Notes: In which Fushimi and Yata actually interact and everything is terrible.
…
A week later and Awashima sighed as she looked through her refrigerator. She'd been extra busy at work the last few days, sorting out the final parts of her proposal. Her hearing was set for the next morning and there was at least one last thing to take care of before she was finished.
Well, perhaps two last things, and she glanced over at the figure sitting hunched on her couch. At least he'd gotten out of bed.
Fushimi's condition had gotten marginally better, she supposed, since that day a week ago when she'd let him sleep on her shoulder. He still refused to come to work with her and had yet to even so much as leave the apartment, but the last several days she'd come back to find him sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped, posture terrible as always, watching TV. He didn't see to be watching any actual shows as far as she could tell — yesterday there had been some sort of romance drama on that she couldn't imagine Fushimi ever watching by choice — but Awashima was beginning to regard his getting up as a small victory at least.
Still, they couldn't go on this way forever and Awashima considered her options. There was, she was beginning to understand, a very delicate balancing act when it came to Fushimi, limits to how far she could push and unlike Munakata she had not quite figured out where those limits began and ended. But he was better than he had been and she decided to take a small risk.
"Fushimi-kun." Awashima walked up behind him. He didn't move, didn't look at her, still staring fixedly at the TV that he certainly wasn't watching. It looked like some kind of cartoon this time, with colorful animals singing a song about friendship. Awashima couldn't help a slight smile, Fushimi definitely wasn't paying attention if he hadn't changed the channel yet. Awashima moved so that she was standing in front of him, summoning up her best 'I-am-your-superior-officer' voice. "Fushimi-kun."
"Mmm." Fushimi's eyes moved slightly to look up at her but his hunched position remained. He looked like a sullen child, which was far preferable to the fragile shell she'd been dealing with for the last couple weeks. This was more like the old Fushimi and it gave Awashima a bit more confidence.
"Since you don't seem to be busy at the moment, I need you to run an errand for me." Awashima crossed her arms and waited. Fushimi stared at her for a long moment and then finally uncurled slightly. There was a slight hint of defiance in his expression and the distinct familiarity of it made Awashima suddenly feel better than she had since that terrible day in the park weeks ago.
"Why do I have to?" Fushimi mumbled the words into his shirt collar, clicking his tongue as he averted his eyes.
"Because I have an important meeting to finish getting ready for," Awashima said. "You have nothing in particular to take care of today, I see. You should be able to handle a trip down to the supermarket and back. And seeing as you are not being expected to pay rent at the moment, I would think you could find the time to give me a hand."
"Tch." Fushimi clicked his tongue again and looked irritated, but he stood up all the same. Awashima smiled and walked back over to the counter where her briefcase was, reaching for her wallet and her PDA.
"I'm sending you a mail with the list of things I need," Awashima continued as Fushimi trudged to his room for his shoes, grumbling under his breath the whole way. "It shouldn't take long, but I'll give you a little extra if you want to stop and get something to eat for yourself first." She kept her voice even as she spoke, she had been careful not to mention his eating habits — or lack thereof, currently — because she knew he wouldn't react well, but even so it was hard not to worry about how little she'd seen him eat these days. "Oh, and Fushimi-kun, it's cold out so wear a coat."
"Don't have one," Fushimi drawled from the other room and Awashima sighed. It was like having the little brother she had never asked for or wanted, yet couldn't help but be fond of nonetheless.
"Honestly, Fushimi-kun." Awashima turned to look at him as he walked back into the room. He had at least put on a sweater, which wasn't quite ideal but better than nothing at all.
"This is fine," Fushimi muttered, hands stuffed in his pockets. "It's not far, right?"
"I suppose." There wasn't much choice in any case, but Awashima made a mental note to ask Kusanagi if he had any extra coats she could borrow the next time she spoke with him. She held out the money and Fushimi took it with another irritated click of his tongue.
