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Fushimi is already regretting this.
He sits down in the cockpit of the helicopter, slim fingers at his temple. From his seat in the pilot seat, the wide window looms over him, trapping the limitless blue sky within its four sides.
A headache that had started forming ever since let's hang out this weekend, Saru! throbs through his fingers, and he thinks long and hard about just ditching now, while there's still a chance.
Why the hell he even agreed to this, he doesn't know. He clearly remembers saying I don't have time and yet here he is, him and his pulsing headache as he waits for someone he hasn't been on good terms with in years.
His head gives another particularly painful pulse, much to his annoyance. If he'd known that inviting Yata for a small helicopter ride would make his head hurt this much, he most definitely would've skipped it. Too late now, though.
He's beginning to think that maybe Yata isn't even coming, maybe this headache is all for nothing, when a loud voice fills his ears.
"Saruhiko!"
The helicopter rocks a little as HOMRA's vanguard lands inside, jumping in—jumping in with his skateboard?
"Yo," Yata says, giving a hesitant grin. He rolls forward, then stops and steps off the skateboard, lifting it up and propping it on the back of Fushimi's seat. "What's up?"
Fushimi stares for awhile, a reflexive insult rising up for his until-just-recently-rival, but swallows it down with effort. "My superiors aren't going to be happy with you," he says, and looks down, at the thin black lines left on the floor. "Your stupid skateboard left scuff marks."
"It did?" Surprised, Yata follows his gaze, and his eyes widen. "Oh. Holy shit."
"Well, Mi-sa-ki? Anything you'd like to say?" Fushimi says, eyebrows raised.
"What're you expecting, an 'I'm sorry'?" Misaki laughs, "I'm not apologizing to any Blues, fuck no."
Fushimi tenses a touch, and his lips part to retort something nastier, something that'll make Misaki's laugh melt—but he can't, he reminds himself, or else he'll ruin everything all over again. So he simply clicks his tongue, turns back to the chopper's controls, and gestures to the passenger seat.
"Have a seat, Misaki, I don't bite. At least, not hard."
Yata sinks into the chair beside Fushimi, arms crossed, familiar scowl on his face. "Shut up, Monkey."
Fushimi taps a few buttons, and then the helicopter blades are whirring, loud and deafening over both their heads.
"Let's hope Captain doesn't find out about this," he mutters, before they're off the ground, Fushimi's fingers quick over the dials and switches as they lift into the sky like a free flying balloon.
"Woaah!" Yata's palms press against his window, wide hazel eyes snagged on the ground below them, and the people growing tinier and tinier the higher up they climb. He looks back to Fushimi, and the expression is so raw, so open, so Misaki. "This is amazing!"
Fushimi isn't used to the praise, not after all these years, and finds himself unable to look Yata in the eye. He keeps his focus on the joystick in front of him, "You get excited too easily. You've been in an aircraft before, idiot."
"Maybe, but it's not like I had time to enjoy the scenery." His smile wavers, if for a moment, before its returns in the form of a mocking grin. "Last time, I was a little too busy saving your ass."
". . . Whatever." Fushimi's voice comes out thick, not quite as unruffled as he wants it to be. He clears his throat, once, twice. "That was only repayment for the millions of times I've saved yours."
"Whaaa? Not fucking true! Name one time, damn Monkey!"
"One? Oh, I can name at least twenty. One, the time I . . . "
Fushimi's mind drifts as he talks, as they argue back and forth, and he revels in how odd it feels, fighting in a teasing manner rather than a spiteful one. It doesn't feel odd in a bad way, but he doesn't know if it's a good odd, either.
Their bickering wears thin eventually, though, once Fushimi runs out of things to say and Yata of frustrated scowls. The words between them fall away, and the low whine of the helicopter blades take their place. Yata won't meet his eyes, almost like how Fushimi couldn't meet his earlier.
"Oi. Saruhiko."
"What," Fushimi says, fingers stalling on the joystick. He twists it to the right, and the helicopter follows their lead, pulled in the direction of some thin looking clouds. The sun beams through the window, and he looks to the side.
Yata's voice can rarely be described as anything but loud loud loud, but right now it comes out tiny, like the squeak of a mouse. "Why did you bother doing all this?"
"Why? What a foolish question, Mi-sa-kiii."
"Quit saying my name like that," says Yata. "You make it sound so creepy. But, really," he continues, "we could've just hung out at the park or something—you didn't have to do all this for me."
"It was nothing," says Fushimi. "If it had been too much of a trouble, I wouldn't had bothered doing it at all."
In reality, getting his hands on the helicopter had required pulling more than one all-nighter to finish his paperwork so he'd have today free, stealing the keys for the chopper door, and finally reaching the helicopter itself without anyone noticing. Plus, dealing with the Yata-induced headache the whole ordeal had brought. But he doesn't mention any of this, of course.
