K © GoRa.

Exquisite and unforgettable, the sky was lit with red when Mikoto Suoh died and Misaki found it strange that the night could look so alive.

He never was good at dealing with tragedy.

Misaki lets out a heavy breath, scrunching up his face in an attempt to will away the tears that desperately want to fall.

He tries hard not to let them – he cried enough already. He cried when Saruhiko left, he cried when Totsuka left, and he cried hours earlier, when Mikoto left.

"Why does everyone leave?" Misaki had asked Kusanagi; however the older man had no answer.

Kusanagi only insisted Mikoto wouldn't have wanted anyone to cry. Misaki knew that, but he couldn't help it.

When Misaki first entered HOMRA he was angry and tired. Now he is angry, tired and drunk.

"Yata-chan…" Kusanagi sighs.

Misaki swallows, his throat feeling dry. He knows that Kusanagi probably wants to cut him off, to tell him a kid shouldn't even be drinking, but he probably can't find it in himself to say the words. Everyone deals with grief differently, right? Who is Kusanagi to tell him that what he is doing is wrong?

Then again, maybe it is normal. After all, it's only been a few hours since their king passed.

Misaki stands up, untying his sweater from his waist with shaky fingers and putting it on. "I'm going home," he mumbles in a hoarse voice.

"Do you want me to walk with you?"

"No."

It is cold as Misaki stumbles out the door. The wind is so strong it feels as if it's trying to carry him home. In this sorry state, he would be grateful.

His forehead crinkles. He feels a headache coming on –

"What's that pitiful look for, Mi-sa-ki?"

Misaki spins around and hisses out a string of expletives as he comes face-to-face with who was once his closest friend.

Saruhiko sighs, "Language, Mi-sa-ki."

"Don't say my name!"

"Tch."

"What?" Misaki growls, stumbling slightly. "You wanna fight?"

Saruhiko smiles sadly at the sight.

No.

He doesn't want to fight.

Not really.

Each time Saruhiko fights Misaki, they will both lash out in fits of wild and uncontrollable desperation. Their minds will spin so out of control that they can no longer be held responsible for their actions. It is the rawest kind of passion, with their movements synchronised so perfectly it looks like they could be dancing elaborately rather than simply fighting.

If anyone were to watch the two of them – really watch them – then they would notice something. They would notice all the small things. They would notice that these two young men really miss each other, and never before were there two people more dependent on one another for survival. It's almost sad, really.

If they were to take a minute to stop fighting, then maybe they, too, would notice the small things. Saruhiko would notice how Misaki didn't protest hours earlier when he checked the smaller teen's HOMRA tattoo, and Misaki would notice how natural the traitor's hands felt. But then again, maybe that's why they don't stop.

When Misaki's pride started burning, their fight was over. Anyone could see that much and in that brief moment things were simplified. It was as if the past couple years never happened. It was as if they were never apart.

But moments like those are always over as quick as they start.

Emotions can be a frightening thing, and love is something neither of them want to think about.

"Is Misaki drunk?" Saruhiko asks. "Since when does Misaki drink?"

His Misaki didn't.

"You don't know me anymore!" the smaller teen's eyebrows draw together in anger.

Saruhiko's frown deepens when Misaki places his hand on a nearby brick wall for support. 'Mikoto Suoh,' he thinks bitterly.

Often when Saruhiko watched Misaki in the distance, the smaller teenager would be laughing and smiling and glowing up at Mikoto. It made Saruhiko angry, knowing that his Misaki was so charmed by that man. He didn't want Misaki to smile like that, to laugh, to look so goddamn happy – not unless it was directed toward him. After Mikoto stepped into their lives, it never was.

Misaki was slipping away – slowly but surely he was slipping away and there was nothing Saruhiko could do to get him to stay by his side.

That is why he left. That is why he ran. If Misaki was going to leave him, he would be the one to walk away first. He thought it would give Misaki something to think about – his mind would be consumed with questions all revolving around Saruhiko.

In the end, that is what he wanted. He wanted everything Misaki had to offer. He wanted it all to be his but if he couldn't have his love, then he would take his hate. He would take it all.

Misaki turns and begins to walk away, but it doesn't take Saruhiko long to catch up to his slow and shaky steps.

