It was just about midnight when Fushimi turned the key in the lock and opened the door to his apartment, mumbling out a tired, half-irritable, "I'm home," as he stepped into the entranceway.
The overtime had not been planned, and he wasn't particularly happy about having to put it in (not that he ever was, but in situations where it couldn't be helped, at least it felt somewhat worthwhile). The fact of the matter was that someone (he hadn't been given the name, but he would find out, and there would be hell to pay) had not been vigilant when bringing in a recent arrest, and the strain had wrecked havoc around headquarters until he had been properly restrained and confined - following which there had been emergency clean-up, injuries to tend to, and additional reports to write.
None of it necessary in the slightest, had whichever idiot who had caused the whole thing just paid attention in the first place.
All in all, he was in a foul mood, and Misaki's response to his text that he'd be home late had included some derogatory remark about Scepter 4, which he hadn't replied to at the time. On the train ride home, though, he'd had a chance to think up any number of possible responses, and he could almost map out the argument they were going to have in his head now.
So, when he got back nothing but the steady influx of noise from the TV, it threw him a little.
He went to bed already?
Well, that would make things simpler, but it was a little disappointing all the same. Not because he'd wanted to fight - arguing with Misaki was more of an irritation than anything now, especially given that they had more interesting ways to spend their time together - but because it meant there'd be no interaction at all until he got home from work tomorrow. And that was assuming that Misaki didn't pick up another shift or have plans with friends or anything like that.
Pointless. Fushimi clicked his tongue, feeling tired and cranky and altogether out-of-sorts. There was a plate of covered food on the counter in the kitchen, but he wasn't particularly hungry. The apartment felt too still.
At least, he reasoned, pulling off his jacket and heading in to turn off the TV, he could climb into bed and curl around Misaki, which may or may not wake him up. The bed wasn't all that big, so it could be reasoned away easily enough if need be. He preferred it when there was as little space between them as possible, although Misaki sometimes grumbled about wanting some room to get comfortable. For all the complaints, though, he didn't push Fushimi away, and sometimes even held on right back, so it was fine.
That plan had just barely formed in his head when he wandered over to look for the TV remote, but it fell apart immediately when he caught sight of Misaki's ungracefully sprawled form on the couch.
So, he fell asleep watching TV. That was typical. And he was making a pretty undignified picture right now, too: one arm and leg hanging off the side of the couch, shirt hiked up, and a hand on his exposed belly with the fingers curled like he'd been scratching at it. His head was propped against the arm of the couch, mouth hanging slack and eyelids fluttering ever so slightly as his chest rose and fell with the regular breathing of deep sleep.
There were times when Fushimi wondered how he'd allowed so much of himself to be tied together with this person - this totally ordinary human being, with below average intelligence and a complete inability to grasp any form of subtlety or inflection. Undersized Misaki, with his naturally downturned lips, and his flat-eyed stare, and his scruffy auburn hair.
That face never left his head, but somehow looking at it in person always made his heart seem to turn in his chest.
Stupid, really, when you thought about it.
There wasn't much point in thinking about it these days, though. Fushimi reached out with the immediate intent of shaking Misaki awake so that he could move to a bed, and then stopped in mid-reach, considering.
In a lot of ways, the motions of 'dating someone' were kind of like a ridiculously elaborate dance, complete with an obstacle course of trivial, annoying things that kept being thrown out onto the floor while you tried to match up your steps with your partner's. Before he'd rationalized out what some of the things he felt about Misaki actually meant, it had seemed like a disgusting amount of effort for an - at best - dubious return.
As it turned out, the 'disgusting amount of effort' was actually very frequently true - compromising on this and being attentive to that while having to stop at various points and actually talk about 'feelings' or some nebulous equivalent... It could be beyond frustrating, and the fact that it came far more easily to Misaki than to him had led to more than one argument that ended up seeming unnecessarily dramatic in hindsight.
'Dubious return', though... that was where he - privately - had to admit he'd been wrong.
Right now, there was a large potential return to be had on a relatively small amount of effort on his part. Fushimi studied Misaki's slumbering face, and felt that peculiar twinge that was part excitement, part anxiety, and somehow entirely addictive. One of the things that came up regularly when Misaki was truly angry with him - as opposed to just irritated or moderately pissed off - was the repeated question of 'do you even care?' or 'why do I always have to be the one to push for things?' There was really no point in even talking about it, in Fushimi's opinion; it was frustrating that it came up at all. He cared, and after the painful breakdowns and the awkward emotional talks and all of the things he still sometimes didn't feel comfortable remembering, Misaki was most definitely aware of that. Pushing for things had always, always been Misaki's job, though, and half of the time Fushimi didn't even know what there was to push for until it came up.
The other half of the time, it was in moments like this, where there was clearly something he could do - maybe it wasn't exactly pushing for anything, but the same principle applied - but doing it felt awkward. And really, Misaki was supposed to be the awkward one - blunt, headstrong, heart-on-his-sleeve Misaki. In this aspect of his life, at least, Fushimi was content to be pulled forward by the hand holding onto his.
Still, though... little things like this weren't so hard, in the end.
Might as well just go ahead, then. Bracing himself on the arm of the couch with one hand, Fushimi bent down over Misaki's slumbering form. A last minute touch of hesitation caught him as he drew closer, hovering indecisively just above that familiar face, and then he firmly shut the door on that corner of his brain and closed the rest of the distance in order to cover Misaki's lips with his.
He had only a few seconds to recognize how odd it felt for the contact to be so one-sided, and then Misaki was stirring under him, shifting his limbs and making a small, confused noise against Fushimi's lips as he regained his awareness.
The kiss broke. There was a sharp intake of breath near his mouth, and when he lifted his head and opened his eyes, Misaki was staring blurrily up at him as if he had no idea where he was or what was happening. "Saru?" he mumbled, voice foggy with sleep.
Something about that bewildered, half-awake expression was really endearing. Fushimi felt his chest twist tighten up a little, not unpleasantly. "I'm back," he murmured, for lack of anything better to say.
Misaki's answering smile was warm and sleepy, lidded eyes already bright behind the haziness. "Hey," he answered, still groggy but with obvious fondness in his tone. One of his hands slid around to the back of Fushimi's neck, urging him back down. "Welcome home."