#growling and breathing hard and it's such a turn on for Fushimi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

brynne-lagaao · 7 years

Text

(Fanfic) Set in Stone - Chapter Fourteen

Title: Set in Stone

Pairing: Sarumi

Chapter: 14/18

Rating: M

Mirrors: AO3 | Website

Summary: Yata wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he performed a summon on his own in a fit of drunken loneliness. It definitely wasn’t some asshole demon with a bad attitude, even if that demon happened to be frustratingly hot. But breaking their contract was going to mean working together, and he wasn’t sure how much of that he could take before he snapped… one way or another.

Note: Thank you to @dropletons for being my beta and to @chromekins for helping with the magic aspect. This fic is not entirely accurate in terms of modern magic and the demon lore was basically made up to suit the story, but I tried to keep somewhat of an authentic feel, so hopefully that succeeded.

The neighborhood they settled in that evening was completely different from Yata’s childhood home. It was residential and the streets were lined with houses, but that was about as far as the similarities went. The streets were wide and meticulously kept, the houses were large and opulent, and there were no schools or playgrounds in sight. Despite being built closely to one another, the houses seemed to have more sprawl to them; in general, they took up way more space.

The house they settled on – the one that Fushimi led him to without hesitation, exactly as Yata had done earlier – was clearly the right one, based on the intensity of the moon’s energy. It was also huge even by the neighborhood’s standards, taking up nearly half of the city block on its own. The roof was flat and lined with a decorative railing, so it was easy to settle on. The house itself had a dull, empty feel to it, though; despite not being able to tell for certain from their position, Yata felt instinctively that nobody lived in it, and hadn’t for quite some time.

Why, though? Isn’t this a huge waste…

Fushimi clicked his tongue as if reading Yata’s thoughts, retracting his wings and reaching into his pocket with sharp motions. “She should just sell it already,” he muttered, without meeting Yata’s gaze. “It’s pointless to leave it like this.”

If he thought he was gonna get away with that, he had another think coming. “Who’s ‘she’?”

“The woman who owns it.” Fushimi clicked his tongue again, glancing at Yata with almost unfriendly eyes. “Were you assuming I was going to spill my life story just because you happened to share yours?”

Yata scowled back, more annoyed by the attitude than surprised. “I thought I’d hear you out since you did it for me, but if you’re gonna be a dick, forget it.” Still, there was one piece in what he’d just said… “But I guess since you mentioned it, that means this place is somehow involved in your ‘life story’, huh?”

Fushimi blinked at him, expression settling into a mildly perturbed look – and then abruptly sighed. “Your instincts can be really annoying sometimes,” he murmured, and clicked his tongue again. “Fine. This is the house I lived in when I was growing up.”

That was not the answer he’d expected. Yata stared back, struck dumb for a moment before he could recover. “Wha… ? The place where you – wait. Here?”

Fushimi shrugged, a tiny and somewhat jerky motion. “Until I was twelve,” he clarified blandly.

“Twelve?” On top of everything else, that threw him for even more of a loop – it was so young, but it implied he’d been there so long… Yata shook his head, struggling to make sense of it. “Wait – before that, how the hell…?” He made a frustrated noise, not finding the right words somehow. “Here?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Fuck you!” Yata shot him a glare. “I mean, in this realm?”

“This house doesn’t exist anywhere else,” Fushimi responded dryly, raising an eyebrow to Yata’s incredulous look. “You don’t know much about demon offspring, I take it?”

“Why the hell would I?”

Fushimi ignored that exasperated protest, continuing as if there had been no interruption. “Most of the time, there aren’t any. It’s impossible for two demons to conceive in the first place.” He paused for a moment, regarding Yata critically. “It’d be too much of a pain to explain why, so just take my word for it that you need at least one human to get anywhere.”

That was a surprising enough fact to forestall most of his earlier annoyance. “Huh.” Yata frowned, letting that soak in, and then the scraps of information he’d been fed pieced together in his head. “Wait, so – does that mean – the woman who owns this place is…?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Technically my mother, yes. I only saw her a few times while I lived here.” He turned his gaze again to fix it on the sunstone in his hand, frowning to himself. “In general, she’d only show up to argue with… that guy… about something or another. I don’t think we ever spoke directly.”

Yata wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that information. The situation was so weird that he couldn’t even start to piece together a reaction – and the fact that it had been stated so matter-of-factly was almost jarring to him. “Huh,” he said again, more out of a need to fill the silence than anything. ‘That guy’… It was an impersonal way to say it, but he’d called his mom ‘the woman’, so… “And your dad was a demon, right?”

Since he was watching so closely already, the subtle darkening of Fushimi’s expression was plain. “That should be obvious.”

“But he lived here with you?”

He got another sharp click of Fushimi’s tongue in response. “Why do you care? It has nothing to do with you.”

The tone was openly hostile, but Yata didn’t feel the usual rush of defensiveness. He furrowed his eyebrows, frowning back. “Why not? I wanna know more about you.” He snorted. “Not like you tell me a lot of things most of the time. Of course I’m curious.”

Fushimi’s frown deepened. He looked about to say something, and then hesitated, seeming to think better of it. “It won’t make a difference,” he mumbled, after a brief silence.

Unrestrained honesty brought the next words to his tongue; Yata didn’t even think twice before letting them out. “I still wanna hear it.” After a beat, he realized he might’ve been pushing too hard, and added with a sudden rush of chagrin, “I mean, if you’re okay with telling me.”

At that, Fushimi let out what sounded like a startled huff of laughter, and finally – finally – turned his gaze to meet Yata’s again. “Obviously I’m not,” he murmured, but the corners of his mouth were turning up almost ruefully even as he spoke. It was hard to place the look in his eyes, even with the light of the moon to help – it was something that might have been resignation or maybe relief, or some odd mix of the two. “But if you really want to know, fine. Just don’t complain when you realize how pointless it is to bring it all up.”

It was more relief than excitement that rushed through him in response; Yata relaxed, letting out a puff of breath, and grinned back. “You didn't bitch about me ‘pointlessly’ bringing my shit up – why would I bitch about yours?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “That's different.”

“Yeah, says who? You?” Yata shook his head. “Anyway, try me.” He braced his hands on his hips, thinking back to his earlier unanswered question. “So did your dad live here in this realm or...?”

“Not really.” Fushimi shrugged his shoulders again, eyeing Yata with his usual bland expression. That edge of wariness was still there, masked behind the indifference. “I think I already told you that demons can’t travel freely to this realm without a contract – and no contract with a regular human would last for twelve years.” He raised his eyebrow at that. “Not everyone's a changeling, after all.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Yata raised his own eyebrow in response. “So what was the deal, then?”

“The exact arrangement? Who knows.” The admission was light, drawled out. “They weren’t exactly all that forthcoming with me. Most of what I know, I figured out for myself. The rest is guesswork.” His eyes darkened again for a moment. “I couldn’t always trust the things that guy said anyway – he had a habit of making things up for the sake of getting a reaction.”

Lies for the sake of lying, huh? Yata frowned, finding a thread of instant animosity within him for Fushimi’s faceless dad. He didn’t like lies in the first place, but at least if there was a good reason, they could be excused. This, though... “He did that to his own kid?”

Fushimi snorted. “After what you told me today, you should know not everyone cares about that, right?”

Yeah, he knew it. Yata shut his eyes briefly against the echo of that word – ‘freak’ – and the furious face that went with it. Behind them, though, he thought he could picture a small, very young Fushimi staring wide-eyed and trusting at a faceless liar. It brought on a rush of indignation he hadn’t expected. “Fucking assholes,” he growled, opening his eyes again.

Something in Fushimi’s posture and expression seemed to have relaxed marginally. “I could think of worse descriptions,” he drawled, “but I’m not going to argue. Anyway, as closely as I could piece it together, he was initially contracted by someone else looking for revenge on her.” That came with another shrug, almost too casual a motion. “I was the punishment.”

The sheer callousness behind that simple fact was stunning; Yata stared, momentarily unable to think of a thing to say. Not only the fact that someone had thought to do it, but that those involved had casually let it slip in front of the kid in question... He couldn’t imagine the cold, indifference it would take. Or maybe cruelty. Both, really.

The fuck is wrong with these people?

Into the silence, Fushimi let out a soft, humorless huff of a laugh. “That guy would've been glad to do it. I think he took on way more contracts than he needed to, just for the opportunity to fuck with people. It’s the kind of thing he'd find funny.” Something dull and resigned seemed to settle in his eyes. “It’s kind of infuriating, really – he was probably one of the cleverest and most powerful demons in the Captain’s sector, and that was what he did with it. It’s no wonder someone decided to do something about it in the end.” The spiteful little smirk he offered with that somehow lacked any real force. “I would’ve done it myself if I could've figured out how.”

There was no way Yata could’ve started sorting out the kind of complicated feelings behind that smile – just the idea of that fervent wish for a person to die, especially someone who should've been closer than most people, struck him as a terrible thing to have to live with. He wondered if Fushimi might’ve wished, even a little bit, that he didn't have to feel that way. The thought made his throat ache and something start to burn within him with righteous fury. “I’d punch him for you right now if he was still around!” he offered fiercely.

Fushimi blinked at him, clearly caught off-guard, and then seemed to relax again, releasing a sigh that was far more sincere in its amusement than before. “I feel like you'd take any excuse to punch someone,” he murmured, lips curling up just a tiny bit. “Well, not that I'm complaining.”

Yata grinned back, curling his fingers into a fist and bringing it up in front of his body so he could smack it against his open palm. “Say the fucking word and I’ll beat the shit outta useless assholes like that any day!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fushimi drawled back. He seemed at least a little less guarded as he resumed his narrative. “As far as she goes, I’m not sure how she did it or what the terms were, but she tracked down the exact summoning circle and struck a deal with that guy.” He frowned again, reaching up to push his glasses higher on his nose absently. “Normally, since the birth happened in this realm, I would’ve been human. But she somehow transferred all custody to him, and it ended up the other way.”

That struck a chord. Yata felt an immediate understanding – a sense of shared experience – at the new information. Being born into a place you didn't quite belong... Yeah, he knew what that felt like. He’d lived it. And maybe he’d had the benefit of one loving parent, but that sense of not fitting in – of being something other...

He knew it all too well. “What happened?” he asked, voice a bit rough and uneven. In that moment, the sense of affinity for Fushimi was strong within him; he felt like he wanted to know more – get closer – and that was the only way he could think of to do it.

Fushimi clicked his tongue, glancing aside sharply as if to avoid Yata’s gaze. “Nothing that interesting,” he mumbled. “Since he had custody, he could show up periodically – he liked to do it at random, I think.” Another click of his tongue, and his frown deepened. “Not that he'd do anything particularly useful. I only learned to use my powers by watching him.”

‘Watching him’... As in, he used illusions on his kid, right? The thought, along with Fushimi’s earlier hints about ‘getting a reaction’ and ‘fucking with people’, created enough of a picture for him to see red for a moment, fingers clenching more firmly. Bastard!

Still, though... “Wait – that shit you do, you picked it up just by watching him do it?”

“More or less – at least at first.” Fushimi shrugged, turning to look at him again with obvious wariness. “It’s not really that hard to pick up the basics.”

“Huh? No way!” Thinking back on it, the cool way that Fushimi manifested objects, explaining away how illusions could trick the natural order if they were strong enough... It was even cooler to think he’d mostly taught it to himself. Yata felt the admiration bubbling up in his chest manifest as a smile that widened on his face as he stared back. “Even if it's just the basics or whatever, that’s still fucking amazing!”

Fushimi’s eyebrows furrowed, that hint of bewilderment making its way back onto his features. More than anything, he looked nonplussed – as if he didn't quite know what to make of that reaction. “Not really. It... wasn’t like I had any other choice.” He clicked his tongue again, frowning a bit. “At some point, a survival instinct will kick in for anyone, right? I could only rely on myself in that situation, since that guy would keep scaring off the housekeepers every time he showed up.” That came with a snort. “Not that I blame them. But it pissed her off, and she’d show up to argue with him. I learned a lot of what I know just by listening to them.”

It was crazy how well he could picture that: a younger, smaller Fushimi hovering around the periphery of an argument that put him on the outside of what should’ve been his family. Maybe because – though things hadn’t been nearly so bad for him – he could relate to that feeling. There had been times when he’d lingered on the outside of his mom’s new family and their happiness, too. That sense of being unnecessary – it brought back the ache he’d felt before, but stronger.

Must’ve been way worse in his case. But he still came this far.

He wondered if Fushimi had felt the same burning need to prove himself – to raise up above whatever fate had cursed him with those circumstances – that had consumed Yata through his teen years.

Maybe they could’ve related to each other really well, even back then.

