“All equal before sleep, death’s brother.” –Joseph Conrad

Waking was agony.

Torn from the solace of sleep, Hisoka woke to a gasping, writhing uncertainty as shadows shifted in his peripheral vision. He choked, bucking up against seizure restraints as a tremor of fire lanced across his skin, the shock burn of hypersensitive nerves, the cause of which still eluded every doctor with the misfortune to pull his file. They tried valiantly to puzzle it out, watching in awe as the as-yet-unnamed disease shut down system after system while he continued to live on with apparent ease. It seemed that nothing would kill him, yet with each failing organ the pain increased tenfold, barely muted through a haze of morphine induced docility. (1)

His wrists ached, arms straining from his shoulders as his body arched, suspended above the bed clothes at a painful angle and he morbidly wondered what was giving in this time. He’d lost a kidney and half his peripheral nervous system in the space of a few days and the inevitable demise of a vital organ loomed, a pointed reminder that every breath he took was made on borrowed time. Even that was a trial now, with intermittent stretches of hyperventilation and gasping for what little oxygen his taxed systems would allow. Lately, these had been mixed with an even more frightening sensation, the panic accompanying the slow push of oxygen deprivation even as he felt his lungs expanding normally.

He longed for the cradling arms of unconsciousness, for the dark embrace of death. For all the endless parade of counselors attempting to convince him otherwise, there was nothing left to cling to within this mockery of a life he led now. Not the pain, not the newly disconcerting feeling of his recently insensate legs, and certainly not anything of his equally unresponsive family. He hadn’t had so much as a letter from their direction since the day his extended stay on the ward had been arranged, and while they paid quite handsomely to see that he was taken care of, it was little comfort in endless days filled with the distant concern of strangers, the pity of passersby and the insincerity of the doctors who assured him there was still a chance for him so long as he held on.

It was disconcerting that he couldn’t remember how long he’d been there--on the ward, in his bed, clothed in nothing but an overenthusiastically starched bed sheet and a flimsy gown that did little to hide his emaciated frame. Years, he thought, perhaps decades… was it even possible to grow while afflicted with a terminal disease? He had no marker with the way he slipped from consciousness whenever given the chance, the days and nights had long since melded together with the endless stream of listless, useless time that was his life. He was awake at night more often than not, when the wing was down to a skeleton staff and the barrage of errant emotions became more bearable, and that afforded him little in the way of human contact.

Monitors screamed, and he dimly felt the tube in his nose fall away to hide somewhere amongst his bed sheets as another particularly violent tremor took hold. New pain laced up his arms as his impressive collection of IVs strained against the tape holding them in place. His body thrashed, jerking like a puppet animated by a drunken master, but Hisoka managed to steady his head long enough to watch rivulets of blood meander down his forearm, trickling from beneath bandages as needles were torn from his veins. A sharp crack and his calf slammed roughly into the guardrail; he was suddenly thankful that he no longer had the capacity to feel the birth of what would probably be an impressive bruise come morning.

The pain was nothing. After years in a crumbling prison of a body he was intimately familiar with every ache the human body could produce, and had long since ceased to register all but the most pervasive injury. No, the worst were the dreams, sudden visions of another self that had no hope of existing if only for the inclusion of the suddenly impossible skill of walking. His one refuge had been defiled, plagued by visions of heat and death, of violet eyes shadowed with an ageless wisdom whose mystery followed him even into his waking hours.

Fever dreams, or so the counselors called them. The last hurrah of a dying mind. He almost wished he could believe that, wallow in the happy ignorance of the unaware and die in peace, but the same part of him that drove his empathy hinted at something more. His sleep had been dreamless before they began, and he refused to allow for coincidence where it had never been relevant before. The dreams seemed almost prophetic, tense with warning of things to come, and for all he might have shut them out and retreated to his familiar oblivion, something in him insisted that he watch, be mindful, be wary.

And so he dreamt of despair and devotion, of black flames and a terrible, massive serpent. Of glowing eyes, dull beneath their brilliance and the desperate love they evoked as the world fell down around them.

‘That’s enough Hisoka. I’ve already lived more than my share…I’m…so tired…’ (2)

The screeching of the monitors was painful now. If he listened hard enough he could distinguish the heart monitor among the cacophony, its normally comforting rhythm disturbed. It seemed sluggish, frighteningly so, and he strained his hearing to follow its progress as the door slammed open to admit the night doctor and a horde of nurses. There was shouting, and a choking, inhuman wail he was barely able to connect to himself. The darkness was calling and he was fading fast, far too tired to resist the call of that soft voice, whispering an urgency that superceded his mortal needs.

