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They're sitting on the couch as Fushimi fiddles idly with his PDA, and Misaki's drifting to sleep against his shoulder, the unwatched TV droning the evening news in the background. Outside, the rain thrums against the window, rivulets of water gleaming against the darkening sky.
“Saruhiko,” Misaki mumbles, already half-asleep, and Fushimi turns to look at him. “Could you, um. Wash the dishes later.”
“Tired?”
“Yeah.” A drowsy grin flickers across his face. “But I finally got it, you know, that trick I was working on for a week?”
“I don’t remember,” Fushimi snorts. “It probably wasn’t worth staying out in the rain for anyway.” You could get sick, he nearly adds, but doesn’t, because he knows he’s had enough of Misaki and the rest of Scepter 4 playing some sort of collective mother hen whenever he so much as breathes the wrong way.
“Asshole.” Misaki’s breathing sharpens, steadies on the cusp of sleep, and Fushimi swallows.
“Misaki.”
“Mm?”
He doesn’t know why he said it, doesn’t know why he thinks it, for they have all the time in the world now. The words are there already; they hover all around the two in the tiny, dim room, lingering in the soft press of weight against his shoulder, in the glow of the television spilling colors onto Misaki’s face.
They both know it: a certainty and a truth, as real and tangible as Yata Misaki’s presence by his side. They couldn't have made it this far otherwise.
He takes a deep breath, waits until Misaki looks up at him in blurry confusion, and says it anyway.