Notes: Story three in the series, and it’s a little shorter than the usual bits. This was meant to be the opening scene of the next fic, but once I was finished I realized how much it just didn’t jive with the rest and decided to slap it out as a little vignette. Takes place during that first night in Nagasaki while Hisoka’s passed out, and then jumps around a bit within the dream. Walking Wounded A Yami no Matsuei Fanfiction by Amet “No! Helping those in need’s my job… and working up a load of sexual tension. …prancing away like a magnificent poof is truly thanks enough.” –James Marsters It didn’t hurt yet, which was a surprise, but the strange tightening in the skin around his eyes promised that it was only a matter of time. Hisoka bit back a groan, head lolling piteously as he was finally placed on a mercifully soft surface. His senses were a mess, dulled and scattered as he tried to concentrate on anything, the slow blanketing of concern and consternation, the steady hum of conversation around him, but he couldn’t make anything out beyond the voices. One was high, sweet, and oddly reprimanding, the other deeper, more masculine, and still somehow comforting. He focused on that, the soft murmur rolling over his senses as a sheet was drawn up around him, as warm fingers moved to brush his bangs away, skimming across his temple ever so slightly in the process. The contact brought a rush of half-guilty concern, an odd admiration in the way the other looked at him and there was something he thought he should have remembered about that. “I suppose I did look a bit foolish.” The words were low, clearly meant not to disturb, but they brought him clawing his way to consciousness. He wanted to lash out, to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him for the sheer audacity of his thoughts. After trying so hard to push him away all night, burying whatever chance he might have wanted to actually get to know his partner and the man was not cooperating. He slitted his eyes just enough to make out the indistinct form of Gushoshin hovering faintly to his right, barely moving his lips enough to husk out a reprimand to the idiot from where he could feel the bed dip on his left, gratified by the immediate wave of consternation that replaced wistful concern. It hurt, but that was alright. It had to be done, and if there was one thing Hisoka was good at, it was pushing people away. It was safer that way, for the both of them. And with that in mind, Kurosaki Hisoka promptly passed out. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Awareness trickled in, a vague sense of comfort gradually accompanied by a steady warmth that overwhelmed his senses. He shifted, frowning at the restriction of limbs firmly tangled in overly starched hotel linens, murmuring reflexively and lolling his head in the opposite direction. He was comfortable at least, and far too somnolent to really consider moving, though the odd sensation tickling across the skin of his neck was keeping him from truly fading into unconsciousness. It was strangely pleasurable, a wet warmth tracing across the underside of his jaw, over his neck, a gentle pressure pulling at the skin just above his collarbone. Another movement at his waist, the slide of skin across his stomach as he was shifted closer to the warmth beside him, a low groan rattling across his hearing as the pressure at his neck increased to steady suction. Several things hit him at once. First the simple fact that the flimsy sheet scratching his skin was the only thing he was still wearing, then the equally undressed state of his companion and an acute awareness of the hand suddenly stroking across his hip. What he could not seem to remember was how he’d gotten there. He bucked, jerking away with a startled cry as arms tightened around him, thrashing against his companion even as it became apparent that he simply lacked the strength to free himself. Hands flexed and wrapped around him, one arm solid at his waist as the other moved to cup a palm around his cheek, fingers petting his hair as the man spoke, a low murmur of nonsensical syllables. “Hisoka, Hisoka, hey. Hey, it’s just me. Hisoka, you’re okay, it’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you. Hisoka, come on, look at me.” A hand grasped his chin, stilling his thrashing head as gently as possible as it forced him to stop and really look at his assailant, impossibly large amethyst eyes glittering faintly in what light filtered in through the curtains, iridescence shadowed by a fall of sleep tousled bangs. “Tsuzuki…” he murmured, stilling, chest heaving with the rush to catch up to the raging beat of his heart. He reached out to trace the lines of the man’s cheekbone, breath catching as Tsuzuki leaned into the caress, eyeing him peripherally. “It’s just me.” A panting breath later and he was throwing himself at his partner with a low cry, wrapping himself around the larger man as best he could without climbing on top of him. Tsuzuki grunted, startled, shifting his weight and pulling Hisoka closer, palms stroking soothingly across the planes of his back as Hisoka buried his head into the crook of Tsuzuki’s neck and willed himself to stop shaking. