Disengaging

The cut stung deeply, enough to elicit a grunt from his lips. Bright blue flames, entwined within the embers of red, erupted from his wound, and it took all of Yata's will power not to scream aloud. He never should've engaged Saruhiko in a duel today—not like this, when everything was falling apart at the seams and Mikoto's death was still fresh in his mind...

Right now, he could barely control himself.

His knees shook from the immense effort, a self-deprecating smile spreading over his face. What unimaginable power... What unimaginable pain... And just from a careless slip of his skateboard, a single slice from Fushimi's aura-coated knife.

"Oh, Mi-sa-ki~" that icy, hated voice spoke through his thoughts. Fushimi was practically purring as he clasped his hands together, thoroughly enjoying Yata's attempt at control. "You've really gotten weaker, haven't you?"

Furious amber eyes narrowed at the sight of that composed, sneering face; it honestly made his blood boil so much, the sharp, coppery liquid dripping down from his clenched fists. What he would give to force some emotion into those cool, guarded blues, to see anything besides contempt. Because there was no way in hell he'd allow Saruhiko the satisfaction of contempt he deserved to feel instead.

With a soft chuckle, Fushimi's sword came to rest nonchalantly over his shoulder, his body falling lax in one lazy movement. The obvious disregard to Yata's threat, the blatant mockery, shone clear in those cerulean eyes. "It's a given, you know, being in such a pathetic group like Homra..." Light blue deepened cruelly, "...without even a King to represent you."

Misaki saw red.

His vision blurred, spots of dizzying fury flashed before his eyes—until all he heard was the whoosh of air as he shot straight at Fushimi. All he noticed was that pale sneer inches from his own, fist colliding into a glass-rimmed face, body reacting without a conscious thought. Feeling curiously detached, the heat flowing through him so scathingly hot that Yata felt himself grow numb, he watched the sneer morph into an expression of panic—something that deliciously twisted his insides with pleasure.

The sensation of raw power was undeniable. Tendrils of energy, bright as the flames of a stirring fire, engulfed his entire body. Was this the shade of his true potential, this mix so potent that it was crossing the lines of red and entering the realms of a deathly molten orange?

He'd never allowed himself to go this far before. There had always been something holding him back from losing control—Kamamoto by his side to stop him from completely activating Red, the thought of Mikoto's disapproval and the mess his King would be forced to clean up after Yata, or the looks of horror on his friends' faces as they watched him breach the boundaries of his limit, which was something inconceivable... something taboo.

But Kamamoto wasn't here now, Mikoto was long gone, and everyone else had slowly but steadily drifted away.

Everything had fallen into ruin.

So why care anymore?

Taking slow, steady steps toward Saruhiko, who had collapsed a few feet away from the impact, Yata registered the currents of his enemy's aura struggle to press against his. But Fushimi's blue was flickering wildly, as if in nervousness, barely able to keep Yata's own blend of auburn from consuming him. The attempt felt like a tickle against his skin; Misaki couldn't stop from smiling.

Without his glasses, Saruhiko's expression was more open and so very, very easy to read. Like now, as Misaki finally reached his fallen form, stooping lower to lift his face up, wide-eyed, the monkey was absolutely fuming. Maybe even frustrated at himself for underestimating his opponent. And wary. Immensely wary. He could sense something strange about Yata's aura, which fluctuated against his body like an ebbing wave, brushing against his cheek in sharp, hateful caresses. The heat was overwhelming.

Could it be possible that this orange was even stronger than his separate blue and red...? The thought filled Saruhiko with apprehension.

"Don't you ever mention Mikoto in front of me again," Misaki whispered, gazing straight into Fushimi's eyes with dark, hooded lids. His voice was low, cold with subdued wrath. "And if you dare insult Homra after this day, I'll—" I'll fucking kill you.

Yata's eyes widened at his brutal thought.

He'd never believed it possible for him to sound, to be, as careless and harsh as his ex-friend. The feeling left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he knew there was no escaping it. He couldn't bother to feel anything but contempt now - watching as Saruhiko's lips split into a sudden, maniac grin - and contempt so strong that it left him with nothing but frozen rage, burning as a ball of ochre inside him.

"Alright then, Mi-sa-ki~" A thin line of blood trickled from the brunette's mouth as he laughed, "I keep forgetting about your stupid little 'Homra pride'." Though a headache throbbed at the back of his head - the assault and his awkward collision with the ground doing a number on him - Saruhiko struggled to remain nonchalant, smile wide.

He admitted that the jab at Mikoto was uncalled for, admitted that he deserved the punch and the pain for his trouble, but did it really warrant such pure hatred from those narrowed, amber eyes? And that hand there, still gripping tight to his chin, that body leaning over his own, staring him down in such a domineering way... Fushimi shuddered with discomfort. How he hated being forced into such a powerless position.

That was the only reason he could think of - the uncomfortable pang of emotion searing through him as Misaki's expression grew darker, colder - to justify his next words.

