"Deranged" isn't the word; to find a word for Fushimi, you've gotta invent a new one because the bastard's sick sick sick, and "deranged" doesn't cover it. Neither does "warped" or "twisted" or whatever the hell else you wanna say happened to the fucked-up monkey's mind, but who the hell did the deranging, the warping, the twisting? Himself?
Yata doesn't fucking know, his partner his best friend his lover his sweet sweet hatred and he doesn't fucking know.
Crooked smirks and hair in just the right amount of disarray like the smarmy bastard likes the perfect arrangement of messy messy messy, such a pretty mess, look at how the scarlet stains the stone. Glasses perfectly in place, jacket perfectly tidy with perfectly straight lapels and damn it just replace them with tattered shirts with loose ties already, Yata can't stand the monkey in his fucking monkey suit.
Saru, he shouts, he is raucous and unbridled, he is fire itself. Like a fuckin' ape! Saru!
Miii…saaa…kiii.
Fire on fire, explosion. Fucking hell his lips taste nice, and wouldn't the bastard know he likes it when he bites? Fushimi gets to lap away the blood, Yata gets to growl as if in protest. Everybody wins, it's all fun in games until you've not sleeping with your partner anymore when your partner is the enemy and I'll fucking kill you and your FUCKING SMEARED PRIDE.
Fushimi gets annoyed. He's a lazy little shit, and everything, every little goddamn thing, is irksome. But he doesn't get mad. The really mad ones never do.
Yata blazes, his flames consume and lick at walls and tear them down and crush everything in his wake and the smoke climbs high, high, high where the lighting splits the sky, and there he is again, lenses gleaming as he smiles.
Smiling, always smiling.