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Yata Misaki is one of those people desperate for somewhere to belong. If Mikoto brought home a perpetually enraged rattlesnake and declared it a member of Homura, Yata would treat it as a comrade even as it buried its fangs in his soft throat.
Because of this, Fushimi finds Yata far more interesting than the rest of them. They all suffer from the same self-delusions as Yata's, but they lack Yata's past.
Fushimi's curious how a street ratling just like him -- who didn't have nice parents to tuck him in at night and sing him to sleep, who couldn't afford to go to school and broke into vending machines just so he wouldn't starve -- can be so very different from him.
The overfed mannequins in television dramas are always sobbing about children being pure and innocent and good. Breaking a child's trust is supposedly a horrible, evil crime, because children are whole and beautiful, because children put their faith in the world to raise them teach them shelter them.
Fushimi doesn't remember ever having faith in anyone. A hand that stretches out to pull you up from filth is only good until you find your feet and look into the leering face of the hand's owner. Ain't you a pert lil thing, kidlet? I'll give ya some candy to eat, so let me use your ass once.
He doesn't join Homura to get away from such trash; he doesn't need help handling them. That's what knives are for. Up his sleeve and tucked into the back of his belt and two extra in his boots, for luck. A whisper-thin blade sinks into flesh; the first blood is so pretty as it hesitates to flow, seeping across the skin in spidery lines like cracks in summer pavement.
Fushimi doesn't like the cuts that kill; people think it's because he wants to inflict pain, but really, he just likes to watch the blood, and it's not as interesting when it gushes. He's not into killing people, either; killing stops the heart and keeps blood from flowing. Corpses are not interesting at all, and they're a right nuisance after a couple of days.
People like Mikoto and Kusanagi, from clean little neighbourhoods and good little schools and nice little lives, soft-hearted people who think they're tough because they look good in leather and know how to throw a few punches, could never understand the street children of Shizume City.
For reasons unknown, they build the new Red Clan around those children. Fushimi joins because they say they'll let him live upstairs if he does. Having to share the room doesn't bother him. Yata's the first person he doesn't have to make bleed before he becomes interesting.
-
Yata rushes into their room, shuts the door and then bars it with his body, arms akimbo, back to the door.
So much for a nap. Fushimi puts his glasses back on. "What's going on?"
"T-there was a g-g-g-girl," Yata explains, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. "Downstairs. Totsuka-san. Classmate."
Fushimi frowns. "You don't act like that around women who are older than you; do you have a sexual fixation on teenage girls or something? Better hope that doesn't pursue you into middle age."
"S-shut up, you monkey! It's none of your business!" Yata snaps. He lunges towards Fushimi to try and thump his head, but Fushimi dodges him easily, chuckling.
Yata has so many buttons to push that it makes Fushimi giddy, deciding which one to go for next. His height, his hair, his fear of girls, his skill on the skateboard, his baseball pitching, just for a start. Bloodless cuts, but still fun, because Yata can be pushed to violence so sublime it makes Fushimi's dick hard just thinking about it.
Yata's control of Red Aura is awe-inspiring; he burns like a newborn star, like a beacon guiding the way across distant lands, same as his namesake Yatagarasu. Fushimi would give anything to stand in the middle of that inferno, to cling to Yata until the fury strips his flesh away in a bloodless, clean death.
He doesn't want to die: he wants Yata to kill him. Dying would be collateral damage.
The more years pass, the harder it is for Fushimi to hide from himself.
-
The day Fushimi turns eighteen, he gets his own place, now that he's old enough.
Housewarming parties are supposed to happen at the house being warmed, but Fushimi's little room isn't enough for nearly two dozen guys, so the party happens at HOMRA, like every other Homura party.
Yata sits at the bar and nurses something fruity. A few weeks ago, Yata was sleeping upstairs on his back, arms and legs splayed out all over the futon as usual, snoring softly with his mouth open. Fushimi leaned down low and dipped his tongue into Yata's mouth just to see what it felt like from the inside. Yata woke up and started kissing him back instead of having the panicked freak-out Fushimi expected.
Things became awkward after that. Yata's not quite avoiding Fushimi, but close enough, so it's nice to be able to corner him where he can't make an excuse to sail out on his skateboard.
"What are your plans for breakfast tomorrow?" Fushimi asks.
Yata's eyebrows draw together. "What kind of question is that?"
"A simple one."
Yata barks a laugh. "Your questions are never simple."
"Come home with me," Fushimi says into his ear. "I'll make you breakfast in the morning."