Once again, Fushimi seemed awkward in the face of Yata’s silent solidarity; he glanced aside again, clicking his tongue. “Anyway, there’s not much else. One thing you should know about demon offspring is that they don’t have a summoning circle right away. Energy comes automatically from whichever parent is a demon, and you inherit the essence of their circle when they die.” He shrugged, once again with that jerky motion, still not making eye contact. “When that happened, it basically made me a full demon with my own circle, so of course I got sent to the ‘right’ realm.” At that, he made another of those humorless huffs. “I was halfway expecting it to happen any day after I learned about it – if anything, it was a surprise it wasn’t sooner.”

“Whoa, seriously?” That was pretty damn intense, the thought of being all at once in a strange place with no warning or much of an idea what to expect. A mingling of respect and admiration stirred to life in Yata’s belly. “What’d you do?”

“I scrapped by. What else could anyone do in that situation?” Fushimi clicked his tongue again, seeming a bit agitated. “That guy had a large reserve of energy already – like I said, he took contracts for fun. It was enough for me to use to find my bearings. That place isn’t so different from this one, and I’d had some time to prepare a plan, at least.” He huffed out a sharp sigh. “I managed on my own for a few years, but I’ll admit it was better after the Captain recruited me. At least he had meaningful work to offer.”

Not just that, though, huh? Even apart from getting out of what sounded like a really shitty – and lonely – situation, it felt like there was more to that ‘meaningful work’. Yata had spent enough time over the past month listening to the grumblings and the tiny tidbits of explanation to grasp a little of what lay behind Fushimi’s dishonest behavior. “And comrades too, right?”

Fushimi shot him a frown. “That’s not the word I’d use for those idiots,” he answered dryly, and then let out a short breath, resignation softening his expression. “But I guess they are a part of it.”

“Right?” Yata grinned back at him, catching the edge of that connection as their eyes met. He risked a tiny step toward Fushimi, following a sudden urge to be closer, and was gratified when no move was made to reset the distance between them.

Something occurred to him as they spent a moment of comfortable silence. “Hey,” he started, a bit hesitantly. “Does anyone call you by your first name?”

Fushimi blinked, and then his eyebrows furrowed. “Nobody’s called me that since I left this place.” Then he grimaced, clicking his tongue. “Not consistently, anyway.”

“Right. That’s kinda what I thought.” Yata took in a breath, feeling inexplicably nervous, and blurted, “How about if I called you that?”

At that, Fushimi’s eyes widened, just slightly. “You…” That trailed off, and he frowned slightly, looking away. “Didn’t you say we’re not close enough to be on a first name basis?”

“Hey, you gotta admit we got a lot closer these last few days,” Yata reminded him, the corners of his mouth edging up ruefully as he did. It was hard to figure out what Fushimi was thinking based on his expression, but he still forged ahead anyway. “That’s not really why, though. I was just thinking, when you said that stuff about my name and how it doesn’t say anything about who I am, it kinda helped. Since then… you calling me that makes me feel like I reclaimed it a bit. Y’know?” He reached up to scratch the back of his head awkwardly. “I figured you had nothing but bad memories of yours too, if it was just that asshole calling you it.”

He could hear Fushimi’s breath catch; a moment later, he was looking over again, something unusually lost and vulnerable in his expression. He seemed to have been caught without a proper response, staring at Yata in mute astonishment.

It was enough to fuel that ache in Yata’s throat; to make him want to reach further. He straightened as much as he could, returning the gaze steadily. “It’s part of you, right? If you want, I’ll help you claim it. Saruhiko.”

There was a stark moment of silence so thick it was nearly suffocating. Yata held his breath, anticipation and anxiety warring in his stomach…

Fushimi was the first to move, letting out a shuddering breath and shutting his eyes. He dipped his head forward, shoulders slouching as if he were admitting defeat, and then clicked his tongue. “Do what you want,” he mumbled.

The sudden capitulation felt a little bit cathartic; Yata couldn’t help the grin spreading wide across his face, and nodded. “Right!”

He could see the tiny hint of an answering smile on Fushimi’s – Saruhiko’s – lips even before his eyes opened again to meet Yata’s, and the spark of something bright and fluttery seemed to flare to life within him. It felt like a victory for sure.

The moment was interrupted by the warning thrum of the sunstone in Saruhiko’s hand. Yata jerked a little, startled by the sudden shift in the mood, and Saruhiko hummed lightly. “At least its timing is better this time.”

Thinking about the last few times this had happened, Yata couldn’t help but snort in response. “Got that right.” In the wake of that moment of closeness and with the light of the moon encouraging him, he felt bold enough to let his eyelids fall to half-mast, smirking up at Saruhiko. “Feel like changing that now?”

For a moment, Saruhiko just blinked at him again – and then he recovered quickly, eyes glittering in the pale light as he returned the smirk. “Fine by me,” he murmured, and leaned in just in time to meet Yata halfway.

#k #sarumi #yata misaki #fushimi saruhiko #fanfic #fanfic:mine

1 note · View note

its-love-u-asshole · 7 years

Text

Shaking in My Skull [Ch 8]

Pairing: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki

Rating: T

Summary: Stuck on the plane between life and death, Saruhiko makes the decision to risk everything, forced to find faith in himself and the headstrong Yata Misaki as they both face unimaginable demons.

Note: -sighs- I'm so happy to be posting this finally lol. First, thanks to everyone who is still reading, I know it's been a ride and its not over lmaoo. That being said, I have finished writing this fic, and have 2 more chapters after this planned. I know I said it would only be 1 or 2 more, but I ended up writing 30k of ending so .....LOL I'm going to be posting the other two parts this week, so stay tuned for quick updates. Enjoy reading! Big thanks to @emeraldwaves for reading this over!!

AO3 Version

8 Tracks

"Remember, all you must do is touch the gate, and you will be evaluated."

Nagare's last words were clear, the task being shockingly easy despite the overall complexity of the journey.

Saruhiko had quirked his eyebrow in confusion, turning the words over along with Munakata's past ones.

“The closest someone ever got, was the entrance of hell’s gates.”

"But then," he began, voice weak in the empty cave, "why did Munakata say no one has ever gotten past the gates?"

If the gate is truly the finish line...

Saruhiko wanted to rescind his inquiry before Nagare had the nerve to throw him a solemn look.

The seated man shook his head, moving to the side in order for another door, the exit, to reveal itself. "Lesser humans have collapsed upon reaching the threshold. Not by plain exertion, but that coupled with the pure weight and burden of the journey itself. It is perhaps why the higher ups chose to lie to you, maybe they thought having a farther goal would keep you going longer. Sadly, I don't know how much good the kindness will do you. But..."

The door opened, giving way to a familiar, grey landscape. The one from just after they'd descended from heaven. To think he'd feel such a strong rush of nostalgia when it was so close to ending.

They moved forward, unspeaking, until they were on the other side, and Nagare's cryptic smile began to disappear behind cave rock.

"All I can say is, when it comes to lesser humans, don't be one of them."

It was less a gate, and more of a wall, the barrier keeping them from Hell. The wind around them swirled, the grey dust kicking up and brushing against the sleek material. It was a lot cleaner than Saruhiko would have imagined, shining marble, marred with a few scuffs here and there. After all, no one was going to be fighting to get in.

Except them of course, this was their goal. All along, they'd endured so much to get to this one place, as cursed as it was, and now...

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm scared," Misaki whispered, hand twitching at his side. "This is it...after this...we'll be..."

Alive. That was the unspoken truth of it, but it didn't seem real. Not for him at least. Saruhiko watched as Misaki's face settled into one of serenity, no doubt remembering the challenges that had brought them here. After Nagare's parting congratulations, they'd set down a path much similar to the first, dark and made of cobblestone, with no trip ups or obstacles. Eerily silent, they'd walked, on edge and waiting for malicious whispers or growls of monsters. But there had been none of it. Only sand and rock, just like before, Nagare's cave dissolving behind them beneath layers of dirt. It was almost like a victory lap, but neither of them had been smiling. It was hard to feel anything but disbelief, after all that had transpired.

It was nearly overwhelming, the image of something towering in the distance, the gates which would lead them to their end, whatever it may be. They'd been unnerved, and Saruhiko thought maybe he understood why no one had yet to make it past those gates. It would have been easy, to lose his mind and drive right then and there, beaten and hopeless. He thought about his father, about Misaki's fierce encouragement, of his friends and their grief, and the inklings of hope he'd allow to grow inside of himself.

He wouldn't be one of those others though, he'd see it through, whether he failed or not. His reflection only fed that.

Had he changed? Yes, there was no use denying it now, staring up at the finish line. He'd changed in many ways, he'd carry that change with him forever no doubt. Misaki would too, the good and the bad. They’d never be the same, it wasn't possible, to not remember the terror and trauma, the things they'd seen. What they'd given up...

Saruhiko closed his eyes, feeling the dread from before threaten to swallow him up. He hadn't been able to let it go yet, not since leaving Nagare. He had felt sick with each soundless step forward, clutching Misaki's hand until the path had finally receded into dust, gone.

"Your response has to be truly honest, you have to mean it. And believe me, I will know if you don't."

He swallowed down the bile, the urge to vomit.

"It almost doesn't feel real," Misaki said again, eyeing Saruhiko as he stared into the intricate designs of the marble.

No, it doesn't. Who knew if it was. Saruhiko didn't trust much anymore. But he knew this wasn't a dream, he'd long since stopped his skepticism over it. He was dead, he'd gone on this insane journey with a complete stranger, stupidly fallen for said stranger, and now...

Well, he'd find out huh?

"Thank you Saruhiko."

The taller blinked in confusion, and had his breath momentarily stolen by the look on Misaki's face. Tired, but still bright and all consuming, the way Misaki should always be. It was a weird moment he had then, staring at Misaki and really taking in his face, the bags under his eyes, his dirt marred skin and bloodied hands. He looked close to collapsing, they probably both did, and Saruhiko wouldn't have minded much, burying his face in the other's neck and staying there. Misaki's hand was cold despite their contact, his skin scratchy, but it warmed Saruhiko in a way fire never could, coupled with those amber eyes which had captured him since day one. It was in that one strange moment, in front of hell's gates, and without much surprise, that Saruhiko knew he loved Misaki. "Back then...I know you didn't have to do this with me, but you did. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been here with me."

Denial bubbled in his throat. What had he done? It was Misaki, pulling them all along...Saruhiko had been pathetic and withdrawn, not worthy of any praise, not at the start. Not when it had counted. If only he'd--

"Shut up, whatever you're thinking, dumbass," Misaki said with a light laugh. "We're here because we worked together, equally, get it?"

In all honestly it was a weak statement, said barely above a whisper, but it held a finality in it which Saruhiko couldn't dodge. On any other occasion, Saruhiko would've been able to dismiss that, hell, it was what he was good at. But with Misaki staring at him like he was, with nothing but pure fondness in his eyes...

He didn't have the heart to fight it, or to voice his internal fears. To bring up how Misaki shouldn't be so hopeful they'd succeeded. Munakata had said there was no guarantee of anything after all, what if they'd done something wrong? Saruhiko was also nervous about meeting with Mikoto, just on the other side of the gate, the very thought making him want to turn right around. They were all completely reasonable things to worry about, to anguish over, but he wouldn't, not with the person he...loved putting so much faith in him.

For the redhead, they'd done it. At a cost, but they'd survived. They were going to go home, and set things right. How could he bring himself to dispute any of it?

So he would wait, because even if he couldn't do it, couldn't bring truth to the outcome of their journey, Mikoto would eventually.

For now, he'd do what he'd probably always wanted to.

He cradled Misaki's face, his palm shaking as he cupped his cheek; Misaki didn't look surprised in the slightest, and maybe that was all he needed. "So sure of yourself," Saruhiko said with a weak scoff, leaning forward until their foreheads were touching. He didn't have the perfect words, or at least, no way to convey them. But, his mind was filled with Misaki, would never not be, and he hoped he could show it. "But...you too."

Thank you, Misaki.

Misaki's hands tangled in Saruhiko's hair when their lips met, the kiss deep and containing too many feelings at once, and Saruhiko kept coming back for more, because he'd never get enough. Misaki was everywhere, was going to be a part of him for the rest of eternity, there was no denying it. If they'd met sooner, the proper way, maybe things could've been different. He breathed in the other's scent, mapped out his skin, because it might just be his last chance. Misaki sighed into the kiss, his lips moving hungrily, before his breathing stuttered at the sound of the wind howling around them, and Saruhiko knew there would be no more waiting.

"I think…I love you, Saruhiko." Misaki's arms were around him, trembling along with his words, and squeezing him one last time before he pulled away, the shining amber gaze flickering to the wall before them. "Are you ready?"

Saruhiko chose not to answer, knowing words would never be enough from his mouth, and simply reached out, palm sliding onto the smooth marble, and taking no comfort in the fact that he was the first ever to do so. Misaki's hand joined him, flat on the rock, together as always.