One of his sleeves fell back slightly and she could see that his bandages had gotten unwound again on his left arm even though she'd made him change them the night before. It worried her slightly but Awashima decided to avoid saying anything for now. She'd gotten him to climb out his shell just a bit, she had to tread lightly to be sure he didn't curl back inside.
Fushimi pulled his hand back and turned towards the door without another word, his eyes looking far away again.
"Fushimi-kun." Awashima stopped him as he opened the door and he looked back at her curiously. Awashima managed a slight smile. "Be sure to get yourself something to eat, all right?"
Fushimi looked momentarily surprised and then nodded slowly.
"I'm going now," he murmured as he let the door close behind him. Awashima watched his back until it disappeared.
A small victory, to be sure. But with all the losses they had sustained recently Awashima would take her victories where she found them, and she turned and went back to her own preparations.
...
"Can't we go back to the bar, Yata-san? It's cold."
"I just wanna check out one more thing." Yata walked quickly along the sidewalk, Kamamoto a few steps behind. "There could be more of those guys around still."
"We already got rid of their hideout, though," Kamamoto said. "You know Kusanagi-san said to make sure the place was empty and then come back."
"Well, yeah, but…" Yata shifted restlessly. Ever since he'd passed Fushimi in the park he'd been feeling oddly tense, as if there was something inside him holding back and it irritated him. He wanted action, a good fight, anything to keep his mind off the various uncomfortable things that kept prodding at the edges of it. "A-anyway, what's wrong with one more patrol? Kusanagi-san even said there's probably gonna be more criminals than usual invading our territory now, we have to be ready, right?"
"More Strains coming out of the woodwork, huh?" Kamamoto crossed his arms and nodded. "Now that Scepter 4's gone, I guess."
"Stop talking about that," Yata grumbled, looking away.
"Hmm?" Kamamoto looked confused. "What's wrong, Yata-san? You don't like Scepter 4, right?"
"It's not like it matters either way anymore," Yata said. "My opinion, I mean."
Kamamoto looked at him for a long moment, his face suddenly thoughtful.
"Yata-san…have you talked to Fushimi at all?"
"Who-who the hell said anything about that bastard?" Yata snapped. He immediately turned on his heel and started to stalk away from Kamamoto. "I changed my mind. I'm going back to my place."
"Yata-san, wait up, I didn't mean—" Kamamoto called after him but Yata didn't turn, stuffing his hands in his pockets and slouching his shoulders as he walked.
It's not like I care about that guy anyway, Yata thought stubbornly. He's a traitor, right? Why the hell should I care about how a traitor's doing?
His chest ached for a second and Yata shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He glanced upward at the gray sky, watching the snow as it fell to the ground.
"Not like I care about him," Yata repeated quietly even though he knew he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.
I should've talked to him. He couldn't help it. No matter how many times he'd tried to tell himself over and over that Fushimi would never be his friend again, he'd never been able to quite convince himself of its truth. It had always been there, that small hope that maybe Fushimi could still come back, that maybe he would apologize, that maybe somehow they could still be friends. No matter how much they fought, how much of each other's blood they spilled, there had always been a part of Yata that couldn't stop hoping for his best friend to come back to him.
He knew Fushimi had to be suffering now. There was no way it could be anything else. Even a guy like Fushimi, who didn't hold on to anything, even someone like him had to be effected by having to kill his own King. It was Yata's chance to try and reach him, and he'd let it go.
I want to see him again. It was a longing that went down to his very bones.
Yata turned a corner and stopped dead. Fushimi was standing a few feet in front of him in the doorway of a convenience store, back turned, a plastic bag in his hand and muttering to himself as he sorted through his purchase.
Saru? Yata took a step backwards and then stopped himself, clenching his fists. Raising his head high, he walked over towards Fushimi with clear purpose. As he got close, he reached out without a hint of hesitation and grabbed Fushimi's wrist. The skin felt cold to the touch and Yata thought he could almost feel the bones beneath.
