When Hisoka leaves his small house, the sun is still low in the sky. As he walks, the fog burns off leaving the air crisp and moist, scented with the green of grass and leaves. With plenty of time remaining before the morning's departmental meeting, he makes a quick trip from Meifu to Chijou (where it's raining), to pick up a box of doughnuts.
Arriving at JuOhCho with the luxury of minutes to spare, Hisoka holds the door for an elderly clerk and follows her inside. The interior of the old building smells of tea and ink. Telephones ring hesitantly, mostly unanswered at this early hour. Walking along the corridor, he feels more than hears the familiar hum of machinery warming up, the thumps and sighs of copy machines and percolators, the table-shaking vibrations of old electric typewriters, and the background whir of computer fans. Years prior, when he'd first come to work in this building, the white noise was all that allowed him to be in proximity to so many people, so much volatility and emotion.
In the angled sunlight of the conference room, Watari warms his hands around a cup of tea and smiles a greeting. Tatsumi and Chief Konoe sit behind a pile of folders, Tatsumi pointing at documents and Konoe signing where indicated.
"Good morning, Chief, Tatsumi-san." Hisoka turns and adds, "Watari-san," as he sets the bakery box down at the center of the conference table.
"Kurosaki-kun, good morning! Did you bring enough jellies for everyone?" Chief Konoe smiles and flips back the lid of the box with his pen to peer inside. Tatsumi frowns slightly and taps insistently at the signature line on the form on the tabletop.
"There are enough so long as we leave one for Tsuzuki," Hisoka replies. "He's not here yet?" He needn't have asked - Tsuzuki will be late, of course. Hisoka lays his hand against the curved side of the electric kettle and finds it still warm. Hot water steaming in his cup, he takes his customary seat at the end of the table, facing the windows, through which he can see the sakura and their unceasing rain of petals. It might make sense for him to find the trees and their permanent springtime distressing, but instead Hisoka finds their constancy reassuring.
The elder Gushoshin brother arrives by himself and Hisoka overhears him telling Watari, "My brother is putting final touches on the database interface."
At 8:33, Chief Konoe to call the meeting to order. Tatsumi begins, as usual, with a budget report.
Gazing unfocused at the broad lawns that slope down toward the trees, Hisoka sips his tea and feels no no obligation to pay attention to Tatsumi's actual words. He can assume with some certainty that Tatsumi is encouraging financial discipline, both at home and abroad.
Tsuzuki arrives at 8:42, rumpled and out of breath, and with crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning, good morning!" Tsuzuki shrugs out of his trench coat and fumbles with the collar and coat rack. "So sorry I'm late!" The coat stays on the hook only until Tsuzuki steps away, then falls to the floor with the canvas rattle of a collapsing sail.
Tatsumi stops speaking mid-sentence, something about excessive taxi use in towns with perfectly efficient public transportation, and presses his lips together tightly.
"I’m so sorry," Tsuzuki repeats, picking up the coat from the floor and hanging it more securely. He goes around the circle, bowing. "Chief Konoe, Tatsumi-san, Watari-san, Hisoka-san." Then, spying the box, he throws up his hands and exclaims, "Ah, doughnuts!"
"Please be seated," Konoe says dryly.
In a loud whisper, Watari says, "We saved you a jelly," and passes Tsuzuki a plate holding a pastry leaking red jam.
Tsuzuki slips into the chair beside Hisoka. "Sorry," he whispers, knocking the table with his knee. "So sorry, Hisoka-san."
Hisoka tries not to smile.
Tatsumi's voice rises a little as he says, "I think Tsuzuki-san should hear this information. Chief, if you don't mind, I'll start over…"
As Tatsumi's voice again recedes into the background, Hisoka watches Tsuzuki bite into the doughnut. He smiles blissfully around the pastry, eyes closed and face lifted in exaltation--his enjoyment is excessive and when he sets the doughnut back on its plate, a smear of red stains his lip. Hisoka's fingers twitch to wipe it away.
With a rattle of papers, Tatsumi concludes his lecture. Chief Konoe clears his throat and asks, "Watari? Gushoshin? Do you have any progress to report on the database?"
Watari and Gushoshin both begin speaking at once. Again, Hisoka lets the familiar voices lull him. Tatsumi will be summarizing everything in meticulous minutes, distributed by the end of the work day, so paying close attention seems unnecessary. Tsuzuki is a tall, dim shape in his peripheral vision, the sun is bright on the grass, and, if Hisoka isn't exactly happy, he is at least content.
~~~
Following adjournment of the meeting, the shinigami drift back to their offices. Watari waylays Tsuzuki in the hallway, attempting to convince him to serve as an experimental subject for yet another ill-conceived potion. Preferring not to become involved, Hisoka ducks around them and slips into the office he and Tsuzuki share.
It's a small room, verging on cramped. Their desks--government-issue, battleship-gray metal tables with scratched tops and ill-fitting file drawers--are pushed together at the center of the room, situated so that both of them can look out of the windows. The arrangement is comfortable enough, although Tsuzuki's files inevitably spill over to Hisoka's side, and Hisoka has long since resorted to locking his pens in his drawer in order to prevent Tsuzuki "borrowing" them.
Although Hisoka's in-box is empty, Tsuzuki's is piled high with case files. When a case is traumatic, it's impossible to forget the details and completing the associated paperwork is the least troublesome aspect of the job. Truly memorable cases aren't the norm, however, and when it comes to routine hauntings and wandering spirits, Tsuzuki has a bad habit of allowing files to accumulate until such time that Tatsumi (on behalf of the Chief) is obliged to intervene.
Tsuzuki enters and nearly slams the door shut, leaning back against it. "Why does Watari always pick on me?" he whines. "What makes him think I'll drink his crazy potions?"
Hisoka raises an eyebrow. "Maybe it's because you always do, baka."
Tsuzuki shakes his head. Sitting down, he disappears behind the stack of files. He cranes his neck out from behind the heap and gives Hisoka his most endearing smile. "Hisoka-san? Do you think you could help me with--" a helpless gesture at the pile of work-- "all of this? I seem to have a bit of a backlog…"
Hisoka makes a great show of feeling put-upon, rolling his eyes and sighing, but because they are partners, he takes half the stack and sets to work. It has always been a matter of considerable fascination to him that someone who can spend hours patiently writing beautiful, powerful fuda has such trouble with simple duplicate forms.
Tsuzuki mutters and grumbles as he works, shuffling and shifting through stacks of tissue paper forms. He complains as naturally as breathing, drawing from a dedicated shirker's catalog of bargain and denial, occasionally letting loose with an inspired riff of self-righteousness regarding the effective use of employee time. Sometimes it's amusing, sometimes not.
"Quiet," Hisoka says, to no avail, though he didn't really expect it to work. "If you don't remember exactly, and it's not something important, just guess. Put something." He demonstrates how to go about this by ticking off random boxes on the collection form. He'd once stubbornly insisted on asking Tsuzuki for the details--if he remembered what the weather was like when he'd collected the soul of Ms. Kobayashi, or if Mr. Sato had been carrying an umbrella--but experience has proven that it is much more efficient to bypass Tsuzuki's recollections entirely.
The paperwork is important, certainly, but the most important thing is that the souls have been properly judged and dealt with. He reminds himself of this fact frequently as he tells bureaucratic lies, the bravado flourish of his pen belying his discomfort with the falsifications.
He looks up from the form and watches as Tsuzuki, cursing softly under his breath, drags his white cuff through a dark blue splotch of ink. Even this is so predictable, so usual. Most likely, he'll be spending the rest of his afterlife with this person, doing his tardy paperwork and indulging his sweet tooth with greater and lesser degrees of affection and enthusiasm.
When he'd asked Tsuzuki to live for him, he'd thought somehow that the life he'd begged for would amount to more than this.
Perhaps he hadn't known exactly what he was asking for then, but now he is entirely too aware of what he wants from Tsuzuki. Really, though, possible interpretations of his request are extremely limited, and extremely pointed. It's been nearly three years; how can Tsuzuki remain so maddeningly dense? Suddenly irritable, Hisoka sighs aloud. "What do you think we look like, Tsuzuki?"
Tsuzuki frowns. "Look like?" His hair hangs in his face, obscuring those strange eyes.
"When we're walking together. Do you ever wonder what people think when they see us? Older man, younger man--"
Tsuzuki is indignant. "Older? Do you think I look old?"
Hisoka examines Tsuzuki's handsome face critically, tapping his pen thoughtfully. "You seem too old to be my friend," Hisoka continues. "An uncle, perhaps."
Tsuzuki's face crumples. "I'm not too old to be your friend," he says quietly.
Hisoka flushes with shame. "No, of course not. I just meant…" His voice trails away. Tsuzuki, looks down at his paperwork and blinks rapidly. "Tsuzuki, of course you're my friend," Hisoka says gently.
