Rating: T
Summary: Misaki doesn't like Saruhiko's knives.

Misaki thinks Saruhiko is obsessed with his knives.

Misaki sits on the couch, legs crossed as he nervously flips through the many channels on TV, and fails to find that one distraction he's begging for, despite knowing he's never going to find it there. And he hates the fact that, maybe, he would like Saruhiko to invest a little bit of that dedication flowing through his hands right now to him rather than those metallic minions of hell—also known as knives.

It's irrational —illogical?— to want to admit such thing; Misaki wouldn't want to be subject of something as twisted and creepy as an obsession, after all, but he finds the scene before his eyes to be rather disturbing to really care about details and definitions.

"No."

"Yes, you are," Misaki insists with a scowl.

Saruhiko is sitting at the other end of the couch, expressionless as ever, but —in Misaki's eyes— utterly concentrated and focused on his task, carefully polishing the blade of one of his throwing knives with extreme delicacy with some old rag. His gaze never falters from the gleaming surface that reflects itself haughtily in his steeled eyes. And thank God he isn't using some 'special fabric' or treatment or anything of the sort for his little ritual, or Misaki would have lost his mind. Nevertheless, the old cloth in his hands is embedded with the remains of some metal polish that had inevitably impregnated in its threads over time; Misaki recognizes the smell, and it doesn't make him lose his mind, but it does makes his nose wrinkle in displeasure.

"I'm not obsessed, Misaki. You're overreacting."

Yeah, Misaki does exaggerate a lot sometimes, but there's no way he can distract himself. He can't stand having Saruhiko cleaning his knives in front of him. Next to him. Whatever. Weapons shouldn't demand that much attention, he thinks.

"Th-then why do you... they're already clean," he stammers, because of course they fucking are. Anyone would be able to notice the almost blinding brightness radiating from the poisonous steel, but it doesn't look as if Saruhiko does, or even wants to.

"Mm," Saruhiko hums and actually stops for once, considering Misaki's words and checking the state of the silvery edges, but it doesn't seem to be enough, because three, four, five seconds later he's insisting and resuming his labor, because, no, they aren't all that clean, there are stains only heis able to see, and it only serves to agitate Misaki even further. "No one's going do it for me, you know," he responds.

That's why it is unsettling, because when he does, Misaki assumes Saruhiko has been using them. It's the most logical explanation possible, and didn't Saruhiko complain about how illogical Misaki sometimes was?

There are reasons why Misaki didn't like logic that much.

"Do you, uhm..."

"What?"

Misaki swallows the lump in his throat; as much as a voracious fighter he is, coping with the fact that Saruhiko actually fights with those knives, buries them deep into the flesh of someone —anyone— isn't as easy as he had imagined. Violence was alright; punches and scrapes and bruises,whatever, but he still didn't fancy Saruhiko drenching his hands with blood, whether it was his own or someone else's.

Which is a stupid thought, pure hypocrisy —Misaki knows—, considering Saruhiko's job, Misaki's nature and both of their pasts.

But still.

"You... use them?" Misaki gathers the courage to ask and Saruhiko lifts his head, his hands coming to a halt as his eyes stare fixedly at the redhead, unknowing of where Misaki is going.

He allows himself a long pause before answering, "Sometimes," he breathes out, and with an inscrutable reply comes an inscrutable expression, so Misaki is obliged to rephrase his inquiry, because Saruhiko is being too ambiguous and his words mean too little.

"No, I mean... today," Misaki clarifies, "or... yesterday. That's why you're cleaning them, right?" Saruhiko listens intently as Misaki glances down at the knife between his deft fingers. "Because you... you used them before with someone and..."

"Why do you think so?"

"I-It's... kinda obvious if you think about it," he waits a couple of seconds before his eyes are seeking Saruhiko's. "Well?"

What may be as unsettling as the whole issue about the knives' cleaning procedure is the silence that follows Misaki's statement and the fact that he can't read Saruhiko's expression, and he's therefore unprepared when Saruhiko sets the blade on the small coffee table opposite the couch and leans back, resting an elbow on the back, and motions Misaki to move closer.

