Written for Trick or Treat Exchange 2022.

Reisi stands atop an office tower overlooking what is soon to be a battlefield, and surveys what lies beneath him.

His own Clansmen, fanned out in orderly rows, and Suoh's, scattered haphazardly across the street and sidewalk; from this height each individual looks all but identical to the next. It is their aura by which he can distinguish them, giving the impression of bright sparks of Blue or Red that resonate with or out of tune against his Sanctum.

As he watches, one of his men breaks formation to squabble with an equally impatient Red Clansman, and with no one around to witness it Reisi allows himself a fond smile. It's hardly appropriate for Fushimi to pick fights with HOMRA's vanguard—but he is so rarely enthusiastic about anything at all, and surely Awashima has the task of disapproving well in hand...

The communicator on Reisi's collar crackles to life. "Picking up a spike in Weismann levels. The Red King has activated his Sanctum!"

Reisi is well aware before his Clansman can finish his report. Suoh's power is a heat that burns away the evening chill, and even at this distance it bites at Reisi's exposed skin, leaves his cheeks and fingertips smarting. As Suoh advances his Clansmen part to make way, and that power builds and builds, surging skyward, until—

"Vertical over! We have a visual on the Red King's Sword of Damocles."

Reisi's attention isn't on the great stone sword hanging low in the sky. It's on the man standing in its shadow, cloaked in an energy that calls to Reisi and repels him with equal force. An irreverent, violent man who tries Reisi's patience at every turn—and the only man Reisi can fight with all his strength, as an equal. Perhaps he is not so very much unlike Fushimi, inevitably coming to blows with his rival whenever their paths cross...

But before Reisi can join the fray himself, Suoh's Sword of Damocles blinks right out of the sky.

Through his communicator, three tinny voices struggle to make sense of the numbers on their screens. Lacking Reisi's perspective, they cannot so easily see that the readings are not in error. That much is clear: Suoh was looking for a fight, until he wasn't. Something made him reconsider, and he's now chosen to retreat, his Clansmen crowding around him as he takes his leave.

And that one Blue spark who had rushed ahead is now nowhere to be seen.

That is not in itself unusual, nor particularly concerning. Fushimi certainly has good reason to avoid direct confrontation with his first King. But though Reisi is loathe to operate on something as frustratingly vague as a hunch, something about Fushimi's sudden disappearance doesn't sit right with him.

On the ground, confusion and speculation buzz around his men as they make their much more orderly retreat. Awashima stands tall when she catches sight of him, not quite managing to conceal the worry his presence can't ease. "Nearly ready to return to base, sir. But Fushimi..."

"Is acting at his own discretion." As has always been his right.

The reminder lifts Awashima's spirits, but does little to quell Reisi's own growing unease. Still, whatever might have happened, Fushimi knows best what he needs; and there is no doubt in Reisi's mind that, whatever might be keeping him, he will return home when he is ready.

Back at HQ, the near-confrontation with Suoh written up and set away, Reisi has just begun to prepare tea when there's a knock at his office door. Or to be more precise, the heavy thud of a closed fist. "Come in," he calls out—but the door remains closed. Only as he begins to consider getting up and ushering in his guest himself does it finally open just enough for his third in command to slip inside.

Residual momentum seems to be all that carries Fushimi across the room, and he crumples like wet paper down onto the tatami, his saber clattering loudly against the edge of the platform as he goes. He brings a trace of Suoh's blistering heat with him, for the Red he still carries has always burned hottest in times of stress, and it is immediately obvious that he is agitated in a way Reisi has never seen from him.

Reisi is familiar with Fushimi's frustration, and his anger; he's certainly aware that anger is often a mask for feelings Fushimi will not allow himself to show. This, though, is no mask. This is those deepest vulnerabilities unveiled, fear and pain and desperation all at once; and as Reisi abandons his tea and comes to sit close beside Fushimi, he catches sight of their source.

There is a burn on Fushimi's right forearm, just above his wristband. Two parallel lines of blistered and cracking skin wrap around his arm to meet a wider expanse of damage on the other side, and though any further injury is hidden in the shadows of Fushimi's coat sleeve, it is all too easy to envision the shape it must take.

Just as simple is the process of elimination that points clearly to the culprit. Though Fushimi was engaged in combat with Yata Misaki when last Reisi saw him, their relative sizes rule out his leaving a handprint so large. The difficulty, then, comes in comprehending why the man capable of leaving such a mark would possibly have done so.