Tsuzuki presses his trembling lips together in a firm line. Visibly collecting his inner resources, he straightens in his chair and glances at the much-reduced stacks of files. Clearing his throat, he suggests, "Why don't you leave the rest to me, Hisoka-san? I'm very grateful for your help, but I can finish on my own."
"Tsuzuki--please!" Hisoka says. "I didn't mean anything by it. Please let me help you." Despite his sincerity, he can't quite believe he's actually begging Tsuzuki to let him do his paperwork.
"I don't mean to be a burden," Tsuzuki says, looking down at the desktop. "I'm very sorry, Hisoka-san."
"Don't be sorry," Hisoka urges. "Please, Tsuzuki. I don't consider you a burden." He hesitates and then, striving for offhand, adds, "I…I care about you very much."
Tsuzuki sniffs hard and straightened his shoulders. "Thank you, Hisoka. I care about you, also."
In a sudden surge of guilty generosity, Hisoka impulsively says, "Why don't we get lunch now, and then we'll finish up quickly afterward."
Tsuzuki brightens considerably. "You're inviting me?"
Much to his own annoyance, Hisoka feels a flutter of nervous excitement in his gut. But this certainly isn't a date. "Yes. Lunch and…and dessert, too."
The mere mention of dessert makes Tsuzuki's eyes light up. "Thank you, Hisoka. You're very kind." Seemingly in better spirits, Tsuzuki makes several check marks on the document in front of him.
Hisoka winces imperceptibly. He doesn't feel kind. "I just don't want a lecture from Tatsumi," he insists, brushing off the gratitude. "If it means I have to bribe you…"
Tsuzuki says, "Thank you, anyway," with a smile that implies he sees through Hisoka's dismissive words. His eyes shine warmly above flushed cheeks and it is suddenly impossible for Hisoka to look at him directly.
Annoyed, Hisoka opens his mouth to call Tsuzuki an idiot, a pure reflex, but closes it again without a sound. When the idiot is himself, there's no need to call attention to the fact by stating it aloud.
~~~
Lunch was like every meal Hisoka had ever eaten with Tsuzuki: food enough for four, dropped napkins, an abundance of crumbs, and Tsuzuki's sweet, apologetic smile. Hisoka took one bite from the dessert he'd ordered and left the rest for Tsuzuki, hoping that it wasn't too obvious that this was what he had intended all along.
Upon returning to their desks, Tsuzuki found a message from Chief Konoe summoning them to his office.
They walked down the corridor side by side. "A new case, I suppose," Tsuzuki said. "I hope we get to travel."
Tatsumi announced their arrival and, following greetings, the Chief invited them to sit down.
"Kurosaki-kun, Tsuzuki-san." Chief Konoe slides a folder across his desk and Tsuzuki picks it up. "You have a new assignment."
Tsuzuki flips the file open and holds it so that Hisoka can read along with him. A standard data sheet and photograph reveal that the subject of their inquiry is Shimada Seiko, an attractive twenty-three-year-old woman whose date of death is two weeks in the past.
Chief Konoe says, "Shimada Seiko-san died, as scheduled, in a car accident two weeks ago, along with her best friend, Tadahara Mieko. Ms. Tadahara reported promptly for judgment, but Ms. Shimada was unaccounted for--" Konoe pauses, riffling through paperwork until he finds a newsprint page. "--until her brother's funeral, just two days ago."
Surprised, Hisoka asks, "Her brother's funeral?"
The Chief consults his paperwork. "Her younger brother is dead, as are her mother, her father, and now her uncle."
"But she's not dead?" Tsuzuki asks.
"We have every reason to believe she is dead," Chief Konoe replies. "Unfortunately, it's likely that we're dealing with a particularly nasty form of gaki. Since Ms. Shimada maintains the appearance of a living being while her poor relatives die violently and far ahead of schedule, it's the most likely explanation. Today her uncle, Shimada Taro, reported for judgment, although he wasn't scheduled for death for another thirty years."
Hisoka takes the page from the Chief's hand. The slightly fuzzy image accompanies a brief article about the terrible deaths in Ms. Shimada's circle of friends and family. Beneath the flimsy guise of sympathy, the reporter bemoans Ms. Shimada's string of losses, then ghoulishly lists the few remaining Shimada relatives (Taro, a maternal uncle and his daughter, and a paternal grandmother).
Tsuzuki leans over Hisoka's shoulder to better examine the photograph of black-clad and tearful Seiko, half-hidden from the camera's rude gaze by the torso and arm of a man in a black suit. This close, Tsuzuki smells of tea, sugar from his doughnut, and the warmth of bed. Hisoka jerks away, flustered and irritated by his discomposure.
Tsuzuki frowns at the photograph. "The Shimadas have nothing to tell us?"
Chief Konoe leans back in his chair, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, as is typical, they have poor memories of their last hours. With time, perhaps…"
"But with the family dying off so quickly, we don't have time," Tsuzuki sighs, completing the thought for him. Hisoka knows these kinds of suspicious "family" cases tend to depress Tsuzuki. He slumps in the chair beside Hisoka, already looking beaten and exhausted. "When are services for the uncle?"
"The otsuya is tomorrow evening." Chief Konoe gestures toward the file in Tsuzuki's hand. "You have copies of all relevant documents. The address of the hall where the otsuya and funeral will be held is there also."
"Do we have any idea where Seiko might be?"
The Chief shakes his head slightly. "There have been no confirmed sightings, but you might check at the family's home."
Tsuzuki reads the basic case information from inside the folder's cover and, with an appreciative whistle, says, "Ah, they lived in Shirogane! That's an upscale area!"
Chief Konoe nods. "The Shimada family is well-off." He collects his own copies and tidies them back into their folder. "Tsuzuki-san," he says. "Please let Kurosaki-kun carry the file. Even though it's a copy, you mustn't lose it."
Tsuzuki rolls his eyes when Konoe looks away, but he lets Hisoka take the folder. As they walk back to their own office, Tsuzuki says, "Hisoka-san? If we set out early tomorrow, we'll have plenty of time before we start investigating to try this restaurant I've heard about..."
~~~
Come morning, Hisoka's head hurts. He'd intended to head straight home after work but instead, at Tsuzuki's cheerful insistence, he'd spent the evening at the tiny six-stool bar just a block away from the office. While Tsuzuki impetuously bought rounds of drinks for the house and sang off-key karaoke versions of corny love songs, Hisoka had sipped his beer quietly and simply watched. He hated to admit it, but he was jealous of the attention Tsuzuki received, and was unreasonably upset at how easily Tsuzuki would return favor. Sometimes he wished that Tsuzuki wasn't quite so charming, wasn't quite so eager to for strangers' approval.
He's meeting Tsuzuki at the train station. He'd pointed out that they were perfectly capable of flying directly to the Shimada's house, but Tsuzuki had convinced him that the train trip would give them an excellent opportunity to review the file. Last night, Tsuzuki's argument sounded reasonable, even efficient, but this morning it just seems lazy.
Despite the prior evening's heavy drinking, Tsuzuki seems cheerful, though he does keep his sunglasses on, even indoors. They purchase tea and packaged biscuits and manage to find adjoining seats. Rush hour is past--their late start is another of Tsuzuki's clever ideas. Tsuzuki holds half the file, Hisoka the other, and they pass papers back and forth as they read. Tsuzuki balances the folder in his lap, legs crossed, his bent leg resting against Hisoka's thigh, warm through fabric.
As the train goes around a curve, tea spills on the loose pages in Tsuzuki's lap and down the front of his shirt. He yelps and brushes at the liquid, smearing the ink on the printouts.
Hisoka grabs for the folder. "Stop fussing!" he snaps. "And don't get the pages out of order!" He dabs at Tsuzuki's wet shirt with a wad of napkins.
"That tickles," Tsuzuki complains. Hisoka tries to ignore the shift of muscles beneath the wet cotton, finds himself incapable of the task, and leaves Tsuzuki with a lap full of wet napkins.
After further blotting, Tsuzuki gives him a nudge, and pointed to the photo of Shimada Seiko leaving her brother's funeral.
"She looks angry," he says. "Not sad."
"People experience loss in different ways," Hisoka says neutrally, though he does happen to agree with his partner's assessment.
"That's true," Tsuzuki muses, trying hard not to smile. "For instance, you are a very grouchy person."
Hisoka bristles, "And you are a clown." He shifts his leg from beneath the slight weight of Tsuzuki's bent knee. "Baka."
~~~
There is no answer to their knock at the door of the Shimada house. They're standing in an established section of Shirogane, the streets lined with rows of single-family houses. A new Toyota MR-S convertible glitters in the driveway of the Shimada house, but no one answers the doorbell.
