all that he’d let his resentment brew during his time in Homra, Fushimi didn’t find himself taking any particular pleasure in that notion. Rather, it seemed as though a cold lump had settled in his stomach.

What will you do now, Misaki?

Even just that bit of speculation brought the restlessness back, full force. He could barely breathe around the sudden longing that overtook his brain – a longing whose aim he still couldn’t seem to place.

More out of an attempt to distract himself from those burdensome thoughts than anything, he glanced at Munakata for the first time. His boss stood solemnly at his side, hands clasped behind his back and posture unbent. He was bathed in moonlight, face angled towards the window, and the light reflected from his glasses, making his expression difficult to place. There was no smile on his face.

His sword was notably absent from his belt.

In that moment, Fushimi found his own words from months before returning to him: “You could end up wearing the brand of someone you loathe until the day one of you dies”. Without thinking, he glanced up at the collar of Munakata’s uniform.

From that angle, of course, he couldn’t see whether or not the mark had vanished.

Lowering his gaze again, Fushimi let out a long breath, clicked his tongue, and tried to turn his attention back to the work in front of him.