K © GoRa.


The sky breaks out in rain on my way home.

I don't mind.

I bring my fingers to my mouth and let them ghost across my lips before pressing down.

Fuck. They hurt.

"Yata-Chan, what happened?" Kusanagi asks once I walk into HOMRA. "You look like hell."

"I'm fine."

"Fushimi," Mikoto assumes, voice sounding characteristically rough, but more so than usual.

I can't answer, I just look at him helpessly. I don't want to be weak in front of anyone, least of all the king…

Mikoto doesn't say anything else. He just puts a hand on my shoulder, allowing it to linger briefly before letting it fall.

I try hard not to shudder at the contact, reminding myself it's only Mikoto.


I run a hand over my face, wondering what it had looked like contorted, with tears coming out...

No, I don't want to know.


It wasn't pleasant or romantic. Saruhiko isn't a pleasant or romantic guy. He slinked towards me like some sort of animal waiting on its prey.

And, fuck, I'm sure I could have easily gotten away… so why didn't I? Why couldn't I force myself to move?

We had been fighting seconds before he put his hands on me. This time was different. He wasn't getting ready to deliver another hit, he was getting ready for something else.

I don't remember who was winning before he turned the tables, but I suppose in the end, he won.


"Sh," he cut me off.

"Hey! What are you –" I had started to say, but was quieted. You can't kiss and talk at the same time. It's one of those things I had always assumed but hadn't really learned up until that moment. It was all messy and new and I didn't know what to do when his tongue crept into my mouth. I wanted to protest but I couldn't find it in me to do so. Abandoning all of my mixed feelings was all I could do.

There was desperation in his movements. It was like he didn't just want it but he needed it as well… and maybe, just maybe he did...

No. I was just letting him use me.

But why?

We aren't friends. We haven't been friends in a long time.

I don't owe him anything, least of all…

He lifted up my shirt and felt the skin with cold fingers and tongue, pausing when he came across the tattoo on my chest.

"Don't you dare touch that!" I spat.

"Mine's better," he said childishly, pulling back for a moment to expose his own tattoo's charred remains.

Dead pride.

"No…" I whispered, turning my head.

"Don't look away, Misaki."

I felt like a jumbled mess of poorly drawn lines and he just felt me. All of me.

There were roaming hands, fingers, and then –

"Saru…" I panted, "Wait, don't… That hurts…"

"Yes, Misaki," he whispered. I felt the heat of his breath against my ear as he pushed his way inside of me. His hips moved slowly at first, but the movements gradually grew faster, harder. Violent. I kept my body rigid, trying to ignore the pain. It hurt, and I think part of him wanted it to hurt. He wanted the memory imprinted into my body, not just my mind.

He had a bruising and firm grasp on my legs, holding me in place over a trash can.

That made it all the fucking worse.

It was dark, it was cold, and I was done over a trash can…

It burned something fierce. It burned, like my fleshy insides were being stretched too far, but I tried not to worry because that's all it was. Stretching, right? I kept repeating the word, like some sort of mantra to keep me sane.

Why didn't I protest? Why didn't I punch him, or spit in his goddamn face?

'It'll be over soon,' I kept thinking, but somehow I didn't believe those words. Everything hurt. Everything fucking hurt and all I could do was wait for it all to end, and when it finally did I just laid there a shaking mess.

It was wrong.

It was wrong…

I glanced down at the mess on my stomach. I wiped it off, feeling a sharp pain in my spine as I shifted.

It was so goddamn fucking wrong.

Eventually I stood up, pushing my shirt down and pulling my shorts back up. I wanted to run, but I was too tired, too sore. Overall, I was pretty fucking miserable. I fingered the cellphone in my pocket, debating on whether or not to use it.

I didn't.

I just stood there, listening to the clink of Saru doing up his belt and when I turned to leave he stopped me.

"Mi-sa-ki," he said in that taunting voice.

I thought that at least when it was over I would be able to pull myself together enough to finally retaliate, maybe hit him or yell at him… But I still couldn't.


"Don't call me that," I growled weakly. "You've played your fucked up game… I'm leaving now."

"So soon?"

I swallowed harshly, "I need to get back to –"

"To your precious Mikoto-San," he whispered tersely, "It's always been that way, hasn't it? Your head is filled only of him. You always did love to play family. HOMRA… Don't make me laugh."

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, unable to turn around, unable to face him. I guess what I really wanted to know is what happened to us. Why did we become this? Why did he…

"No one else can have you like that," he said, "because, Misaki is mine."

"I don't belong to anyone… least of all a traitor like you."

But I guess… Somewhere deep down I'm like a moth with an amputated wing, struggling in circles. Maybe I'll always end up back where I started. I'll always end up back here, with him.

"Don't fucking touch me, you sick bastard," I whispered, shaking with anger as he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Look at me, Misaki."


He repeated my name and I shuddered.

"Misaki is being so quiet tonight… I suppose you still don't understand," he sighed, and there was something in his tone I couldn't quite place. "If you still don't, it's possible you never will. I regret that it had to be this way."


I turned around and pressed my forehead into his chest, still unwilling to look him in the face, but I couldn't contain myself. I was hurting, and I was realizing that "heart break" wasn't just a figurative term. For some reason, my chest was aching and in that moment I hated myself more than I could ever hate him, but still –

"I hate you," I croaked, eyes burning and throat aching as bad as the rest of me.

"I know," he whispered.

"I hate you," I repeated, starting to sob.

"I know," he said again, tugging me into his chest. I didn't have it in me to pull away.

But maybe this is what he wanted. Maybe this is how he wanted things to end… Or begin.

This memory...

He is still inside of me, engraved in my mind, engraved in my skin.

I think… that is what he wanted.


I hate you.

I am still wondering whether or not I had really meant those words.