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, mortified at his reaction. After everything that had happened, and he’d actually /attacked/ his lover… “It’s okay,” said Tsuzuki, squeezing him tighter, mouth moving across the skin of his exposed shoulder. “I should know better than to touch you while you’re sleeping.” His ministrations paused with a shake of his head, pulling back far enough to give Hisoka a rueful smile. “You were just lying there, all warm and soft and here, and we all know I have no impulse control.” Hisoka laughed, running fingers through the fine brown hair falling into Tsuzuki’s eyes, leaning forward to press his lips to his partner’s. Tsuzuki’s lips opened with an anticipatory groan, tongue darting out to lap at Hisoka’s as his hands moved to the small of Hisoka’s back, hooking their legs around each other in an effort to pull closer. Hisoka had barely a moment to match him, clutching at Tsuzuki’s shoulder as his partner ravaged his mouth, tongue sweeping over his lips, his teeth…coaxing his own into Tsuzuki’s mouth and sucking hard. They pulled apart, panting against each other, and Tsuzuki grinned. “I feel better. Do you feel better? Because I feel much better.” Hisoka smiled, rolling his eyes. “Mhmm.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips across his partner’s before moving in closer to suck at Tsuzuki’s lower lip. “And I would feel even better if there was less talking.” Tsuzuki laughed, pulling away just long enough to mutter something tasteless about talking with his mouth full before rolling onto his back, pulling Hisoka with him. They tangled together among peals of childish laughter and Hisoka struggled to steady himself above his shifting partner, clenching fists into the sheets on either side of Tsuzuki’s head to keep from tumbling forward. A half-hearted glare seemed to only amuse the grinning man beneath him further, earning him another kiss as Tsuzuki leaned forward, parting his lips and twining fingers in his hair to hold him steady. There was a time when he would have been mortified at the needy sounds he keened into his lover’s mouth, but after the trials of the past few days all he could muster in response was a desperate thankfulness for the feel of those lips, warm and pliant beneath his own. Tsuzuki pulled away, nuzzling against him for a moment before settling back against the pillows, smile shifting into something beatific. Hisoka was struck by his sudden seriousness, the overwhelming wave of affection, near awe washing over him as Tsuzuki trailed fingers over his brow. “Hey, beautiful.” Hisoka laughed, gaze slipping away from the intensity in his lover’s eyes for a long, embarrassed moment before flickering back. “You really just said that, didn’t you?” “Yep,” Tsuzuki chirped, grinning. “Know what else?” “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” A wider grin. “We had sex.” “You noticed?” Hisoka answered, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t freak.” The words were quiet, contemplative, and Tsuzuki was suddenly looking away, engrossed in some indefinable point in the ceiling above. A wave of quickly suppressed panic washed over him and Hisoka realized for the first time what his flinching must have done to Tsuzuki—the man was already convinced that he was somehow responsible for the suffering of nearly every person who crossed his path, it didn’t take much to send him into fits of despondency. He was clamping down on the impulse, knowing how irrational it was and fearing Hisoka’s reaction, but somewhere in the back of his mind he still questioned whether their earlier activities had hurt Hisoka more than he was willing to admit. Hisoka stilled, willing himself to project the sleepy calm that had settled over him with the feel of Tsuzuki beside him laughing, whole, not the hollowed husk that had followed their last sickening encounter with Muraki, the man so convinced of his own fault in a murder he had neither a hand in, nor the will to commit. He reached out, drawing his knuckles along Tsuzuki’s skin from temple to chin, leaning down to press his forehead against his lover’s. “Of course not. It was you.” Tsuzuki finally met his eyes, a blurry haze of phosphorescent lavender twinkling in and out of his vision as his partner blinked, kittenish confusion seeping into Hisoka’s mind before abruptly cutting off as Tsuzuki came back to himself. He leaned forward, dislodging Hisoka’s hold to pull him closer, cradled against him as he buried his face into Hisoka’s hair. “You’re so warm,” Tsuzuki murmured, hold tightening reflexively as he wrapped himself around Hisoka’s smaller form. Hisoka smiled against the hollow of Tsuzuki’s throat, nuzzling into the warmth of the man beneath him, the trickle of satiated pleasure filtering through Tsuzuki’s shields. It was rare that Tsuzuki diminished the Herculean effort usually put into guarding his emotions, at least since Hisoka had told him of the pain they could cause him. The chance to feel anything from his partner, some small confirmation that he was still