A/N: Hello again my lovely readers! Here's another oneshot for you all. I do warn you: this is mature. As in masturbation, self-harm, blood and a heavy and dark theme. If you don't like this kind of stuff, please hit the 'back' button. Again, if you spot any spelling or grammar mistake, let me know through a review, yes? Now, read and enjoy! 8D

Disclaimer: I do not own K project.

The coppery smell of hot, red blood filled his nostrils, and Fushimi Saruhiko slowly smiled to himself, from his sitting spot on the floor of his apartment. Tonight, he had found his old MP3 player, the one he had shared with his best friend, HOMRA's vanguard, Yatagarasu Misaki.

He supposed that the sudden dizziness after that was a side-effect of not having slept for three days in a row. But no one could really blame him, that day was approaching and Saruhiko found himself more and more restless, bored of the world and its dullness, of its sheer lack of something interesting.

How long has it been? He ponders for a moment, deep in thought. About one year, he concluded. One year since he'd left HOMRA. Since he'd left Misaki. Since he'd betrayed him, feeling guilty and strangely euphoric at the same time. He'd never let the wound on his chest heal, though –not the physical one, and most certainly not the one deep inside him either–, and on this night, he found himself scratching and clawing at his old clan's mark. The one he'd burnt himself.

How would Misaki's flames feel like? How would it feel to be consumed by them, to die by Misaki's own hand? The excruciating pain... The blood melting, boiling... Burning and disappearing as it had never existed. As if Saruhiko had never been important.

He let out a soft gasp, arching his back against the wall, eyes fluttering close. That image had sent a sharp wave of pleasure through his body, landing directly on his groin. He let out a shaky breath, and the clawing at his mark grew more insistent. He imagined it was Misaki who had burnt it, with that small and rugged hand of his, and with his searing and overbearing aura.

Almost without noticing, his hand grew warm, and the burning at his mark made him shiver and arch his back again as his other hand idly reached inside his pants. His mouth opened in a low groan as he now roamed his burning hand all over his chest, painting red streaks of his own blood all over it, while the other one pumped his member slowly.

At that moment, a memory came rushing back to him.

A few years ago, he was on his school's rooftop with Misaki, and they had fallen asleep during lunch, the other boy's head on top of his lap. When Saruhiko woke up, a few minutes after his friend, it was to a pleasant warmth surrounding him. He thought it strange, because if he remembered correctly, winter was just around the corner.

When he opened his eyes, however, he realized Misaki was curled against his chest, face resting on the crook of his neck and lips grazing the sensitive skin of his collarbone. He shivered and wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer and hiding his face in his hair.

"Misaki..." He muttered softly, as if scolding him. "Stop that..."

"Huh? Stop what, Saru...?" He asked, forgoing for once the offense of calling him by his first name. Secretly, he pressed his lips a bit harder against the skin of the other's collar, sucking ever so softly. He'd woken up from the most interesting dream about him and Fushimi, and was feeling uncharacteristically bold.

"...That, Misaki. You don't know... what you do to me..." He said softly, groaning quietly at the suck. The hand he had on the other's waist came up to the reddish locks on his friend's nape, gripping firmly as he let his head fall back against the fence.

Yata seemed to not listen, as his mouth traveled upwards, licking, sucking and nibbling on Fushimi's skin as if it were a delicious treat. It definitely was, and as shy as he was with women, all the inexperience and nervousness seemed to evaporate when he was with Saruhiko. It was... different. The heat he felt was intoxicating. He kissed his jaw and tugged his hair, bringing his face down.

All the while, Fushimi was paralyzed. To say that he had never imagined something like this happening would be a lie – after all, they were young, and curiosity was bound to make their minds wander. When Misaki brougth his face down, he stared into his eyes, noticing how they held a curious fire in them. He leaned in, not really thinking, and kissed him deeply, bringing him closer by his neck. He groaned into his mouth and kissed him harder, more insistently.

The soft lips, the demanding kiss and Saruhiko's taste made Misaki's mind disconnect from reality. Almost in a haze, he kissed back, gripping the other's shirt tightly as he moved a bit to straddle him properly. When they parted for air, both were blushing, with swollen lips and glazed eyes, staring at each other as they caught their breath.

The taller boy's hands slipped inside Yata's shirt, exploring the soft skin of his back, scratching softly as he claimed the abused lips of his partner again. Gently, he pried the other's lips open, slipping his tongue inside to make the kiss deeper and more sensual.

Misaki responded accordingly, opening them without hesitating as he arched a bit on Fushimi's lap, their erections brushing against each other. He moaned into the kiss, trembling, and moved his hips again, searching for more friction.

This triggered a side of Fushimi neither had known until that moment; the side that enjoyed pain in a sexual way. He had heard of it, how some people enjoyed harsh treatment during intercourse, and had been interested in it. He bit down hard on Misaki's lower lip, making a small cut that was followed by the taste of blood on his tongue. He broke the kiss and sucked at the wound, now gripping the other boy's hips so tightly he was sure some marks would appear later.

That had been Saruhiko's first taste of blood- of Misaki's blood. The memory assaulted him, clouding his senses as he arched his back even more, groaning louder as he pumped his member faster, alternating with teasing the head a bit. His free hand, which had become idle, was engulfed by the old, red aura he had seldom used, and he raised it to his bleeding mark, covering it completely. Thus, when the searing pain became unbearable and the screams that slipped past his lips no longer sounded like his voice to him, Saruhiko came abundantly in his hand.

Later, when he woke up in a dirty, bloody and sweaty mess on his floor, he looked at the clock on his wall and realized what day it was. It was exactly on this day, one year ago, that he had left HOMRA and Misaki. With a choked sob, followed by another, and then some more, Fushimi Saruhiko crumbled onto the floor, wailing and screaming out in sheer pain.

It was the first anniversary of his betrayal.