He'd never known blinding rage until Saruhiko. It was becoming a common occurrence. The other man didn't even have to be present. Something would just remind him. Someone ordering the traitor's favorite drink at the bar. That song that was their favorite once in middle school playing on the jukebox. The color blue.

And then it was like a fog descended and the next thing he knew, Kusanagi was yelling at him for digging his nails into the bar so hard it was making scratches. He never knew when to expect it.

But for some reason that wasn't happening now. He was standing eight feet away, yet every seething emotion was crystal clear along with that godforsaken smirk. His grip tighten on the baseball bat, prepared to beat that smirk right off his smug face.

"This is HOMRA territory, Monkey," he growled and Fushimi's grin grew wider. "Get the fuck out, before I make you."

"So inhospitable, Mi...sa...ki," he sing-songed. He shrugged. "And beside, this entire city is Scepter 4 jurisdiction. So I'd like to see you try."

"Stop using my first name!" He kicked the end of his skateboard violently, grabbing it and taking a step forward. "You have no right to anymore," he said, voice rising to a shout. "You gave up that right! You burned it right off your chest! You betrayed me and HOMRA, after everything Mikoto-san did for you!"

A sudden giggle burst out of the other man and he threw his head back, clutching his stomach lightly as he laughed. He straightened and when his eyes opened, something harder, darker hid behind his amusement. "Mikoto? You mean that unhinged thug you hero worship?" The remark was intended to provoke and he was entirely expecting it when Yata charged.

He parried the downward swing of the bat with his saber easily, their weapons making a cross above his head. He turned swiftly to his right while the redhead glided past him.

"Fuck you! Like you have any reason to talk about 'unhinged,' you psychopath," the shorter man growled, his red aura beginning to edge his profile. "If you didn't want to be a Red, you shouldn't have taken the mark! You didn't have to betray us to make your point!"

Something snapped in Fushimi's face, a shift so rapid Misaki barely had time to raise his arm to block the blade rushing at his face.

"Is that what you think?" he hissed, bringing his face close over their crossed weapons. He brought the sword back up and swung it savagely. Misaki stumbled back off his skateboard, dumbfounded and barely keeping up with the blows.

"Mikoto-san, Mikoto-san, MIKOTO-SAN!" his voice rising until it was nearly a screech, matching every word with a strike that sent painful vibrations down Yata's arm into his shoulder. "You want his cock so badly, it's like the only word left in your already-dismal vocabulary."

His face was absolutely deranged, eyes bright with malice. The strikes kept coming. All the HOMRA clansman could do was stare stupidly, the red glow around him fading as he was pushed back. Crack. The bat splintered, the saber embedding itself in the wood. He didn't even realize he'd been backed into a corner until he felt gritty brick through his t-shirt. He had barely registered that when the whistle of the blade inches from his face made him flinch.

He tore his eyes from the other man to find the blade buried in the brick, before snapping them back to find his old friend's face barely an inch from his own once again.

"Do you still not get why I joined HOMRA? Why I put up with all those ignoramuses? You understand nothing," he growled. "You see nothing." He grabbed Misaki's face roughly with one hand, his palm shoving his face up, snapping his jaw together painfully. Pain and a warm metallic taste erupted in his mouth from a bit tongue. Fushimi's fingers dug into his cheeks hard...

...And smashed their lips together roughly. It was by no means sweet or gentle. All clacking of teeth and bruised lips. The taller man forced his tongue into the other's mouth, tasting blood. Yata's legs began to tremble and he found himself, inexplicably, kissing back.

Fushimi broke away. They panted, Fushimi still seething and the shorter man wondering when his fist had become balled tightly, white-knuckled in the taller's white undershirt.

Fushimi glared, hand tightening on Misaki's face. "Do you see me now?"