the annoyingly vibrant man of a week ago was reassuring. “You’re back,” he whispered, tracing fingers through the hollow between collarbone and throat. Tsuzuki’s head lifted slightly, fingers cupping at Hisoka’s chin to pull his face up to meet a bewildered stare. “I went somewhere?” “It was like you were someplace else, even when you were with me…” Hisoka shifted, moving to straddle Tsuzuki’s hips, hovering over him to better hold his gaze. “I didn’t know how to reach you. You scared me.” “Oh.” A palm reached out, moving to cradle his cheek and Hisoka caught it, marveling at the way his thin fingers were swallowed in Tsuzuki’s grip. His partner flinched, expression darkening as something akin to panic slid over Hisoka’s senses. “Oh, Hisoka, no. Please tell me we did not just have sex because you were afraid for me!” The words were urgent, rising in tone and pitch with every word until the strained whisper came as close to yelling as Tsuzuki could manage without bringing Tatsumi-san and Watari running from the next room. Hisoka fought the urge to buck away from the manic gleam in his lover’s eyes, the fearful edge to every shifting movement of the body beneath him, willing himself to some semblance of calm and projecting as best he could. “We did not just have sex because I was afraid,” he said, a controlled hush lacing his words as he reassured. “I wanted it. I wanted you.” “Want-ed?” Tsuzuki replied, gaze suddenly weary, half-hopeful and guarded. The change was sudden, and Hisoka smiled at the confirmation of his partner’s usual mercurialness. “Want,” he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips across Tsuzuki’s. “Still want. Always wanting, you oblivious bastard.” Tsuzuki was smug. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.” A muffled chuckle, and the smile spread across Tsuzuki’s face was a slow, lazy thing, fingers kneading into the base of his neck. He allowed himself to be drawn into Tsuzuki’s kiss, whimpering into his lover’s mouth as hands spread across his back, tracing meandering paths along his spine before coming to rest over his tailbone and hip. One arm slipped across his waist, holding him steady as the other fumbled beneath a morass of disheveled bedclothes, the distinct snap of a bottle cap cracking across his hearing. Tsuzuki caught his lower lip as he attempted to investigate, holding it prisoner until Hisoka relented and moved to resume their kiss, tongue slipping back into his partner’s mouth as suddenly dampened fingers traced over his inner thigh. Tsuzuki seemed overly fond of running his hands there, a movement laced with the kind of gleeful anticipation that came with procurement of his favorite sweets. It was a parallel Hisoka decided was better left unanalyzed. Tsuzuki shifted beneath him, an increasing hardness digging into his hip and at any other time Hisoka would have rolled his eyes at yet another sign of his partner’s mercurial nature. But he couldn’t muster the detachment to be that caustic with the way his legs were being spread apart, straddling Tsuzuki’s thighs with room to spare as hands shifted beneath his knees, adjusting his position before fingers moved to more intimate contact, fingering him momentarily before slipping inside. He bucked against his lover, hands gripping Tsuzuki’s shoulders hard enough to bruise as he tore his mouth away with a keening cry, panting out a mixture of shock and gratification as the fingers delved deeper. “Fuck,” he managed to grind out, “You don’t just poke there, man! Warn me before you do that!” Tsuzuki chuckled. “Such language, Soka. I’ll have to wash your mouth out.” What aspired to be an indignant squeak was lost in a breathy murmur as Tsuzuki prodded an especially sensitive spot. “It’s your influence, old man.” “No,” Tsuzuki countered, leaning forward to murmur into Hisoka’s ear as his fingers jerked sharply. “This is my influence.” Hisoka arched painfully as Tsuzuki very deliberately brushed his prostate, chuckling quietly beneath the gasping cry that met the action. Part of him wanted to laugh, Tsuzuki was still being childishly smug at being allowed this contact after so long, exaggerating his movements with a theatrical flourish. It was cute in a ridiculous way, to watch him enjoying himself so thoroughly, especially after the dead-eyed despondence of the day before and his hands, so sure and purposeful, felt fucking good inside of him. The rest of him was impatient. The night’s earlier activities had left him with a taste for more, forever branded with the desire for that further intimacy and Tsuzuki seemed all too content to play with him when all he wanted was to move faster. “Get on with it already!” “Get on with what?” Tsuzuki blinked in perfectly feigned confusion, a childish innocence belied by the agitation battering Hisoka’s empathic sense and the continued ministrations of his fingers. It was completely absurd, but Hisoka could barely muster something resembling a glare as his partner’s smile grew more calculating. “What if I like seeing you this way?” “If you stop with fingers I will hurt you,” Hisoka snapped, forcing a glare even as he sagged