And he dreamt of remembering, of the bitterness of inevitability, and of the irony that he had never thought to ask where the dead go when they die.

Brightness hit first, the sharp sting of sunlight refracting off polished glass and Hisoka hastily slapped a hand against the window in front of him to steady himself against a roiling wave of vertigo. His arm shook with the effort of holding himself upright, fingers slipping against the cool surface with an audible squeal as sweaty palms failed to hold his weight. The shock hit second, verdant eyes snapping open with sudden awe that he had managed to stand at all. His gaze drifted to his legs, drawn by the renewed sensation and the distinct lack of pain from the calf he was certain should have been horribly bruised. The glorified napkin that was his hospital gown had been replaced with street clothes, well-worn jeans and battered sneakers, a garish orange sweater that made strange comfort among the alien sensations. It seemed years since he had seen colors beyond the monochrome sterility of the ward.

His eyes slipped shut, drawing himself inward as he rallied tattered nerves. Sensations fluttered past, the sharp chill of glass beneath his fingers, the squeak of rubber soles across linoleum, murmuring voices and harried emotions moving briskly past him. Hallway. He was in the hallway, facing a generic observation room much like his own, separated from the rest of the ward by the flimsy soundproofing of plated glass. Fishbowls, the nurses called them, tanks. A deprivation of privacy bestowed upon only the gravest of patients, those who required near constant monitoring to make it through the next hour, the next day.

He was gradually alerted to another presence beside him, close enough to register kinesthetically but not invading his personal space. Turning his head carefully against another wave of unsteadiness, he found the profile beside him, features muted in the early morning sun. A doctor, he realized, noting the familiarity in rumpled scrubs and an immaculate lab coat, all manner of gadgetry protruding from a multitude of pockets. But the man beside him hardly resembled the residents of the stolidly proper facility his father had arranged for him with wheat gold hair cascading over his shoulders, halfheartedly tucked into a messy ponytail and large wire-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on a delicately upturned nose. He was too young, first of all, and too attractive to fit among the dodgy old men that made up the bulk of the permanent staff.

Hisoka sighed, the sound echoing loudly within the almost companionable silence between them, turning away to rest his fevered forehead beside his palm against the window.

“It’ll pass, just give it a minute.”

He started at the calm statement, twisting himself to regard the man beside him, suddenly unsure of his hearing at finding the man still engrossed in whatever scene was being played out beyond the glass.

“The dizziness, I mean,” said the as yet unnamed doctor, “It’s a little disorienting at first, being here, but the human body is an amazing thing. It adjusts.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, wondering absently what the strange physician meant by ‘being here’. The hallway was never noteworthy enough to be disorienting, at least not enough to precipitate vertigo, and unless he was referring to the suddenly alien sensation of being upright there was little else about the situation that was so strange at all.

And then it hit him. The strangest thing about his current situation was that it wasn’t, and a stray thought from earlier dug itself a firm hold at the forefront of his consciousness.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he murmured, eyes widening as the realization sunk in.

“Of course not,” Came the patient reply, and Hisoka caught a glimpse of flickering gold as the doctor spared him the briefest of glances. “I took care of that as soon as I got here.”

He balked at that. A cure? Was it possible? He no longer dared to hope for reprieve, no longer desired it with the knowledge of what he would return to in his family--the accusation, the isolation, the makeshift prison of his father’s cellar. And he suddenly felt cheated, wronged by this interloper and his meddlesome assistance, who deigned to force him to continue when he longed for the promise of death.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” He whispered, his voice cold, shutting his eyes in resignation. “I didn’t want to be cured. I wanted peace. I wanted to die.”

His hands clenched fists against the glass, pushing hard enough to bring the faintest shiver of familiar pain as he waited for the inevitable lecture. This one looked to be an idealist, the kind of tree hugging, life worshipping well-wisher who would ramble on about the sacredness of life to a deaf-mute quadriplegic if they thought it necessary. The kind that forced their saccharine sweet philosophy on the most cynical of victims if only because they were the least susceptible to the message. A parade of them had taken up his case during the early days of his stay, counselors whose sole purpose lay in dedication to the absurd idea of lifting the suicidal tendencies of terminal patients.

“Oh,” the doctor replied, almost absently. “Well, good. Normally it takes people a lot longer to acclimate themselves to the idea.”

