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In the
beginning, it was curt nods, silent judgements and polite smiles that reached
no one’s eyes. Then, as if
he had passed some tacit assessment, the scrutiny stopped. Replacing it were
reassuring pats, firm hands on shoulder, and smiles that crinkled sapphire
eyes. But the wariness didn’t disappear. Nor did the odd semblance of sadness
and regret that haunted those same pools of azure. Hisoka knew
why, but pretended he didn’t. Everyone has a secret pain they wished no other
to divulge in. Just because he was able to read them did not give him the right
to disclose it. Such was the honesty of a bushi, or so his father had
taught him. Nevertheless,
the boy tried to keep a respectable distance from his purple-eyed partner. Tried.
It didn’t help that Tsuzuki seemed to have developed some sort of undefinable
affinity to him; one Hisoka could not (did not) shake off easily. It was
with some guilt that he buried his nose into a book every time he was barraged
with a tumble of remorse and yearning. Or hid behind his paperwork so he didn’t
have to face those blue, blue eyes even as Tsuzuki whined for his attention. Wasn’t blue
the colour of sorrow? Hisoka tried
to stay away. Really, he did. Despite his aloof demeanour and sharp tongue, he
had no wish to hurt others through selfish actions he could avoid doing. Even
if it meant staying away from Tsuzuki so his blue-eyed protector could stop
wallowing in self-pity. But no matter
how much he tried, how hard he pushed, he couldn’t stop Tsuzuki from worming
his way in. He couldn’t stop the strangely pleasant jolt his heart made every
time the idiot was near. Nor could he stop the blush that coloured his pale
cheeks from the innocent (deliberate) touches his tactile partner liked
to bestow on him. Hisoka tried and tried, but could not stop
himself from falling into the unfathomable trenches Love left behind. Soon,
every time he tried, every time he struggled, the boy sank a little deeper,
stepped a little closer, and the distance between partners diminished just that
little bit more. Guiltily, he watched those blue eyes
darken. And then . . . Kyoto. Kyoto, where sapphire met silver for the first time and clashed in a brutal dance of possession. Kyoto, where cement embedded itself into soft amethyst and crimson blood gushed forth. He had tore the slab out before new cells began to regenerate around the wound, and Tsuzuki had cried; fat drops of bitter tears that were red, then pink, and clear once more. As Tsuzuki cried in his arms, Hisoka held him, eyeing the bloodied lump of concrete as the man repaired himself. The slick edge twinkled under the dim streetlight, winking at him. The irony wasn’t lost on Hisoka. Later, he stared at the infirmary
ceiling, and wondered about his significance. Did Tsuzuki really need him? He
couldn’t heal his wounds, couldn’t speed up his recoveries. All Hisoka could do
was hold him when he was down, and he wasn’t even sure his wiry arms were
strong enough for it. Perhaps, he thought warily, the person
who Tsuzuki needed wasn’t him, but the man who was adamant Hisoka was the One.
Wistfully, he traced the red line that had blossomed once again on his pallid
skin. After all, Tatsumi certainly had the stronger arms of the two. But Hisoka needed Tsuzuki. Desperately,
desperately needed his warmth and hurt and vulnerability to assure him that he did
exist. He needed Tsuzuki, in all his perfection and all his faults, to tell him
that this wasn’t a dream, a nightmare of mixed blessings he had dreamt
up in his desolated cell and crumbling sanity. He needed Tsuzuki. But what if Tsuzuki didn’t need him? He fell asleep on that note, and soon
wished he hadn’t. Terror and overwhelming guilt knifed into him like an
entwined lance, waking him to the dire need for fresh air. But his first whiff
of air was laced with the heated scent of smoke and an acrid pain so severe it
leaked past his barriers, leaving him to ponder what was Self and what wasn’t. It was his own selfish need to nullify
the pain that sent him stumbling out the infirmary door. Only then did it hit
Hisoka where the pain was coming from. Racing towards the source, he watched
the feeble form that was Tsuzuki in the midst of falling ruins. He watched him
lick at a decapitated skull, saw the liquid ruby that coated his tongue. Horror
and revulsion bubbled at the back of his throat, then suddenly, nothing
mattered. He fell, deep into the crevasse of
Tsuzuki’s self-hate, hard onto the ridged floor that Suzaku created. He saw a
burst of light, whiteness that filled his vision, but found he could not rise
fast enough to even tag the hem of Muraki’s long overcoat. Watched,
despaired, as a declining feather shattered into a million pieces as it landed
on his hand. When Hypnos rose to claim him a second
time, Hisoka leant in to welcome the darkness. He woke again to the sight of the
infirmary ceiling. Too many emotions flitted through his body at once, and he
curled, grasping the flimsy coverlet around him. Numb. It took a moment to realise the numbness
was not entirely his own. He found Tatsumi in the thicket of
sakura trees outside the Diet building, slumped against a particularly thick
trunk, a brown bottle spilling out its content beside him. He wasn’t aware the
other man drank, though it did not come as a surprise that he did. And given
the situation . . . Hisoka wondered if Tatsumi would mind terribly if he took a
sip. The pool of alcohol spread steadily.
