Mishima felt warm.

He felt warm and safe.

There was a mildly-rough material draped across his skin and he could hear a quiet blip… blip… in the recesses of his consciousness. How did he get here? Where was here, even? He could hardly remember last night, the events blurred into foggy darkness and spotted with what he could barely recall to be street lamps. What was he doing outside? What day was it? He remembered being cold. Why was he warm? Mishima felt too warm…

The Phansite creator couldn't stop the multiplying questions from attacking his disoriented mind. Everything felt like a chore, including the idea of opening his eyes. Just thinking it gave him a dull throb in the back of his head, and caused a breathy groan to brush passed his lips.

Through cotton-stuffed ears, Mishima thought he could hear something rustling next to him, and there was a small movement by his head where the bed dipped in for a moment before levelling out. Mishima's floating mindfulness drifted on until he was completely under an ocean of warmth and comfort. He nearly succumbed to these feelings of contentment until the rustle happened again, and this time a familiar voice he could barely remember drifted in through the haze.

"Mishima? Are you awake?"

That voice…

Hazama..?

What was Hazama doing here? Where even was here?

The questions bombarded his sluggish brain, causing Mishima to let out another breathy groan. In response, the person – Hazama, had to be him – put a hand to his forehead, letting the programmer seek his relief in the familiar feeling of his boyfriend's bare palm against his face. In his moment of weakness, Mishima leaned his face into the hand, letting its soothing chill cool his tempered skull. He sighed in relief.

It didn't matter where they were, or how they got there. All Mishima needed was Hazama close-by. All he needed was to let himself sink into his lover's embrace and never leave. He didn't want to leave him again, not after that…

Violent flashes stabbed Mishima's brain, reminding him exactly what had happened after Hazama and he had parted ways.

*flashback start*

Snow had just begun to fall, and Mishima was hardly wearing anything suitable for such weather. He remembers Hazama joking about him having such a thin frame, making the chill even worse. Hazama offered an arm, inviting Mishima to warm himself against the green-haired man.

"Come on, you'll freeze to death before we even get to your house."

Mishima was surprised he even resisted, but then again the cold provided a small relief against some of the painful bruising he'd received only the night before. He was worried he'd flinch, and that Hazama would worry. He'd hate himself if he was the reason for the disappearance of Hazama's smile. He could never let this amazing person see how pained he was when he walked, breathed, and spoke. Mishima would never let his perfect boyfriend down by being less than what he saw.

He just didn't want to disappoint the one person who only ever looked up at him.

He didn't want to shred all the adoration and affection he got each and every day from this strange foreign male. Mishima could barely remember how they met while acting through the pain, but he was so very thankful to everyone and everything that lead to this moment. Without Hazama…

Mishima didn't see a point in this world.

"Nah. I'll be fine!" Mishima could only reply with a false cheer that came with years of practice. To make it up to Hazama, Mishima had taken the man's warm hand in his own chilly one, and together they'd walked the rest of the way to Mishima's house. They'd stopped half a block from the residence, though, and bid their goodbyes. Hazama was so very understanding of Mishima's home life (or what revealed, at least), and understood that Mishima's family would never accept him if they knew he was gay. This is what Mishima had told him. It was the lie he'd fed his shining star, if only to protect him from the horrors that lay behind that front door. Mishima couldn't bear to think of what would happen if his father ever found out exactly what brought a smile to his pathetic excuse of a son's face every day.

Mishima couldn't stand the thought of losing Hazama.

It was this resolve that brought Mishima's thoroughly chilled form to open the front door of his family's house, and walk right into the fist that greeted him on the way in.

The agony that followed, those horrible minutes that stretched by while Mishima was ambushed by a flurry of kicks and slaps of bare skin along his already broken body only served to harden his resolve. Mishima accepted his punishment for whatever reason his father had concocted while he wasn't home. He let this tyrant slam him into walls and doors and over the coffee table.

Mishima did not fight. He did not scream, or cry out. It was no use. There was never any use, or point, or rhyme or reason for what was happening right now. This pain was all Mishima's life was made of after his mother's passing, and had continued even when Kamoshida joined in on the action. He was so used to being thrown around by now, he could remember almost asking why Hazama didn't try it himself. He could remember the look on Hazama's face when he'd first flinched, and the words had dyed out.

Where pain was not prominent in that aspect of Mishima's life, the programmer knew he'd always have it somewhere. He'd always do something wrong. He'd always make a mistake and it'd be all his fault.

He was surprised anyone stuck around long enough to talk to him anymore.

When his father had stopped his barrage of pain-inflicting strikes on the teen, Mishima simply lay there motionless. It'd only be worse if he got up. If he tried, his father would see it as a sign of dissent. He was no Phantom Thief. He couldn't simply change this monster's heart, he knew that. He didn't even bother wishing it. Not with how such a change would bring about a new dynamic, an unexpected and unwelcome dynamic for Mishima to deal with.