Hisoka jumped, forgetting his unsteadiness as he whipped around to face the doctor, unable to hold back a startled cry as the man finally turned to face him. The doctor wasn’t just attractive--he was beautiful. A flawless expanse of pale skin and gold tinged hair reflected the rising sun with unnatural luster, so that he seemed to glow against the dim pallor of the hallway. And his eyes--Hisoka barely managed to contain a choked gasp as they focused on his own. They dominated the man’s features with a terrible beauty, shining with the same preternatural phosphorescence that haunted Hisoka’s dreams. But where his dreams had shown him weary amethyst, this man’s were a deep amber, glowing iridescent humor in browns and auburn and gold. He shrank from those autumn eyes, from the piercing intellect that lurked behind them, pressing flat against the glass beside him in an effort to steady himself against the sudden foreboding rising in his chest. (3)

“Wha--What?” He stammered, unable to do more than gape at the man--creature?--in front of him.

The stranger smiled reassuringly, face alight with promises of warmth and comfort and Hisoka didn’t dare reach out empathically for fear of what he would find behind them.

“Death, Hisoka,” said the not-doctor. “You’re dead.”

Their eyes caught and held, and Hisoka lost himself in the shift of hues in the other’s eyes, realization seeping in even as he fought against the one absurd, obvious, inevitable conclusion.

Where do the dead go when they die?

“Shinigami,” he murmured, biting back the accusation poised to creep into his voice. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He’d expected oblivion, which the disconcertingly comforting stranger was certainly not, but who was he to question?

He stared into the shifting eyes of Death, watching in fearful awe as the smile widened, affording him the barest glimpse of perfect teeth before one amber eye winked. “Got it in one, Bon. Welcome to the afterlife.”

It was absurd. The grinning man before him seemed so placid, and here he was, cringing in fear. It wasn’t as though the doctor could hurt him, he was dead after all, and he found himself staring in fascination at the figure before him, taking in details hastily overlooked before. Death was considerably taller than him but lanky, all length and whipcord muscle beneath the billowy lab coat. He started as he noticed a second pair of eyes appraising him from the man’s shoulder, the curiously large cat-yellow eyes of a miniature owl that resembled a stuffed toy more than any living creature with its comically disproportionate features. It cooed at him, bobbing its head, and it was suddenly impossible to hold onto his fear against such a benign gesture.

“Death hangs out in hospitals?” He wondered, ducking his head to hide the conspicuous blush as he realized he had said that aloud.

The doctor’s smile grew, and he laughed, a rich, unassuming sound. “Well why not?” he asked, grinning. “Where else would I be?”

And that made sense in a terribly logical way. They were standing in the terminal ward of one of the largest and most prestigious hospitals in all of Japan, why wouldn’t Death be there when he made his presence known all around them?

The doctor’s eyes softened at the look on his face, and he somehow managed to sprawl casually against the window while still maintaining an air of quiet concern, crossing his arms across his chest. “Hey, look, I’m not like the anthropomorphic personification (4) of death or anything.” He grinned as Hisoka tossed him a disbelieving glance and stuck his nose in the air with a flood of fake arrogance. “I am but one of many doing the grunt work of the great JuOhCho.”

“JuOhCho?”

“The bureaucracy of the hereafter.”

The last was said with the barest touch of asperity, and the doctor’s eyes widened behind the glasses, eyebrows raising beneath a fringe of yellow bangs in silent irony. His head cocked to the side, eyes appraising as he studied Hisoka before suddenly thrusting a hand in his face. “Watari Yutaka,” he added, “and this is 003.”

“Kurosaki Hisoka,” he replied, “but you already knew that.”

It wasn’t a question, and the Shinigami – no, Watari, he corrected – had the decency to look abashed. “Yeah, well, it’s not like we’re sent out to find clients on a whim, kiddo. I’ve got a case file three inches thick with your name on it.”

Hisoka sighed, debating whether to ask about his file before curiosity got the better of him. “003?” he prompted, gesturing vaguely as the little bird seemed to perk up at the mention of its name. “What happened to one and two?”

It was stupid, but the perfectionist in him would have driven him insane if hadn’t asked and he had a feeling he was going to be asking too many inane questions before the day was out to merit worrying about it. Watari cringed, gingerly reaching up to place palms over what might have been the owl’s ears and leaning forward conspiratorially.