"Saruhiko."
Fushimi whirled to face him, eyes wide, and Yata met his gaze steadily.
I want to talk to you. I want to ask you why you saved me. I want to know if you're okay.
A hundred different questions ran through his mind, and Yata opened his mouth.
"You wanna get something to eat?"
...
"Here's yours." Yata coughed awkwardly as he set down the tray, sliding a small white paper bag over to Fushimi. Fushimi didn't even look at him as he started to unwrap the paper from his food, picking at the edges of it, and Yata slid into the seat across from him.
This is bad. Yata quietly berated himself. He'd intended to confront Fushimi properly and yet here he was, sitting in a greasy booth eating fast food as if they were back in middle school again.
Yata risked raising his eyes to look at his current companion. Fushimi had taken the bun off his hamburger and was carefully removing the lettuce and tomato, eyes intent on his food as if Yata wasn't even there.
Don't just eat the meat, you need to have some vegetables too. The part of Yata that could never quite stop looking after Fushimi's welfare was already stirring indignantly. Fushimi had always been like this, picking apart anything Yata made for him, insisting only on eating what he knew he liked. If it wasn't exactly the way he wanted it to be he would refuse to eat at all, hunger before imperfection.
He looks a little sick. Was he always this thin? Yata bit his lip, eyes inexorably drawn to the bandages he could see peeking out Fushimi's sleeves. Up close now he could tell they looked a little frayed on the edges and there was something slightly stiff about the way Fushimi moved, as if he was trying to avoid aggravating a wound.
Yata shifted in his seat, eyes not leaving Fushimi's hunched figure, taking a bite of his own food and not really tasting any of it.
What do I say? It wasn't like he could just blurt it out. 'Oh, hey, Saruhiko, I heard you killed your King, do you want to be friends again?'
"Did you drag me here just to watch me eat?" Fushimi asked mildly and Yata jumped slightly.
"N-no," he muttered, averting his eyes. "I just…thought you looked like you needed something to eat, that's all."
"I wasn't aware you were my babysitter, Misaki." There was the usual taunting lilt in Fushimi's voice as he spoke the name but all the music had been strained out of it and the tone was oddly flat, like a singer who knew the words of the song but had forgotten the notes entirely. He stood as if to leave, food barely touched.
"Saru, wait." Yata reached for his wrist and Fushimi immediately pulled his arm out of reach. "Come on, just—just sit and eat with me, all right? You came all the way here, didn't you?"
"Tch." Fushimi crossed his arms, clearly irritated, but he sat back down anyway. Yata took that as an encouraging sign and risked leaning across the table a little.
"So eat something?" Yata tried.
"There's sauce on it," Fushimi stated, pushing the hamburger towards Yata. "I don't like sauce."
You don't like anything. Yata couldn't quite bring himself to say it, but he smiled a little at the thought anyway.
"Just go tell them at the counter you wanted it plain then," Yata said.
"Don't want to." Fushimi wasn't looking at him now, apparently doing his level best to pretend he was alone.
"Saruhiko…"
"Did you damage that tiny brain of yours, Misaki?" Fushimi asked. "I'm not your friend. Oh? Or did you think something would change now? Did you think we would bond over our dear, dead Kings?" Fushimi laughed coldly and Yata couldn't help but tense slightly. "You're such an idiot, Misaki. Don't lump me in with the likes of you."
"I-I'm not—I just wanted to — " Yata fumbled for the right words. "Dammit, Saruhiko, I just wanted to—to talk to you, okay? You can't tell me that all this doesn't effect you. You look like shit."
"I don't need to hear that from you." Fushimi scratched irritably at his arms. "Maybe I should go hide myself in a dark bar, crying crystal tears of ultimate sadness like some pathetic clansmen do. 'Oh Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san, whatever will I do without you?'" He laughed again, shaking his head. "I guess it's just as well Anna took the throne. Gave you a new master to wag your tail at."