"If, if you're doing this as some way of saying sorry again, don't. I already forgave you, and that's that. Alright?" Yata's cheeks are red.
At this, Fushimi heart quickens, unbearable in his rib-cage. And his palm feels sweaty on the helicopter's joystick, but he doesn't know why. "I'm not doing this to say sorry," he lies, voice a low murmur. "Don't give yourself too much credit."
"W-whatever, Saru." Yata shakes his head, "So gloomy, just like the old days. And I bet you're still antisocial, too—Do you even have any friends in SCEPTER 4?"
". . . Tch. I told you, I didn't join SCEPTER 4 to make friends—"
"You really don't, then!" Unable to help it, Yata's lips split into a grin and he laughs, laughs and laughs until Fushimi is quietly glaring daggers at him, despite the fact that this way he can't see where they're going. (He does look back to the front, however, once he realizes they're headed straight for a towering skyscraper.)
"Geez, Saru. Not one friend?" Yata smiles, and for a moment Fushimi feels blinded, lost in memories full of that exact smile. "Huh, I guess that's not true. You have me now, right?"
Fushimi doesn't know what to say to this, conflicted beyond belief—that's not right, he wants to say, they're not friends, they're rivals, can't Yata get that in his head? At the same time, he has to remind himself that they're not rivals, not anymore, and the unexpected relief is almost suffocating.
His free hand comes up to scratch idly at his burned over mark, an old habit that doesn't seem to be fading anytime soon. "If you say so."
"What? Do you not want me as a friend anymore or something?" Yata gripes. "Too bad. You're stuck with me now, got it?"
"So annoying," says Fushimi, and then he looks to Yata with a smirk. "And clingy."
"Hey! I'm not clingy."
"Sure, Mi-sa-kiii."
"I'm not!" Yata flips him off, but Fushimi only raises his eyebrows in response, which he guesses isn't the reaction the vanguard wanted. "If I were clingy, I'd do something stupid, like try to get you to rent a place with me again, but then again, I might do that even if I'm not clingy, which I'm not, obviously—"
The shrill noise of a PDA cuts him off. Fushimi fumbles to grab it from his pocket—rent a place with me again—and brings it to his ear, fingers unsteady around the piece of plastic.
"Fushimi. Why are you not at work?" demands Awashima, her voice cool on the other end.
Fushimi's voice isn't as collected as hers, but for a different reason entirely. "I took a day off. Sorry."
"Sorry? That's all you have to say? You can't simply leave as you please, Fushimi. And about the missing helicopter—"
Yata gives him a bewildered look as he interjects, "Yes, I'm well aware, Lieutenant, but I believe my PDA is malfunctioning, so—"
"Fushimi Saruhiko," she sounds the mother Fushimi never had, he thinks amusedly, "don't even think about faking a malfunction so you can—"
"Hang up on me," is what he knows she's going to say next, but Fushimi doesn't wait to hear her say it; he's too busy pressing the end call button and tucking his PDA back into his pocket.
"Monkey," Yata says with a chuckle, "did you seriously just hang up on The Heartless Woman?"
Fushimi returns his hands to the controls, tossing a small shrug to the boy beside him by way of reply.
It seems that it is impossible for Yata Misaki to run out of laugher, for he bursts into more fits of it, and the sound isn't unpleasant against Fushimi's ears. He's almost to the point of laughter himself—Yata's must be contagious or something—when Yata calms himself down enough to say, "What were we talking about, again? Before the call? I can't remember . . ."
rent a place with me again
Fushimi's mouth dries up, and his fingers tighten on the controls. "I don't either."
"Oh! I remember! The apartment thing—like I was saying, maybe in the future we could—"
Yata's voice sounds hopeful, nervous, excited—Fushimi pictures a younger and even shorter Yata, eyes big and vibrant as he asks with that same voice, Can't we rent a room together? Let's make it our secret headquarters!
Fushimi's hands are too slick on the controls to be normal, he knows, and that's when the idea strikes. He can't handle this conversation, not so soon, not when everything is so new—but teasing Yata is nothing new, nothing foreign to him, so why not do that instead?
"Shit," he says, loudly, to cover up Yata's idea before it grows into something all too real. "Misaki."
"What?" Yata frowns, looking annoyed at being interrupted for the second time. "I'm trying to say something, y'know, and it's pretty important—"
"The controls," Fushimi pretends to fiddle with some, "aren't responding."
"Huh?! What do you mean, not responding?"
The helicopter is low in the sky, now; it soars straight toward the skyscraper looming up in front of them. The blades whir and the lights flash greens and reds as they close the distance to the building. Judging from their speed, Fushimi knows the building will be upon them in a minute or so.
"I mean," says Fushimi pointedly, "I can't control it, idiot, we're going to crash—"
"Fuck!" Eyes wide, Yata's mouth opens and he gapes at the upcoming building; he wrenches around in his seat to face Fushimi, voice urgent, "Isn't there some emergency button or lever?!"