"Do you sense anything?"
Hisoka stands still, letting the tangle of energies flow through him, separating out the thread of the Shimada household. It's all leftovers: hollow footsteps, dry drains, and the refrigerator humming empty. There are remnants of past lives caught on the coathooks but, if Seiko's still living here, she's not breathing. He gives Tsuzuki the verdict: "Nothing but dead air."
Tsuzuki sighs and they exchange a knowing glance; Konoe had been right. Seiko is some sort of gaki. At best, a gaki is a crybaby and at worst…well, Hisoka has yet to see just how unpleasant they can be, but the stories he's heard from Tsuzuki and other shinigami don't make him eager to be better informed on this count.
Tsuzuki turns to leave. "Come on, then. Let's go to the funeral hall. If Seiko-san isn't there already, she'll certainly be there by the time the otsuya begins."
~~~
Inside the hall, the shinigami slip unnoticed among the mourners. Seiko stands by the casket with her grandmother, a bent, ancient woman in a Chanel suit, and a middle-aged man and young woman who must be her maternal uncle and cousin. Seiko appears appropriately subdued but seems distracted, her eyes darting about the room. The man who stays close by her elbow is, they overhear, Seiko's lawyer.
A few circuits of the room, unobtrusively eavesdropping, reveal telling details about Seiko's behavior since the car crash that claimed her friend's life. Tadahara Mieko had been engaged to be married in just a few weeks, which most mourners agreed made her death especially tragic. Her fiancé was, curiously enough, someone Seiko had once dated herself. Judging by their whispered discussions, some of Seiko's friends seem to consider the potential reunion particularly romantic.
During the week following Mieko's tragic death, Mrs. Shimada, who was allergic to bees, disturbed a wasp's nest in their garden and was stung dozens of times. Unfortunately, the swellings from the stings had so disfigured her corpse that it was impossible to have a viewing of the body at her otsuya.
Although coworkers and neighbors were genuine in their praise of Mr. Shimada's character and friendly nature, all agreed that he hadn't been particularly handy around the house. Why he had tried to relight the pilot for the gas furnace by himself instead of calling for help was a mystery. It was rumored that the burns resulting from the explosion were particularly horrifying.
After Mr. Shimada's death, the family business, Shimada Printing, passed to his children and his brother, Shimada Taro, who held a small interest in the company.
The death of Toshi, Seiko's younger brother, was something of a scandal. Apparently, the child had a long-standing but well-hidden history of seizures, and had drowned in the bath, presumably following an attack. Considering the waterlogged nature of his death and his youth, it was easy to understand why the family (or, rather Seiko) had chosen to keep his casket closed.
With her entire immediate family dead, it seemed incredibly cruel (not to mention statistically improbable) that Uncle Taro had taken a fall from a ladder, crushing his skull like an egg. It wasn't clear what Taro had been doing on the ladder in the first place, and now it would be forever a mystery.
Many of the mourners knew that it was little consolation but, even though she'd be alone, Seiko would certainly have plenty of money, and would be able to live however she pleased. How tragic, though, for a girl to be left all along so young.
His head full of chatter about freak accidents, conveniently disfiguring injuries, and Seiko-san's attempts to alleviate her grief with designer shopping sprees, Hisoka joins Tsuzuki at the back of the hall. Tsuzuki looks pale and tired. "Such a greedy girl," he says sadly, shaking his head. At the front of the hall, Seiko bows and accepts condolences from her uncle's friends. "She's a jikininki, I think," he says. "A very bad sort of gaki."
Hisoka has researched jikininki along with other forms of "hungry" ghosts. At the moment of her death, instead of accepting her fate, Seiko's avariciousness transformed her into a spirit of pure greed. Until discovered and dispatched to Hell, Seiko will be able to maintain her normal appearance and lead a simulacrum of a normal life so long as she eats a steady diet of rotting human flesh. Because of the disgusting habits that are part and parcel of their condition, most gaki are relieved, if not eager, to be freed from their earthly attachments, and Hisoka hopes that Seiko will be typical of her kind.
There is a sudden flurry of activity near the front of the room. "The priest has arrived," Tsuzuki murmurs, touching Hisoka's elbow. "He'll read the sutras now." They remain out of sight at the back of the hall while the priest chants.
The anxiety associated with the rumors and gossip circulating through the crowd has taken its toll on Hisoka's mood. Impatiently, even disrespectfully, he wishes the priest would pick up the pace and finish the ceremony sooner rather than later.
"This priest…" Hisoka says with a disdainful sniff. "Don't you think a competent practitioner would sense a gaki's presence and do something about it?"
"But then we'd have nothing to do." Tsuzuki smiles fondly and gives Hisoka's shoulder a nudge. "It won't be much longer."
The family and mourners burn incense and pray, then move en masse to the adjoining banquet room. Hisoka bites back a tart remark when Tsuzuki slips into the room just long enough to fill his coat pockets with cookies from the dessert table.
At last, the mourners leave the hall. Photographers lurk outside, hoping for glimpses of the ever-dwindling Shimada family, but the funeral hall's employees shoo them away. Car engines start up, near and distant.
"This is awkward," Hisoka murmurs. "We can't approach her. Her family is here, as well as the lawyer, and they'll be spending the night with the body…"
"She won't go anywhere," Tsuzuki points out. "Hisoka-san, you do understand what a jikininki is, right? What she does?"
Hisoka bridles. "Of course I do!" he snaps. "Just because I've never encountered one before--"
"Okay, okay! I was only asking!" Tsuzuki raises his hands in submission, then pats Hisoka's arm tentatively. "I just want you to be prepared so you can do your best."
"I am prepared," Hisoka insists, scowling.
"They'll probably take turns sitting up with the body," Tsuzuki reminds him. "She'll want to take her turn fairly late for…privacy."
"But not too late," Hisoka says, continuing the thought.
Tsuzuki finishes, "Because she must already be very hungry." He pulls his coat tight around his body and shudders.
"What do you suggest we do, then?"
"Well, there's this place I've heard about that makes terrific nabemono…"
~~~
Three hours later, Hisoka and Tsuzuki return to the funeral hall arguing in rough whispers.
"You could have noted it was the last train of the evening on that line just as easily as I could." Tsuzuki shrugs it off. "And we're here now, so there's no problem."
"We can fly, Tsuzuki, or did you forget?"
"My stomach hurt! I was too full to fly!"
"And whose fault is that? Baka!" Hisoka hisses, slipping through the door into the building's foyer. As they branch off the main corridor and hurry toward the room containing Shimada Taro's body, he continues, "If we've missed her, you'll have to explain to Chief Konoe that we couldn't do our job because you just had to have kake-nabe--"
"Shh!" Tsuzuki puts a hand on Hisoka's arm. "Do you hear that?"
There's a soft thud behind the closed door, followed by a sickening, moist splintering and Hisoka shudders. He knows, in theory, what a jikininki does to survive, but now he'll actually have to witness it. A sharp, metallic smell seeps from beneath the door, undercut with the sickly-sweet tang of putrefaction
"Be ready," Tsuzuki whispers. He throws opens the door with one hand, using his body to shield Hisoka, and reaches inside to flip the light switch. "Seiko-san!" he calls loudly.
They take her by surprise. Seiko lifts her pale, gore-streaked face, eyes wide and mouth agape, from the mess she clutches in her hands. Kneeling inside the coffin, her black skirt bunched up around her hips, she holds her uncle's mutilated genitals before her open mouth. Strips of skin caught in her teeth hang from her lips, and gobbets of fat and clotted blood slide down her cheeks. "No!" she shrieks. "Don't look at me!"
"Seiko-san," Tsuzuki says gently. "Shimada Seiko-san. We're here to help you."
"Fuck off!" Seiko shouts. "Go away!" She backs toward the foot of the coffin, away from the door and the shinigami. "Leave me alone!"
Tsuzuki inches toward the casket. "We're here to help," he repeats, his tone soothing. "It's time for you to go, Seiko-san. Time to move on."
"No." Seiko shakes her head and moves further back in the open casket, crouching over her uncle's bare feet. "You can't make me. Now that they're dead, I can finally have everything I've wanted! You can't make me give that up!" She drags the contents of Taro-san's abdominal cavity with her, stuffing a handful of something dark and slippery into her mouth and chewing frantically. The stink of offal spreads through the room. She chokes out, "I'm happy now! I'm not going anywhere," around a mouthful of filth.
"It's time." Tsuzuki holds out his hand to her, an open welcome. Hisoka hates the idea of Tsuzuki being touched by this monster, but Tsuzuki never hesitates to reach out to anyone he thinks he might be able to save.