"Don't you dare say any kind of shit about Anna!" Yata burst out. Fushimi smiled widely, as if he'd been hoping for that reaction, and Yata quietly cursed his own temper. Hadn't he decided that they were just going to talk? Yata took a deep breath and slowly unclenched his fists, staring down at his lap. Fushimi's smile faded slowly, eyes darkening. "Look, Saru, I don't wanna fight with you, okay? I just…I just wanted to ask you about what happened that day. At-at the bar, I mean."
"The bar?" Fushimi's voice sounded genuinely confused and Yata looked up.
"Yeah. You know, when we ran into each other by Bar Homra, when all those ninja guys were attacking." Yata stared at Fushimi intently. Fushimi's expression seemed strange, eyes averted, brow furrowed slightly, biting his lip. "Wait. You…you don't remember?"
"I'm leaving." Fushimi stood up abruptly, walking quickly towards the door. "I don't have any more time to waste talking with morons like you."
"Saru, wait a second!" Yata called after him, aware of the attention they were drawing. Yata groaned and hurriedly gathered the remains of their food with one hand, dumping it tray and all in the trash as he hurried to catch up to Fushimi. "Dammit, Saruhiko, will you just listen to me for a second?"
The snow had started falling harder and there was already a fresh coat covering the ground. It took Yata only a moment of looking around before he spotted Fushimi a few feet ahead of him, head down against the wind, clutching the plastic bag tightly in white hands.
"Hey, Saru!" Yata called out to him as he got close and Fushimi seemed to increase his pace. Yata swore and broke into a run, ignoring the indignant looks he we getting from passers-by as he shoved his way through the crowd on the sidewalk. He could see Fushimi's back wavering in front of him and Yata reached out and grabbed Fushimi's arm, pulling him backwards with all his might. He heard Fushimi swear as they both lost their balance and landed in a heap in the snow, Fushimi's bag falling open on the sidewalk. There was the sound of something inside breaking and Yata felt a momentary flash of guilt.
"S-sorry…" Yata started to apologize and trailed off. Fushimi had pulled himself into a sitting position but his shoulders were slumped and he was holding tightly to his bandaged arms, teeth clenched as if in pain. "Here, lemme help pick everything up—" Yata reached for the fallen bag and his hand brushed against Fushimi's sleeve.
"Don't touch me!" Fushimi whirled, lightning fast, slapping Yata's hand away with such force that Yata fell back again in surprise. Fushimi was breathing hard and his eyes were narrowed.
"H-hey, what's your problem, Saruhiko?" Yata said, affronted. "I'm just trying to-"
"To help?" Fushimi sneered. He chuckled quietly as he stood on shaking legs, kicking scornfully at the fallen bag. "Is that it, Misaki? You just want to help the poor miserable traitor who had to kill his own King?" Yata winced slightly and Fushimi's smile widened. "Ah, that's it, isn't it? You're really pathetic, Misaki, absolutely pathetic. Did you think I would be thankful for it, all this precious pity of yours?"
"It's not pity!" Yata jumped to his feet. "I'm—I'm worried about you, okay? Dammit, Saruhiko…you killed your King. That has to be— that has to mess you up, right? I just wanted—" His words were suddenly cut off by Fushimi's scornful laughter.
"My King?" Fushimi repeated mockingly. "Don't make me laugh, Misaki. I'm not like you. I don't care about any of that crap. Kings, clansmen — it's all just bodies in the end. You think I cared, when I impaled the Captain on my own sword? No. In fact, I'd say I enjoyed it, almost. I've always wanted to see how a King bleeds. My only regret is I didn't get to do it to Suoh Mikoto instead."
Anger flared in Yata's heart and he forced it down, biting hard on his lower lip.
"I…I don't believe that." Yata forced his gaze to remain steady. "There's no way that's how you really feel, Saruhiko."
"Is that so?" Fushimi clicked his tongue. "Because you know me so well, Misaki. Honestly, how do you survive with so few brain cells? You've never understood me at all Misaki, not even from the beginning."