He wasn't prepared for whatever was about to happen, but he'd face it head on, like Misaki had shown him. At least if nothing went right, he'd always have the memory of Misaki's lips on his, and the redhead standing by his side.

The wind stopped altogether, and then the wall began to part.

"What are you doing?" A shrill voice rang through the room, more and more impatient with each passing moment.

As if the dilemma at hand weren’t stressful enough.

"Yeah, get on with it!"

There was an irritated grunt at that, for once accompanied with words. Well, at least Mikoto was on his side. "We want to wait."

"Why? Why wait? Just zap them where they need to go, they touched the gate!" A whiny, annoyed voice rang through the meeting room as the pool reflected the image of two young men passing through hell's gates.

"You've babied them a ton, he has a point."

"No one is babied on the Return." Douhan’s commanding voice silenced the childish one, her eyes narrowing slightly as Nagare approached.

"Yes, yes, I agree. But we shouldn’t bring up useless truths. We all gave them favor.”

“Yes, but—”

"Enough." Munakata frowned at the floor, lifting his cane high before bringing it back down, the noise piercing. “That’s…enough.”

There was a tense silence, a few hums of irritation disrupting it a few times before the sound of footsteps clicking on the tile overpowered it all. Munakata walked until he was at the pool, stopping to observe the events closer. Regardless of what any of them said, it fell on Munakata’s shoulders to communicate the will of the universe.

All occupants of the room peered into the water, the somber mood detectable to even the most insensitive.

There was no easy way to go about this, and there shouldn't ever be. Mikoto was especially grim in his silence, and Munakata wouldn’t fault him for not backing him up in this instance. The rest of the room’s occupants backed off upon receiving Munakata’s hard stare, the useless protests dying as they all made way for Munakata to pass them.

“Time, I am aware that I am asking a lot of you, but I would encourage you to be sympathetic to these two’s plight,” Munakata said, addressing the lanky man with violet hair, and the other nodded in apology, the last of his hostility diminishing.

Yes well, it is difficult to not feel some affection for the two Returners. Munakata himself had grown quite fond of them, and yet he couldn’t manage a smile, not an inkling of one.

With a final, yet reluctant agreement around the circle, a portal was opened.

The man in the seat beside him stood up with a low grunt, the chain at his belt echoing in the quiet stillness. Munakata nodded to him, making sure he would keep order in his absence, and addressed the crowd for the last time on the matter.

"I believe they deserve a proper explanation."

Yata couldn't know if it was a blessing or a curse to not see hell upon entering through its actual gates. The world of apparent suffering was separated from the entrance by a small, regal building. Or at least, that's what he guessed. The building was shrouded in fog on all sides, no one and nothing else in sight. It almost looked like an ancient palace, or the ruins of one, and only a small chunk. It was a much appreciated let down if he was being honest. When he thought of hell, he'd been expecting torturous heat, unending screams, maybe demons and criminals, not...nothing. In a way it was good, he wouldn't give himself more nightmares by actually witnessing whatever hell actually looked like, being either a fiery pit or filled with creatures, he wasn't sure. Would probably never be, or he really hoped not. Though, he doubted anything could be worse than what they'd already done. The things he'd seen and overcome, what he'd given up...hell couldn't possibly come close, and he was nearly certain of that.

Saruhiko tensed beside him, observing their environment with a similar mix of confusion and relief, before settling on the landmark ahead of them.

Yata watched as he paled, the fear still evident as ever in those clouded blue eyes.

What are you thinking?

What's hurting you? We can hurt it back.

All that and so much more was on the tip of his tongue, but they wouldn't come out, wouldn't risk shattering the abnormal silence around them for fear of somehow fucking everything up.

Okay, so maybe he was more than just a bit scared as well, he could admit it. But there was no way they could stand there forever!

"Saruhiko...what--"

"He's in there," the taller spoke, level and neutral despite the anxiety he radiated.

"Huh?"

"The devil, this is where he lives no?" Saruhiko began walking forward stiffly, pulling Yata along with seemingly renewed courage. He clicked his tongue, a welcome response that Yata had actually grown to miss. "Useless. Nagare said we'd be evaluated at the gate, why does he need to meet with us?"

Regardless of the displeasure laced in the tone, Yata felt the need to ground Saruhiko in some way, like the other had always done for him. They looked out for each other, but in this case, Yata probably couldn't convince Saruhiko otherwise.

Saruhiko was afraid of Mikoto-san. He had been since the very first moment, in spite of the man's laid back exterior and the help he'd offered. Yata couldn't understand, but he wouldn't hold it against Saruhiko, he couldn't control it. Besides, if Mikoto-san was the devil, or something similar, then surely there was some reason to worry...right?

Although, compared to the secretive nature of Munakata, Yata couldn't say he didn't respect Mikoto-san just a bit more.

His own feelings aside, he'd be there for Saruhiko, no matter what.

"I don't know but...whatever he has to tell us, we can handle it. I'm sure it'll be over soon," Yata tried, stepping in between the taller and the door as they came to it. He wanted Saruhiko to look at him, really see him, and know he wasn't lying. "Whatever happens, it's you and me at the end of it, got that?"

One way or another, they'd both come through.

Saruhiko seemed to know that without Yata having to say it aloud too, because he gladly closed the distance between them, resting his forehead on Yata's with closed eyes. It was like he was taking in the moment as much as he could, like it was the last time.

Yata wouldn’t let himself worry about what that could mean.

Instead, he waited until the other pulled away, wordless as he nodded, and moved them towards the door.

Old, torn tapestries lined the unstable walls of the room, tattered paintings and chipped vases lying about the floor.

Saruhiko didn't care though, had no curiosity left in him when it came to the afterlife. He didn't bother listening to Misaki's mumblings about "Suoh dynasty artifacts" or anything alike. Of course, he'd connected the dots long ago, knew it had something to do with the devil's past, but he didn't have it in him to be interested. Knowledge or not, insight or none, he'd had enough. He had no desire to be there, in front of Mikoto, but at least he'd expected it. And now? The guy was nowhere to be found, not even lounging in the seat at the center of the room unperturbed, in the way Saruhiko so loathed.

Typical.

Misaki was still poking around, but even he eventually felt antsy, pacing around the small space with energy Saruhiko couldn't believe he possessed. It was a miracle Saruhiko himself was standing at all.

Misaki wasn't having it though, fighting his exhaustion. He was much too anxious for the outcome of the journey to finally be revealed, but probably anticipated it more than Saruhiko, who was trying his best to keep his fear in check. However, watching Misaki search around was at least a welcomed distraction. That hadn’t changed, his desire to keep his eyes on Misaki, the other’s bright eyes and fiery demeanor being all it took for Saruhiko to see light in the world, if just for a second.

At that moment it was harder though, getting that same rush, when Misaki was so eagerly trying to find out the conclusion of what had been an uncertain, but terrible, journey. Much to Saruhiko's confusion, the redhead even resorted to checking every corner and crevice for a sign of life.

But there was no one. No usual grunts or the dragging of heavy footsteps, no clinking of metal. No sign of the devil he'd come to so dread. Or, so he'd thought.

"I do apologize for my tardiness, I was dealing with some business."

Saruhiko whipped around as the portal closed behind Munakata, but any words of displeasure or criticism died in his throat painfully upon actually seeing the angel. Already, Saruhiko could sense something off. Munakata's usual gleam and his knowing smile were gone, replaced with slow footsteps and an austere air. It wasn't the face of someone who had good news to deliver by any means, and Saruhiko was excessively put off by the fact he himself wasn't surprised by the somberness. And yet despite this, the hope and anticipation beat hard and fast in his chest, the overwhelming pleas aching to spill from his lips.

Please let me go home.

Please let us go home.

It was all he wanted. Saruhiko felt like a sniveling child from the sheer desperation alone, and he redirected that anger at Munakata himself, who really shouldn't have been standing there in the first place.

Just send us home.

That was how it should've worked no? He didn't want congratulations or to be seen off. So how come...

Again, his stomach protested, aware of the gravity of the situation before Saruhiko allowed himself to fully acknowledge it. The denial inside him grew more and more. Not even having Munakata there, instead of Mikoto, did much to relieve the apprehension.

Part of him knew. Part of him had known since leaving Nagare's. But he denied and denied, deflecting the blame elsewhere, anywhere, even to the angel before them.

"What are you doing here?" Saruhiko spat, voice shaking, and Misaki too muttered in annoyed agreement.

"Yeah, where's Mikoto-san?"

Munakata's calm steps halted, and his brow quirked, the first sign of a not so grim emotion since he'd stepped into view. It was gone shortly however, giving way to his steady gaze and careful words. "I can see your confusion, given what Change told you, and I apologize for lying. However, I felt it necessary to speak with you, and the duty falls to me regardless I'm afraid. Suoh was left to deal with other matters, though I assure you, he can see and hear everything."

Saruhiko clicked his tongue, a plethora of responses bubbling up inside him, on the tip of his tongue. What was Mikoto good for? Where was the reasoning behind him having such high power? Maybe the devil needed to be so uncaring, dealing with lost souls and the depths of hell. But something about this was grating on his nerves, and he couldn't fathom why it was sticking to his thoughts, like a germ. He hated not being able to figure things out, and in this case it was especially irritating. He knew nothing, other than something was off.

Well, at least it provided a mild distraction from Saruhiko's true predicament, and why they were there in the first place. Munakata's solemn tone...

Again, he deflected, voice choppy and irritated, because he needed to be angry at someone, lest he lose it before his suspicions were actually clarified.

Denial, denial. Deflect, avoid. That's all you do, huh?

Saruhiko hissed to himself, glaring into the void where Munakata happened to be standing and--goddamnit, why are we here?

"What, can't do his own job?" Saruhiko glanced towards the seat in the center of the room, the unspoken meaning reaching Munakata easily. Mikoto's lack of presence was becoming more of a source of anxiety than relief for Saruhiko, as if the other were off plotting something or...or he didn't know what. He didn't know shit. But Mikoto wasn't there, and it couldn't be good, right?

All he has to do is sit around. He can't do that right?

The fact that Misaki wasn't even defending Mikoto was also strange, but understandable. The redhead was getting impatient next to him, fidgeting constantly. Saruhiko could tell from simply being next to him; Misaki radiated agitation, and he nearly reached over in some awkward show of comfort, when the flash of something starved lit up Munakata's face. Waiting, expecting.

Saruhiko and Misaki both inhaled for reasons unknown, and while Munakata looked no less grim overall, his mouth twitched up ruefully.

"Ah...quite. I suppose hell is a tough place to manage," he spoke carefully, turning around with grace to begin walking to the throne. "It would be advisable for the rightful deity to take his place here when it is required. Order is important, as I’ve said before. I'm glad you can see that, Fushimi-kun."

Munakata sat elegantly, falling into the seat with familiar ease and comfort, his cane sitting perfectly against the armrest, and Saruhiko's mind finally pieced the fragments together, the revelation a slap to the face.

Order.

“I know it’s true for Munakata-san especially, he likes order, so this job is quite painful for him."

The true reasons behind Totsuka's words. The insinuation that order was hard to maintain.

The way Munakata stared at heaven as if it was something truly novel, a place he was not allowed to go.

The fact that Munakata had refused to step through the portal when dropping them off in the utopia.

He'd been unable to.

Because Munakata wasn't in charge of heaven, was he?

Of course. Of course.

Order is important, needed, when dealing with chaos. When dealing with...

"It's you," Saruhiko breathed out, his body torn between relaxing and backing away as quickly as possible. It was a strange mix, the part of him which knew he should be afraid, and the part which continued to respect Munakata regardless. "It's always been you."

To feel betrayed, relieved, or just plain stupid, he couldn't decide.

Munakata tilted his head, as if honored with the realization. Saruhiko was mostly at a loss, Misaki jolting him a few times in worry, and it kept Saruhiko grounded to reality in some way at the very least.

"Wait, Saruhiko...what's--" Misaki glanced anxiously between the ang--well, Munakata and Saruhiko, frantically trying to catch up with what was happening. Well, so was Saruhiko.

The biggest let down of the situation was probably the joke which was Mikoto. Mikoto, who'd been the real angel all along.

Fuck.

"He's the devil, this whole time and he never said anything," Saruhiko seethed, unable to form any coherence for his anger to come out. Luckily, Misaki had no problem with it. The redhead blinked, showing only a fraction of the shock Saruhiko felt, probably less put off given his dislike for Munakata anyhow, but he still managed to gape and jolt away from the deity.

"What...what the hell?! That's--"

"In my respectful defense, you are the ones who assumed," Munakata sighed quietly, and the pitying gaze from before had returned. "And it wasn't pertinent information in my eyes. My domain does not change my desire to help you. It doesn't alter my sympathy or personality." He paused, violet eyes flitting to the ground for half of a second. But it was enough, it was enough for Saruhiko to feel unwavering fear all over again, the mantra increasing in volume inside him.