Seiko hisses like a snake and reaches into her uncle's chest, tearing loose handfuls of stringy meat. She throws awkwardly and the pieces hit the floor, spattering their shoes with brownish fluid. Hisoka jerks back in disgust, but Tsuzuki takes another step toward her.
"I don't think you understand who we are," Tsuzuki says, a hint of menace in his tone. A slick mess slides down the front of his coat and hit the floor with a fleshy plop.
Seiko isn't interested in explanations. "I don't care who you are! Just leave me alone!" Another handful of rotting gut arcs through the air, landing at Tsuzuki's feet. "Get away! Leave me alone!"
"It's over," Tsuzuki insists, his voice more stern. "You don't have a choice, Seiko-san."
Seiko shakes her head so violently that jellied clots of blood fly from the tangles of her long hair. "No! You don't know!" she wails. "You don't know what it's like to never get what you want!"
Hisoka laughs, a single, sharp bark. How presumptuous, and how wrong she is! Out of the corner of his eye, Hisoka sees Tsuzuki easing a hand into his pocket for a fuda, something to blast the remnants of Seiko's depleted spirit from the shell of her body. Hisoka takes an abrupt step to the side, pretending to trip, drawing Seiko's attention. They've done this sort of bait-and-switch with confused or reluctant spirits in the past; hopefully he's given Tsuzuki enough time and space to activate the spell.
He hasn't nearly the persuasive skill of Tsuzuki, but Hisoka tries anyway. "What you're doing is disgusting," he says, "This isn't you, Seiko-san. You don't--"
Seiko isn't listening. She sees Tsuzuki slip a hand inside his pocket and, realizing he must be going for a weapon, leaps from the casket with an angry howl. Pushing up from a low crouch, legs already churning, she starts for the door. But instead of dashing past Hisoka, she slips on the coagulating blood pooled on the floor and, with a shriek of panicked rage, slides through the muck and collides with Hisoka's shins, bringing him down with her. Hisoka screams in disgust, Seiko in frustration, and the chaotic tangle of their limbs thwarts their efforts to separate.
The jikininki appears slight, but her body weighs on him, heavy and cold as iron. Nose to nose, the charnel taste of her breath fills his lungs. Cold, wet hair, thick with gore, wraps around his throat. " Don't you dare!" she growls. " I know what you are. Don't you dare criticize me…" Her greed is thick and bitter and he can't close his mouth around it. He gags and swallows, disappointment burning in his throat, and it's so unfair.
"Hisoka!" Tsuzuki shouts. "Get clear!" Hisoka knows that Tsuzuki will hesitate to use a fuda while he remains entangled with its intended target, but his reactions are stunted and stiff. His mind races ahead and back, uselessly circling, his body a dead weight. Seiko strengthens her hold on his shoulders and rolls them over, placing his body as a shield between Tsuzuki and herself. Her breasts flatten beneath his chest, her ankles lock behind his thighs, and she twines her arms around his neck. "Fuck me," she says, and laughs at his feeble struggles as her cold tongue snakes out to flick at his lips.
Despite her strength, Hisoka should be able to break free, but instead he's helpless, limp and twitching in her arms, his nerves misfiring and senses disoriented by her emotional turmoil. He's certain his hands are squeezing her throat, but as he's about to black out, he understands that he's the one being strangled. When she releases her hold, Hisoka inhales a deep draught of disappointment and anger, the bitter taste of thwarted desire, the pain of being denied one's heart's desire. It sinks into his pores, darkens him like a stain, and Seiko says, "See?"
Skinned and salted, left alone with less than anyone deserves; Hisoka knows these feelings all too well. He had a miserable life, a terrible death, and even though he knows that no one becomes a shinigami without harboring deep regrets, he resents all the others for the lives they had, the choices they made, the things they accomplished. Unlike Seiko, he doesn't crave handbags and diamonds, but if he could have a life and leave others hurting in his place, it might seem almost wonderful to feed on human rot. What would he be willing to do if he could have Tsuzuki's beauty, his bravery, his twelve shikigami and generous heart…?
Sickened by the direction of his thoughts, Hisoka wails and shoves desperately at Seiko's arms. They roll sideways, his back to Tsuzuki, Seiko still protected. "Maybe you do understand," she says, smiling with red-rimmed fangs. She leans in as if to kiss him and Hisoka screams as she sinks her teeth into his pale cheek.
Crumpling the fuda and letting it fall to the ground, Tsuzuki stands over them, straddling their bodies. Seiko kicks up, aiming for his face, and Tsuzuki catches hold of her foot. As they struggle, Hisoka manages to get enough leverage to pry off one of her hands. Tsuzuki reaches down and pulls at her other hand and drags her, spitting and shrieking, away from Hisoka. She reaches for his face, fingers crooked into claws, but Tsuzuki simply tosses her away and kneels protectively at Hisoka's side. Seiko's body collides with the altar, the impact jolting the casket, and comes to rest sprawled on the floor, unmoving. Although inhumanly strong, the jikininki is no match for a shinigami with his wits about him.
Hisoka coughs in an effort to expel what he can of the dead girl's dissatisfaction and rage. His chest feels heavy, his brain slow and toxic. Tasting bile, he rolls up on an elbow.
"Hisoka!" Tsuzuki cradles Hisoka's head in his hands. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Hisoka lies. "Don't worry! Just get rid of her!"
Tsuzuki stands between Hisoka and the jikininki and chants the words to activate the fuda. Once cast, the spell blows bright as phosphorus, leaving behind the scent of incense and a litter of burning ash that drifts to the floor like petals. Hisoka watches through the frame of Tsuzuki's long legs as a door opens from Chijou to Meifu. Despite what appears to be a broken arm, Seiko tries to crawl away, shrieking in rage and fear. Her nails sink into the carpet and she clings to the fringes of the living world with desperate strength but the pull of Hell is stronger than any one of its insignificant monsters, and the door closes quietly behind her, cutting off the last of her curses.
Hisoka pushes up off the floor on unsteady arms and vomits, his stomach convulsing. Seiko's ugliness had been entirely too familiar, too alike. He might deny it later, to Tsuzuki and the rest, but he was only been able to keep the jikininki's vicious, unreasonable emotions at bay for mere moments before succumbing to a powerful sense of their affinity, their horrible sameness.
Sinking weakly back down to his elbows, nose wrinkling at the sour reek of gall, it occurs to him that Seiko's cold selfishness and destructive envy are reminiscent of the monster Muraki, as well. Feeling a connection with creatures so emotionally deformed makes him wonder if his mother had been right to deny him, his father justified in railing against the unsuitability of his only heir. Angry tears threaten to spill and, choking on the spoiled-metal stench of blood, he bends his head and coughs bile onto the somber carpet.
"Hisoka." Tsuzuki drops to his knees and pulls Hisoka to him, into his lap. "Are you hurt?" He frantically palpates Hisoka's limbs, the shape of his head, each of his fingers. "What did she do? Tell me!"
The concern, so undeserved, cuts like a knife. Hisoka bats the hands away. "Nothing! Tsuzuki, stop!"
"Where are you hurt?"
"I'm not hurt." He shrugs out from under Tsuzuki's touch. "You shouldn't touch me. She made me…" He looks down at the sticky handprints on his lapels and feels sick. "I'm dirty. That's all."
Tsuzuki seems unconvinced. "I'm taking you home."
~~~
Hisoka doesn't remember much of the flight home, although he knows Tsuzuki half-carried him. At his door, he stood still, as obedient as a child, while Tsuzuki stripped their bloodstained coats from their bodies and left them crumpled on the mat.
Now, Tsuzuki stands guard as Hisoka bends over the basin and washes blood from his hands and face. The bite to his cheek has already healed. Tsuzuki takes his turn, rinsing his hands and watching Hisoka in the mirror.
Embarrassed by his scrutiny, Hisoka clears his throat and states, "I'm fine!" though Tsuzuki had neither asked nor questioned. Hisoka brushes his teeth, then drinks from a glass that Tsuzuki fills for him. Again, he tries to assert that, "Really, I'm okay."
"I know," Tsuzuki assures him. "I know you are." His hand on Hisoka's shoulder nearly brings him to his knees. Tsuzuki is so devastatingly gentle, too concerned, and it would be so much easier if Hisoka could hate him.
"I'm just tired," Hisoka insists. He should tell Tsuzuki to stop touching him but instead he says nothing as Tsuzuki's hand in the small of his back steers him through the darkened house to his bedroom. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and Tsuzuki pauses just a moment before sitting down beside him.
"You're tired," Tsuzuki agrees. The arm around Hisoka's shoulders squeezes him reassuringly, a little too close for just-friends, and that does it, dashes the last of his composure. He starts to cry, heaving sobs that wrack his body, although the tears don't come. He clings to Tsuzuki, hands fisted in the rumpled cotton of his partner's shirt. Tsuzuki pets him with gentle hands, soothes him with soft words. No one else has ever touched him as often or as kindly. No one.