“We don’t like to talk about it in front of her,” he whispered, iridescent eyes briefly flickering to her placid features. “001 was always kind of… severe, I think is the right word, and one day he just kind of… self-destructed.” Watari shrugged, rolling his eyes. “002 was so heartbroken he took off, and we haven’t heard from him since. It’s a shame really, he was all kinds of fun before they got involved.” He sighed, shoulders slumping dramatically, hiking a thumb at the bird on his shoulder. “This one’s just quiet most of the time.” (5)

He finished, petting the bird’s head affectionately and pinning Hisoka with a childishly expectant gaze. Hisoka shrugged and turned to the window, eyes wandering with surprising detachment over the sudden resurgence of chaos within. The bed was small, insignificant among the plethora of machinery surrounding it and disheveled bedclothes flung haphazardly to the floor to tangle the footwork of frantic nurses. He could see nothing of its occupant beyond one pale, gaunt hand as it was lifted from restraint, though the cacophony of barked orders and urgent cries spoke of the seriousness of their situation and he found himself wondering if this person feared death in that desperate, clinging way that made the councilors bob their heads in imperious approval. Or perhaps they were like him, opening their arms to finality with a tranquility that so unnerved the living, a product of the waking death that hung heavy in the air around them.

“Hisoka?”

He wavered briefly at the half-plaintive tone, eyes flickering to find the Shinigami beside him more subdued, features a mask of quiet concern as amber eyes settled on him in something akin to regret. It was curious, but something beyond the glass called him back before he thought to ask, riveting his gaze to the bed as he stretched faintly in a futile effort to gain a glimpse of its occupant. It was strange, this sudden reliance on intuitions he had long sought to banish, but the sudden imperative left little room for question.

“Hisoka--” He started when a hesitant hand settled on his shoulder, turning to regard Watari with wary eyes as he fought the irrational urge to throw him off. “Do you know why I’m here?”

He shrugged noncommittally, turning to glare at a nurse who was frantically untangling IV lines from an annoying angle, graced with the barest glimpse of the emaciated limb in her grasp. And he remembered the pulling…

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

It was laced with more asperity than he had intended, but the phantom pain shooting up his forearm did nothing to improve his mood. Watari sighed, hand squeezing briefly in what Hisoka assumed was meant to be reassurance. “It’s not that simple. We’re not sent to everyone who has a heart attack to lead them to the afterlife. Shinigami are only called in on extreme cases.”

Attention shattered, he swung to face the Shinigami, dislodging the gentle grip on his shoulder. A swell of half-sick pride washed over him as Watari took a startled step back – he could only imagine the rancor written in his features if it was enough to stun a higher being, but years of practice had honed expression of his ire to an art form.

“I got sick,” he hissed, leaning well into the shining man’s space, “and it killed me. Slowly. Painfully. Why is that impressive?”

Watari sighed, eyes slipping to somewhere behind Hisoka as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “Bon, how long have you been here?”

Hisoka paused at that, deflating rapidly and backing away until he was met by the cool glass behind him. “I was never sure.”

“No idea?”

“The days kind of blended together after a while.”

“Well that doesn’t make things any easier on me,” said Watari, shifting to slump beside him against the wall. “You see, Hisoka, sometimes things happen in this world that mortals have a hard time explaining with mainstream science, so they relegate it to the mystery bin and shove the whole thing in some sheltered corner with all the other things that fracture their comfortable little bubble of a world view. They don’t want to know what causes these things, because the answers are just too magnificent, too terrifying to assimilate into the collective knowledge without tearing apart every assumption humankind has held dear since the first industrial revolution.” He turned to regard Hisoka with serious eyes. “You follow?”

Hisoka nodded, unsure, hoping for more of an explanation and hunkering down beside Watari as the other continued. “What happened to you is unfortunately one of those things.”

“What--” Hisoka swallowed nervously, “Things, exactly?”

“You’ve been here for three years, you know. Almost to the day. And for all the time they spent poking and prodding you in an effort to earn their pay they never once had a chance at figuring out a disease that doesn’t exist.” Watari paused, catching Hisoka’s gaze and holding it with a seriousness far too heavy for someone with so young a visage. “The disease didn’t kill you Hisoka. There never was one.”

Hisoka reeled. Three years of his life spent dying, wallowing in unspeakable agony and for what – a false disease? And if not that, then… “How…?” He sputtered. “What…?”

“No, not what,” Watari replied, reaching out to catch a flailing wrist as Hisoka wavered in confusion. “You’ll forgive me if I’m being invasive,” he muttered, yanking hard at Hisoka’s shirtsleeve, pulling the garish sweater over his forearm and studying the skin under his hand. “Not what, Hisoka – who.”