"But you're right, of course..." He barked out another laugh to hide the rising panic in his chest, knowing, just knowing, that something horrible was going to happen if he said this, but unable to stop, "After all, why talk about an dispensable, dead man and a shattered organization not even fit to call themselves a 'clan'-"

"Shut up."

Pain overwhelmed his senses in one burst of raw convulsion.

Never, never had he experienced a sensation like this before—the sensation of true agony.

Fushimi threw back his head, eyes bulging as he attempted to writhe away from Yata's grasp, wave after wave of brilliant-orange aura assaulting his body. It was as if he were being injected with pure lava, balls of energy slipping deep inside him and tearing his mind, his self, apart. Each flood of power pulsed with the rhythm of his screams, expelled from his cracked lips as long, quavering gasps, a sliver of liquid falling from the corner of his wide blue irises.

Power like this... it was unbelievable. And it was all Misaki's.

Tch.

Fushimi shut his eyes tight, refusing to meet that intense gaze, feeling an ever-familiar frustration break through his wall of agony. It didn't make any sense at all. Why was it always... always like this? No matter what he tried, he still couldn't pull away. Even now, even with this pain as fuel for his hatred, it still wasn't enough to make him completely disengage.

Because he felt it slowly, subtly, the shift in his own aura as he leaned in closer, ever closer to that encompassing heat. Even now, he still wasn't strong enough - wasn't powerful enough - to resist Misaki.

The tears came unbidden down his cheeks.

It was so... embarrassing.

Thin fingers suddenly reached to twine themselves within his dark locks, clenching tight enough for Saruhiko to register a slight pain, different from before. It was enough to bring him back.

The heat gradually disappeared; in its place, cool fingers dragged against his cheek, tracing the translucent line of tears down to his neck. Yata's energy withdrew bit by bit from his body, the release so sudden that Saruhiko could barely support himself upright, falling forward, head flopping into his ex-friend's chest. Through hazy, bloodshot eyes, he saw crimson on that white shirt, the collar just frayed enough at the top for him to make out a dull red insignia. Red, not orange.

Saruhiko exhaled shakily, found that his hands were clenched tight to Misaki's shoulders, pale and weak. But they weren't burning; he wasn't, and for that second, it was okay to let himself lean into the embrace.

"...Apologize."

Yata's voice was a soft murmur pressing beside his ear; he felt the red-head shift against him emphatically.

"What do I have to... apologize for?" He breathed out, once again testing Misaki's patience.

A rough fist grabbed the collar of his uniform, pushing his face up to stare into furious, hazel eyes. There was so much fire in them, blazing, scorching red fire, that Saruhiko immediately felt calm. The orange aura had all but dispensed; Yata was finally in control of himself again, and Fushimi hated how relieved he was to hear the usual fiery passion, the pouting scowl, in the next words.

"Everything," came the low growl, and the previous gentle hand on his face reached up to yank his hair again. "You don't get to go around crying and making me feel bad," Yata whispered, expression bursting with emotion so raw that it hurt Saruhiko to look, "until you've apologized for the shit you've done today."

And all the other days.

And all these years.

But Fushimi was still hurting. He could barely keep his gaze level with Yata's, could barely keep his mouth shut in case he accidentally blurted out everything he'd wanted to say for the past few years, watching Misaki hate, hate, hate him from afar. Trying to stay away and yet falling back into their warped routine of fight, run, fight every time. So why should he have to apologize? Why should he have to care so much... so much that even hiding what he was truly felt inside pained him more than ever now? Yata didn't even understand—

He didn't even care.

So Saruhiko chose to smile instead, azure eyes carefully shifting back into their cold, collected mask. He ignored the pang in his chest as Misaki's own eyes closed in disappointment, as if he couldn't stand to look at the defect anymore.

"I have no reason to apologize to you," he hissed with a sneer.

Fushimi shook the hand loose from his hair and, with mild effort, disengaged from the treacherously warm embrace. Yata watched him rise unsteadily to his feet without a word, lips sealed in a firm line. The blue-clad man's smile was ever sardonic as he reached to grab his sword and glasses. It was as if nothing had changed.

Perhaps it never would.

As that tall figure left him sitting there in the dark building, staring blankly at something far and unreachable, something lost, Misaki had known, been unable to stop it, and yet had known...

Engaging Saruhiko was a mistake—the hurt in his chest was more than a testimony to his foolishness.

Fin.

A/N: Been quite awhile since I've published anything on FF. net, so please be gentle. :3 I've only just recently become obsessed with Misaki and Saruhiko and thought a tribute was deserving. xD This all takes place at the end of the anime. Was also based on/inspired by my [c] product quote "...completely disengaging".

I hope I wasn't too OOC (I tried my best, but I'm still fairly new to the fandom) and that it was at least slightly enjoyable to read!
3/1/14 [8:04 PM]. Up for future edits.