A sharp, unsteady breath draws him out of his thoughts. "Sorry I'm late," Fushimi mutters down at his lap.

Even as their personal lives have become ever more closely entwined, Fushimi has always been careful to maintain a certain formal distance of his own accord. For him to be so distraught as to let that shield fall... it is a jarring wrongness, something that itches under Reisi's skin. But his comfort is hardly the priority just now. He draws in a deep breath; collects himself; refocuses.

"Welcome back."

Fushimi acknowledges him with a shift of one shoulder, barely a shrug. His breathing is too loud in the quiet, chest heaving with shallow, rapid gasps; each time he forces himself to slow down and draw in a deep, full breath, panic seems to overtake him and send him back to hyperventilating. Watching him at this low point feels like an intrusion, and Reisi simply has no frame of reference for what might help, or hurt.

He harbors no illusions that Fushimi, in his years in Scepter 4, has never struggled. He has just always gone to ground rather than allow anyone to witness him in moments of self-perceived weakness. The assistance not just Reisi, but his fellow Clansmen would all have willingly provided simply would not have been welcome.

It wouldn't appear to be welcome now. But it is clearly necessary.

"Have you anything to report?"

Reisi is not unaware that most would find this approach lacking in compassion. But navigating a romantic relationship has not come easily to Fushimi, each quiet moment alone a battle against the defense mechanisms that kept him safe long enough to find his way into Reisi's life at all. The rigid structure of government bureaucracy is much more straightforward, even if it's never been quite to his taste. If Reisi is correct, that structure might just offer him some small comfort, a clear path to follow.

Fushimi's gaze flickers up from his lap to fix on Reisi, sharp and wary. His next deep breath is followed by another, and another, and another.

"When Scepter 4 arrived at the scene, I... engaged in conflict with a member of..." He stumbles over the respectful language he usually wields as deftly as his knives (and to much the same end). With a frustrated click of his tongue, he gives up on the pretense of formality. "It was just our usual bullshit—me and Misaki. Mikoto-san... he just wanted us to knock it off. He didn't—it was an accident—"

It is all too easy to imagine the scene Fushimi describes, and Reisi has no doubt Suoh only meant to give Fushimi a shove and break up the fight. While he is unquestionably a brute, he does not delight in indiscriminately causing pain. If, already spoiling for a fight, he had come across this petty squabble, his frustration might well have sparked a blaze. If he had lost control in that crucial moment as his power surged skyward...

"His Sword's gonna fall," Fushimi says, and his voice breaks across the words.

"Not tonight."

The words spill out of their own accord, torn from him by Fushimi's clear distress before his rational mind can attest to their accuracy. He is correct; there is no danger of a Damocles Down tonight. But Fushimi, too, is far more correct in his assessment than Reisi would like. His fear is grounded firmly in reality, and even if Reisi could bring himself to lie, Fushimi would not tolerate being condescended to. All Reisi has is the truth.

"Not tonight," he says again. "Not this week, or the next. And I will do everything in my power to prevent it happening at all."

Does that do Fushimi any good to hear—that should it come to it, his first King will die by the hand of his second?

All he has is the truth, but is that enough?

Fushimi heaves out a shuddering breath. Without another word, begins to fumble one-handed with his boots, his injured arm held tight to his chest; that alone is its own answer. He is once again balanced precariously upon the very edge of composure, but for now, at least, it would seem to be enough that the immediate danger is past.

He removes his saber from his belt, sets it beside him, and pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged on the tatami. "...I know I should go to the infirmary." His sour tone makes it a grudging confession, rather than a plan of action. Reisi is all too familiar with the way Fushimi looks to him now, something vulnerable kept under close guard. Can I get away with this? Have I finally found the line I'm not to cross?

He hasn't, of course. If it were in Fushimi's nature to cross Reisi's boundaries, he would not be in Reisi's office, or, indeed, in Reisi's Clan at all. If only there were words enough to convince him once and for all that he is exactly where he is meant to be. Both in general terms—and in this specific moment.

"When you are ready," Reisi says instead. "I would like to see your arm, though, if you wouldn't mind."