Delicate lines stood out in relief against his skin, a pale, scrolling translucence against his natural pallor. Meandering web-like across his entire forearm, over the sensitive skin underneath and disappearing beneath his sweater, the designs looked formal, perhaps tribal, and altogether too intentional to be anything produced by a disease. Tapered fingers traced over the surface of his skin with gentle touches, slowing in query as they reached the edge of the sweater’s material. “May I?” Watari whispered, eyes unwavering as Hisoka nodded in numb acquiescence. The Shinigami gently pushed his sleeve farther up his arm, tracing over the beginning of a bicep and hissing in sympathy at the marks there. His stomach was bared next, warm hands inching the sweater farther upward with gentle movements, following the markings up his torso until they ceased with a flourish just beneath his clavicle. He fought the urge to flinch away as gentle prodding pushed him forward slightly to expose his back, wincing as Watari’s palm slid over the patterns there in silent assessment. (6)

Scars. They were scars. Hundreds of them scrolling delicately across his skin, from the simple lines across his sternum to the intricate webbing along his arms – all carefully carved into his skin like a living canvas. Phantom pain raced over his skin and he fought the wince that bubbled up, memories of fire-tinged nerves washing over every area the markings touched, the terrifying mystery of hypersensitive nerves, and all this time…

“Hisoka?”

“I don’t understand,” he wailed, half-curled in on himself. “What is this?”

“They’re curse scars,” Watari supplied, features twisted in horror. “They have to be carved into the skin, but I’ve never seen work this extensive before. You must have bled to death as it was done. So how did they…” His eyes widened, fingers falling away as he sat up, blinking in concentration. “Hisoka, I need you to think back for me, okay? I need to know if anything unusual happened before you were put into the hospital. Probably just before, and it definitely would have involved a lot of blood.”

Hisoka flinched.

He remembered the moon that night, a pale specter spilling luminescence over the landscape in macabre hues, bloody highlights to restless darkness as sharp winds rustled the canopy above. Restlessness had driven him from the house, fleeing the press of accusing eyes and harsher emotions, wandering familiar paths beneath the strangely tinted moon and wondering at the sudden change. He walked in shadows, keeping out of sight in deference to his meager social skills, he wouldn’t have known what to say to another person should one have deigned to speak with him and he had no intention of trying. He remembered heading for the sakura planted on the edge of his parents’ estate, their flowers would fall away soon and watching the delicate blossoms sway their hypnotic dance in the night winds had always been something of a comfort.

His mother’s screams were particularly vivid, a shrill, piercing wail that shattered the numbing haze that had fallen over his senses, buckling weakened knees with the force of her horror. His father’s quiet disdain--aloof, but apparent as he stumbled forward into the drawing room, half dressed in torn and bloodied clothes. There’d been so much blood, so much slickness saturating his skin, flaking off the remnants of his clothes, gumming up his hair. His parents had thought their monster child had finally revealed his true nature, railed at him for the name of whatever hapless victim he had set upon, but he had no answers to give them. Beyond their anguish and his own earlier restlessness, the night was a void.

“There weren’t any marks,” he murmured, helplessly, plaintively. “We couldn’t figure out where it all came from.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Watari managed a sickly smile, sliding to the floor beside Hisoka and resting a hand in the crook of his elbow. “Your name appeared in the Kiseki today. Spontaneously. That’s not supposed to happen. But the weird part, the really freaky part– ” He paused, sighing, “And that means a lot coming from me –is that it appeared in the backlogs. According to our records, as of today, you have been dead for three years. It’s impossible. You can’t be alive and dead at the same time, unless…”

“That’s what this… curse thing does.”

“Exactly.” Watari added, “Only I didn’t know there was a curse until I saw you. Which is stupid. I mean, it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”

Sense. Right. As if anything would ever make sense again. He’d been so focused on death, on the oblivion it promised for so long, and now that it had happened he didn’t know what to do with it. Death was supposed to bring peace, but all it seemed to bring Hisoka was more pain, more questions.

Watari shook his head ruefully and threw himself to his feet, dislodging 003, who flew a tight circle around him, squawking indignantly. “I need to get you back to Meifu,” he declared, running a nervous hand through his bangs. “We can’t deal with this in the middle of the hallway. I need to run tests. I need access to my files, and if these incompetents would kindly stop working already your connection to this realm would sever and we could go!”

He banged a hand against the window, unmindful of the painful rattling beneath his hand as he glared at the scene beyond. Hisoka jumped up at the racket, intent on stopping the Shinigami before someone called security, though whether it was to protect Watari from hospital security guards or the reverse was unclear even to him. “Stop that!” he hissed, “Do you want to explain what you’re doing here masquerading as a doctor? Or better yet, why you’re spending quality time with a deceased patient?”