in his partner’s arms. “Aw, Soka, you think so little of me.” His eyes slid shut as his head fell forward, forehead resting against Tsuzuki’s shoulder, slipping in the salt-burn of sweat coating his lover’s skin as Tsuzuki’s mouth fastened itself to his neck. He was barely cognizant enough to be annoyed, clutching at his lover and rocking forward into Tsuzuki’s hip with mindless focus, aware only of the wet trail tracing along the pulse in his throat and the fingers still moving inside him, a spark of harsh intensity through a haze of pleasure. It was idiocy, allowing this, allowing another person--even someone as gentle as Tsuzuki that much power over him. Allowing Tsuzuki leverage over his emotions enough to make the pain that much more acute when the end came. And the end was coming. He could see it now, reflected in his lover’s empty-eyed stare the previous morning, the way he seemed to unravel under the weight of Muraki’s intentions. Hisoka had known almost from the first meeting with the good doctor what fate would pit against him in the fight for Tsuzuki’s soul, what power among mortals was strong enough to rent so vibrant a soul in so short a time, in months so insignificant against the near century of his lover’s existence. Tsuzuki suddenly bucked beneath him, throwing Hisoka to his side. He followed, half-draping himself over Hisoka as his fingers withdrew, hands sliding along spreading thighs as Hisoka blinked up at the ceiling and his lover’s hovering form. Tsuzuki was little more than a blurry countenance from that angle, too close to take more detailed form than blurry amethyst and wisps of brown sweat-slicked to his forehead. He reared, silhouetted in the increasing light filtering in beneath the curtains and for a moment Hisoka was struck by how striking Tsuzuki could be when so inclined--lips pursed, eyes suddenly more calculating than playful, incandescence dimmed beneath some new resolve and for a moment he seemed an ancient creature. Something weary and determined, yearning and proprietary. And then it was gone, features softening as he reached down to brush stubborn bangs away from Hisoka’s eyes, fingers threading through them before reaching down, hooking beneath his legs to turn him. A bit of maneuvering on Tsuzuki’s part had him on his side, Tsuzuki settling behind him and draping an arm over his waist, palm tracing the contours of chest and stomach before dipping lower, pulling his thighs apart long enough to wedge a leg between them as his mouth moved over the skin of Hisoka’s upper arm and shoulder. “Too much thinking, little man.” He should have been insulted or at the very least annoyed, but the familiarity was comforting. He craned his neck to meet Tsuzuki’s eyes, fingers clutching at the hand still stroking over his hip. Tsuzuki was smiling again, something soft and wistful as he leaned to meet Hisoka’s lips, tongue dipping carefully between them as he shifted, the grip on Hisoka’s thigh tensing for a moment before the inevitable push. Hisoka reached back, urging his lover on with fingers kneaded into his hip, pulling him forward as he muffled his cries into his lover’s mouth, suckling the invading tongue as Tsuzuki strained against him, pulling away almost as soon as he was settled inside. The thinking had ceased at least; Tsuzuki had accomplished that with uncharacteristic efficiency and Hisoka could only imagine what Tatsumi would have said if he’d been privy to the irony. He had little inclination to worry about it with Tsuzuki still pressed against him, within him, a burning warmth consuming him more thoroughly than the promised hellfire of the dreams. He welcomed this, at least, berating himself for denying it for so long, an act so unconscionably masochistic in the light of this completion. Not the push of hardness inside him or the hands stroking over his body, the pleasure sparked in his lover’s kiss but the sudden certainty roiling with it, the epiphany of his lover’s devotion etched into every movement, every touch branding his empathic sense with Tsuzuki’s relieved elation that it was finally allowed. He loved this man. Was destined to love him, to live for him and die for him and there was nothing Hisoka could hope to have done to change that. There was nothing for him in the world outside, nothing for his lover but the promise of torment and death but here in this place with this act they were granted a moment, an instant of completion that the world could never destroy and it had been infinitely unwise to deny them both what small consolation they were offered. This was not the forever they were promised and Hisoka held no illusions that his actions led them to anything but Touda’s fire, but he was weak, and tired, and for now at least his foolhardy actions had resurrected Tsuzuki’s smile from whatever dark corner of his soul it had been buried. Let the fire take him. It was no longer his soul to relinquish. …………………………………. Hisoka woke to a faded warmth, an abrupt silence after the roaring heat of the dream, heaving panting breaths at the stained ceiling above him. He swallowed hard in a vain attempt to calm