You lied.

And the worst part was, he wasn't talking about Munakata.

"Nor..." Munakata rose from his seat once more, bowing in an apology which would never make any of this okay. "Nor does it change how sorry I am for what I'm about to tell you."

Saruhiko dared not meet Misaki's concerned eyes, all too convinced he was no longer worthy of the gaze.

For Yata, the words went by too fast, his heart speeding up just to stall once again in a fit of dread.

"Yata-kun, it is with my deepest admiration that I commend you for this success." Munakata smiled softly at him, but his eyes twinkled with a deep regret which Yata couldn’t understand. "You will be allowed to return home, and it will all be the same as before. You should be immensely proud of yourself."

Those were it, the words he’d wanted to hear all along. Yet now, they seemed unreal, untrue, like it would be snatched away in an instant in some cruel test.

There was just silence though, Munakata sad smile, and the weight of the sentence filling the room.

You will be allowed to return home.

His knees threatened to collapse under him, sending him to the dirty floor, the happiness taking on a weight which he had no idea how to hold. Yata stopped hearing anything else, the urge to cry hard to resist as he repeated the words to himself.

You can go home. You did it. You'll see mom and everyone, and--

As the words settled in his mind, he got stuck on one aspect, and his eyes burned more with unshed tears. Confused, he spoke, his voice soft and disbelieving. "Wait...the same as before, you mean--"

Munakata tilted his head forward, and Yata nearly burst from the relief blooming in his heart. "Nagare's trial was a test, but none of the consequences were real. I’m afraid time and reality can only be manipulated so much. We just needed to see if you could rise to the challenge, and you did. You may keep your art, and the skills associated with it."

The tears spilled, washing over his face, probably blending with his dirt caked skin unattractively, but what did he care? It had been a test, it hadn’t been real, he could go back to his work! At the mention of Nagare, he thought he heard Saruhiko choke, but Yata was too far overcome with joy to take it as anything other than surprise, and his first instinct was to crush Saruhiko in a hug. So he did.

Saruhiko was tense against him, but Yata hoped he could feel the gratitude and love laced in the gesture. It was lame, but Yata didn’t know what else to do. He was just…so thankful Saruhiko had agreed to come with him, couldn’t imagine not knowing or being without Saruhiko. When they were back to their lives, he’d show it properly, they’d do things the normal way. Or well, as normal as they could manage. Yata pulled away, wiping the water from his eyes hastily, but fresh tears appeared in the wake of old.

Was this real? He hoped. He wanted it to be more than anything else. Going home, with Saruhiko, getting to do what he loved again...

He knew they could do it. Knew it from the first moment.

Yata wondered if kissing Saruhiko would make the other upset right then...

Probably best to wait. For now Yata laughed, hanging off Saruhiko’s arm to balance himself. "Saruhiko! Did you hear that? You'll see your friends, it'll all be the same and—

Munakata cleared his throat at the same time Saruhiko cringed, as if struck, and the atmosphere of restoration was promptly erased, kicked to the ground cruelly as Saruhiko stared down, avoiding Yata’s gaze. Stubbornly, and with heavy denial of the strangling tension around them, Yata grabbed his face, tilting his chin up to get a better look.

It confirmed the worst. Yata's smiled dimmed as soon as he saw Saruhiko's expression, the harsh lines of guilt and distraught piercing a sword in Yata's side from how much he hated seeing the other in pain. Why was he in pain? It was so odd, because it wasn't shared this time, and it bothered Yata more than anything. They had made it...and Yata was happy, so deliriously happy, and Saruhiko should've been too.

But he wasn’t, and the fact something must be wrong to cause such a thing, made Yata’s chest ache.

"Saru..."

"I'm afraid, Fushimi-kun's case is different." Munakata spared them both, his voice calling them to look up, and suddenly, Yata didn’t want to hear what he had to say at all. The deity took a deep breath, the pause far too long for Yata’s liking before he began. “During the trial of Change, I’m afraid Fushimi-kun was not honest, a major requirement for the test. I’m sure you know that though, Fushimi-kun.”

Lied? How—

But he recalled Saruhiko’s hesitance, the strain in his voice when he’d answered yes to Nagare’s question. Yata knew, he knew, but he really wished he was wrong.

Yata prayed for it to be false, for Saruhiko to protest, but when the taller could only bow his head mournfully, the panic inside Yata completely revealed itself. He babbled, breathing harsh, and stepped in front of Saruhiko like a shield, one last time. “O-okay so, just…just ask him something else! I mean it wasn’t real anyways, it doesn’t—”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that. Fushimi-kun, you failed the trial, and in the Return, you either check every box, or you do not move on. I need to know you understand this.” Munakata’s eyes crinkled with sadness, and Yata shook his head furiously, enraged at being pushed aside but desperate to help Saruhiko. But he was powerless, he couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t him who had failed.

But what kind of bullshit was that? How could anyone tell Saruhiko, after everything he’d done, he’d failed. Yata thought he’d surely be sick, the grief and protectiveness swirling together in a helpless cocktail, and all he could do was stand there as Saruhiko forced his head up, looking like a kicked dog.

“I…understand.”

No.

Yata couldn’t hear this, wouldn’t hear this.

He yelled, the tears coming back, his words choked. “Saruhiko! You—”

You have to come back with me, you’re supposed to come back with me!

A life without Saruhiko, someone he’d come to trust so fully, to crave and picture by his side…it was impossible. There was no way. Please, fight this!

Saruhiko trembled violently beside him, caging in the rage or disappointment he must’ve felt, Yata didn’t know. All he knew was Saruhiko was the image of utter defeat, and it wasn’t right. The taller made no move to plead or cry, his face stricken, eyes clouding over, as if nothing could reach him but Munakata’s final words.

“It is clear then. I’m deeply regretful things turned out this way, but over this, I have no control. Please…forgive me.” Munakata pressed on however, ignoring any of Yata’s outbursts, and the redhead never wanted to lash out at someone more. The deity pulled out two folders from his jacket, leafing through one with apparent guilt, and he delivered the words Yata had been dreading. “According to your file, you are ineligible for return from the afterlife. Yata-kun, it pains me to say it, but you will be traveling alone.”

Alone.

The words hit him cruelly, stealing the warmth from his chest and the clarity from his mind. Saruhiko wasn’t coming with him.

Saruhiko…

Yata snapped. “N-no! No, that’s not right, you can’t do this!” Yata screamed at Munakata, face flushed, but a sullen frown was all that was offered him. He clawed at his face from the frustration, drowning in his own denial as his knuckles turned white from fisting in his hair. “Fuck!” The singular word was pathetic, drenched in weakness as he struggled to breath.

“Misaki.”

The soft voice was what grounded him, the lost quality of it making him want to lead the source to safety. Yata’s body whipped around, and he turned his full attention to Saruhiko, who was staring at the ground aimlessly.

It was too reminiscent of how he had looked in the tomb, broken, unwilling to move, and Yata wanted nothing more than to shake him out of it. Tell him he could keep going…

But they were at the end, and there truly was nowhere else to go.

Yata flew to him, barely keeping them both from falling over, and buried his face in Saruhiko’s neck. “I’m sorry…Saru I’m so—I…” I wish I could fix this. “Don’t…”

Don’t leave me. Huh, how funny the demand was, when Yata was the one leaving.

The tears spilled anew.

“I failed,” Saruhiko lamented, the tone too much for Yata to take. “It had…nothing to do with you.”

“I don’t care!” Goddamnit! You don’t get it! “You…you’re supposed to come with me, and we’ll play video games and go on d-dates like normal people and go to the stupid wedding rehearsal, and…and…”

And go to the bar.

See movies.

Get an apartment.

Be there for each other.

Grow old properly.

“I know,” Saruhiko faltered, arms hesitantly coming up to grip Yata’s sleeves, hands clenching furiously in the tattered fabric. “But I can’t.”

“I can’t.”

The small admission, which begged forgiveness all on its own, broke the last of Yata’s hope, and he pulled Saruhiko closer, until the space between them was nonexistent, as it always should be.

“I’ll miss you. So much,” Yata stuttered, and his teeth drew blood from his bottom lip, barely containing another outburst. He felt like there was so much left to tell the other, but those words…those were the most important in that moment. “Saruhiko I…” I won’t forget you, so you’d better not forget me.

“Yeah,” Saruhiko barely managed to stammer, inhaling Yata’s scent one last time, arms falling to his sides to hold Yata’s hands in his, savoring the feeling. “Me too.”

For Yata, it was unfair on so many levels, the anguish tearing him apart without mercy. It was how it was though, wasn’t it? There was no stopping it. He had to—

“Misaki…you should…” Saruhiko’s voice croaked pathetically, like the words were some of the hardest for him to say. Maybe they were, from the way Saruhiko had learned to cling to things. The taller probably thought it was foolish, and the possibility made Yata want to hug him all over again, envelop him in warmth and tell him it wasn’t true. It was okay to grieve, if he wanted to. But what proof was there? Yata was leaving, alone, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Saruhiko gave one last weak squeeze to Yata’s hand. “You should go.”

It’s time, being the hidden meaning. Yata could’ve never imagined being given the gift of life would leave such a bad taste in his mouth, would make him hesitate. He’d been gone so long, he missed everyone greatly, but without Saruhiko, could he really consider the journey back a success? The answer was a resounding no.

And yet, he would have to shoulder the weight of it, until death came for him again.

“Yes,” Munakata said, finally stepping towards them and pulling out Yata’s folder. “I believe the hour of your departure is finally upon us, whenever you’re ready of course.”

The feeling of Saruhiko’s hand slipping out of his made his shoulders slump, and it became harder to swallow. After cherishing the connection for so long, losing it was as if part of him was being clipped away. Whenever he was ready? How was he supposed to respond to that? He had no more words left in him which mattered. Yet he knew when he returned home he’d regret the thought, because there’d always be more he’d want to tell Saruhiko, always more he wished he’d said.

“I think I love you.” Well, at least he’d had the guts to admit it.

Instead of speaking, he nodded stiffly, shudders wracking his frame as Saruhiko’s glassy eyes stared after him, tired, a husk of the brave man Yata had stood by on the journey.

Yata stood in the center of the room, fixing Munakata with a reluctant stare, because looking at anything other than Saruhiko at that moment felt like a mistake, and waited.

The ground beneath him shook, but he paid no mind to it, one thought crossing his mind as he saw Saruhiko sink to the ground at last, defeated.

Goodbye.

The words were in his head, but they weren’t right, and he refused to say them, only watching with agony as the image of Saruhiko faded before him, alluding him for a long time to come.

“Yata Misaki. Age twenty-one, born on July 20th. Returned on the evening of August 14th.”

“He doesn’t move.” It wasn’t one of Munakata’s usual observations, the ones said with slight wonder and amusement. It was a cold fact, devoid of everything except pity.

“He doesn’t,” Mikoto repeated, and Munakata could hear the silent ‘of course he won’t’ added into the mix. He didn’t feel the need to comment on it. After all, he understood, though he’d never personally coped with his own circumstances in such a way. When he’d been robbed of his life, his potential, he peeled back the grief to find opportunity. He’d made a new role for himself, embraced the duties which came with looking after mankind.

But Fushimi, his story was different.

The young man in question shifted in his spot on the floor, a rare disturbance to the stillness he’d been displaying over the past six months. All of time was like a flowing stream to Munakata, to all those like him. It changed and passed quickly, the years and decades rushing together. How long did it feel for Fushimi, he wondered, those six months since Yata Misaki’s departure.

He took one tentative step forward on the clean tile, his shoes making a distinct slick in the empty meeting room as he approached the pool, watching as Fushimi sunk further against the wall in hell’s throne room.

No changes, no words. What would it take to instill within Fushimi the same drive Munakata himself had adopted upon finding himself in the afterlife?

He raised his hand, moving as if to summon a portal. Surely, in time Fushimi would—

“Don’t.”

The gruff voice froze him mid-step, and Munakata was honestly shocked, which was rare. He’d known Mikoto long before their death, and while he could be reckless and impulsive, Munakata had grown to anticipate many of his actions. Well, at least before Fushimi and Yata had showed up. It seemed as if both of the young men had thrown them both through a loop.

Never in all my centuries…

“Don’t? And why is that?” Munakata replied without turning to face his partner.

“You’ve tried already,” Mikoto said, and Munakata could hear him as he rose from his chair, loud footsteps echoing in the silence. “He didn’t want to listen.”

At that, Munakata actually graced him with eye contact, turning with a questioning arch of his brow. Mikoto hadn’t said anything about Fushimi since the other had fallen into despair, and Munakata figured he simply hadn’t wanted to bother concerning himself with another lost soul, since it was Munakata’s job after all. Fushimi had never shown any particular fondness for Mikoto, quite the opposite, and the two seemed to be at a standstill when it came to conversation. He’d figured most of Mikoto’s favor was with Yata, someone more suited to his values. But apparently, that wasn’t the complete case.