Watari’s hand froze, mid-slap, and confused amber eyes met his. “What are you talking about? It’s not like they can see us.”

It was true, he suddenly realized, as a tiny, dignified woman shuffled past, a cache of hovering relatives following in her wake. Her mobile IV hookup was tugged ever so slightly closer to her body as she reached Hisoka, avoiding him without conscious thought. Her flock parted around him as he took a cautious step into their path, chattering aimlessly as they watched for any sign of fatigue in their beloved relative. A flood of affection, amusement, and exasperation hit his mind in a sudden torrent at their proximity, the annoyance of which was overshadowed by the conformation that they had no awareness of his presence on any level but the basic kinesthetic sense that allowed them to avoid him.

Watari was still watching him with wide eyes, petting 003 absently as she resettled on his shoulder. “What? Like I’m going to tell you you’re dead with an audience?”

Hisoka shrugged, eyes tracking the progress of an orderly as he suddenly jerked the gurney he was pushing to avoid Watari, imagining how absurd it would look to someone who couldn’t see the Shinigami. It was numbing to think that he might have stumbled upon his kind before and remained unaware, that he might have walked alongside a god without ever knowing it.

“Come on people, I know he’s young but he’s a DNR! Is it too much to ask that you at least respect his wishes?” Watari had started up again, annoyance flooding into Hisoka’s mind with startling force as he railed at the doctors in the tank, hands flailing in emphasis. “He’s been in arrhythmia since four a.m., for crying out loud! The platitudes are right, he seriously is going to a better place as soon as you give it a rest!”

Hisoka drew level with the Shinigami, squinting at the figures within the observation room with renewed interest as his companion continued to rant. “What are we looking at?”

“A corpse-icle.” The doctor huffed, crossing his arms petulantly.

Hisoka ignored the non sequitur, attention returning to the bustle of frantic nurses within the little room with an unexplainable confidence that Watari would clarify himself eventually. The room itself was not impressive, the generic gray on white décor unbroken by any sign of personal belongings save a small stack of books on a corner table and the hospital issue water pitcher perched atop them. The swarm of staffers was far more interesting, all frenetic movement in blues and pinks and peaches, the primary colors of hospital scrubs, desperate movement as they fought a losing battle to save their charge. He recognized the doctor, a kindly elderly man with little patience for what he termed ‘defeatist thinking’, the salt and pepper haired idealist who had been the bane of Hisoka’s existence for longer than he could remember. He seemed especially morose, mouth set into a thin, hard line as the surveyed the progress of his underlings.

Watari had stilled to restless fidgeting, weight shifting from foot to foot as he stared at the doctor in exasperation. It wouldn’t be long, if the man’s expression was any indication, and that alone seemed to calm the Shinigami, if not placate him. Hisoka watched, detachment fading to something akin to concern, some inner sense whispering that he was watching something important and all together too personal for him to turn away. And then it stopped, the scene shuddering to a halt with little more than the negligent raising of the doctor’s hand as provocation, as though the efforts of the past few hours meant nothing.

“Thank You!” Watari crowed, hands raised and shaking in emphasis as the nurses filed away, throwing regretful glances towards the bedside as the doctor remained, head hung thoughtfully at the head of a body Hisoka still strained to see. “I get the whole sanctity of human life thing and all, but there comes a point where you’re just poking at a corpse…”

The rest was lost to the roaring in Hisoka’s ears as the doctor shifted, stepping once, twice, then fully away from the bed to finally abandon the corpse. It was pale, and gaunt, all jagged lines and sunken youth, tawny hair a dull sheen against the starch white of hospital pillows. It was beautiful in a nauseating way, still imbued with some strange resonance of what might have, should have been, and he nearly buckled under the revelation. Its head was lolled piteously to the side, hospital gown pulled away from a sunken stomach, chest still covered in viscous gel and conductive pads from the defibrillator, and he wondered faintly why no one had thought to cover it up. No, they’d left it in the open, too shocked by its appearance to leave it that much dignity, putting it on display for every passerby who paused at its little window. Hisoka was at a loss, gaze unflinching and his only though a drunken wonderment at the miraculously unmarred surface of its sallow skin.

He hadn’t seen a mirror in months. There hadn’t been a need and now he was glad of it, because the corpse, his corpse, was the most horrible thing he could ever have imagined and he could only wonder how much worse it would look were it animated, were it possible to look into those dead eyes and know what it had suffered.