"That's…" Yata swallowed hard. "Okay, maybe—maybe you're kinda right. The Saruhiko I knew…you're not that guy. I get that. But still…I don't believe that what you're saying is what you really feel." Yata regarded Fushimi steadily. "You've always been a liar, Saruhiko. If you really felt that way, then why do you look like your entire world just got pulled out from under you?"
Fushimi's eyes widened for a moment in surprise and Yata felt a momentary surge of hope that was crushed almost immediately as Fushimi's face turned cold.
"You don't know anything, Misaki," Fushimi said harshly. "If you want to fight me, that's fine. But if you're going to keep saying such useless things, you can just get out of my sight."
"You look sick," Yata pressed. "Seriously, Saru, have you even looked in a mirror lately? And—and you're having memory problems too, right? You don't remember what happened in front of the bar, do you?"
"I don't bother to remember unimportant things," Fushimi said dismissively, looking away.
"Bullshit," Yata challenged. "You remember everything, Saruhiko. You can't feed me that line of crap and expect me to swallow it."
"Don't act like you know me so well, Misaki," Fushimi shot back. "I'm the one who betrayed you, remember? Ah, I can still see the look on your face perfectly, those poor wide eyes, that shocked expression. It was hilarious. You never saw it coming, did you? Even when it was as clear as day to everyone else, you never even noticed. Even when it was obvious…" He trailed off, clutching at his arms. Yata stepped forward almost without thinking, unable to stop himself from feeling the surge of worry, reaching out with one hand as though to do…what? He didn't know if he wanted to grab Fushimi and pull him close or push him away. Fushimi immediately shied back, arms held near to his sides and body language closed in and defensive, like a wounded animal. "Go away, Misaki. If I wanted your pity I would ask for it. Don't try and pretend we're the same, you and I. I lost nothing. I'm not so pathetic that the death of one man would turn me into something weak enough to need help from a person like you."
"Saru…" Yata trailed off, unable to reply, and his hand fell back against his side. There was a broken sort of ferociousness in Fushimi's gaze that lulled him silent and Fushimi gave a quiet smirk, as though he'd expected it. Yata couldn't help but feel a sudden spike of shame at that look.
"Don't bother me until you get tired of being pathetic, Misaki," Fushimi said, turning to leave without even bothering to pick up his fallen things. There was something strange about his voice, strained, as if he was having trouble keeping his breath. "Replace that pity with killing intent, then come and find me. I'll be happy to play with you then."
He stumbled off into the crowd and Yata could only watch him go, silent. As Fushimi disappeared from sight, Yata realized that he was shivering lightly even though he couldn't feel the cold.
"Dammit!" Yata slammed a fist into the wall, ignoring the sudden sharp pain in his knuckles and the stares he was getting from the crowd. "Dammit, Saruhiko…why…why can't you just…"
There was wetness on his cheeks from something besides falling snow and Yata stood there with his head down for a long time, cursing himself in silence.
...
Fushimi stumbled into the closest empty alleyway he could find, hands white as he clutched the edges of the nearest trashcan, stomach heaving as he threw up again. His entire body was shaking and Fushimi pushed himself up against the wall, lips curling as shame and disgust crawled up his spine.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Fushimi gave a soft, bitter chuckle. Look at you. Lower than Misaki. Even worse than all of Homra combined.
He felt like he was sweating but his hands were cold to the fingertips and his head was swimming. Fushimi scratched roughly at his arms, savoring the electric shock of pain that ran through his body.
It was disgusting, really. To think that the death of one man could cause him to feel so frayed like this, unable to catch his breath or keep his feet at any given moment.
I'm not like the rest of you, Fushimi thought fiercely, digging his fingers into one of the scars beneath his bandages. This is nothing to me. That person was nothing to me. I have never had a King, not the way the rest of you have. I just followed him because I had nothing better to do, that's all. Because it got me away from there, and that was enough.