Mikoto was correct too of course, though Munakata was not pleased with the knowledge or outcome of his efforts. Fushimi had refused him many times in the past few months, every word of advice or solace seemed to travel into one ear and out the other. Munakata had finally relented, realizing the situation was one Fushimi would need to come to terms with on his own.

Though now, Munakata was questioning if he ever would.

He lowered his hand, gripping his cane as he reasoned aloud. “Perhaps you’re right. Leaving him be is—”

“Lemme talk to ‘im.”

“Pardon?”

Mikoto was beside him now, looking into the pool with an unnatural calmness, and the genuine emotion shining in his eyes had Munakata aghast. It wasn’t normal for Mikoto to exchange pleasantries with anyone, even he and Munakata would seldom talk for long periods of time, but in these circumstances, it was completely out of character. Not to mention, it wasn’t the most practical idea given Fushimi’s obvious dislike of him, and reluctance to comply.

“What makes you believe he will talk to you and not me? It’s obvious he never took a shine to your presence,” Munakata informed, trying not to let any of his shock bleed into his voice.

What was Mikoto thinking now? Surely it couldn’t be good, and Munakata would certainly be able to deduce such given the other’s elaboration.

And of course, Mikoto ignored his question completely. “He won’t ever wanna be here Munakata, not now. He’s not you.”

He’s not you.

Munakata could’ve countered the statement in many ways, could’ve said that he certainly knew that, it was obvious. Could’ve supplied how Fushimi’s thought process complimented his in many ways regardless of that, or how Fushimi was going through a hard transition period and that was it. It all would’ve worked, would’ve been an appropriate response had anyone else said it, with no hidden meaning or need for context.

But they didn’t work. They would never work, because Munakata knew Mikoto. He knew what the words truly meant.

He’ll never adjust. He’ll never be satisfied being here, when he’d so much rather be there. Nothing you say or hope for will change that.

He wants to live.

Life, Munakata thought, how badly had he ever wanted that? Certainly not as much as Fushimi, certainly not as much as Mikoto, who had both tried to get it back tirelessly. That was what he’d misunderstood. The solemn weight of the realization was harsher than he cared for. After all, if Fushimi never adjusted, he’d sit there, on the floor, for all of eternity. Someone with so much potential…wasted.

But…

There was a sudden spark in his mind, a curiosity about the partner beside him. What would Mikoto accomplish, talking to Fushimi?

The pool rippled beneath them, the young man in it remained unmoving, and for Munakata, it was less than tolerable.

He sighed finally, evaporating the tension between them, and finally turned to fully face the other. He only had one more question. Even if he will never be like me… “I doubt he is like you either. What can you possibly offer?”

Mikoto’s shoulder blades shook slightly, the apparent amusement in the air grating on Munakata’s nerves, like he’d somehow yet to acknowledge the obvious. Or maybe he was hesitant to.

Mikoto reached up, tugging at his old ear piercing, the last connection he chose to have with Totsuka Tatara, even though he resided within Mikoto’s own domain. Totsuka, who Mikoto had foolishly attempted and failed the Return for.

Munakata remembered. Mikoto had fallen into grief shortly after, deaf to Munakata’s chidings about how he’d surely see Totsuka again, how the younger boy would forgive his broken promises, how he’d move on. It had all seemed so pointless to him at the time, Mikoto’s rage over the loss of life when he had the chance to make more of himself in heaven, watching over souls of the dead and knowing the secrets of the universe.

At one time, he’d probably called it selfish, not realizing that it was love instead.

The desperation for return, the guilt of failure, Munakata knew none of it. What Munakata had desired all those centuries ago, it had meant nothing to Mikoto, when compared to a life with Totsuka.

To Fushimi, there was nothing worth any value, when compared to a life with those he held dear.

He backed away from the pool, relenting without waiting for Mikoto’s elaboration. He knew it already.

Understanding.

Mikoto could give that, if nothing else. How it would help Fushimi in any way, Munakata did not know, but at this point, it was worth the attempt. He nodded to Mikoto, a reaffirmation of his trust in the other man, and waited. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Mm, I do.”

And with his final inkling of dread quelled, Munakata opened the portal.

“What do you want?”

Munakata nearly startled; he hadn’t heard Fushimi’s voice in such a long time, and it wasn’t even addressing him. Mikoto still stood in the meeting room, facing Fushimi but unable to enter the space of hell, and Munakata had chosen to make himself scarce from view. While he did like being there for Fushimi, something told him whatever Mikoto had in mind would work best with just the two of them.

It didn’t quell his skepticism.

Fushimi’s eyes had quivered upon seeing Mikoto through the portal, and while fear was not the emotion Munakata would’ve preferred from the other, he was glad there was something.

Mikoto shrugged his shoulders, and Munakata watched from the pool as Fushimi’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Just to talk.”

“No thanks, goodbye.” Fushimi huddled in on himself, trying his very best to meld into the wall behind him.

But Mikoto didn’t budge, stayed put and going as far as to kneel to the other’s level, in a very subtle pressuring gesture. It was a tactic Munakata would not have tried, and was surprised Mikoto had as well. Pushing, regardless of different reasons for it, was not something either of them liked to do.

It had the desired effect though, because while Fushimi may have simply ignored anyone else for ages, it was obvious Mikoto’s presence was making him uncomfortable. The young man began to fidget, the most movement Munakata had seen from him in a while, until it was impossible for him to completely avoid Mikoto’s searing golden stare. The air between them was frozen, heavy in a way which was too unsettling given the amicable reasons for the visit. What was Mikoto doing? Munakata was about to step in, displeased with the caged animal routine; such things were an insult to all Fushimi had gone through, there was no point to thi--

Fushimi snarled, voice as loud as he would allow it in his exhausted state. “What? What do you want? Munakata has said enough, there’s no need for you to come and half ass the same words.”

“You’ve given up,” Mikoto continues, undisturbed by the outburst, and Fushimi flinched notably.

“No shit, there’s not much left to do.” Fushimi was wary, Munakata could sense it, and well, he couldn’t blame him. From the conversation alone and on its face, it sounded very much like Mikoto was trying to provoke him somehow, reminding him of his faults and pitiful situation. But Mikoto was not cruel.

“That’s not like you.”

“The hell do you know about me?” Fushimi spat, his tone laced with venom and helplessness, as if it was the first day all over again, when he’d fallen to his knees in desperation, loss… “I tried, I tried way more than I ever have or should have, and it wasn’t enough.”

Mikoto didn’t back down, undeterred, and Munakata watched as Fushimi opened up, no matter how upset. Surely this couldn’t solve all his problems, whatever Mikoto’s aim was. Though now, Munakata had a vague idea of his partner’s goal. Fushimi was right, there wasn’t anything left to do, but Mikoto understood the frustration which came along with that. Instead of trying to get him to move on like Munakata had, perhaps it was Mikoto’s goal to help Fushimi bear the experience, to function despite never being able to rid himself of it.

Still, something in Munakata’s mind questioned that as well.

Mikoto continued, calm as ever, refusing to move away from the shaking man across from him. “I read your file, saw you during the Return. You’re sposed to like problem solving, finding other ways—”

“I failed the other way! Or were you not there? There’s nothing left to do, so go away! I’m sure you know what that’s like huh? Not being able to get it right...” Fushimi’s voice did its best to sound cruel, but it quivered with suppressed emotions, the words rushed and barely audible.

The image of Mikoto, defeated and wounded, flashed in Munakata’s mind, along with memories of a life he’d happily left behind.

He does, he knows all too well.

The silence between them fell once more, and even Munakata was worried Fushimi had hit a sore spot for his partner. It had been so long since Mikoto’s attempt at Return, since Totsuka, but Munakata knew deep down Mikoto never stopped thinking about it, would always feel guilty for not succeeding. Even now, with Totsuka available to him whenever he wished, Mikoto stayed away, showing a cowardice and commitment which Munakata had never thought possible from him. He and Mikoto would not oversee the afterlife forever, their job wasn’t permanent, though their post was grueling and they were tethered to it for centuries. But it would come to an end, their reign, and they’d be allowed to retire to heaven as new beings took over, occasionally training the newcomers in the ways of the job. Munakata always wondered if Mikoto was waiting for that time, to finally speak with his beloved again…

“I don’t wanna see him, until I can be with him forever.”

That was what Mikoto had told him, all those centuries ago. As if every moment mattered.

“You’re right,” Mikoto said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I did. I wanted to be with the person I left behind, and when I couldn’t, I gave up, just like you.”

Of course, you had no choice. Giving up was the sole option, I tried to tell you, all that time ago.

It was only when Mikoto had finally listened and picked himself up that his mood had improved, he’d begun to speak again, engage with Munakata and the other deities. It’s what Munakata wanted for Fushimi, movement, speech, some form of acceptance.

But he’s in hell, forced to live in it. You have unlimited knowledge and omnipotence. It is not the same.

Yes, Mikoto was right. Munakata didn’t fully understand Fushimi’s despair, never would. But neither would Mikoto, sitting on heaven’s throne. It didn’t matter what hardships the two knew of and shared. Fushimi was another soul, sadly lost to hell’s barren landscape.

Munakata moved forward, set on pulling Mikoto away, when a sound cut through the air. Fushimi exhaled a loud, shaky breath, huffing in forced amusement, repeating words Munakata had already come to acknowledge despite himself. “See then? I get it. You’re telling me I should try to cope with it, well I won’t, so you can—”

What he hadn’t expected, was Mikoto’s response.

“No, don’t cope with it. I wish I hadn’t. I was dealing with myself so much that by the time I thought of somethin’ else, he was dead. It was too late, I let him down. You don’t have to let your people down.” Mikoto smiled serenely at the floor as he rose up, leaving a gaping Fushimi in his wake. Munakata was no less shocked. It was a familiar sign, watching Mikoto stuff his hands into his pockets, one which often told Munakata of his partner’s finality, his boredom. Mikoto was finished, he’d said what he’d wanted, and it had done no one any good.

What had been the point? Fushimi didn’t need to feel worse about the situation, was Mikoto giving him permission to wallow in self-pity forever? A conversation was not needed for such a thing.

So why…

“You’re smart.” Mikoto said with a shrug as the portal began to close, gruff but loud enough for Fushimi to still hear, facing away as he walked back to his worn out chair. “Think about your problem, figure it out.”

The portal closed with a slash just as Mikoto was getting settled, and Munakata was at a loss for words, unable to yell or object as those golden eyes closed in certainty, feigning sleep.

Saruhiko sat stunned on the filthy cement beneath him, his eyes never leaving the spot Mikoto had occupied. He couldn’t pinpoint how he was feeling, but could recognize it wasn’t the usual emptiness he’d been cultivating. He hated it.

He was frustrated, enraged, and even more humiliated than before, the familiar surges of desperation pulling at his heartstrings. They were all back again, the grief, the resentment, and for what? So Mikoto could dangle a lost dream in front of his face? So he could rub it in? Or was it really necessary to restate obvious facts? Or maybe it truly was unfair, a way to say ‘ha, you’re like me now, but not really, because you’re stuck here and I’m not.’ What a fucking waste of time. Saruhiko wasn’t a stranger to cruelty, not by a long shot, but to think he couldn’t be spared now of all times, in his pathetic state, was a good kick in the ribs.

Figure it out? Figure what out?

Pointless. Munakata had tried already, to make him see other ways of making himself useful. Munakata had actually pardoned him of hell’s true nature, of having to live out his personal one like all the other lost souls, if only because the devil was weirdly fond of him. Or maybe because it wouldn’t matter, nothing could be worse than what he’d already done. Munakata had instead let him waste away here on the floor, trying to speak with him and offer him insight into the secrets of mankind. He wanted none of it.

There was nothing to figure out. He knew what he wanted, and he couldn’t have it. So, he would sit there, for all of eternity, until he lost his mind.

Saruhiko’s sole comfort through all of it, was knowing Misaki had made it out. Misaki would be someone, would make the life he wanted. Saruhiko wasn’t as bitter as he would have expected, but then again, he had changed a bit. Part of him ached sure, always asking why he hadn’t been enough, why Misaki had to go without him. But no, he’d always push those thoughts away the second they entered his mind. The last thing he would want was Misaki here, seeing him in this wretched state.

Saruhiko couldn’t help but laugh, devoid of any real amusement. Figure it out, sure. The rules of the Return had never allowed for any autonomy, not truly. It decided every trial, made its judgements without mercy. The rules were still clear though, nothing to work through or around, damning whoever was foolish enough to take up the task.