Behind that came the staggering realization that those were his books in the corner, his pitcher, his dirty bedclothes, the only legacy of a pathetic mortal existence that had amounted to exactly nothing. No one would miss him, no one would think on his absence beyond vague regret at the loss of the Kurosaki boy, the unfortunate son of misfortunate parents. In a few years it would be as if he had never existed.

“Bon? Hisoka? Hey, Kiddo, whatever I said, I didn’t mean it! Hey, snap out of it… Please?” Watari was waving a frantic hand in front of him, the other clamped firmly on his shoulder in an attempt to turn him away from the repugnant sight, and he shook off the contact without thought.

“Can you not… touch, please?”

Watari was watching him with worried eyes, hovering uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I – Dammit, this is why they don’t send me out, you know. I am woefully inadequate in the people skills department. I mean, seriously, it’s like ‘Hi, how are you?’ and then straight to ‘open mouth, insert foot’. I’m a desk jockey, dammit, a confirmed lab monkey and you do not send lab monkeys to do Tsuzuki’s job. He’s the loveable one, I’m just research guy, but oh no, Tatsumi had to put me back on fieldwork so Tsuzuki could run off chasing some three minute spirit manifestation playing hooky from the afterlife–”

“Watari-san.”

“Cause let’s face it, this is not me. I spend half my time talking to the damn owl – no offence, girl – and that does not make for comforting fluffy puppy moments with angst-ridden sixteen year olds. I mean, hell, I’ve been dead for twenty years. You get desensitized. A corpse is a corpse is a freaking corpse, can I help it if that makes me somewhat insensitive? It’s not like I mean to –”

“Watari-san!”

“Huh?”

“Breathe! At least in between sentences!”

“Oh.”

The Shinigami was twisting a lock of gold-blond hair around his fingers, darting nervous glances in Hisoka’s direction, and he wondered for a moment when exactly Watari had gone from the frightening specter he had first thought him to the childishly confused man in front of him.

“I’m not insulted,” he said, watching Watari brighten considerably, and he wondered if it was really wise to refuel the doctor’s overabundant energy. “I just don’t like to be touched. I’m already despairing my existence here, I don’t need to be caught in the wrong end of your panic attack.”

“Ah,” the blond head nodded vigorously. “Empathy. Sorry. Forgot.” He waved a hand vaguely in a now familiar gesture, and Hisoka wondered if there was ever a time when Watari wasn’t moving, watching him now almost vibrating with frenetic energy. “Can we go home now?”

Home. He wondered at that. His parents had a home, he’d had a cell. The hospital had been a room, not a home, a place to suffer and watch hopes wither away with the passage of time. He’d never had a home, not the kind that denoted any kind of emotional attachment. Perhaps that was the true peace of death, not the oblivion he had expected for so long, but the comfort of finding a place to belong – the most impossible dream of them all. And Watari had said–

“You’ll take me with you?” he asked, voice embarrassingly small and hopeful.

Their roles reversed again, the world turning on its head for the umpteenth time and it was a wonder he was still on his feet. Watari smiled, all faint affection and brotherly concern. “Of course, Kiddo, I don’t wander out of the lab for just /anyone/. You’re a keeper.” His hand stopped scant inches from an encouraging clap on Hisoka’s shoulder, and he smiled ruefully, moving the offending appendage to nervously scratch the back of his head. “Um… yeah.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Employment opportunity,” came the blithe answer. “Think of me as your friendly neighborhood recruitment officer.”

Watari saluted in jerky, exaggerated motions, grinning like a madman. “The pay sucks rocks in a decidedly negative way, but we get to be all authoritative and they let us wander through the mortal realm whenever we want, and the retirement benefits are to die for.”

Hisoka was left wondering how anything could suck rocks in a positive way and fighting to ignore the horrible pun, half-expecting Watari to elbow him in the side and start stuttering – “Get it? Get it?”

“What exactly are you recruiting me as?”

“Shinigami – well, technically you already are one. If you say no you’ll have to go before the ten kings and tell them you want to move on and they’ll go all poofy magical on you so you can go incorporeal on a permanent basis and whatnot, but yeah, at the moment, you’re a Shini.”

“I’m a what?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice, and he could only imagine what was written across his face for the sudden dawning of comprehension mirrored on Watari’s.

“When’s the last time you saw a mirror?” the Shinigami asked, and before Hisoka could so much as process the question he was being led to the women’s bathroom – because it had bigger mirrors, apparently – and shoved inside, the effervescent blond at his heels.