"Sleep, and you'll feel better when you wake up."
"I won't," Hisoka insists stubbornly. "You don't understand. Seiko, she--"
"Shh…" Tsuzuki murmurs. He combs through Hisoka's hair with gentle fingers. Feeling sick, Hisoka doesn't know whether to lean into the touch or push Tsuzuki away.
"No," Hisoka says, because it's important. "No, Tsuzuki. I have to tell you. I'm like her. I…want things. I want so much."
Tsuzuki shakes his head. "You're not like her." He tucks a strand of Hisoka's hair behind his ear, smoothes a thumb over Hisoka's cheekbone. "And you're not the only one who wants. Everyone wants." He pats Hisoka's pillow. "Sleep. You'll feel better."
He's right, but Hisoka's gut clutches in panic. "Don't," he begs, gripping Tsuzuki's arm. "Don't leave."
"I'll be right here," Tsuzuki assures him. "I'll stay as long as you need me." He lifts his legs to stretch out long on the bed. "Lie down," he urges, pulling gently at Hisoka's arm. "Sleep a little, and I'll watch over you."
Hisoka burns with sudden shame. He's like a child wanting coddling; no wonder Tsuzuki never seems to remember that he's much older than he looks.
"It's all right," Tsuzuki coaxes. "I'll be here." Hisoka sobs again, frustrated and mortified, but entirely unable to stop himself. Tsuzuki's body feels solid at his back and his breath is warm against Hisoka's neck. "Just a nap," he whispers. "We'll feel better after we've rested."
Tsuzuki smells of paper soot and a little bit like fried batter, a remnant of some earlier snack. The arm across Hisoka's chest is bared to the elbow beneath a rolled sleeve. Hisoka's hand splayed against Tsuzuki's skin looks wrong, foreign, like something out of its element.
"Did I ever tell you?" Hisoka murmurs. "No one touched me when I was a child. They were afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," Tsuzuki mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow. Tsuzuki sounds already half asleep, and he's still guarded--they both are--but the boundaries are blurred when they're pressed together like this. The closeness is terrifying, but it's comforting, too. This is Tsuzuki; if Hisoka can't be a little comfortable with Tsuzuki, there's no hope for him at all.
Hisoka dreams his first memories of touch. Curtains of dark hair obscure the source of the voice that coos at him. White fingers trace his tiny features, and he sucks at the fingertip at his lips. This is his mother, and she loves him. He is a beautiful baby, and she is proud of that. He rarely cries, and she believes this is due to her superior maternal instincts. She doesn't realize that the infant Hisoka is content because he understands, even without the benefit of language, that he is loved.
The bond between Hisoka and his mother will last until he is able to speak to her in full sentences. As soon as he develops the ability to relate complex concepts and can explain her feelings back to her, she will realize that her perfect little boy is, in fact, a demon who can read her mind.
In this dream, one that Hisoka has had many times before, he knows what will happen next. With dawning horror, his mother will begin to comprehend the full nature of his terrible, terrible flaw, and will push him away. He will feel both the helplessness and confusion that he experienced as a child, and a still, cold rage at his mother's betrayal.
For many years, the only emotion Hisoka allowed himself was rage. Icy anger sustained him throughout his long, drawn-out illness. His ferocity in the face of the injustices done to him led him to become a shinigami, and it is this same stubborn tenacity that leads him to act boldly, and often foolishly, in his efforts to become a worthy partner for Tsuzuki.
The dream mother lets her infant fall from her arms. Hisoka struggles to sit up in suffocating drifts of pink petals.
Hisoka jerks awake, Tsuzuki's gentle snores tickling his ear. Tsuzuki's arms are wrapped around him, a hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt splayed against his bare stomach. A long leg thrown over his own weights him to the bed. Tsuzuki's heart beats strong against his spine and the backs of his ribs, and his own heart stumbles to match its rhythm. He feels Tsuzuki's dreaming, the usual careful guard down, and he also feels Tsuzuki's cock pressed against his ass, hard and hot. Hisoka sucks in a sharp breath and holds it.
Tsuzuki dreams of white roses that soak their roots in rich blood, the petals pinking and falling from the sky, making a bed where he takes a body in his arms, pale and bittersweet, only half-pliant, and staring back at him through narrowed green eyes.
Hisoka recognizes himself, almost, and marks the near-realization with a faint cat-cry. Tsuzuki answers with a sleepy sound of his own, wrapping his arms more tightly around Hisoka's body and wriggling closer.
Hisoka never had a lover while he was alive. He only had Muraki.
He won't think of Muraki. He concentrates on Tsuzuki instead, on the gentleness of his nature and the soft touch of his hands. Tsuzuki won't hurt him; he has to believe that Tsuzuki will never hurt him. Tentatively, Hisoka presses back into the curve of Tsuzuki's body, eliciting a pleased groan.
A kiss to frowning lips tears Tsuzuki's heart to blissful tatters, a soaking-wet valentine. Gold-dust fingerprints smear across flushed skin and his cock throbs for a constrictor's grip, wet and tight. He pushes his nose into a tangle of silky feathers at the nape of a long, pale neck and yearns for something he very nearly has.
Hisoka holds his breath and wishes he wouldn't quake, wishes he wouldn't be frightened by what he imagines are the very simplest things, by sex. His cock twitches, then stiffens at the blurred buzz of Tsuzuki's murmured, wordless pleasure. He dares himself, then does it: pushes his hips back against Tsuzuki's, his ass snug against a thick erection, and--
Tsuzuki wakes with a start, his head snapping abruptly back and away. "…'soka? Hmm?" Scramble and slide, airspace between their bodies, as Tsuzuki says, "Oh! Oh, no! Hisoka, I'm so sorry!" and backs away. Hisoka feels Tsuzuki's dream dissipating with a jolt of panic.
He grabs Tsuzuki's wrist, pulls hard to keep him close. "Don't," he begs. "Don't go."
"Hisoka?"
He doesn't know to say it, how to ask for what he wants. "I--I felt your dream."
"Oh." Tsuzuki's shame threatens to snuff out the last remnants of his passion, and he tries again to pull away. "Hisoka-san, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean for that to happen! It was just a dre--"
"Please." Hisoka thinks maybe he'll cry again, and grits his teeth against tears. "Don't say that." He guides Tsuzuki's hand down over his hip, fingers tight around the wrist, and places the weight of Tsuzuki's palm against the fly of his pants.
Tsuzuki's body stiffens but he doesn't pull away. He exhales long against the nape of Hisoka's neck. He says, "Oh, Hisoka," in a voice tinged with gentle regret.
"Tsuzuki, please." He hopes that he doesn't sound like he's begging.
Another breath stirs the hair behind Hisoka's ear and, slowly, Tsuzuki eases closer. The hand over his cock cups him more firmly and Hisoka shivers as Tsuzuki softly asks, "You're sure this is what you want?"
"Yes. This is what I want." His voice is rough and forced, but he has finally said it aloud, which makes it true.
There's no answer, no movement, and the dawning realization that he's been turned down numbs him with icy humiliation. He's so certain he's been rejected that he jerks in surprise at the sound of Tsuzuki's weight shifting on the bedding, the rustle of his clothing as he leans closer. In a confessional whisper Tsuzuki says, "I want it, too." He presses a kiss behind Hisoka's ear, another just below it on his pulse. His lips are soft, softer than Hisoka expected and he arches hard into the touch, wanting teeth and marks. "Promise you'll tell me," Tsuzuki says, breaking his speech with kisses. "Tell me if we should stop."
"No." Hisoka twists awkwardly and gives a kiss of his own, which lands on Tsuzuki's lower lip and upper teeth. He slips from Tsuzuki's arms to lie on his back. "That won't happen." The rush of blood in his ears is so loud he's afraid he might be shouting. His entire body thrums, skin buzzing.
Soft touch of lips, teasingly gentle, as Tsuzuki tastes him, holding him still with a hand knotted in his hair. Hisoka feels the slick tangle of their tongues resonate in his cock, so hard that it aches. He lets his teeth close on Tsuzuki's lip, almost breaking the skin, and Tsuzuki's whimper of pleasure reverberates in his own throat. Hisoka moans fearfully, overwhelmed by Tsuzuki's proximity, the breakdown of distinctions. They're so close that their lashes tangle when they blink, so close that Hisoka feels Tsuzuki's heart pounding in his own chest. Tsuzuki's pupils are huge, inky black rimmed in violet, and when his eyes close for a kiss, his eyebrows come together as if in concentration. Hisoka arches into the weight of Tsuzuki's body and steadies his trembling hands by grasping handfuls of white shirt.