Though he surely does mind, Fushimi doesn't say a word. Perhaps he is simply too worn out to argue. In any case, he shrugs out of the right sleeve of his coat, which falls with a muted clatter and a thud to the tatami, weighed down by the knives concealed within. As he offers Reisi his arm he turns his head away, feigning a sudden interest in the ever-shifting colors of the digital scroll hanging on the wall. Distancing himself, from Reisi and from the day's troubling events.

As Reisi carefully takes his arm, he realizes that Fushimi is trembling.

And who could blame him? Even separate from the knowledge of how it came to be, the burn is not a pleasant sight. Both his wristband and the cuff of his shirtsleeve are singed, and the burn spans the whole space between. Gruesome pinks and browns stand in stark contrast to the pale skin around them, the surface crusted over where it hasn't blistered. His sword arm, Reisi notes. If an extraordinarily foolhardy man wanted to break up a fight... that would certainly be one approach.

Suoh's power burns so terribly hot when he and Reisi come to blows, King against King. A mere Clansman—Suoh's own former Clansman, who still holds a power that amplifies and resonates with Suoh's—is much, much more vulnerable to that dreadful heat. Fushimi is so very fortunate not to have been hurt far worse, and that realization settles hard in Reisi's stomach, heavy as lead.

The burn needs treatment, but enough time has already passed that further delay won't make much difference. Fushimi, teetering right on the edge of something that Reisi cannot pin down and conclusively identify, needs... what? What would help, and what help will he allow Reisi to give?

"Saruhiko..."

He doesn't quite mean to say it. Nor is it strictly appropriate for him to do so, with both of them in uniform, and still technically on the clock. But they're alone here, in his office, and his personal concern for a loved one cannot be separated from his professional investment in a Clansman's well-being. And surely it is not his captain, nor his King, who Saruhiko needs right now. What he does need is...

Is...

"What do you need from me?" he asks.

Saruhiko does not answer. Saruhiko scarcely even seems to breathe, frozen still but for how the subtle tremor progresses to desperate shivering in an instant. Behind the thick frames of his glasses, his eyes are wide with a terror he can no longer keep at bay. He is hurt, hurting, terrified—quite justifiably so!—and Reisi...

Reisi has never stood on less familiar ground, nor ever felt so utterly adrift. But he cannot in good conscience let Saruhiko suffer like this for even a moment longer, and that certainty clearly illuminates the only possible course of action.

Rising up onto his knees, he lays Saruhiko's arm across his lap, and, undeterred by his lack of response, gently brushes aside his bangs to lay his hand along the curve of Saruhiko's cheek.

The gift bestowed upon him by the Dresden Slate is the Blue King's power of order. Within his Sanctum, things straighten, stabilize, and put themselves to rights. By expanding his sphere of influence to encompass Saruhiko, he channels that power to bring order to Saruhiko's frantic thoughts, and to recontextualize the stimuli that incorrectly registered as a threat.

Those terrified eyes, glistening with unshed tears, fall closed. A single tear escapes to trace the path of Reisi's hand down Saruhiko's face; but when Saruhiko opens his eyes again, they're clear and focused. His breathing slows and steadies. The desperate hammer of his heartbeat falls into rhythm with Reisi's own, into the same rhythm that ties him inextricably to the Slate.

"Ugh," Saruhiko says, ducking away from Reisi's touch. A bit of flustered color comes to his cheeks. As Reisi sits back on his heels, retreating to a less intimate distance, Saruhiko pulls off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

Reisi makes no effort to conceal the indulgent smile that comes to his lips. He cannot heal the damage that was done, or remove the traumatic event itself from Saruhiko's memory. But it is within his power to help Saruhiko regain his footing, so that he might start down the complex path of recovery on his own terms—and if he chooses to complain the whole way down that path, well, Reisi expects nothing less.

"It would be my pleasure to escort you to the infirmary, if you believe you are ready."

Saruhiko studies him for a moment, brow furrowed as he tries to bring Reisi into focus without his glasses. Then he puts them back on, pulls his coat carefully back over his injured arm, and turns away, swinging his legs over the edge of the platform to get started on his boots. This time, the task goes quickly, performed by hands that don't shake.

"Sure," he finally says, a single word heavy with meaning. Though he is much calmer, now, and surely able to take up words once again as a weapon just as sharp as his knives, he deliberately chooses not to.

Instead of retreating to a safe, formal distance... he allows Reisi to stay close.