Munakata's face flashed through his mind, smiling silently down on him, and Fushimi shuddered hard, falling down onto his knees.
I'm fine. I'm fine. It was getting hard to breathe and his vision was going gray around the edges again — red blood, blue coat, silver blade and the Sword of Damocles falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop what was coming — and Fushimi curled in tighter against himself, lowering his head as he tried to ride out the fresh wave of nausea sweeping over him.
Was all of this part of your plan? Did you see this far ahead, Captain? Fushimi smiled thinly. He'd always thought of that person as someone who saw farther ahead than any of them and yet he couldn't completely bring himself to believe that this was the outcome that Munakata would have wanted. And even as the thought crossed his mind he felt disgusted at himself for it, that he would grasp to such a thin scrap of affection as if it meant anything.
His head was pounding and Fushimi pulled on the torn edge of a bandage, unwinding it further. His arms were aching even more now and there was an insistent throbbing in his shoulder as if there was something he was forgetting there.
Forgetting? Right, Misaki had said something about his memory. Fushimi closed his eyes but couldn't quite recall. Every time he tried to think back on that day the focus always narrowed laser-like on the park and blood and the sword, and he couldn't remember anything else. But he felt the dull pain in the back of his mind, like the bite of a blade on his skin, and his chest ached. Fushimi pushed his back hard against the wall and struggled to his feet, swaying dangerously, still able to taste the bile in the back of his throat.
I have no King. It was a desperate prayer as much as a thought, and Fushimi forced himself to stand straight. It was all right like this, wasn't it? He would have no King — no more Kings, not anymore — and no clan, either. Scepter 4 had always been simply the place where he worked, where his skills were needed, nothing more. It had not been a place to belong, no family, not like Homra. It had only been a field wherein he could exist and make use of his own skills, be a necessary pawn in a game whose end he could never quite see.
And now that there was an end, and what use was there for the pawn?
Fushimi laughed quietly to himself as he pushed his legs forward. He'd been a fool to let himself get so attached in the first place. When before had the meeting of blade and flesh ever torn into him this much? Never. He had always been a knife in the dark, cutting everything away. This should be no different. None of this should mean anything more to him.
"When the time to make a decision comes, my sword will carry out heaven's decree."
The old words echoed in his mind and Fushimi's hand twitched for the sword he no longer carried.
Captain… His head hurt and he didn't know why. There was a memory there — Munakata's apology and then the sword, and the two of them sinking together in the snow as words blurred between them, and Fushimi could not recall the sound. Everything was irritating, the snow, the cold, Misaki, the Captain's blood and the Captain's body, sinking in his mind. Fushimi pushed it all away, deeper and deeper into the dark corners of his mind where the hidden things went and forced himself to breathe, forced himself to move.
He limped out of the alley, keeping one hand on the wall for support and stumbled slightly as soon as he was out in the sun, blinking in the light. He took a few swaying steps and his hand slid against cool glass. Fushimi straightened slightly, turning to look at the store window that his hand had brushed against.
There was a thin sheen of ice covering the outside and he could just make out his own reflection, pale and thin with bags under the eyes, skin stretched tight over bones and just as awful as Misaki had said he looked. Fushimi smirked slightly. The image in the window smiled back and he could just make out shadows of another face, one too like his own, another smile and echoing laughter in his mind, and even as part of him curled back in disgust the rest of him shook with his own choking laughter.
There it was, plain as day, and he'd never quite seen it. He had always destroyed things, hadn't he? Fushimi had already forgotten the old lesson, that the things he held closely would fall to pieces eventually. So this was inevitable after all, that he would break this thing with his own hands, and there was no need to feel such pain over it. What other need would Munakata have had for him anyway, if not to be the destroyer at the very end?
Fushimi shook with laughter until he couldn't breathe anymore and slid down onto his knees again in the snow, tearing at the bandages on his arms.
...