himself, drawing a hand over his eyes at the agitated desire still singing in his veins. His head felt like it was trying to implode, or at the very least cave his sinuses, skin stretched taut over a knot of stabbing pain between his eyes and he groaned, burying his face into the pillow beneath as best he could with the covers still rucked around his hips, restricting his movements. He allowed his eyes to slit, squinting in the overly harsh lighting of a gaudy floor lamp pressed into the corner, fingering the flimsy bedclothes of a hotel room he could barely remember returning to. They were thinner than the ones in the dream, a crisper white stretched taut over the mattress, flowered patterns in the material beneath showing through. It seemed more impersonal, colder without the presence beside him, and his eyes unconsciously tracked to where Tsuzuki sat slumped over a rickety hotel room table. His head was pillowed on his arms, face turned towards Hisoka over a pile of scattered case files, features slackened into something more forgiving than his usual manic grin. Gushoshin was splayed across the rest of the table, back buttressed against the wall as his head lolled against it, the pink of his tongue just barely visible between parted beak. It was all so banal--or at least as banal as a chicken in a beret could manage--chests rising with the rhythm of their breathing as they slept on, unconcerned with the world outside or the work that lay ahead. Tsuzuki was beautiful like this, hair shining with a preternatural luster even in the unforgiving artificial light, lips pursed as though in thought as he shifted slightly, murmuring softly in his sleep as his head butted gently against the hands folded beneath it. Large, long-fingered hands and Hisoka could remember what it had been to be touched by them, stroked with an unexpected reverence as they slid over contours of muscle and bone… Which was so not what he needed to be thinking about. He shook his head, turning to glance at the digital clock beside the bed, blinking out 5:34 am. He had maybe a couple of hours before the idiot would have somehow roused himself and dragged him out of bed anyway, but that was small consolation against the throbbing ache between his legs and the half-panic racing through his system in its wake. This dream had been good, too fucking good in the face of everything he was giving up and he had no idea how he was going to resist temptation with every touch replaying itself in the back of his mind in full Technicolor, courtesy of whatever higher power was sending him the damn visions. It wasn’t fair, and childish as the impulse was, Hisoka was tempted to shake his partner awake and share what he’d seen, if only to wipe the horribly peaceful look from Tsuzuki’s face. It was too much to see these things, to wake from such intensity into a scene so ordinary, so clichéd. The laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him--the pit of his stomach, maybe his diaphragm, an abrupt release of tension around the lump forming in his throat. It stretched on, quiet chuckling quickly descending into hysterics as he hunched over the rumpled bed sheets pooled in his lap. His back protested the contortionist position, eyes clenching shut almost painfully against the sight of his partner, the man he was pretty certain he was already falling for, so unaware of his suffering. And how dare he? How dare he smile and pretend to be alright when Hisoka knew how much he suffered just by /being/, how much they both would suffer for the renting in his soul? And still he slumbered on, oblivious as Hisoka clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle sobbing laughter, any semblance of mirth degenerating beneath the salt-sting of tears. He lurched from the bed, legs tangling in the sheets as he tumbled gracelessly to the floor, glancing up for one wild, frightened moment as the disturbance caused Tsuzuki to shift more violently in his sleep, breath catching as he extricated himself and stumbled towards the bathroom. He hadn’t cried since the ward, a literal lifetime ago, when anything that broke the monotony was a blessing even when it closed his throat with the bitter taste of beleaguered tears and broken dreams. It hadn’t mattered so much then, when nothing was at stake but the mourning of what had already passed, when sorrow seemed the only recourse to beat back the angry panic threatening to overwhelm what was left of his mind. Now things had changed, a numbness seeping into his bones with each new encounter with his partner, watching himself float lines from some preordained script without real knowledge of the words before they were given voice, the frightening sensation of losing control of his body to some angry stranger. He had cursed his partner at every turn, done everything in his power to prevent this attachment. Perhaps if he could make Tsuzuki hate him he could use that as a buffer between them, transfer out of the division before the man discovered that his actions rang hollow. He’d never had anything to lose before. It scared him in ways he hadn’t imagined. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, the consequence of hollow construction and the loose binding on the doorjamb. He was grateful for the quiet, at least, Tsuzuki could sleep on in obliviousness while he pulled himself together. He fell back to lean against the door, pulling his shirt over his head and dropping his hands into his lap. He was surprised to find wet spots soaked into the front of his shirt, tiny splotches where tears had spattered across bright fabric, and he wondered at how he had managed that many tears without realizing. The whole thing seemed less real than the dreams, the odd practiced quality to everything he did in the waking world, standing in front of Tsuzuki for the first time the previous afternoon tossing off banter that he knew with a blind certainty was what he would have said, had he not known the man beforehand. It was an odd loss of self, to do what some other Hisoka would have done, biting out caustic remarks at a furious pace as he bided his time for some opening, some clue as to what was expected of him to avoid the coming tragedy. He rose, tossing the sweater into the corner as he stalked towards the sink, leaning down to splash water on his face. It seemed clichéd to stand there wallowing, and the water didn’t really do anything except slip down to wet the collar of his undershirt when he straightened. He thought a shower might be in order, to help him feel less violated, or at least supply warmth and steam enough to bring back some semblance of somnolence so that he could catch another half hour of sleep before Tsuzuki woke and dragged him off somewhere. His reflection was dripping, eyes red and raw from crying, from lack of sleep and the lingering effects of Tsuzuki’s sake. His head was really beginning to punish him for that, and he raised a hand to massage the knot between his eyes in a futile attempt to alleviate the discomfort, annoyed by that weakness and the sickly apparition before him. It reminded him too much of his corpse, staring at the person he had been one final time through protective glass, staring at another life through eyes too new to understand. He was tired of juggling so many selves without any certainty of which was true one. He was still Shinigami, still impressive in that phosphorescent, otherworldly way even with bags under his eyes but it was wrong, innately wrong that he had allowed himself to fall apart so thoroughly mere hours after meeting his partner. As if the universe were reminding him of the kind of hold Tsuzuki would have over him in the most dramatic way available. The universe sucked. The worst were the scars, now clearly visible beneath the cutoff arms of his tee shirt, powder pale lines laced across his arms, meandering across his skin in vaguely familiar, but ultimately unrecognizable patterns. There were places where they seemed almost to form words, resembling one kanji or another but combining elements from too many to really pin down a meaning. They were chaos, a symbol of his own powerlessness against the relentless violence of the universe, the unending chain of causality without start or finish and despite what the religions said there was no justice in the world, just the almighty bureaucracy of Meifu cleaning up the universe’s mess. Meaning was applied. Faith constructed on the backs of random coincidences to alleviate the suffering of mortal men, to give them some illusion that the monotony of their existences was imbued with some existential purpose beyond their understanding. But Hisoka knew, he had been to the other side, seen the world through the eyes of a demigod and it had lent him only one certainty. There was no meaning to life. Nothing beyond the rhythm, the cadence of life and death and the sacred order of things. ‘There is no justice. There’s just us.’(1) The bath was controlled by one of those generic knobs that invariably ended up turning water warm when set to cold and freezing when set to hot. He hit the shower lever and twisted it to something more neutral, wetting his fingers in the spray for a moment to make sure the temperature was rising to something approaching tolerable before turning back to the sink, unbuckling his belt and pulling it free to drop onto the counter. He yanked his socks off, balancing precariously against the basin as they caught against his toes, face near pressed into the mirror as he tossed them aside. It was larger than most, running flush from countertop to ceiling, welded to the wall in a flimsy aluminum frame. It displayed more of himself than he wanted to see, showcasing the scars running over sternum and navel in all their painful glory as he shucked his tee shirt, glowing bone white against his skin in the reflection. It still amazed him that the fractured skin had found a way to be paler than the rest, a near impossibility given the supernatural pallor of his skin. Here were the most painful scars, the ones even Watari had shied away from, palm-wide slashes across his chest just above his nipples, spread out as though the skin had not been merely cut but peeled away with delicate precision. The marks changed as they progressed--from