It was strange to remember now, his initial reluctance, and Misaki’s overbearing enthusiasm as Munakata coaxed them into the journey he was unable to regret, no matter how futile it had been. As if wishing to torture himself more, Saruhiko dully recited each rule to himself, noting the simplicity with clenched fists as he whispered each one into the stale air.

1. The Return is a journey. A dangerous one, and it never gets easier, no matter how many people attempt it.

He remembered reciting the contract, Misaki’s hand on his as they promised to endure it together. He recalled Munakata’s chilling words, about how no one had ever succeeded, how the closest person had collapsed just before reaching the gates. Well, guess there was one person now at least.

2. The route of the journey changes every time, it is impossible to predict what’s on it.

The changing landscape, the buildings and structures which would simply disappear along with doorways to caves and deserts.

3. If you fail, you are automatically sorted into hell by default.

Saruhiko glanced at his surroundings, the torn tapestries and distant screams painting a grim picture. He heard Totsuka’s voice, reminding him how those in hell were not allowed to see their loved ones, to watch over them…

And then there was Munakata’s, pitiful and apologetic as Saruhiko was forced to separate from Misaki. “Hell is not the same for everyone, it takes one’s worst fears, and makes them live it for eternity.” Little did he know that sparing Saruhiko, allowing him to sit there alone in his own misfortune, was basically the same thing.

4. Once you begin the journey, there is no turning back.

The stairway from heaven, and the door with the writing, warning him of a fate worse than death itself. Misaki had tolerated none of it though, determination fierce as ever.

"As if something like that is gonna stop me anyways."

In the end, he’d been right.

5. There are no guidelines, but it is wise to stay on the path at all times.

He hadn’t. Misaki had been right there alongside him, pulling him in the right direction, while Saruhiko did the same for him. Saruhiko wouldn’t let go of Misaki’s hand for anything, something which had started out as a fear of separation had quickly morphed into a simple yearning for the touch. It backfired regardless though, hadn’t it?

6. The journey ends, truly ends, upon touching hell’s gates. Then you are evaluated.

And that was all.

There was no secret, no real place he could call foul and reverse his judgement. He’d done what was asked, put his trust into a system which promised him nothing, and had been rejected.

Do the journey. Stay on the path. Touch the gates. Receive judgement.

Right. Fucking right.

Saruhiko felt his shoulders start to shake, whether from sobs or anger he didn’t know. Damn Mikoto, putting the thoughts in his head. Perhaps this was true suffering after all, the mocking rules echoing in his head forever as he laid on the floor, a broken slump.

When the side of his face touched the cold cement of the ground, he didn’t notice. Didn’t care.

Do the journey. Stay on the path. Touch the gates. Receive judgement.

Do the journey.

Stay on the path.

Touch the gates.

Receive judgement.

Do the…

Saruhiko’s eyes shot open, his body lurching in on itself as his throat closed up.

It all stopped, as if he was experiencing death over again, the suddenness of the realization too heavy, too painfully obvious.

There was no way though. It couldn’t be…

Figure it out, he’d said.

Problem solving.

Another way.

Do the journey. Stay on the path. Touch the gates. Receive judgement.

Saruhiko felt bumps rise on his skin as he propped himself up on his elbows, the hard cement digging in without forgiveness. All the while, he felt none of it, the rules hammering away at his psyche, now with less mockery, and more insight. All along…

Those are the only rules. There’s no more. There’s no restriction for—

“Damn it,” Saruhiko whispered, the two syllables slicing through the air, eliminating any other unnecessary sound for him to process. Damn it all.

“I was dealing with myself so much that by the time I thought of somethin’ else, he was dead.”

Something else, of course. Maybe Saruhiko hadn’t completely rid himself of his selfish tendencies after all. To not realize the clear answer. It was impossible though. Wasn’t it? The solution was too much, too difficult, it couldn’t be do—

“Who the fuck cares? There’s a chance we’ll live again! Isn’t that enough?”

“C’mon! Don’t you have anyone you miss? Or that misses you?”

“I think I love you, Saruhiko.”

No. It could most definitely be done. He’d make sure of it.

Saruhiko knew where he belonged, and it wasn’t here. Not yet. The fact that an angel—Mikoto of all people, had finally made him realize he should change things, only managed to settle in his stomach with mild discomfort.

Saruhiko supposed he could call them even. He didn’t have time to be petty about useless things, it wasn’t in his nature anymore. There was a lot to be done, and while he had time, he couldn’t get started fast enough. For the first time in months, he rose to his feet, his legs trembling from the sudden movement and adrenaline running through him.

He stretched out his muscles, ignoring the uncertainties threatening to run in his brain, deeming them worthless. He thought of Misaki, his home, and it weighed out whatever doubt lingered. Saruhiko was sure it would come back, it always did, was sure his strength would stutter every now and again, but for now, he used every ounce of determination to propel himself forward to the center of the throne room.

Saruhiko stared up at the ceiling, a rueful smile finding its way onto his face, and took what should have been the most obvious step from the beginning.

“Munakata, I need an audience.”

There was a time, a few years back, when Saruhiko would routinely find Enomoto in his house upon arriving home, crouched over in the dark, and playing some new fantasy game. Saruhiko had never known exactly how the other had gotten in, but he had the lingering suspicion Seri had given him a spare key, as if it was insurance. Should something happen to her, someone had to be around to make sure he ate enough on the days he took his work home, holing himself up in the solitude he sometimes required.

He had grumbled about it constantly, about how unnecessary it was, but he never made a move to collect the keys from either of them. Besides, Enomoto’s presence was hardly invasive or unpleasant, unless something was truly on his mind, and it did happen on occasion. The other would curse at the screen a lot more, or slip up doing easy side missions, or would pause the game frequently, staring into the void of the television’s artificial light while Saruhiko clicked away on his laptop from the couch.

Saruhiko was not so good in those moments, and always felt there was something going unsaid. But, Enomoto never treated Saruhiko liked a therapist or someone to unload his problems on. If anything, Saruhiko now realized the other probably just wanted the company, while his mind navigated the storm of his emotions. Fine by him. If sitting on the uncleaned floor with a shoddy blanket and playing video games until midnight was helpful to him, Saruhiko wouldn’t complain. It wasn’t like it was inconvenient to him, or so he’d reasoned back then.

And so, one particular month, Enomoto happened to be stuck on what Saruhiko guessed was a difficult section of the game, and would not stop invading his apartment. Apparently, it was common knowledge Saruhiko had the best television out of them all. How nice.

So of course, Saruhiko had stayed too late again at the office, typing away until Hidaka had to physically threaten him to leave, and entered the living room to see the older boy there on the wood, wrapped in a blanket with his controller held tightly in his hand…

Saruhiko toed off his boots, the rain from outside echoing into his apartment before it was drowned out by the sound effects blaring from his living room.

Ah, he’s here. Fine. Only if he turns it down.

As if already knowing, the volume decreased, but Enomoto didn’t glance his way, his smoky eyes too engrossed with the boss who was making quick work of his health bar.

Oh well, it wasn’t like Saruhiko particularly cared. This was what Enomoto did, came and played his game, the silence between them comfortable, if not a bit unsettling depending on Enomoto’s mood. And then the other would leave, feeling better or the same, smile on his face and a chipper goodbye which Saruhiko half replied to, if that.

So, Saruhiko did as he always did. He ditched the notion of a greeting, and sat himself on the couch, solely concerned with the document left open on his computer as he flipped it open. This was the routine, how things normally went.

Except, there were two people involved in this situation, and one of them actually felt like breaking the mold.

For the first time, Enomoto's quiet voice filled the room, causing Saruhiko's fingers to halt in their typing from the sheer rareness of it. "Say Fushimi-san...have you ever been in a relationship?"

As he spoke, his character on the screen fell over in a bloodied mess, dead.

Saruhiko resisted the urge to scoff, choosing to roll his eyes instead. It wasn't like Enomoto could see him anyhow. "No, of course not." I don't have time for things like that.

Relationships were pointless distractions, and they seldom worked out. Saruhiko had seen many marriages and partnerships crumble over the littlest things, or from the general inability to withstand the test of time. Honestly, it was too much of an investment with no guarantee of return, and he had enough to worry about. There was no room to worry about someone else, and why should he? It wasn't his responsibility. Relationships were never fair or equal, and they lacked any real reason, surviving on impulses and emotions alone. All in all, they weren't something he concerned himself with, or had any desire to. "They're worthless."

Enomoto's shoulders deflated at the words, a small 'oh' leaving his lips as he mindlessly pressed a button on the controller, starting the mission over again. Come to think of it, it was fairly late for him to be attempting it again. Enomoto was usually gone by then, eager to get home and spend time with his boyfriend, a thought which was less than pleasing to Saruhiko himself. But whatever, it cleared his apartment faster.

Enomoto remained though, and Saruhiko stared up at the ceiling in thought, picturing the dark office with just three desk lamps still remaining turned on. The only other people at the office had been Fuse and Hidaka, and the former hadn't been in the best of moods, posture dreary and work ethic minimal. It was the opposite of usual, and Saruhiko realized that it was most likely the same reason Enomoto was sitting in his apartment late at night, unwilling to go home. Plus come to think of it, the two had hardly glanced at one of another during the briefing that morning.

Problems with Fuse...

Well, if Enomoto expected Saruhiko's help with anything concerning his relationship, he would be disappointed. Saruhiko had no wisdom to offer, and even if he did, since when was he the resident therapist? Saruhiko had better, more pressing things to do than comfort Enomoto. If the relationship was really so much trouble, he should solve it himself or ditch it completely.

Something in his stomach stirred in protest at the thought of his two coworkers breaking up, but he didn't understand it or care to explore it, so he pushed it down as quickly as it came.

"You know..." Enomoto said, more to the darkness than Saruhiko, his character doing his best to dodge a monster's attacks on the screen. "I love this game. I play it all the time."

The subject change was odd, but no less unwelcome, and again, Saruhiko had to give up typing mid-sentence. The words did somewhat peak his interest though. Had the other played this one before? Surely Saruhiko would've remembered, but looking back, he had seldom paid attention to Enomoto's newest obsessions, or the games he repeatedly played.

"Oh," he merely said, hoping the silence would return after that. If Enomoto wanted to talk about video games, he should've chatted with his online friends, not pester Saruhiko.

"I know it so well, and it's always a lot of fun," Enomoto continued, unperturbed by Saruhiko's general disinterest. "I couldn't imagine having not played it you know? But...even though it's usually great, some parts of it are still really tough to get through, and I get frustrated and have to walk away for a while."

Usually, Saruhiko would filter the conversation out, as useless as it was, but the slight waver in Enomoto's voice was his indication of something hidden beneath the surface, and he picked up on it enough to deduce that Enomoto was not talking about video games.

Saruhiko sighed, massaging his temples. Ah, so it was about Fuse still. How nice. Weird metaphors and emotional pain aside, Saruhiko also didn't do relationships for the simple fact that they made no sense whatsoever. To enjoy something which causes so many issues was idiotic, at best.

There was probably no stopping Enomoto from continuing with his own logic however, but Saruhiko hoped it would be over soon.

But no, of course he wouldn't be that fortunate. Enomoto turned around, pausing the game, his dark eyes peering shyly into Saruhiko's. "But...sometimes I'm not sure I guess..."

It was an invitation to insert advice, advice Saruhiko didn't have and didn't want to give. Really, if he wanted things to end faster, Saruhiko could tell him to not waste his time, to put the game away forever, or so to speak. However, something in him didn't sit right with that option, his stomach churning in distaste at the harshness he deliberated on delivering. What it was he wasn't sure, but he was in no mood to challenge his body's natural reaction to things, so he analyzed it from a different angle.

Well, if it was simply a video game they were talking about, what would Saruhiko do in that situation?

"I guess if you actually did want to finish the game, you'd either have to walk away for a time, or continue trying until you got it right," he said, shrugging. "Those are the only two options, unless you give up all the way, which isn't wrong, but then you wasted time and money on something you never finished, which is annoying." Saruhiko clicked his tongue, deciding to end the conversation himself by ruthlessly typing on his laptop. He had to finish this report. "Besides, if you're stupid enough to get stuck on the same game all the time without finding a way out, you probably shouldn't complain about the game in the first place. You're obviously not very good at it, or you aren't used to it. You haven't played it enough, so either play it more or stop whining about it." As he finished, he pressed the enter button on his laptop, saving his work as quiet descended upon his apartment once more. Much better.

One report done, eight more to go.

Enomoto hadn't moved from staring at him, Saruhiko could sense his eyes, but the silence was back, and he took the opportunity to move along, not worrying about any lack of sensitivity his words may have carried. Enomoto had asked, it wasn't his fault he had offered up an opinion.

Saruhiko figured he must've upset the older man significantly, if the thick air was any indication, but he ignored his own racing heart and clammy palms, signs of what he figured was guilt. Again, irritating. All he wanted to do was--

Enomoto's laughter broke through the silence, and Saruhiko's head jerked up in his direction, caught off guard by the other's beaming smile of unreserved happiness, the slight evidence of tears shining in his olive eyes.