Why didn't the Phantom Thieves destroy his heart when they had the chance?

Mishima's hand twitched when the sound of a gun's safety click resounded from his father's room. His eyes widened. Breath caught in his throat and suddenly Mishima found it in himself to stand.

No.

No, he wouldn't…

Loud thuds echoed down the stairs, and Mishima found himself making a mad dash for the front door. Heavy footsteps thudded after him in hot pursuit.

He would not let himself be slaughtered by a tyrannical psychopath.

Not by that thing of a man—

The front door was locked with several different hatches. Mishima's eyes teared up in wild fear, self-preservation building within his very being.

I can't give up. Not now. The Phantom Thieves are counting on me. So many people are counting on me—

Mishima had unlatched all the locks but one by the time a heavy hand gripped his shoulder and roughly threw him into a hanging picture along the wall. It was the last photo of Mishima's mom that'd survived years of this dilapidated dynamic between father and son. The glass cut into his back and arms, causing Mishima to hiss out in pain. The shards fell out soon after, but the jarring feeling of a gun's barrel being shoved into his mouth while hands squeezing his neck distracted him from the splattering blood painting both males in a coat of iridescent crimson.

Mishima choked on the barrel as it came to rest at the back of his throat. Above him, his father was screaming in his face, looking more enraged than Mishima could ever remember seeing him. The teen sobbed unashamedly. This was once a man he was proud to call his father. This thing he turned into was the reason he'd created the Phansite. He'd wanted to change the hearts of monsters. He wanted to change the heart of his own father, but he could never gain the courage to say anything, even when he knew exactly who lead the Phantom Thieves. For some reason, Mishima could never bring himself to hope for anything but this pain from his father. There was no way any of this was changing, and he never once expected it.

The gun was ripped from his mouth, and Mishima was left coughing and spluttering as he struggled to welcome air into his failing lungs. He barely had a moment to open his tear-filled eyes before a solid BANG! littered his hearing. Stars shone across his vision as his father's violent body slumped to the floor, a steady stream of red dripping from the side of his head. In the man's left hand, Mishima saw the gun that ended his life. He was frozen, shocked. He just sat there for whoever knows how long, watching his father's limp body sprawled across the floor.

He…

He- he's dead…

"Oh my God…" Mishima could barely whisper out before his entire body begun to shake uncontrollably. His mind didn't focus. It couldn't remember how he'd managed to unlock the final latch, or how his shoes had fallen off his feet in his haste to leave the house. All his swirling mind could comprehend was the distilled fear of his father somehow getting back up and shooting him in the head instead.

Mishima was sick to the core, but kept running. He continued to run, even when a familiar voice shouted for him to stop. He kept running, even when his feet felt like they were bleeding.

Mishima kept running, even though his body felt like it'd died along with his father's.

*flashback end*

"Hey, are you with me?" Hazama's soothing voice flitted through what was left of Mishima's sane mind. The hand that'd rested on his forehead now came to rest along his cheek, brushing patterns into the area that wasn't marred by painful swelling. With some pain from his neck, Mishima nodded. The feeling of warm lips against his cold ones brought tears to his eyes. Hazama must've seen them, because he'd pulled away from the kiss and begun wiping the salty streaks from Mishima's face.

"Mishima…" Hazama's pained voice encouraged Mishima to open his reddened eyes. He observed what looked to be a clinic's medical room, and then met Hazama's worried green eyes. Mishima could not quite describe the heavy feeling causing mayhem along his gut when he saw the frown marring his boyfriend's face. Mishima brought a lead-weight hand up to bring Hazama back down for another kiss. He didn't want the green haired man frowning. Ever. Never in the portion of life Mishima had the privilege to be a part of.

When Hazama broke the kiss again, his deep green eyes bored into his partner's.

"Mishima…" Hazama seemed too emotional to deliver what he wanted to say, so Mishima said the first thing he could think of when he remembered exactly what day it was.

"Merry Christmas," Mishima blurted out. He was equal parts relieved and pleased when he received a shocked laugh for his efforts.

"You jerk! You had me worried." Hazama managed to get through his burst of amusement.

When Hazama looked down to see Mishima's guilt-ridden face, he immediately stopped laughing.

"Hey," Hazama said, tightening his hand around Mishima's comfortingly, "I'm just glad you're okay."

Mishima tried to tilt his mouth into a quirked-up smile but it fell short, instead looking like a grimace. Hazama decided he didn't want his boyfriend to look so distraught all the time, and brought Mishima's head to his own.

"I love you," Hazama whispered, only loud enough for Mishima's ears to hear.

Mishima couldn't describe the intense warmth that filled his chest when he heard those words. The last time he'd heard them was from his mom before she died, when she'd gone out to get groceries and never came back.

With tears crawling down his beaten face, Mishima sobbed out a quiet chuckle.

"I love you too."