The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

One Hundred Points


Saruhiko had almost completely forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of, so it came as a bit of surprise, both unfamiliar and familiar at once, the way Misaki hung around on his return from the hospital.

“How many stitches?” Misaki asked as he frowned at Saruhiko’s limp.

How many stab wounds was more like it, Saruhiko thought with a scowl. And how many pints of blood did he have to get, how many hours passed out unconscious, how many days stuck in the hospital, surprised at how many people came to visit and how long they stayed. Misaki stayed the longest, stubbornly sleeping on the ugly couch in the corner of the room until they’d released Saruhiko to finish recovering at home.

“I don’t need—”

Misaki put the water and painkillers in his hand anyway and frowned. “Whatever you need, just let me know. I’ve got good ears.”

Saruhiko remembered that. Good ears, an open window, bringing anything he needed. It was a strange feeling again. He stared at Misaki for a long moment, who made a point of looking anywhere but back at him, a faint flush staining his face. Misaki had always turned red easily, with embarrassment or that bright, livid anger of his first temper before it turned to resentment.

There were other words, a little too stilted from disuse, words like thanks that neither of them had ever been actually good at using. Instead, Saruhiko swallowed the pills and drank the water and leaned back on the couch with slow, shallow breaths as he tried to ignore the various aches and shooting pains from injuries that would take a while to heal.

He picked up his PDA only to have Misaki stare at him skeptically with crossed arms. “What?”

“Monkey, you’re supposed to be resting.” And there was his usual graceless way of showing he cared. Zero points.

It was enough to draw Saruhiko’s exasperated sigh. “I have work to do.”


At least he wasn’t trying to actually take the PDA away. Saruhiko really wasn’t up to chasing him, but he set it down, planning to work later when Misaki was out of the room.

Misaki surprised him by throwing his shoulder under Saruhiko’s arm and helping him back up and to the bedroom. Saruhiko was tired, he realized, and his leg was hurting fiercely. He settled on the futon without protesting until Misaki turned to go back out.

“Misaki,” Saruhiko stopped him, hand gripping his sleeve. “You don’t have to go make me something. I’m not hungry.”

What he really meant was, you don’t have to go. He actually was a little hungry for something that wasn’t hospital food, and he remembered all the times Misaki had cooked for him before he’d left HOMRA, but that wasn’t what this was about. He looked at Misaki and waited.

Most of the time, Misaki didn’t get it, but when he did, he nailed it. Zero or a hundred.

Misaki looked down at the hand on his sleeve, then back to the look on Saruhiko’s face. His face went from surprised and wondering to impatience as he waved at Saruhiko’s hands. “Move over, Monkey.” He made a show of shoving and jostling Saruhiko to one side of the futon so there was room for him to climb on beside him, but somehow, his weight never leaned against anywhere Saruhiko was injured, as if he’d already memorized every place his friend had been hurt.

It felt a little easier to breathe, side by side, the world spinning around until it returned to a state of being they’d lost a long time ago. There was a moment where the weight of companionship felt so real and solid between them, Saruhiko thought it warmer than a blanket and more comforting. He looked over at Misaki leaning his head back on his hands, arms stretched over his head, seeming lost in thought.

Whatever you need, just let me know.


Misaki glanced over, a bright grin spreading over his face.

“Could you bring me my PDA? You left it on the couch.”

Misaki groaned. “After I just got down, you want that?”

“I have things to do,” Saruhiko replied dryly.

“No working,” but Misaki was already getting up to go get the PDA.

Saruhiko was pretty good at self control and thinking things through and calculated decisions in so many cases, but he wasn’t really sure how much of that applied to Misaki. Instead of taking the offered device, he wrapped his hand in the front of Misaki’s shirt, like he had so many times before, fighting with HOMRA, in exasperation, in anger, and pulled Misaki down enough to kiss him.

“What the— What was that for?” Misaki sputtered, red-faced when Saruhiko let him go.

Saruhiko gave him an ugly look. It wasn’t exactly difficult to read a kiss. “Nothing,” he muttered darkly, looking away then trying to roll over on his side so he didn’t have to look at Misaki and his reaction. It’s exactly what he should have expected, he’d just thought, or hoped rather—

“Idiot monkey,” Misaki muttered right back, almost directly in Saruhiko’s ear. Sudden warmth covered his back and Misaki’s breath heated the back of his neck. Misaki threw one arm heavily over Saruhiko’s waist. The muttering eased and their comfortable silence slowly returned.

There was a heavy knot in Saruhiko’s stomach, and it felt like his was the face that was on fire. He didn’t say anything though, never had all those times when Misaki had invaded his space, never known when he wasn’t wanted, never known when he was just over the top and too much. Saruhiko dared to shift his hand to grip Misaki’s arm and hold him back.

The silence didn’t break and neither did Misaki’s loose embrace.

One hundred points.


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