When Saruhiko reaches him, the smaller teen lets out a short and bitter laugh. Saruhiko grabs his shoulder, spinning him around and forcing their eyes to meet. That's when he realises Misaki isn't laughing, he's crying.

"Misaki…" Saruhiko mumbles softly upon seeing his agonized expression.

Saruhiko lets out a quiet sigh and lowers his grip so he's holding Misaki's hand. Misaki struggles weakly against him, but soon relents and follows Saruhiko.

When they arrive to Saruhiko's apartment, they settle on the sofa.

Misaki looks away, unable to hold eye contact because his senses and his feelings are unravelling again.

"Why?" Misaki whispers, "Why are you here?"

Saruhiko doesn't say anything. So instead, Misaki watches as his lips part and he leans forward. Misaki closes his eyes once their lips meet, and short moments later Saruhiko pulls away with a quiet, wet sound that would create an awkward permanence in Misaki's mind. It's the first time he's been kissed.

If you were to ask Misaki why he didn't push Saruhiko away, why he didn't start yelling, he would blame it on the alcohol. He would say his head hurt too much to protest and that the damn monkey caught him off guard.

And only he would know how big a lie that was.

It was the kind of kiss that wasn't necessarily romantic, but it said something. It said something important, and Misaki realized it. For once, he realized it.

Saruhiko is apologizing. Saruhiko is telling him, "I'm still here. I've always been here."

And maybe he's just been waiting for Misaki to realize it.

Misaki leans his head against the taller teen's shoulder, hiding his blushing face in his shirt. He keeps his mouth shut, but Saruhiko doesn't mind. He understands what Misaki wants to say, and that's all that matters.

Besides, if he did choose to open his mouth he'd probably just ruin the moment.

Misaki falls asleep soon and Saruhiko finds himself staring at his sleeping face mere minutes later. He wanted to make Misaki understand what he felt with that kiss, but all he could think was, 'He tastes like tears.'

Though he'd never say it out loud.

Even after his death, Mikoto is still all Misaki thinks about.

Even in death, Mikoto continues to steal Misaki away.

Saruhiko can deny it as much as he wants, but he did feel a twinge of sadness as his own HOMRA tattoo disappeared. It was a strange and unfamiliar sort of sadness as he watched the little red light move towards the sky. It was as if a piece of himself was being ripped away. Maybe that's what it was. It was a piece of his past being ripped away. At the same time, it was as if a barrier had been broken – a barrier that Saruhiko and Misaki had put up. Now there is nothing left to keep them apart.

It is morning now and Misaki's hair is knotted, sticking up in stranger angles than usual. He still smells like HOMRA - liquor and cigarettes, but at the same time he wouldn't have it any other way. It is familiar, in a comforting sense.

He sits up as the sunlight begins to pour through the curtains and unwillingly welcomes a hangover. Looking around, he realizes that he is in Saru's room. He allows last night's memories to sink on and feels himself begin to blushing again.

'Saru kissed me,' he thinks, pressing the back of his hand to his lips.

Moments later Saruhiko enters the bedroom with damp hair.

"You're awake," he notes.

"Y-yeah…" Misaki mumbles, getting up. He approaches Saruhiko and looks down, taking a deep breath. A calm breath. "Y'know, you've changed," he says in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

"I think we both have," Saruhiko agrees.

And maybe it's true.

"But you're still small," he smiles; putting his hands on Misaki's shaking shoulders and drawing him close.

"Shut up," Misaki says, his speech muffled by the fabric of the other teen's shirt.

Saruhiko just smiles, falling back onto the bed and bringing Misaki with him. "Don't," he whispers when he feels Misaki try to get up.

"Why…?"

"It's comfortable," Saruhiko sighs, shutting his eyes, "You're warm… Misaki is warm…"

Misaki doesn't' say anything, but Saruhiko has a feeling he is probably rolling his eyes. He's probably rolling his eyes and thinking something along the lines of, 'Stupid monkey,' but Saruhiko can't find it in him to care.

Misaki sinks back into the taller teen, laying his head on Saruhiko's chest and allowing him to run his hand up and down the small of his back beneath his shirt.

Saruhiko smiles up at the ceiling, making silent promises to the smaller teen.

'I won't leave this time.'

'I won't walk away again.'

'I won't be selfish anymore.'

Because right now, it is all he can do. He will be patient, he will be kind, and maybe someday Misaki will allow himself to feel something good for a change.

Fin.