bold, experimental strokes by his sternum to more complicated, thinner lines that dipped as far as his hipbones, delicate scrawling that crossed and recrossed without sense of beginning or end. He hated those the most, that odd symbolism of the eternity he would spend with these tangible reminders wondering why he was killed, who had murdered him and why they had felt the need to do it so horribly. He was so wrapped up in his own musing he didn’t notice the wavering image before him until it had shifted entirely, a ghostly, shimmering image superimposed onto his own. The man in the mirror was older, an unearthly pallor beneath a shading of dark hair and the now familiar visor. His outfit was brown today, a dark mocha only slightly different from his usual ensemble, familiar straps and buckles wrapped across his torso in various places beneath the jacket. He smiled as Hisoka froze, a toothy, wolfish expression that set the hair at the back of Hisoka’s neck on end, nodding a greeting as he crossed leather clad arms over his chest. “You,” Hisoka managed, voice echoing strangely within the small room. The man with the shadowed eyes hadn’t made it into tonight’s performance, which was strange, now that Hisoka thought about it. He seemed bound and determined to make up for it now, and though he was often a wry presence in the back of Hisoka’s mind during the day it was still disconcerting to find himself face to face with his tormentor. His hands were shaking, rattling even as he stuffed them into his pockets to stop them and the man’s smile widened, head tipping to the side to examine him with almost mocking interest. ‘So this is the one,’ he seemed to say. ‘Little more than a child.’ It took Hisoka several seconds to realize that he was hearing actual thoughts, the smoke-dry voice of the man in the mirror thrumming faintly through his mind. They stared at each other, a disbelieving moment before something in Hisoka shifted, snapping at the caustic carelessness with which the man was toying with him. “So everyone says. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who in the hell you are?” The man’s face hardened, all trace of humor draining into apathy and he shook his head, slowly, gravely. “Or perhaps you’d like to tell me what exactly it is that you’d like me to do?” Hisoka crossed his arms over his chest. “Because first you want me to avoid him like the plague, and now you’re giving me every reason to throw myself at him. Make up your mind, already! I can’t fuck him and blow him off at the same time!” A dark brow raised, the picture of wry irony as the man shook his head. His lips moved, mouthing something as he scowled, drowning Hisoka in waves of near tangible frustration. “Great,” Hisoka muttered. “I’m being tormented by the silent wonder.” He sighed, digging his hands further into his pockets, dragging his jeans lower on his hips. “Think. I’ll hear you.” The features in the mirror stilled, spectral eyes boring into his own from beneath the visor. ‘Burn.’ It was surreal, the rasping baritone rolling across his mind like the clichéd villain in a third-rate B movie, and that more than anything was pissing him off.(2) The perpetual grandstanding that seemed to be taking over his afterlife was beginning to wear thin. It was in the architecture of Meifu, in the unilateral rule-mongering of the office and he was not about to allow some post-gothic figment of his imagination sneak it into his mind. Anger flaring, Hisoka took a shaky step forward, hands curling into fists. “Wonderful,” he spat. “I finally get you to talk and all the advice you can offer is burn? Thanks, oh-so-much for that helpful little tidbit. What is the point of showing me these things if you aren’t going to tell me what to do with them? Why show me I can be happy just to rip it away? Why, you bastard? Answer me!” The face in the mirror remained impassive, and Hisoka lashed out, fists snapping against the glass in loud bursts. “Why warn me about the fire if you want me in it?” ‘Because he needs you.’ “That doesn’t make any sense!” Hisoka screamed, fists beating mindlessly against the glass. He was unprepared for the sudden burst of light that heralded his frustration, glass shattering in a shower of tiny fragments to glitter against the bathroom counter and tile. “Wha--” he stammered. The room was suddenly empty without the presence in the mirror, a darkened hole of unpainted drywall and jagged fragments clinging to the frame in its place. He spun around as the door crashed open, eyes meeting startled amethyst as Tsuzuki leaned against the frame, gaze searching him for injury. He blanched at the quick spike of shock, carefully concealed as he realized that he was still half-dressed, scars clearly visible as he wrapped his arms around himself. “Hisoka…” the man began, trailing off at the angry glare he received in response. “Don’t you knock?” A quick flash of hurt, and Tsuzuki offered a wan smile. “I was worried. Breaking glass is usually a bad sign.” Startled, Hisoka sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah well, as you can see, I’m fine.” He was surprised at his own