Tsuzuki's mouth tastes sweet and he kisses like he eats, eager and a little sloppy. There's a little lick to the corner of Hisoka's lips, followed by the scrape of stubble along the child-soft skin of his jaw as Tsuzuki moves over him, nuzzling his neck. He has a moment of panic because Tsuzuki is so much larger than he is, so much heavier and stronger. Unbidden and unwelcome, old memories surge to the surface and Hisoka angrily refuses to think about Muraki, about being forced or held down. Tsuzuki's tongue strokes into his mouth and he moans around the invasion. Again, he pulls at Tsuzuki's shirtfront, unable to think clearly enough to undo the buttons, just wanting the barrier gone.
His impatient, frustrated hands can't be steady long enough to accomplish anything. He wants Tsuzuki to have fucked him already so that it's done, so that he can relax, so that he might do better next time. Because he is certain he'll disappoint, just as he's certain he can become better with practice. Doesn't want to disappoint. Doesn't want to think of Muraki: not when he's naked, not when he's with Tsuzuki.
Definitely not when he's coming.
He must have done something wrong, let something of his confusion slip out. Tsuzuki's hand under the bottom of his t-shirt, flat and reassuring against his belly, is withdrawn.
"Hisoka…?"
"I'm fine," Hisoka says. Swallows hard. "It's okay. Tsuzuki, please…"
Tsuzuki doesn't seem convinced, so Hisoka tries to prove it to him. He pushes up from the bed, up into the angle of Tsuzuki's body, through disappearing fractions of space that become warmer the closer their bodies get, breathing in and tasting Tsuzuki before their mouths meet. Lips part with a click of teeth and his tongue coaxes Tsuzuki's forward. Tastes his saliva, salt of his flesh, and feels Tsuzuki open to him. Gets his fingers in between the buttons on Tsuzuki's wrinkled shirt to touch skin, sliding over the hot bead of a nipple. Tsuzuki frees a hand to yank at the loosened knot on his tie, then pulls the noose over his head and tosses it aside. He unbuttons his shirt, first above Hisoka's exploring fingers, then pulling it free of his pants and unbuttoning it below.
Hisoka doesn't know what to do with the nipple now that he has it, so he tries to feel what Tsuzuki feels, feel what he wants, and brushes his fingers across the stiff little peak as Tsuzuki kisses him, then moans into his mouth, hips jerking forward to press against his thigh.
Tsuzuki's cock feels so big, so hard, and he is not Muraki. Not.
Tsuzuki slides a hand beneath the hem of Hisoka's t-shirt, pushing it up to expose the narrow cage of his chest. Hisoka is embarrassed by his naked self, lanky and lean, not fully formed. Thin, girlish limbs and soft skin with just a light down of hair, a few curls at the base of his cock and under each arm. Not the body of a child, but not a man, either.
He should tell Tsuzuki that he's afraid, should be honest, but then maybe they would have to stop and Hisoka doesn't want to stop. Tsuzuki's skin is smooth and silky, hot under the pads of Hisoka's fingers, and colored the palest cream, a shade darker than Hisoka's snow-cold white. Hisoka's nipples are barely pink, like petals fallen from the sakura, and he can almost feel the tree roots twisting beneath his back, but, no. He can't feel them, because this is his own bed, and Muraki is not here. Only Tsuzuki, Tsuzuki with Hisoka. And if Hisoka is right, if he can believe what he feels, Tsuzuki loves him. Maybe he isn't in love, but it's love all the same, and Hisoka needs that. It's been so long since he was loved.
Tsuzuki dips down to kiss a pale nipple, tease it with his tongue. Hisoka cries out in surprise as a hot, dark dart pierces him from nipple to cock. Tsuzuki smiles and does it again, then again as Hisoka squirms beneath the pressure of his mouth. Still licking, Tsuzuki curls around Hisoka's body, sheltering him, and unbuckles his belt. His fingers slip under the waistband of Hisoka's jeans, knuckles pushing into his belly.
Hisoka freezes, perfectly still, and nervously demands, "What are you doing?"
Tsuzuki's fingertips draw feathery-hot circles against the skin of his stomach. "I want to see you."
Hisoka nods, but when Tsuzuki pulls down the zipper, he flushes pink. He doesn't speak, just stares, embarrassed, at the ceiling, but lifts his hips and lets Tsuzuki help him off with his jeans. Bare to the waist, he struggles to resist the urge to cover himself with his hands. Tsuzuki says, "Oh!" Then, "So beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And even though Hisoka knows that isn't the truth, Tsuzuki doesn't seem to realize it, seems to recognize no memory that surpasses this moment. Hisoka hides his face against Tsuzuki's shoulder; if he looks, mortification will force him to bring this to a halt.
The fingertips trailing along his belly serve as warning, but Hisoka still cries out fearfully when Tsuzuki's fingers wrap around his cock. Long fingers shape him, a callus on Tsuzuki's thumb like a dry lick against the head. Hisoka's entire body jerks, lifts off the bed and falls miles back down, and he bites his lip against a shout. Tsuzuki moans and licks his lips, sliding down the bed to crouch between Hisoka's trembling thighs.
Tsuzuki presses open-mouthed kisses against the jumpy muscles of Hisoka's belly and groin, little bites to the soft flesh of his inner thighs. Hisoka tells himself fiercely that he is not frightened, not at all. A spill of dark hair brushes his hip, and he has to look. Tsuzuki's face is close by his cock, which strains and curves back toward his belly, the tip slick and shiny. Tsuzuki hums something, a tuneless rumble, as Hisoka clenches a fist in his hair. He's still humming when his tongue curls around the head of Hisoka's cock.
Hisoka gasps, back arching with a crack. Once before, only once, and he'd been so frightened. But this is not Muraki. Dark hair, not silver, and he can stop this whenever he wants.
Tsuzuki whines, a needy, impatient sound. Hisoka is reminded of a departmental dinner, Tsuzuki whimpering when tables around theirs were served before them, and he chokes out a nervous laugh. Tsuzuki looks up, startled, but Hisoka shakes his head to let him know that it's all right. Tsuzuki licks the length of his cock, traces the vein pounding along the underside all the way up to the ridge behind the head. A kiss there, just a peck, and then he sucks in the tip, swallows around it. Hisoka's hands float tentatively above Tsuzuki's head, petting his messy hair and then pulling back as if burned. It feels too good, too close. He's only dimly aware of Tsuzuki fumbling with his own belt and fly, working his cock as he sucks.
His own thoughts are a muddle, a tangle of fear and desire. It is easier to tune in to Tsuzuki's feelings, his joy and pleasure, his complicated affection for Hisoka, his love of Hisoka's taste and scent and the feeling of his mouth being full and busy. Steady, unhurried pull, hollowed cheeks. Loves this, loves doing it. Hisoka spreads his legs wider, but it's as if he's watching from a distance and, although he's about to come, he's more aware of the frantic pounding in his chest than the of tightness in his balls. He notes that Tsuzuki needs a haircut and the too-long, silky strands tickle his belly. Blindly, Tsuzuki reaches up to take Hisoka's hand, holds on tight, and that's what lets him come, finally: his belief in Tsuzuki's caring.
It hurts. Intensity in layers that tear away, leaving just a core of sensation, raw and exposed, almost intolerable. He gasps raggedly, eyes threatening to overflow. Tsuzuki keeps licking until Hisoka shudders and squirms away from the touch. While Hisoka lies dazed, panting at the ceiling, Tsuzuki pulls his own cock a few more strokes, and comes with a whimper. Hot semen spatters Hisoka's thigh and, belatedly, he thinks he should have helped Tsuzuki, should have touched him.
Crawling up to lie against the pillows beside Hisoka, Tsuzuki wraps the duvet around their shoulders. Neither speaks. What could they say? Hisoka feels happy, in a way, and only a little traumatized; Tsuzuki seems to feel the same. He settles at Hisoka's back, and Hisoka can read him clear and strong, the blend of selflessness and self-loathing that is as familiar as his own stubborn impulsiveness. Hisoka supposes that everything between them is different now, but it doesn't feel changed and, right now, it feels all right.
~~~
He was sure he'd never be able to sleep, but drifted off and didn't hear Tsuzuki's voice until his name was whispered a second time.
"Hisoka?" Tsuzuki says it more loudly, but still a hoarse whisper.
Hisoka clears his throat. "Yes?" He's cramped and sticky, more than a little claustrophobic. Tsuzuki generates heat and takes up space and his big, gentle hands seem out of place on Hisoka's skin.
"I just want you to know…I haven't forgotten."
Hisoka draws a blank. "Haven't forgotten what?"
"My promise. To you." Tsuzuki shifts, unsticks himself from Hisoka's back, and gingerly puts an arm around his waist. "The promise I made in Kyoto to, um…"
"Tsuzuki, you don't have to--"
"To live for you. I promised and, well, I haven't forgotten."