"No, there's not—"
"But there has to be!"
What Fushimi expects is Yata being completely frantic, freaking out over a crashing helicopter that Fushimi in fact has complete control of. He expects the wide eyes, the cusses, the shouts, and he knows he'll enjoy teasing Yata about it later, you should've seen your face, Mi-sa-kiii—
What he doesn't expect is Yata leaping on top of him, sprawled over Fushimi's legs, grabbling for the controls to save them from a crash that is never actually going to happen.
"Hey!" Fushimi reaches around Yata's figure—he can't reach the controls, not with Yata on top of him like this, and if he can't reach the controls the possibility of crashing is suddenly much more likely. "Get off of me!"
The helicopter sways, jerks, twists, as Yata's hands jab buttons and dials at random. "Dammit," he shouts over the loud beeping that's taken over the small space, "I am not going down this easy—"
The building spins into view, alarmingly close, and Fushimi wonders if he really will die here, all because of a stupid joke and with Yata's elbows and knees jabbing into his sides.
Then, finally, Yata's fingers find the joystick, and he wrenches it so hard it almost snaps in half, but it's enough. The helicopter swerves to the left, hard, and the unstable craft flies to safety, away from the building and into the empty blue sky.
Shocked into silence, Fushimi's entire body goes still, save for his furiously pounding heartbeat. Yata is breathing hard, situated on his lap, his warmth like flames on Fushimi's thighs.
When Yata finally speaks, his voice is brimming with anger. "Saruhiko . . ."
Fushimi says nothing, and Yata whirls around; his legs swing to straddle Fushimi's waist and his hands fist the swordsman's collar.
"You tricked me, didn't you?! The controls were working just fine!"
"Oh, were they?" Fushimi reaches around Yata for the joystick to stabilize the aircraft, "I had no idea."
"Idiot Monkey, what the hell?! Was scaring the shit out of me just for giggles or something?!" Yata beats a fist on his chest, but not hard enough to hurt. "I hate you, y'know that?"
A smirk is all that Fushimi gives in response, and so Yata continues to curse at him, and all Fushimi can think is that Yata's still on his lap, heavy and warm and alive.
"Oi, are you even listening to me?"
Fushimi clicks his tongue at the question, "No."
"Hmph." Yata pokes a finger at his uniform, "I'm just saying. If we'd died, I would've killed you. So you're lucky."
"Glad to know you've got it all figured out," he says. His focus switches—with much effort—from Yata on his lap to their surroundings, and he starts to steer the craft back towards the base. The sky is calm and cloudless, and Fushimi finds himself admiring it.
At least, until Yata drags back his attention with a, "Oi, Saru. Let's move back in together."
It's the question Fushimi knows is coming but doesn't want to come. His pulse feels too fluttery, too frantic. "I don't—"
"Come on, how bad can it be?" Very bad, Fushimi wants to say, but Yata continues before he can utter a word. "It'll be just like the old days, yeah?"
"Things have changed since then," says Fushimi. "We're not the same anymore." Their world has changed, their lost small world has warped, and Fushimi doesn't want to believe they can have that back again.
"Of course we're not," Yata says. He gestures to himself, "I mean, I look different, you look different—it's not like we're gonna be exactly the same back when we were in middle school. But," here a faint blush rises to his cheeks, "no matter how much we change, I still wanna be with you."
Fushimi contemplates pinching himself, because surely this must be a dream, it has to be.
"Did you ever even hate me?" His words are taut, drawn out in the tight space. They fill the air between their too close bodies like poison.
"Yeah, I did," says Yata, and Fushimi's eyes widen. Yata's chestnut hair brushes the swordsman's cheek as he leans closer, and then they're only inches apart. "I hated you a lot. But now I don't."
Unconsciously, Fushimi leans forward too; this way he can feel Yata breathe and see the flecks of hazel in his eyes.
"Let's move in together," Yata repeats. "Just. Just think about it, alright?"
After a moment of tense silence, Fushimi nods, and it feels as if a weight lifts from his chest when he does. The sudden hope that bursts is as tangible as Yata's hair tickling his cheeks. He leans even closer; their foreheads touch—
But then the moment breaks, because it's not a good idea to stare into someone's eyes when piloting a helicopter, and said helicopter is heading straight for a flock of birds when Fushimi realizes. He pulls away, satisfied when he hears Yata's disappointed "Che," and maneuvers the chopper.
Even as he does, though, Yata remains nestled in his seat with him, and Fushimi's mild protests and grumblings about it do nothing to get him away. He finds he doesn't mind all that much, even if he can't see the window clearly over Yata's beanie.
They stay like that until they land, and when they do, an angry Awashima and an amused Munakata are waiting for them, but all Fushimi can think about is Yata's fire, the fire in his red cheeks and the fire in his words, and who knew fire can actually feel nice.