capacity to affect Tsuzuki, at the chinks evident in his partner’s proverbial armor whenever his remarks crossed that invisible line between caustic and full out mean. He held up his hands in supplication, palms out. “No blood.” “No blood,” the man repeated, shaking his head. He didn’t look terribly convinced, and Hisoka couldn’t blame him, leaning back against the counter and pulling his tee shirt back on over the worst of the scarring, crossing his arms defensively. Tsuzuki took a few steps forward, eyes raking over the scattered remnants of the mirror. “I think you killed it.” Hisoka shrugged, tried to make it noncommittal, but with Tsuzuki so close he suspected he was failing miserably. “I had a headache.” “I’ll bet,” Tsuzuki smiled, grateful for the opening. “No more drinking for you, little man.” He paused, looking Hisoka over more than a little suggestively. “You’re heavier than you look.” “Idiot,” Hisoka muttered, warmed by the nickname from the dream and warring with the impulse insisting that he would never allow himself to be coddled without that extra incentive. “I have a name.” Tsuzuki was suddenly standing far too close, hand reaching out to brush a hand over Hisoka’s hair, dislodging a shower of glittering, powder thin glass fragments. “So do I.” The look he threw Hisoka was particularly shrewd, leaning forward enough to blur his features in Hisoka’s vision. “And I’ll give you a hint--it’s not ‘Idiot’.” Hisoka bit back the automatic retort, staring startled into too-close amethyst as his breath caught at the sudden shift. Tsuzuki seemed older, a shadow of the man in his dreams imbued with a seriousness the idiot of yesterday seemed ill equipped to handle. It was unsettling to realize how many layers the man possessed, most so closely guarded they were rarely acknowledged and Hisoka had the unsettling feeling that he was being weighed and measured on levels he would never be fully made aware of. He sighed. “What do you want from me?” It felt better to say it, even knowing Tsuzuki wouldn’t know what he was asking enough to give him the answer he needed. Tsuzuki chuckled, self-mocking as he backed away, heading towards the door. “Not everyone has to want something from you, Hisoka. Sometimes people care for one another because it’s the right thing to do.” “And sometimes people want to be left alone to shower,” he retorted, moving to shut the door. He grimaced at its beleaguered groan, rolling his eyes at Tsuzuki’s sheepish expression. “Tatsumi-san’s going to make you pay for this, you know.” “I know, I’m used to it.” Tsuzuki shook his head ruefully. “You going to be okay?” “As soon as my head stops trying to cave in.” Another chuckle, more honest, and the accompanying smile seemed less plastic than usual. “I am sorry about that. If there’s a way to get off on the wrong foot with new partners I seem to find it.” He paused. “Or I should probably say it finds me.” “You’re just an innocent bystander,” said Hisoka, eyeing Tsuzuki through the cracked door. It seemed that was about as closed as it was likely to get after being so enthusiastically torn off its hinges, and Hisoka couldn’t decide whether to be flattered that Tsuzuki seemed to care so much about his well being or annoyed that he would have to shower with the door open partway. Tsuzuki held up a placating hand. “Don’t worry, I promise not to peek. Your virtue will remain intact while I sack out on the bed you so recently rumpled. If you don’t mind, of course.” “It’s your bed.” Tsuzuki rolled his eyes. “In name only, apparently.” He hooked a thumb at the room behind him and Hisoka shifted enough to glimpse the Gushoshin floating just above one of the pillows tossed across the bed. “It’s like Grand Central Station over there.” “So shove him off,” said Hisoka, almost wincing at the suddenly conversational tone. Pressed close to the opening in the door, leaning into Tsuzuki who was half-wedged into the other side, all he wanted was to allow himself to fall into familiarity, to wander into the comforting strains of friendship he knew would precede something more. It was reassuring to know that were he to decide it now, he could walk that path despite the devastation that it promised, but it was not enough to quell the sudden longing lodging in his throat. Tsuzuki looked so hopeful, a childlike eagerness reflected in his hovering and Hisoka hurt to push him away, offering a small smile before wedging the door that much further closed and pushing off towards the steam spilling from the neglected shower. He pulled his tee shirt off again, running his hands over the scars lacing his abdomen. Even if Tsuzuki’s egalitarian instincts were right and not /everyone/ wanted something from him, the fact remained that knowingly or not Tsuzuki did. And as much as Hisoka wanted to give in to his craving to be close to his partner, the price was too high to pay. He had to remember that. -End- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Notes! (1) *snickers madly* Who can resist the wisdom of Mr. Bill Door? (2) Think the obligatory floating Deadite in an Evil Dead movie. “Dead by dawn!” return to splash page