Hisoka's heart lurches in his chest, and he flushes red with embarrassment, painfully grateful for the cover of dark.
Tsuzuki muddles on. "I--I just wanted you to know."
There must be a dozen or more appropriate responses, but Hisoka can't articulate even one. "I'm glad you remember," he manages. As always, Tsuzuki's fear and hope are solid presences, just as familiar as Hisoka's own emotions, and just as unwelcome. If Tsuzuki were anyone else, Hisoka could just ask him to leave, but Tsuzuki isn't anyone else, and that's the point.
He fumbles for Tsuzki's cold hand and squeezes; Tsuzuki squeezes back.
~~~
When he wakes again, Tsuzuki is gone and the air is cold against the skin bared between the hem of his t-shirt and the duvet pooled at his hips. He rolls over to see his partner step from the darkened bathroom, a glass at his lips. Tsuzuki's shirt is off and his belt is gone, his suit pants hanging low. In the moonlight, his bare skin glows like pearl. Tsuzuki's eyes are black in his pale, shadowed face, his expression desolate. But when he notices that Hisoka is awake, his features realign into a mask of cheerful benignity.
"Hey." Tsuzuki smiles and ducks his head shyly. "Want some water?"
Hisoka nods and sits up, reaching for the glass. Tsuzuki sits on the edge of the bed and watches him drink.
"More?"
Hisoka shakes his head, then pulls off his t-shirt and lets it drop to the floor. "I'm cold. Come back to bed."
With an uneven sigh, Tsuzuki sets the glass on the night table, and turns back the duvet.
"Get undressed," Hisoka says, his voice husky. "Your pants, too..."
Tsuzuki sits on the opposite edge of the bed, facing away. Pants and briefs, Tsuzuki lifting his hips almost primly to remove the garments. Hisoka feels it, too, the oddly intimate sensation of fabric sliding over skin, Tsuzuki's thumbs slipping beneath the tops of his socks and pushing them off along with his trousers. Hisoka shivers in a rush of cool air as Tsuzuki lifts the duvet and swings his legs beneath the covers.
Tsuzuki lies tense and still, close by but not touching. Hisoka moves his arm, mere fractions of an inch, to feel the brush of the fine hairs on Tsuzuki's arm, the denser heat close to his skin. Tsuzuki's hand closes over his and their fingers part and relax, gently exploring and intertwining. Tsuzuki draws their joined hands toward his mouth, his lips pressing the pads of Hisoka's fingertips, each in turn.
Hisoka's eyes are closed, but when he opens them, he says, "Your watch, too. Take it off," and knows that Tsuzuki trembles as he unfastens the hasp.
Scars there, ugly with purpose. Hisoka holds the hand in both of his and kisses the marks, raised and dark, cooler than the surrounding skin. Tsuzuki's pulse pounds against his lips, then his tongue, and Tsuzuki cries out, sounding so pained that Hisoka, startled, and lets his hand go.
Hisoka sees that they're both hard and getting harder, tenting the sheet side-by-side. It would be funny if he weren't so frightened. "You'll never hurt me," Hisoka says to the ceiling. It's meant to be a statement, not a question, but there's a quaver in his voice that he hopes Tsuzuki won't notice.
"Never," Tsuzuki agrees. He picks Hisoka's hand up again, places it against his cheek, then kisses the palm. The tip of his tongue paints the sensitive web between Hisoka's index and middle fingers.
"You might if you were ever possessed again," Hisoka qualifies, shuddering and spreading his hand wide.
"But I wouldn't hurt you," Tsuzuki agrees again. He sucks Hisoka's finger into his mouth.
Hisoka turns to him and swallows, catching his breath. "I'm not a child any more."
"You never really were," Tsuzuki reminds him. He touches the hollow of Hisoka's throat, slides his hand around to cup the back of his neck. "You're much more grown-up than I am." He tilts in closer and Hisoka meets him halfway.
Tsuzuki's broad back lifts and falls beneath his hands like a bellows, and Hisoka reminds himself that he isn't trapped, isn't held down. He wants this, wants it so much, but he can't help tensing. Deep breaths, slow opening, his lips relaxing in increments beneath Tsuzuki's kisses. Tsuzuki makes small, needy sounds that accompany deeper strokes of his tongue and soft bites to Hisoka's lips.
He's overrun with Tsuzuki's sensations, the thoughts that spin loose like stars. Tsuzuki touches perfect white skin, taut over bone and soft in the hollows, and pretends he doesn't notice how Hisoka quakes at his touch.
Hisoka tries to relax into the caresses, puts a hand that feels outsized and out-of-control at the curve of Tsuzuki's waist, and is rewarded with a broken sigh as he tentatively strokes soft skin. Tsuzuki presses close, pliant and eager, and Hisoka struggles to accept the bleeding through of Tsuzuki's excitement, the quickening of his heart, and the startled joy that he feels when he believes that Hisoka really wants him, and isn't just…pitying him?
Hisoka stops still, stunned. Tsuzuki thinks Hisoka pities him?
A warm hand at his neck, another at his hip, as he shifts up onto his side, face-to-face with Tsuzuki, who whispers something too low for his ears, but he can feel it, tastes it on the tip of his tongue when they kiss. Arms get in the way, and their knees bump as he lets himself be pulled close, but he hisses nervously when he feels the hard length of Tsuzuki's cock press alongside his own.
He's afraid to look at it, to touch, intimidated by the incongruity of delicate skin contrasted with thick weight as it nudges along the crease of his thigh. Tsuzuki moves against him, slow but deliberate, invoking a healthy terror with the depth of his desire, the need that coils out from his spine and loins and the palms of his hands. Hisoka had never realized how it would feel to touch a willing, welcome body. He'd never considered the silky friction of flesh and hair, or the moist heat of breath. He'd been used, but he'd never known what it felt like to be wanted.
Tsuzuki's cock is wet at the tip, rubbing between their bellies. Hisoka cries out, struggles against nothing, and comes to a shivering stop in Tsuzuki's arms.
When Muraki had touched him, there had been no heat, no warmth. But this is different, so different, as he tells himself over and over again.
Tsuzuki's hand weights the small of his back, moving in soothing circles. "We don't have to do this, Hisoka," he whispers. In response, Hisoka throws a leg over Tsuzuki's hip and drags himself in, crushing their bodies together. He feels Tsuzuki's heartbeat all through the front of his body, a delayed pulse in his cock. He presses his forehead to Tsuzuki's, eyes closed. The loop of their combined desire threatens to become overwhelming, too intense, and Hisoka wonders if this is empathy or just purely sex. But it doesn't matter. He refuses to come this far just to stop.
"No." Hisoka shakes his head, looks Tsuzuki in the eye. "We're going to do this." It's like anything--kyudo or casting fuda or finding a shikigami--that he has to try, or die trying.
Tsuzuki smiles and touches Hisoka's lower lip, pulls it down a little. "Stubborn," he says, then kisses him.
Hisoka snarls, hides it behind a moan. Tsuzuki eats it up, licks his way down Hisoka's throat, and sucks in a crooked circle of kisses, intending to mark him, claim and collar him. Hisoka's instinct is to run, so instead he hooks his heels behind Tsuzuki's calves and rocks hard against him, pelvis to pelvis. When Tsuzuki moans and thinks fuck it's darker and harder than Hisoka knows how to handle, but he won't let himself escape. Tsuzuki squirms against him and breathes Hisoka's name, raw and hot against his collarbone, rubbing his cock along Hisoka's thigh.
They're going to do it, they're going to fuck, and it's his fault for wanting it. Hisoka bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood. He knows, of course, intellectually and logically, that what Muraki did to him sexually wasn't so terrible in and of itself; it was the force, and the cutting and the gore. None of that will happen here. He begins to panic, trying not to think of Muraki, which means he thinks of nothing but Muraki, and his chest feels tight and his fingers go numb…
"Hisoka? Are you okay?" Tsuzuki smoothes his hair back from his forehead, examines his face with concern.
Hisoka lies. "I'm fine." He kisses Tsuzuki's soft, liquid mouth, closes his eyes, and sees Muraki's face. Perhaps Tsuzuki mistakes his shudder for excitement, since he reaches down, between their bodies, between Hisoka's thighs, and touches his cock all over, his balls and shaft and the wet head, and strokes it until it's harder than Hisoka would have thought possible, kissing him all the while.
Tsuzuki breaks the kiss, licks Hisoka's spit from his lip, and asks, "Do you have anything? To, um…?" and the mental picture he gives Hisoka is piercingly clear.