What...

The laughter subsided, giving way to short, breathless giggles as Enomoto struggled to speak. "Y-you're right Fushimi-san, absolutely right!" Enomoto fell over with a thud against the hardwood, but it didn't stop his joy, nor Saruhiko's utter irritation.

Vaguely, Saruhiko noted how in his struggle, Enomoto had accidentally pressed another button on the controller, taking him to his menu of past achievements, where countless trophies sat.

Somehow, it just added to his frustration.

But Saruhiko made no move to interrupt the other, letting him slowly collect himself and get off the floor. Why he hadn't kicked the other out already, he wasn't sure.

After a while, Enomoto’s laughter became nothing but heavy breathing, and he managed to pick himself up, staring at the game menu with a new, relaxed ease, as if the tension from before had been an illusion.

The silence between them now, though comfortable and without pressure, managed to unnerve Saruhiko, and he wondered if he’d ever win, wanting silence but not wanting to deal with the emotions it could hold.

“You know what Fushimi-san,” Enomoto whispered finally, smiling softly as he clicked off the game console. Saruhiko flipped on the lamp beside the couch as darkness enveloped them, watching as the dimness illuminated the older man as he stood up and began to collect his things. There was a strange familiarity in his movements as he put things back in their rightful places, and Saruhiko wondered if it was a nice feeling itching at his skin, knowing his coworker spent so much time there that he knew the ins and outs. “I think I’m gonna head home, I’m sure Fuse would appreciate it if I was waiting for him. We have stuff to talk about anyways, I’m tired of avoiding it.” The way he said it was confident, with renewed energy and a fondness far too intimate for Saruhiko to feel okay with.

Enomoto stood, leaving Saruhiko frozen in confusion on the couch as he toed on his boots, sending one last, genuine grin his way. “Besides, I should spend less time feeling bad about stuff I did wrong, and more time on what I can do better the next time. Then it won’t be so scary right? Even though I always fear the worst, if I keep trying, I’ll mess up less…” Enomoto bit his lip then, seemingly conflicted about his words, before shrugging, and opening the door to allow the nighttime chill to seep in. “You should be less afraid too Fushimi-san, we’d all like it if you were. Thank you for your help, goodnight!”

Saruhiko had no response to that, could barely keep up with the dramatic turn Enomoto had taken, but he did manage to glare at the doorway as Enomoto left, calling back his jovial ‘goodnight’ and leaving Saruhiko alone in the darkness.

It was…strange, how much he’d gotten used to the sound of gaming effects as background noise. The silence almost seemed unnatural then, but he chose to focus on what Enomoto had said instead, albeit with displeasure.

Saruhiko hadn’t meant for his advice, if it could be called that, to be twisted in such a hopeful light. He was being logical, but Enomoto had treated it like some life philosophy which Saruhiko had no interest in. If anything, he hoped it would resolve Enomoto’s relationship issues so they wouldn’t have to have a similar conversation ever again. How had Enomoto even drawn such conclusions? How any of that night had made sense to the other, he didn’t know, but at least the older man was out of his apartment.

Somehow though, the conversation wouldn’t leave him, and he found himself working slowly for the next hour, rewriting sentences and fidgeting, which did nothing but frustrate him to no end. Eventually, he made for his room, where no doubt a sleepless night awaited him.

“Besides, I should spend less time feeling bad about stuff I did wrong, and more time on what I can do better the next time. Then it won’t be so scary right?

Saruhiko shook his head violently as he put his laptop away, the words echoing in his head, but not quite hitting home…

It was funny how much things made more sense down the road.

Now, all this time later, Saruhiko inhaled steadily as he strode into the meeting room. He ignored Mikoto’s knowing stare, the weird satisfaction laced in it, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along. Saruhiko moved to cross his arms, to ease his trembling body, to find he was still as a statue, his very being already prepared for what was to come.

He straightened his back, meeting Munakata’s stare with fierce determination.

“You said at the beginning that you didn’t know much about the Return,” Saruhiko said calmly, the most secure he’d heard his voice in a while, the cloudiness over his conscious slipping away. Munakata was notably startled, and it must’ve been a sight.

Saruhiko, a failure, who had done nothing but sit on his ass for months, feelings sorry for himself…

Well, Munakata obviously didn’t realize that a large chunk of Saruhiko’s life was a good analogy to that, at least in his own head. Only now was he realizing how wrong that could possibly be. But regardless of his own perceptions, the time for sitting back was over. “You said the only rules were to stay on the path, complete the trials, and touch the gates of hell. Those are the only requirements, right?”

Saruhiko already knew the answer, felt quite proud of himself despite the initially unwanted help he’d received, but he wanted the validation, the certainty. He wanted to know he wasn’t just dreaming it all up in some sick bout of desperation.

Munakata’s stiff limbs relaxed, a weird uneasiness filling the room, and Saruhiko could pinpoint the exact moment Munakata caught on. Mikoto must’ve too, from the way he grunted in satisfaction.

Saruhiko understood it wasn’t Munakata’s preferred alternative, from the way his eyes flashed in pity, but for Saruhiko, it was the option which made the most sense.

Munakata nodded, once, and it was all that was necessary.

There are no other rules.

Nothing to stop him. His hands clenched at his sides, ready for a second fight after all the healing he’d gone through. Glad all of him was on the same page, for the first time.

“So then,” he began, the words echoing in his mind before he spoke them fully. “There’s nothing to stop me from trying it again.”

And from the way Munakata’s eyes widened, and the way Mikoto smiled, he knew it was the right way to go.

#sarumi #k project #adri writing

15 notes · View notes

words-are-like-colors · 7 years

Link

Title: Tattooed To Misaki {4} “Why Should I Apologize? I Didn’t Really Mean to do Anything Wrong”

Originally Posted On: August 5, 2016

Word count:

Rating: M

Relationship: M/M

Parts: 4/11

Tags: Fushimi Saruhiko/Yata Misaki, Suoh Mikoto/Totsuka Tatara, Fushimi Saruhiko, Yata Misaki, Mikoto Suoh, Tatara Totsuka, Tenkei Iwafune, Nagare Hisui, Tattoo, Saruhiko is a tattoo artist, AU, Misaki is part of Homra gang, Jungle, Fluff, Cathedral, Slowish Build

Summary for Chapter 4: Stuff goes down in this chapter. Sorry in advance for people who love Misaki’s happiness. [if you haven't realized, I'm not good at writing summaries.] This chapter is mostly in Saruhiko’s POV. Enjoy.

Notes: At the end due to spoilers.

Fushimi didn't even turn around, knowing exactly who was at the door—it was the three regulars who were constantly demanding that he give them free stuff. The men always seemed to think that it was easy to pick on Fushimi, just like Hikawa did.

“Fushimi. We're back.”

“Go away.” He finished the transfer for the money and glanced at the men. “I've already told you no. Can't you just stop?”

Misaki had stopped spinning. “Oi! Who are you guys?” He jumped out of the chair, ready for a fight.

The men were impressively tall, taller than Fushimi. The one in the middle stepped forward, tilting his head. “Oh? You don't know us, punk?” He towered over Misaki, putting him in an impressive shadow, but the shorter man didn't even flinch.

Fushimi put his hand under his coat, his fingers closing around a few knives. “Get out! Now! I have no business for you.”

The other two faced the artist and smirked. “That doesn't mean we don’t have business for you.” Both men surged forward. Fushimi swiped his hand up out of his coat. Light glinted off of the three blades as they glided into the air and right into the left man’s arm. Fushimi was reaching to grab another knife when a hand closed around his throat. Shit. He desperately tried to pull the blade out before his hand was roughly grabbed and pinned next to his head. Fuck. His other hand was busy grasping at the hand around his neck, his nails digging into the flesh.

This was his nightmare. His nightmare were always the same thing.

One day, little 13 year old Fushimi had gotten pissed off at the world. He hadn’t known what he was doing, but he had destroyed some of his father’s most prized possessions. He had instantly regretted his actions and hid, but Niki had found out quickly. That was the angriest he has ever seen his father. Niki had always worn a smirk and acted quite cruelly, but he had never looked so livid—or beaten his son. When he found out, he had screamed himself hoarse at Fushimi and pinned him to the wall, rendering him useless while he ranted about how he was “worthless” and “just a monkey that always gets in the way.” The whole time he had been holding onto Fushimi’s throat, his grip getting tighter and tighter, not letting him take a single breath….

“Saruhiko!” A scream snapped him out of his daze. Luckily, the man holding his throat had also turned around to find the source of the noise. Fushimi took his chance and kicked his leg up. He hit the man right in the hip, knocking him off balance. The artist ripped the hand off of his neck and took a breath of air.

A red flame appeared behind the man, making him only a silhouette. Misaki lifted up his skateboard and hit the guy in the side of the head with a loud crack. The guy fell like a rock, revealing a fuming Misaki. His aura was on full force, lighting up the whole room. Misaki swore and kicked the guy in the head, as if to make sure he was knocked out.

Fushimi slowly sank to the floor. He didn't know why, but he was trembling. His heart beat wildly as if it was bursting out of his chest. Fuck.

Misaki killed his aura and dropped down next to Fushimi. “Hey? You okay? You’re shaking really badly.”

“No shit,” he spat, his eyes now wandering around the room, taking in the damage. The three guys laid unconscious on the ground. Eric was pulling out the knives from one of them. The whole place was now a mess.

“Yeah….” Misaki turned to look at Eric too. “Eric? Can you bring the guys outside? The floors are hardwood and they’ll be stained.”

“Alright. I can do that.” Eric started to drag them out.

Misaki turned his attention back to Fushimi. “Are you okay?” he asked again. “Did he hurt you?” He reached up and gently pulled down Fushimi’s collar a little to see if he was injured.

The artist slapped his hand away. “I'm fine.” He shakily stood up and walked over to the bloody knives.

“No. You're not. Come home with me,” Misaki said stubbornly. “Obviously, the guy holding you against the wall isn’t the whole problem. I don't think you should go home alone to—”

“I'm not a child Misaki. I don't need your coddling.” Fushimi rounded on him. “Got it?”

“I know you're not a child.”

“Then don't treat me like one. I can defend myself.”

“No you can't.”

Fushimi gripped his knives tightly in his hand. “Shut the fuck up. I can.” Knowing better than to keep holding them and accidentally hurt Misaki, he put them away.

“He could have crushed your throat and killed you just now. How about that? How do you think I'd feel if you died?” Misaki pointed to his chest.

Fushimi raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? You’d really care if I died? Why do you even care? Or a better question—why do you even like me?”

“No reason.” Misaki shrugged.

Fushimi took a step forward. “Liar.”

“I'm not a—”

“You're a liar. It's quite obvious that you like me. Do you really think that I'll like you back? You probably thought a lonely tattoo artist would be a perfect boyfriend. Well, you're wrong. Do you even think about what I might be feeling? Hell, do you even realize how annoying you are, bouncing off the walls at the mere whisper of my name? Do you think I want a boyfriend like that?” Fushimi let out a growl, now unable to stop whatever shit was coming of out of his mouth. “Do you really think that I liked that phone call last night? ‘I like the sound of you breathing.’ Yeah. I don’t want a boyfriend that thinks creepy stuff like that. You probably listened to your dad breathe and thought the same thing.”

Misaki’s eyes went wide. “FUCK YOU,” Misaki screamed, his aura flaming up again. “YOU KNOW NOTHING.” The normally cute, smiling face of Misaki was suddenly full of rage.

For some odd reason this made Fushimi smirk with glee, adrenaline back in his blood. “Oh? Try me.”

Misaki whipped his hand, creating a line of flame that lashed out at Fushimi. He ducked and threw a knife at him; it flew through the air, breaking the line of flame. Misaki kicked the knife into the air and caught it.

Fushimi’s heart was beating fast and hard. He was reaching for more knives when someone jumped between them. “Yata, stop. Fushimi, you stop as well.”

“Tch.” Fushimi didn't put his knives away but watched as Misaki’s aura died down.

“I'm leaving.” Misaki roughly pushed past Eric and walked out of the door, grabbing his skateboard off of the ground. Eric shot Fushimi a glare before following. They left the artist standing alone in the middle of the messed up shop.

Fushimi started to shake violently. What had just happened finally started sinking in as the adrenaline and excitement wore off. He had messed up. He had hurt Misaki. All of the memories that had resurfaced during the fight had shaken him up so badly that he had just snapped. All of it was a lie… just a lie meant to push Misaki away. He had hurt him so badly, and it was only to get him to leave Fushimi alone. And then to fight him, after saying all those awful things. He really looked like an asshole now--an asshole who doesn't give a single shit about anything or anyone.