Unwittingly, he reached out to upright the tilted bottle. Then a hand, far larger than his own,
closed over it. For a terse moment, he stared at the
tanned appendage, waiting for the onslaught of emotions to hit him. None did. It happened sometimes, when
one felt too much at once, or thought about too many things at the same time.
Thoughts and emotion simply cancelled each other out. It didn’t happen very
often, and Hisoka had learnt not to wish it on anyone, even if it was a godsend
for his empathy. Slowly, he looked up. For a short
eternity, he gazed into eyes so dark they appeared black in colour. Hisoka did
not know whether the colour was from due to the absence of light or because of
Tatsumi’s grief, but in the next second, nothing mattered. Not who instigated
the choking embrace they were in; not whether the wetness on his neck stemmed
from tears or the pressing suction on his skin. Nothing mattered but the
feeling of loss, the anger at being too weak to save the only one they needed
to protect. Nothing mattered but solace, the comfort in knowing they were not
the only ones suffering, and the temporary relief from their troubled, inconsolable
mind. As the ripping of fabric sounded, Hisoka
wondered if he should be afraid. This was what Muraki had done to him, wasn’t
it? Even the surroundings were awfully familiar; the subtle fragrance of cherry
blossoms around them, the pink petals crushed mercilessly beneath his barely
clad body, the whimpering (his whimpering) that filled the night air as
loud as the whispering breeze beside his ear. He should be afraid, because this
was exactly what his nightmares so often consisted of; sakura, darkness, and a
body looming above his. He should be afraid. Only he wasn’t. Because the only pleasure Hisoka had
felt that night were Muraki’s, and Muraki’s only. Because whatever Tatsumi was
feeling now, the sentiment was reciprocated, was shared. Because Tatsumi
didn’t fake gentleness like Muraki had. Because Muraki was light, and Tatsumi
was shadows; and because Muraki was darkness whilst Tatsumi was warmth.
Because, because, because . . . There were so many reasons why Hisoka
wasn’t afraid, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was now, was here,
was the fact they could forget about Tsuzuki for this short instant and all the
aching thoughts relating to him. For now, he could concentrate on the dull
throb between his legs, the sharp pleasure shooting from there, and revel in
this ephemeral bliss. If Tatsumi had thought that it would be
their first and last time, he was wrong. For the three nights Tsuzuki was
absent, they held each other and lost themselves in the act of forgetting.
Later, Hisoka would hold Tatsumi, or Tatsumi would hold Hisoka, and the man
would whisper all the secrets the boy already knew, but pretended he didn’t.
They would whisper, and they would cry. Because crying was the right thing to
do; because crying was the only thing they could do under the round,
round moon. Then the sun would rise, gently warming
the earth with her soft radiance, and they would detach themselves from one
another. Gathering their proprietary mask, they resumed the search for their
lost love, ignoring (but not forgetting) all that had be said and done
the night before. On the fourth night, they left for
KoKakuRou, a vivacious blonde between the collected pair, and together, they found
Tsuzuki in the midst of a black hellfire. An event that Hisoka had no doubt
would find itself recorded in a thick book marked ‘A Study of Shinigami’,
or something of equal value. He woke to the feel of cotton sheeting beneath
him. Cool fingertips ran lightly across his cheek, and he grasped onto them,
recognising the touch before opening his eyes. Tatsumi’s shields were up, but
Hisoka had yet to meet ones that were fully impenetrable. Another long stare, and their lips met,
an echo of their first night. This time, their actions lacked the desperation
of its predecessors. Tongue trailed soothingly across bruised cuts; fingers
smoothed gently over flushed burns. Slowly, slowly, they danced to reminisce
all that had been and all that will never be (again). A waltz of
parting, as each sought to memorise where they had left their marks, and
silently wondered why there was such reluctance to do so. Tsuzuki slept on, blissfully ignorant of
the pair he had inadvertently brought together. A pair that will never come to
fruition in his wake. One last touch, one last whisper that
bid farewell. Hisoka sank back into his pillows, feeling the lull of
unconsciousness pulling at him. He slept again, dreaming of sapphires, love,
and promises. Later, much later, Hisoka found himself walking through the sakura
grove. The wind swirled around him, carrying with it fallen blossoms that
caressed his cheek as a lover would. Lightly. Tenderly. If he strained his
ears, he could almost hear the soft whispering of the night breeze. Almost. But
perhaps, never again. He closed his eyes and faced the moon. Tsuzuki called out to him, and he
turned. Amethyst eyes met him (so different from blue . . .), and he
watched the genuine smile that curled at the man’s lips. They talked about Muraki, they talked
about his curse. They chatted about their future, their goals, and how they
would reach it. Together. Hisoka sensed his hesitation, and
stepped a little closer. “He needs you. I . . . don’t.” Looked up. Tsuzuki was bewildered, but soon
overcame his surprise. His smile widened a fraction, and his eyes crinkled. “. . . Liar . . .” The arms around him tightened. Felt,
rather than heard, the happy sigh that ruffled his windswept hair. Same location. A similar embrace. A different type of warmth. Hisoka closed his eyes, and tried not to
compare the differences. ~~~~~~ Feedback, reviews and criticism are all
welcomed. Flames are as well, though I don’t see why you would bother.
::shrug:: |