"Some lotion is all," Hisoka whispers back, blushing in the dark. "Here, by the bed…"
When Tsuzuki eases him back, presses his shoulders flat to the futon, Hisoka fiercely tells himself to be brave. He'll fight his way through this just like he fights his way through everything. As Tsuzuki crouches over him, it takes every bit of his will to feign relaxation, worried that he'll lose his erection and Tsuzuki will know the truth (that he is a scared little boy, weak and unworthy).
With a palm full of lotion, Tsuzuki takes Hisoka's cock in hand and pulls him thick and straight through an endless series of deep, leisurely kisses. Hisoka can scarcely breathe, his chest clogged with dread, but his cock flexes in Tsuzuki's hand and his hips follow the rhythm set. "Please don't be nervous, Hisoka," Tsuzuki whispers.
Fucking him will be easier if he comes first, he knows this, but apprehension renders him numb below the waist and he can barely feel Tsuzuki's touch. Hisoka waits, breath held, for Tsuzuki to push his thighs apart and probe his ass. He waits while Tsuzuki reaches back between his own thighs, cold lotion dripping from his hand, and kisses Hisoka fiercely. He waits, gnawing on his lip, as Tsuzuki's slippery hands slide along the length of his shaft while he croons words of encouragement. Hisoka is so stubbornly focused on an expected trauma that he's completely unprepared when Tsuzuki rises up on his knees, his shins pressed hard along Hisoka's sides, and sinks back onto his cock.
Slick fingers guide him, hold him against the tight pucker as Tsuzuki twists his hips back and down. There's a momentary pause, an impossibly dense squeeze around the head of Hisoka's cock that leaves him stunned and breathless, and then he's inside. They're together.
"See," Tsuzuki murmurs. "There's nothing to be frightened of." Hisoka gasps at the sweet, slow drag of skin against skin. The moon through the blinds casts bars of alternating silver and black across Tsuzuki's chest, but his head is thrown back into total darkness. On the inside, deep beneath his skin, Tsuzuki pulses with heat and, when he moves, the silky pull of his body threatens to turn Hisoka inside-out. Too close, a little too much, but Tsuzuki's hand in his helps to ground him. Tsuzuki leans forward through the moonlight and asks, "Is this all right?" His eyes are dark and worried. He touches Hisoka's chest. "Does it hurt?"
Hisoka looks down along his own torso, at the livid marks of Muraki's curse that have risen to the surface of his skin. They emerge when he masturbates, when Muraki is nearby, whenever he feels ashamed. But the scars don't hurt, not in the way Tsuzuki means.
In answer, Hisoka grasps Tsuzuki's hips and arches up against his weight. Tsuzuki makes a fragile sound, soft as a soap bubble. He lifts up from Hisoka's lap, the long muscles in his thighs trembling, then sinks back down again with another breathy cry. A flicker of pain crosses his face and, with a stab of guilt, Hisoka asks, "Are you hurt?"
"No, it's good," Tsuzuki insists. "I like it." He bares his teeth in a smile and rocks forward then back again, a little grunt with each movement.
Hisoka isn't reading Tsuzuki's emotions any longer, if only because he can't tell which are Tsuzuki's and which are his own. He watches Tsuzuki move, head thrown back, and tastes the memory of his own semen on Tsuzuki's tongue. He feels his cock sliding smooth and stutter-slow in Tsuzuki's ass from the inside and outside both, and comes after only a few long thrusts, lit up by a burst of white noise in his skull. The orgasm pulled out of him slicks the way for Tsuzuki to move faster. Tsuzuki hunches over, arms braced on either side of Hisoka's torso and grinds down against his hips. As soon as Hisoka's tentative fingers curl around Tsuzuki's swollen cock, he howls like a kicked dog, his entire body jerking as he comes.
Hisoka wants to see Tsuzuki's face, but instead he has Tsuzuki's breath in his ear, their cheeks pressed together. Tsuzuki's is wet, and at first Hisoka thinks 'sweat,' but maybe it's tears instead. In fact, knowing Tsuzuki, it must be tears.
Hisoka closes his eyes and holds on tight. It's too quiet now, after the sex, which seemed so loud and hectic. His heart slows gradually, and Tsuzuki's breath comes in shallow shudders. There's semen growing cold in a splatter along his body from belly to sternum, and his cock has gone embarrassingly soft and small. Despite the warm weight of Tsuzuki's body and the fingers that dig into Hisoka's biceps, there's a confusing, terrifying distance between them. Unsure what he should do, Hisoka strokes Tsuzuki's back, fingers glossing through a sheen of drying sweat.
The silence draws out, longer and longer, and this can't be right, can't be normal. "Tsuzuki?" He hates how young he sounds, how tentative. "Tsuzuki, are you okay?"
"I'm sorry," Tsuzuki whispers. "I shouldn't have--" His voice hitches, cracking in the middle. "I'm sorry."
Of course, he's sorry.
The conclusion Hisoka draws, the inevitable conclusion, is that Tsuzuki wants to take it all back, turn away, be rid of him. Maybe he misunderstood: it's not that Tsuzuki worries that Hisoka pities him, but that he feels pity, feels sorry for the boy who died so young.
Hisoka twists out of Tsuzuki's embrace, pushes him aside, and sits up. He swings his legs off the bed and braces his feet on the floor, but he's too lightheaded to stand. The tension of self-loathing tightens his skin. "It's fine," he says. "I understand. We'll just forget about it." Wobbling to his feet, he looks for, but does not see, his jeans or even his t-shirt. It had been a long time since he'd been completely naked in front of another person, and maybe he should have learned his lesson the last time.
"Hisoka?" Tsuzuki sounds confused. "Hisoka, please--"
An indistinct gray heap on the floor turns out to be Hisoka's jeans, and he pulls them on with his back to the bed. "Please what?" he demands, hopping on one foot as he tries to push the other through an inside-out pantleg. "I said it's okay, Tsuzuki. This never happened, all right?" That feeling in his chest as the words leave his lips--that must be heartbreak. It's worse than he'd ever imagined. It feels like he has been cursed all over again.
"No." Tsuzuki's face takes on an ominous determination. "No, I'm sorry, Hisoka, but I don't want to forget it. You misunderstand me."
Hisoka's head pokes out through the neck of his t-shirt, and he crosses his arms over his chest protectively. "You said you were sorry. So, you're sorry that you… You're sorry we did this."
Tsuzuki shakes his head violently. "No, that's not it! That's not it at all." He kicks off the sheet and climbs naked from the bed. It's a small room and it only takes him two steps to back Hisoka up against the wall and loom over him, naked and so beautiful, and it's unfair that Hisoka will never have this again, never see--"
Tsuzuki's hands are shaking as he places them on Hisoka's shoulders. "Hisoka, I…I like you. I like you more than anyone." He's going to cry again; Hisoka can see the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be dead." His fingertips tentatively trace the curve of Hisoka's cheek. "If it wasn't for you, I'd rather be dead." He is crying now, and Hisoka can't be so cold as to let Tsuzuki stand naked and shivering, crying uncomforted.
He really doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know how any of this is supposed to go. It's possible that he has jumped to conclusions. It's possible he's a little sensitive, even a bit defensive about…everything.
When Hisoka comes off the wall and opens his arms, Tsuzuki leans in and sobs against his shirt. A few awkward steps spin them back down to the bed.
With Tsuzuki's body hunched and trembling in his arms, Hisoka hears it as clearly as if Tsuzuki were saying it aloud: Rather be dead. Rather be dead than without Hisoka. Asked me to live for him and I do, I do.
"It's just--" Tsuzuki begins, interrupting himself with a wet sniff. "It's just that it's been so long since I've…since I've been with anyone, and I wanted it to be good for you. Especially good, because I know… Hisoka, I know this was difficult for you."
Oversensitive to any intimation of weakness, Hisoka frowns, stiff and defensive. "Difficult?"
Tsuzuki bows his head. " Please, Hisoka. I…I wanted to help you forget him."
Oh, Tsuzuki. Poor, dear Tsuzuki. Hisoka wonders, not for the first time, how Tsuzuki's mind works, that he takes responsibility for Muraki's crimes. He wonders how Tsuzuki can survive at all, with the world so full of pain that he can assume the blame for, if only because he didn't stop it from occurring.
"You can't do that," Hisoka says. He bends over the dark head buried in his lap and kisses Tsuzuki's tangled hair, the strands silky against his lips. "I can't forget." He lifts Tsuzuki's face, a firm hand on his chin. "What happened to me isn't your fault, Tsuzuki. And you're not going to be able to fix it, so don't try."
"But I want to."
"But you can't." Hisoka pushes Tsuzuki gently away and pulls his t-shirt over his head, undressing for a second time. "I want to get back in the bed."
"With me?" Tsuzuki sounds so tentative.
"Of course, with you." And because he hasn't said it for hours, and because it's true, he tenderly adds, "Baka."
~~~