He was arranged in front of a makeup mirror, stood to attention and left to his own ruminations as Watari backed an arm’s length away. Even he had to admit that was he saw was impressive. Features softened by an unearthly pallor, the lines of his face seemed more delicate, more refined. His hair was a pale sweep across his forehead, impossibly glossy even in the dull neon light of a public restroom. But most impressive were the eyes, an incandescent green that seemed to dominate his features, the hard glint of emerald more calculating than Watari’s calm amber eyes, but unquestioningly beautiful even to his despairing mind.

Here was the boy in his dreams, the other version of himself he had thought an impossible myth.

Where do the dead go when they die?

“Shinigami,” he whispered, fingers reaching out to trace the contours of the reflection.

“Pretty much,” said Watari, catching his gaze in the mirror. “So what do you say, Kiddo? Want the job? I can’t promise it’ll be all fun and games, but I can guarantee you that we’ll find out who did, well, you know…” he pulled up the sleeve of his lab coat and rubbed absently at his arm. “And kick their curse-casting ass. Not that I’m not going to do that anyway, but you seem like a hands on kind of guy.”

He glanced back to his own reflection, the glow of phosphorescent irises that mirrored the violet in his dreams. He remembered the fear there, the wisdom, but mostly he remembered the love. Hisoka had never really loved anything, he wasn’t sure if he would know how were the opportunity to arise. But like anyone he yearned for it instinctively, that most ultimate of connections between people, and every instinct he possessed was telling him that this was the path to his chance. As much as he yearned for oblivion, finality could wait. There were more important things to worry about.

He nodded, solemnly, holding Watari’s eyes in the reflection.

“Really? Cool beans!” The other Shinigami grinned, dancing around the room in an awkward little shuffle of joy, 003 swooping around his head. “And who says I can’t do field work?”

“You did, actually,” he felt the unnecessary urge to point that out, and was surprised when Watari stopped short, balanced precariously with one leg in the air as he raised a brow beneath his hairline.

“Oh yes, you are going to be just joyous on the job, aren’t you?” he muttered, voice dripping with irony even as he failed to contain a manic grin. “You are going to love it in Meifu! We have sakura all year round. They’re constantly shedding petals, so it’s like snow without the inconvenient hypothermia. And Wakaba makes the best double fudge brownies in existence. You can like, feel your teeth rotting as you eat them, only they don’t rot, cause you’re dead and they’re eternally preserved…”

Watari continued to ramble, leading Hisoka toward the elevators, ready to leave the ward for the first time in three years. He stopped for one last, lingering look at his body as they passed his tank, noting with satisfaction that someone had finally thought to cover it with a bed sheet. It seemed right, reaffirming the finality of it all, and he jogged away to catch up to Watari with a sense of closure he hadn’t expected. Clichéd though it was, destiny was calling. It warned of pain and anguish and the prerequisite fiery death of a far more permanent sort than the one he was currently enjoying, but he vaguely remembered his father telling him a long time ago that nothing of any value came easily. And perhaps, in the end, death would truly bring him peace – of a different kind than he’d expected.

‘That’s enough Hisoka.’

No, it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Footnotes:

(1)Hisoka’s disease is completely random, so don’t try and follow my dodgy little medical description with anything resembling logic. If he had a real disorder, his doctors would have figured out long ago what was wrong with him.

(2)Ah, the joy of fansubs. I’m dying to find out what he says in the dub. =)

(3) Okay, the Shinigami’s eyes aren’t exactly glowing in the anime, at least not any more than anyone else’s are, but there is a certain emphasis, if you will, on the eyes of both the Shinigami and other dead or soon to be deceased people in the anime that I wanted to make a bit clearer here. (Was it just me, or did Tsubaki-hime’s eyes take up half her face in some scenes?) They don’t get to be all winged angels, so their otherworldliness is apparent in their eyes. As for Watari, his eyes are brown in the manga and gold in the anime. I had an annoying moment of trying to choose between the two before thinking “Why can’t they be both?” and leaving it at that. Amber’s a more entertaining color anyway, there are many more descriptive euphemisms there.

(4) Oh, come on, they’re Shinigami for crying out loud, you can’t begrudge me my surreptitious Pratchett references!

(5) *hangs head* That was horrible of me, I know. Too much Gundam Wing fic rots the brain…

(6) Yes, the scars are visible. As far as the anime goes, Hisoka seems to favor long sleeves and fairly covering clothing, so the only time we see them is when he yanks up a sleeve or takes off his shirt. Therefore, I can do what I damn well please with ‘em.