“Shit,” Fushimi said aloud. “Shit,” he muttered again, collapsing to the ground. His chest heaved and he looked around. For the first time in his life he didn't know what to do. He reached for his PDA laying on the ground next to him and opened it up. He at least had to tell someone what had happened to the three men outside and get them taken care of.

He clicked on the JUNGLE app and it opened up. There was only one person he had contact with other than Misaki. It was Mikoto. He quickly sent a message.

King. Come to [address]. Don't let Misaki know.

He shoved the PDA into his pocket and sat there for a moment, catching his breath before standing up and heading over to a mirror to see if he really was hurt. He squinted at his reflection. No injury, that was good. A bruise was already starting to form on his neck, but it didn't look too serious.

Fushimi went to go clean up when he did a double take at the mirror. A familiar face was staring back at him. His father was staring back at him, his hair styled the same way as Fushimi’s. Niki smirked and fear tingled down Fushimi’s spine. “Fuck you,” he growled at the mirror, before he heard footsteps behind him. He whipped around to see Mikoto standing at the doorway, lazily smoking a cigarette.

“What you need?” Mikoto glanced around, someone else appearing behind him.

“What's up King?” A skinny boy stood next to him. His tan hair and earring glinted in the glare of the store lights.

Fushimi looked at both of them. He didn't really know what to say, so he just told them about the three men who had beat him up, leaving out the part about Misaki getting pissed.

Mikoto raised an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Someone got upset after the fight.” Mikoto leaned against the wall. “I can tell.”

Fushimi sat down in the discarded rolling chair. “Misaki and I got into a fight. It's nothing.”

The kid was looking around and picking stuff up as the other two talked. He perked up when he heard about the fight. “You guys got into a fight? What was it about?” The artist clamped his mouth shut. Nobody needed to know about what he had said and done. The kid seemed to understand, so he nodded. “You can tell us later. Everything will be alright.”

Mikoto had stepped outside.

Fushimi didn't know why he was sitting on the couch at Homra bar. Everything about last night was a mess. The fight, Mikoto coming over. He remembered that the kid—Tatara Totsuka was his name—had dragged him here, saying that he should rest up.

Totsuka had pushed him into the spare bedroom upstairs and told him to try to sleep. He assured Fushimi that he and Mikoto would clean up what had happened, and Fushimi had actually gotten sleep for once. He had woken up remembering a dream, (one he’d rather not talk about to preserve the little bit of pride that he had left) but it had been all about Misaki’s smiles and the smell and taste of his food.

So now Fushimi sat on the couch downstairs, the blanket he had dragged down wrapped about him, waiting for the two gang members to wake up.

“Fushimi? You down here?” The light voice of Totsuka sounded as he walked down the stairs. He hopped down the last two steps before walking into the bar area. “Oh. You're here.” Fushimi shrugged a little. The man smiled, seeming to not mind that the artist was seeing him in just his boxers and a four-sizes-too-big T-shirt. He turned and called up the stairs, “King, found him.”

A rough grunt came from above, making Totsuka laugh softly. “So…. Fushimi.”

“What?” He looked at him. Early rays of sunlight shone through the window, sending streaks across the ground and over Totsuka’s face.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” He sat down next to him, pulling his knees up to his chest before slipped his T-shirt over his skinny legs to keep himself warm.

Fushimi frowned and pulled the blanket around him more. He didn't answer at first, then said quietly, “I got pissed off at him because I didn't want him taking care of me. I was fine the way I was.” The artist didn't look at the gang member, but being near him gave Fushimi an odd calming feeling so he kept talking. “I said some mean things to him. Asking why he even likes me and if he really thought that he could.”

Totsuka nodded. “By the looks of your shop and what you told us, I don't think it's your fault that you got mad at him. You were pretty shaken up. It's not like you could really think straight at the time.” He continued, “Is anything else bothering you?”

Fushimi glanced at him; Totsuka was looking at him like he could tell that something was wrong. This gang is messed up, he thought, considering the fact that 1- there was a little girl with them, 2- their leader was named King, 3- everyone seemed to be able to tell that Fushimi was hiding stuff from them, and 4- one of their members was much too cute (he blushed inwardly at the thought) and happy to be in a gang. It would be surprising if they had never been told they were weird. Once again he tried to hold back, but let what he was thinking spill. “I hate how I look. I also hate Niki.”

“How so?”

“I look like my father, Niki.”

“Oh….” Totsuka went quiet for a moment and said, “I don't know how to help you with that, but I think you should apologize to Yata.”

“Why should I apologize? I didn't really mean to do anything wrong,” Fushimi countered.

Totsuka sighed and sat back, letting his legs out of the shirt so that his feet landed on the floor. “I mean, you don't have to directly apologize to him. Maybe do something for him, or take him out for lunch or something. Just do something that he’ll like and he might forgive you. Some kind of an apology might work, even if it's only an ‘I'm sorry’. Yata isn't the kind of person who would stay mad unless you had hurt him really badly. From what you said, he’ll forgive you.” Fushimi looked at him doubtfully, so he added. “Everything will be alright. You guys’ll work things out.”

“Yeah….” Fushimi looked up to see Mikoto coming down the stairs. He was carrying a pair of pants and he tossed them in Totsuka’s lap when he passed them to get into the kitchen.

Fushimi stood up. “I'm going to get going now.” He flew up the stairs before Totsuka could tell him to stay. He pulled on his knife harness and coat before heading back down, and was going to walk out the door when a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” the deep voice of Mikoto sounded over his shoulder.

Though the artist’s senses were telling him to run as far away from Mikoto as possible he stayed put, masking his fear and unease with a straight face. “To my apartment—”

Mikoto cut him off. “Totsuka, we’re taking Fushimi home.”

“—alone,” he mumbled as Totsuka bounded over, sliding his jacket on so that he looked halfway decent.

During the walk back to his apartment, Fushimi asked a question that had been bothering him since yesterday. “Mikoto?”

“Hm?”

“You messaged me on JUNGLE. Why?” Fushimi looked at him.

The stronger man shrugged. “Why not?”

Fushimi stopped walking, causing Totsuka to bump into him. “Could you at least answer this, the both of you? Why does everyone at Homra want Misaki to be with me?”

Mikoto took out a cigarette and lit it. “It's obvious.”

Totsuka smiled. “Yeah. It is kind of obvious. He likes you—shouldn't that be enough? If he wants this then we are going to encourage it. It's not like it's a bad thing. He's happy. And…” Totsuka’s smile fell a little bit. “He's been a little off lately. Yata hasn't been himself. Probably since… ” he paused, then continued, “... since I almost died.”

Fushimi looked at him, confused. He looked rather healthy, so he couldn't possibly of nearly died from illness unless it was something genetic. Mikoto spotted his confused look and clarified. “The Mari Shootings. You might of heard about it.”

Fushimi did remember it. Last year, a girl named Mari Isana had gone on a shooting spree, killing dozens of people. When the police found her, she had killed herself after proclaiming that she was the “Colorless King”. Afterwards, there was a video sent out that had spammed every PDA and TV in the city. The video was of the girl shooting a man who had just been trying to look at the stars. Later that night, a report went out talking about Mari. Apparently she was a mental patient who had been in the hospital her whole life due to some kind of illness.

“... You were the one in the video.” The artist connected the dots. “And she is Yashiro Isana’s sister.”

Totsuka shrugged a little. “Yeah. I was the one in the video. Thankfully, I lived but… it really hurt some people. Yata was the first one to get to me. I think it broke him a little.”

“But something good came out of it.” Mikoto exhaled some smoke and grabbed Totsuka’s hand with his free one. On both of their hands there were matching rings that shone in the sunlight.

“This didn’t come out of that. It was going to happen anyways.” Totsuka rolled his eyes and took his hand back. He glanced at Fushimi. “Engagement rings.”

Fushimi looked at the both of them. Mikoto’s cheeks reddened a little; he grabbed his fiancé’s hand and started to walk again. “Fushimi needs to get home.” He was clearly embarrassed but trying not to show it.

The evening light shown down on the skater and his friend. A light breeze skimmed over the air, making Yata’s hair move slightly in its wake.

Yata angrily sipped his juice box, crushing the box a little in his hand. He had been in a pissed-off mood ever since last night.

“Yata. Could you calm down a little?” Kamamoto sighed. “What's bothering you? You've been like this all day.”

“Nothing.” Yata let out a huff and tossed the empty box into the trash can. “I'm fine.” He dropped his skateboard and hopped on it.

The fatty frowned. “Oh, come on.”

“I'm perfectly fine,” he said again, kicking off the ground a few times to get into a walking pace.

Kamamoto walked next to him. “Why don't we see that friend of yours?”

“He's not my friend.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We got into a fight, okay? I'm fine, so stop asking. I don't want to see him anymore.” Yata kicked off the ground again, putting space between him and Kamamoto.

Kamamoto frowned, but kept following him. “Well…. you like video games, so do you want to go to your place and play some? Would that help?”

The skater thought for a moment but shook his head no. “I need to find a new job.”

After some silence, Kamamoto said, “There's a coffee shop that just opened. It's an Internet café so it's always open and probably looking for some jobs.”

“Take me there.”

Kamamoto lead Yata to the café. “You want me to leave?”

“If you want.” Yata picked up his skateboard and headed inside. He glanced around. The place was mostly quiet and didn't look half bad. The front of the café looked like a regular coffee shop, but instead of talking amongst themselves, most of the people were minding their own business on newspapers and laptops. The back room had a few rows of computers. “This isn't bad,” muttered Yata as he headed to the front counter.

A man stood behind the counter, scowling at the coffee machine. Yata watched him for a second before saying a soft “excuse me.” The man noticed that he was at the counter and walked over. “Hello. What can I get you?”

“I was just wondering if you guys had any jobs open.”

The man grinned. “Yeah. I have some papers—” he bent down and grabbed some from under the counter— “right here. Just sign and you’ll be ready.”

Yata looked at him in surprise. “You don't need background checks or anything?”

“There are only a few people working here so every person helps. You want a background check?” He leaned on the counter.

“No, sir.” Yata grabbed a pen and, sitting down at one of the desks, started to fill out the paperwork.

Halfway through, his PDAWatch buzzed. “What do you want?” he asked under his breath, and glanced at the name. Saruhiko. “Nope.” He swiped away the text without even reading it and went back to the paperwork.

His PDAWatch buzzed again. Another text from Saruhiko popped up. Yata glared at the watch for a moment before looking at the messages.

Meet me at Homra at 11:00am.

Or I'll get you myself.

Yata ignored the texts.

Yata didn't go to the bar the next day. He didn't want to see Saruhiko, yet he still wanted to know what the texts meant.

A sudden knocking made the skater jump. He glanced at the time and saw that it was noon. He flipped off the door and picked up his game controller. He didn't need this guy’s bullshit. Obviously he didn't give two shits about Yata or his feelings.

“Mi~sa~ki. I know you're in there.”

“Stalker!” Yata yelled at the door.

“You know your door is unlocked,” the voice on the other side of the door said bluntly.

“No it isn—” The door swung open to reveal a smirking Saru. “Get out of my house!” Yata leapt to his feet and grabbed the baseball bat from next to the couch.

“I'm not in it,” he said shortly again, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Saruhiko was, in fact, not in his house, just standing right outside of it. Yata rolled his eyes. “Just leave me alone, okay? I don't want to see you anymore.”

“Well, I wanted to see you.” Yata watched as pink spread across his cheeks. “And I'm gonna take you somewhere.”

Yata was suddenly interested, his hands now loose on the bat. “Where?”

“You wanted to do to the JUNGLE party, so we’re going to go.”

The bat hit the floor as Yata’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?” All traces of his past grudge seemed to disappear. “But it isn't until like a week or so.”

“Doesn't mean we can't get ready.” The taller man scratched the back of his neck embarrassedly.

Yata smiled brightly. “Thank you Saru!”

“I'm not doing this for you,” Saru mumbled.

Yata didn't care. He quickly grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and slipped his shoes on before bouncing out of the house and locking the door.

Notes: Hello! I can tell that you all are wondering who Mari is. No, she is not an OC or an made up character (kinda). If you remember in episode 2, Shiro lies to Koruh that he has a sister named Mari Isana that has been hospitalized for her whole life due to illness. Ok. Yes she isn't a real character in [K] but I didn't want to get into the mess with the Colorless King so I remembered that he had a “sister” and I decided to play on that since they could’ve looked alike if she was real. This is not a fanfic that goes on the same plot as the manga/anime but I'm incorporating events/facts that happened in the real [K]. Also, sorry for people who don't ship Mikototsu. I'm not going to put too much of them together into this because I know not a lot of people ship it. Mikototsu is happy but very sad concerning that he died in the anime.

#fanfic: mine #k project #sarumi #mikototsu #Tattooed To Misaki #Tattooed Series

2 notes · View notes