"Come here," he utters.

"Hah?"

"Come."

Misaki's eyelids are half-closed and a weird grimace tenses his lips, but he complies, reluctantly at first, albeit more relaxed since the knife is out of Saruhiko's reach, and sight, and attention, so he crawls closer to him, slowly. However, Saruhiko's movements are faster, and he pulls Misaki by his arm to wrap his own around his evident restless frame and rest his chin on top of his head.

"Saru—"

"Misaki," Saruhiko begins, momentarily closing his eyes and breathing in Misaki's scent, which easily overpowers whatever stinking, oxidized smell that may linger in the air. "You're so weird when you use your head."

"Hah?!" Misaki screams ever so loud that Saruhiko can feel his high-pitched voice vibrating through his chest, but despite Misaki's vigorous reaction, the sarcastic remark doesn't affect him like it normally would, because Saruhiko had just admitted he was right, hadn't he? "W-wait—so it's true?! When did you...! Who did you—"

"Wrong."

"Huh?" Misaki stares at him wide-eyed, expectantly and silently demanding him to continue, but Saruhiko stays silent and a part of him wants to laugh because he sometimes doesn't get Misaki's issues with life.

"How is it any different from a sword?"

Misaki frowns as he nestles the side of his face into his chest. "I don't know," he murmurs, shifting his eyes, only to notice the so-persistent knife resting on the little table is right in his field of vision, and he lets his gaze drop to the floor. "I don't know."

Misaki doesn't really know the difference, but there's something about envisioning Saruhiko clenching his fingers around those knives that has nothing to do with the boy that covered his back back when they were just two almost innocent boys. It doesn't please him either that, back then, it was together, stand-by-my-side and awesome, and now it seemed to scream danger and watch out and some high-class Strains have gone rampage and we, SCEPTER 4, are going to need our best men to take them into custody by any means possible; it didn't help that Saruhiko incidentally happened to be one of their best cards and that they weren't willing to give him up anytime soon—not that Saruhiko was even held up against his will, either.

It's just that—

How much of a mess does he have to get into to resort to his knives to get the job done?

Did he use them to defend himself? To immobilize? To harm?

Did Saruhiko kill anyone yet?

Would I notice if he did?

Misaki doesn't know since when he started to breathe sighs of relief when Saruhiko called home to say he got paperwork to do and hence was going to be late, but he found he liked it better the more Saruhiko stayed in his office and the less he was out on a mission.

"Nothing happened," Saruhiko sighs and reassures soothingly, interrupting Misaki's thoughts as he absently rubs his hand over his back, "Misaki."

"Really," Misaki whispers.

"People run when they see them."

"Really—HAH?! R-really?"

"Really."

Saruhiko's statement makes Misaki turn and look at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"You're lying."

"Yeah."

"Saru! I'm serious!"

"Don't worry about it. I haven't killed anyone if that's what's worrying you."

"I'm not—"

"At least not yet."

"Saruhiko."

"And I'm not obsessed with them."

"O-okay... I'm glad."

"Of course you are. You want all the attention to yourself."

"I don't—not like that!"

"Hm. Fine with me."

Misaki leans against Saruhiko's chest once more, but has to wrinkle his nose again.

"You reek."

"Hm."

"Of rust. You're not going to bed smelling like that."

"Yeah."

"Take a bath."

"Mhm."

"Are you even listening?"

"Yeah. Come with me."

"Hah?"

"You smell as bad as me."

"I don't—" he protests, and luckily for Saruhiko, yes, he smells. "Whose fault do you think it is?!" Misaki yells as he reluctantly gets up. "Take that away," he orders, pointing at the knife on the coffee table.

Saruhiko's eyes follow Misaki's figure until he walks into the bathroom.

"Yeah, and don't start without me, Mi—sa—ki~"

"Don't yeah me and do it!" Misaki's exasperated voice bounces off the tiles.

There is a little twitch of a smile tugging Saruhiko's lips as he suppresses a laugh and arranges everything in place, and follows Misaki to the bathroom.