-
Fushimi rubs the underside of Yata's cock with his thumb and lifts his head to see Yata's clouded eyes. "I can feel it getting hard. Your blood's filling it up for me, Misaki."
Yata turns aside, his cheeks reddening. "Quit saying creepy shit like that."
"Look at me," Fushimi murmurs, and they stare at each other in the encroaching gloom: just two forsaken souls scrabbling for a little bit of warmth as dusk claims the city.
"Blood," Fushimi says, sticks his tongue out and presses it flat against the side of Yata's dick, then pulls back. A thread of his spit stretches between his mouth and Yata's dick for a few seconds, then vanishes. Fushimi licks him again. "Just under here," he whispers. "Your blood and your flesh, Misaki. Give them to me."
"Do what you want," Yata says. Fushimi quits playing around and draws Yata's cock all the way into his mouth; chills of pleasure ratchet up his spine as Yata grows rock-hard against his lips, hard and hot and too big; Fushimi has to pull his head up to keep from gagging.
Yata moans as Fushimi goes to work, sucking the tip lightly, then adding pressure on the way down; his own dick is pressed uncomfortably against the inside of his jeans. Fushimi pauses long enough to free it and wraps his fingers around it -- it feels better than usual, and Fushimi's not sure if it's because he's sucking Yata's cock or because he's on his knees.
Yata's hips snap up, hard, and that's enough to make Fushimi come all over his brand-new sheets; he's barely aware of Yata's gasps as he spills into Fushimi's mouth. Fushimi can't think of a better housewarming party; those Homura guys are really missing out.
Once he switches out the soiled bedding and they both strip down, they have another go at it, but this time Yata lies on top of him, rubbing his dick against Fushimi's dick, his belly, his chest; Fushimi opens his mouth and Yata comes in it, forcing Fushimi's name out through clenched teeth.
After the next morning's promised breakfast, they go back to their usual routines. Every few days, Fushimi sends Yata a text inviting him over for breakfast, and Yata never turns him down. Yata would never ask first; he's not that sort of person. He doesn't ask anyone for anything -- too used to refusal and too afraid of it, all at once.
One night, they're back in their old room. Downstairs, the other clan members are having a merry drunken argument over control of Totsuka's jukebox. Fushimi just took Yata's wrist and led him up here; no one noticed.
"Do you want to fuck me, Misaki?" Fushimi asks, pulling back from a kiss.
"Don't be stupid," Yata mutters. "And quit using my first name, I hate it."
"It's not like you'll ever get laid otherwise," Fushimi points out. "And really, turning me down so easily -- are you taking me for granted? Think I'll happily suck your cock whenever you want me to even though you'd never return the favour?"
"You don't have to do that if you don't want to," Yata says, glancing down at his hands, then the floor. "And who told you I wouldn't, uh, return the favour?" Barely above a whisper.
Warmth suffuses Fushimi's groin, and he smiles. "So if I wanted you to suck me, right here, right now, you'd do it?" He lifts his hand to his belt, snaps it open.
Yata's cheeks flush a deep red; he steals a sideways glance at Fushimi's crotch and gives a tiny nod. Fushimi steps in closer to him, leans down, pushes the stupid hat away from his ear. "Then why won't you fuck me?"
"Because that hurts," Yata says, still staring at the floor, studiously, as though it were a teleprompter. "I wouldn't do that to you."
"You seem to want to hurt me plenty whenever we spar," Fushimi counters.
"That's not the same, dumbass," Yata snaps, and Fushimi knows it's pointless to try and convince him.
He'll just have to think of a way to make him angry enough for his stupid sentimental notions not to matter -- and he won't even have to think for long. The best way to enrage Yata is to fuck with Homura, and Fushimi's been planning to do that for ages.
If Fushimi never joined Homura, he would've found a place somewhere else. He is beholden only to himself. If Yata never joined Homura, he would have died. So Fushimi doesn't even consider asking him to come away.
He's never been like the rest of them. They want meaning, a mission, a place to belong; he wants only blood to spill and flesh to carve. He wants fire and lightning, water and wind.
Betrayal doesn't carry the same meaning for him: he has known all his life something they will all learn at great cost one day: no one looks out for you but you.
As he walks away from HOMRA for the last time, he looks back, sees Yata on the steps, staring after him, and thinks, You angry enough yet?
"What are your plans for breakfast tomorrow... Mi-sa-ki?" he calls softly and laughs, turning the corner.
[end]