"That should be good, don't you think? It would make a statement." Akiyama looked over expectantly at Awashima, who sat back on the couch as she considered.
"I suppose." Awashima looked thoughtful as her eyes swept the group. All of the Scepter 4 Special Forces members sat in a ring around her couch, papers scattered across the floor between them as they went over her proposal.
"No way, we have to do it the other way!" Doumyoji spoke up, holding up one of the papers in front him. He'd found a crayon somewhere and had drawn up what looked to be some sort of stick figure diagram. "This way is much cooler! Cooler is better, right?"
"Is 'cooler' really a good thing when meeting with government officials?" Enomoto said hesitantly.
"It's definitely a good thing! They can't overlook us if we're cool, right?"
"A-ah, well, coolness aside, any small thing helps, doesn't it?" Hidaka broke in. "We—we have to convince them that we can still do this, that Scepter 4 can still be here even if we don't have a-" His mouth snapped shut with a quick apologetic look at Awashima. She tensed only momentarily and then smiled softly.
"No, it's all right." Awashima straightened. "Very well. We will iron out the rest of the details and then dismiss for lunch. Is everyone agreed?"
"Yes, ma'am!" The response was immediate, ingrained, and it almost felt like coming home, somehow.
There was a sudden rush of cold air as the door banged open and Awashima got to her feet almost immediately.
"Fushimi-kun!" He didn't so much as stop at the sound of her voice, his head down as he made a beeline for his room. There was the sound of a slamming door.
"That was…Fushimi-san?" A few of the others shifted and Hidaka and Akiyama in particular looked like they were about to stand up and go after him. Awashima motioned for them to remain seated.
"I will handle it. The rest of you, continue working until I return, all right?" Her subordinates exchanged nervous looks but stayed where they were, and Awashima gave only a quick nod of acknowledgment before swiftly making her way towards Fushimi's room.
"Fushimi-kun, what has gotten into you?" She didn't bother to knock, simply pushing the door open as she spoke — it was Awashima's apartment, after all, and he was clearly in no mood to let her in if she chose to act polite.
A spiteful tongue click was her only answer. He was already hunched over the duffel bag in the corner, digging through it with the mindlessness of an animal. He straightened as she turned on the light, staring at her with a baleful glare. His sleeves had fallen back again and she could see that the bandages were in tatters, and there was blood running down his arms.
"Fushimi-kun…what have you done?" Awashima took a step towards him and he immediately shied backwards.
"That's none of your business," Fushimi said coldly, pulling his arms close. "I'm fine."
"You are certainly not 'fine,'" Awashima said and Fushimi gave a harsh bark of laughter that made her flinch involuntarily.
"Ah, and you care so much, Lieutenant?" Fushimi clicked his tongue again. "Really, it's disgusting, all of you. It made you feel good, didn't it Lieutenant Awashima? Being the one to take in the poor little traitor, cleaning his wounds? Made you feel warm and fuzzy inside? The Captain's ghost must be so proud of all that slavish devotion."
"Fushimi!" Awashima snapped angrily and Fushimi laughed again.
"Did I hit a nerve?" He looked straight at her, head hanging loosely to one side, smile a gaping wound. "That's it, isn't it? All of this…" He nodded towards the door. "Just another illustration of your precious duty. Tell me, Lieutenant…are you just going to remain shackled to that man's ghost forever?"
Awashima's mouth opened to say something, anything — to scold him, to refute his words — but nothing came out.
"It's actually a little pathetic, don't you think?" Fushimi continued. "Really, Lieutenant…ah, you're not even that anymore, though, are you? Scepter 4 is all gone now. Not that it matters anyway. And you looked so utterly devoted, pledging your sword to him. What were those words? 'Captain, if the time should come…I will, with my own hands, do my duty to the end.'" His voice pitched high, mocking her. "That was it, right? And you couldn't even manage that. Is all this your penance, then?" Fushimi ran a finger along one of the scars on his arms, drawing a thin line of blood as he went, and Awashima's eyes followed the movement with a sense of almost fascinated horror. "Your final duty, and you failed. That was the point of this all along, right? You try to rebuild because it's the only way to assuage your own guilt. You play the Captain's role, pretending you can fix what you couldn't stop from breaking. The perfect Heartless Woman. And all this…" He gazed around the room. "Your apology. Making a show of caring, going through the proper motions, pretending that you do this because you want to instead of just blindly following the orders you feel you've been given. It really makes me sick, you know. That look on your face whenever you talk to me, trying to be him when everyone knows you're not. It disgusts me more than I can say."
"That's enough!" Awashima said sharply, and Fushimi's smile seemed to only widen.
"What's wrong?" Fushimi asked coolly. "Haven't I always been the problem child? It's all right. I'll let you hold my hand and bind my wounds again, if it lets you pretend you're doing something of worth. I did your duty, after all. That's the only reason you're doing this, isn't it? Your pity, your guilt. Pretending to care, because it makes you feel better about your own failures. Did he order you to do this before he died? 'Take care of my pet traitor, don't let him off the leash.' Is that it? I wonder, do you ever do anything for yourself?"
"Fushimi…" Awashima's hands clenched. Every word he spoke felt like another knife thrown straight at her and suddenly she wanted to cross the space between them and do anything to make him quiet, order him, shake him, anything. If it would only quiet those words, she would chase him out of the apartment all on her own.
But Fushimi stood before her on shaking legs with blood running down his arms, smiling with empty eyes, and all of a sudden Awashima understood.
This was what he wanted. He wanted her to hate him. He wanted her to kick him out.
Awashima could never claim to understand the way Fushimi acted, not the way Munakata had. She had never understood how the Captain could let Fushimi say such insolent things, hurtful things, and take it all with a smile. But looking at him now it was as though a light had gone on somewhere and at last she could see it. Could see why Munakata would take in those poison words and counter with kindness, because to do otherwise would only give in to the self-destruction he was all but begging her to take part in.
Awashima closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath. She was not Munakata. She didn't think she could smile at him, could pretend his words hadn't drawn blood. But she couldn't be the person Fushimi wanted her to be either, wouldn't be that person.
"Fushimi-kun." She kept her tone measured and Fushimi's smile dropped away, replaced by confusion. "I don't have time for this today. I have things to attend to. If you are not up to assisting me, then you may remain in your room until you feel ready to join the rest of us. And go change your bandages or your injuries won't heal properly."
"What?" All of Fushimi's cold confidence had dropped away and he was staring at her in complete bafflement. There was something almost pleading in his eyes, begging her to rise to the bait he had so deliberately dangled in front of her, and it was enough to make Awashima almost feel bad for not being cruel to him.
"You heard me. We will talk about this again later." Awashima stood her ground. Her voice was still stern, commanding as she had always been with him, but she allowed an undertone of softness to it as well. Fushimi had always been something of a mystery to her, a person who she was never quite sure how to handle. But if she gave up on him that would be the end of it, and Awashima knew that neither the Captain nor she herself would ever be able to forgive her if she simply let things end, not after everything they'd been through. She was still the second in command of Scepter 4 and he was still one of her own. She would not abandon him now.
Without another word Awashima turned and walked out of the room, trying to keep her face composed as she went back to join the others.
Behind her she could hear the sound of something being thrown into a wall but Awashima didn't let herself turn around.
...
Awashima awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a door slamming. She blinked sleepily in the darkness, limbs feeling sore and heavy as she tried to clear the drowsiness from her mind. All of a sudden realization hit and she sat up abruptly.
"Fushimi-kun?" Awashima got to her feet and threw on a robe as she walked swiftly towards his room.
The door was open and the bedsheets were all in disarray, mingling with torn bandages on the floor. Fushimi's duffel bag lay upside down in a corner, insides torn out and scattered everywhere, but Fushimi himself was gone.