Finished fic requests
May. 10th, 2005 09:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brigdh...and it only took me a month and four days to write them all!
Friendship, Hisoka decided, was a lot like being annoyed all the time, and not minding. Because it wasn't as if he liked the way Tsuzuki acted; the man was a slob and an idiot and had as much restraint as a five-year-old, and Hisoka meant every single one of the various things he'd called him.
Well. He meant them when he said them. And he usually meant them afterwards, especially if Tsuzuki laughed off the insult. Really, it was only rarely that he felt cruel and tactless and mean, and that was just because Tsuzuki could take him so seriously. It seemed that the only times Tsuzuki was ever serious was when he'd found something new to feel guilty over, and that was bad enough for Hisoka to almost wish he'd stick to slacking off and eating pie.
But most days were somewhere between those two extremes. Even Tsuzuki- who to first appearances was capable only of an insanely giddy cheerfulness and darkest depression- relaxed, and managed to pester Hisoka about a new store or going drinking or a person he'd met, whatever his latest distraction from work was, without the air of forced casualness that could make him so fragile. Ordinary days then, meant Tsuzuki's hand in Hisoka's hair as he teased him, and his arm looped carelessly around Hisoka's neck when he leaned close to pass along some new piece of office gossip; they were lunches at familiar places as Tsuzuki caught up with every waitress and busboy, or dinners at some excitingly new restaurant and squabbles over the price.
There had to be some special property of friendship that could make that all seem ordinary, because there wasn't any other explanation for how Hisoka could find Tsuzuki on his doorstep at 2am, drunk and saying stupid things in a soft voice and waiting for Hisoka to make it better, and take it in stride. A year ago, when he was still alive, there was no one Hisoka wouldn't have shut the door on- not that anyone he knew would have come to him for help. Tsuzuki was the only one foolish enough to trust him.
It must be friendship, because Hisoka hadn't changed. He wasn't ever going to be a nice person, and he wasn't any less annoyed than he would have been before, but he let Tsuzuki in anyway. Something had to be different. And with Tsuzuki sprawled over the couch, his dirty shoes still on and a hand covering reddened eyes, it was a bit more comforting to blame friendship than insanity.
***
"Look at this one!"
Hisoka glanced over his shoulder at the set of curtains Tsuzuki was lifting off the shelf, but his expression froze before he'd turned halfway. "What color is that?" he said, in the same tone of voice that someone might use to ask 'which bit was her head?'
Tsuzuki caught the tag dangling from one of the beaded chains which decorated the bottom half of the glossy fabric. "Tahitian Sunset."
"No," Hisoka said, his face settling into a look of horror.
"But it's got a pie design on it! With ice cream."
Hisoka took at a corner of the curtain to get a closer look, holding it between his fingers gingerly, as if he was afraid it might rub off on him. Which, Tsuzuki reflected, considering the strangely greasy look of the thing, it might. "What does pie have to do with Tahiti?"
"I think that's just their way of saying red." Tsuzuki turned the curtain to a new angle in the light. "Or maybe orange. What color does it look like to you?"
"One that will never be seen in our house." Hisoka dropped his corner and surreptitiously rubbed his hand on his jeans, wincing as the beads tinkled and chimed as they fell against each other.
"We could put it in the kitchen?"
"No." Tsuzuki tried to shift the curtain to a more appealing arrangement, and ended up covering most of it with his hands. Hisoka raised an eyebrow at his efforts, and moved to another curtain halfway down the aisle. Tsuzuki could see from where he was standing that it was off-white with a border of black; in other words, something Hisoka was sure to start describing as understated and refined any moment now, as though those things didn't also mean boring and completely uninteresting. "Though it would fit. That thing looks like your cooking tastes."
Tsuzuki considered protesting the insult. He didn't think his cooking was so bad, and he ate enough food to be an expert on taste. But that argument was a waste of time, because all of his best efforts hadn't been able to convince Hisoka to eat anything he'd made in months, and anyway, right now he had bigger fish to fry!
Figuratively.
He tried another track, pouting and twisting his fingers in the curtains. "You're not letting me choose anything."
Hisoka shrugged, uncaring. "It's not my fault your sense of style looks like radioactive experiment gone wrong."
Tsuzuki gasped, letting tears well in his eyes. "You're so mean!"
Hisoka didn't answer, but his lips got thin and eyes focused intently on the curtain in his hands. Tsuzuki knew that look. It meant Hisoka was really putting an effort into ignoring him. But Hisoka was also glancing at the other shoppers worriedly, which meant that Tsuzuki had already won. He sniffed. Loudly. "No! No curtain," Hisoka whispered desperately, starting to turn red.
Tsuzuki took a deep breath and opened his mouth, prepared to wail, but Hisoka caved before he even got started. "Okay! Fine! We'll buy it! Just shut up." He smacked Tsuzuki in the shoulder. "I'd like it if all of the Meifu didn't think we're crazy."
Tsuzuki grinned and bounced as he slid of the plastic-wrapped packages off the shelf. "Should we pick out towels now?"
"Idiot."
***
Hisoka has an unfair advantage: at least he can read his partner's moods, if his partner is going to be strangely silent and melancholy and stand on the hotel balcony staring into the distance for what seems like hours.
Tsuzuki has to ask.
"What are you thinking about?"
Hisoka shrugs. "I'm not sure." He shifts his weight, thinking carefully before speaking. He still does that sometimes, portioning out his words as though he resents giving them up. Tsuzuki can be patient; trying to rush Hisoka is more likely to end the discussion than result in faster revelations. "Muraki's probably dead by now."
"Probably," Tsuzuki echoes, hedging his answer. Hisoka is a dark patch against the city lights, his silhouette a solid shadow at the edges where he blocks out houses and streets and other hotels. The lamp next to the bed reaches just far enough to illuminate a few of the wrinkles on the back of his shirt, to catch in the blonder strands of his hair. Tsuzuki doesn't want to talk about this.
"I stayed for that." Hisoka adjusts his grip on the railing. He still holds himself too stiff and strict when he's uneasy, an old habit that refuses to die. "Muraki was my reason for not moving on."
"I know." Tsuzuki won't say more than that, but even though he refuses to consider the logical consequence to Hisoka's beginning, he can feel it. He stares hard at Hisoka's back and memorizes the familiar outline, long, thin limbs and narrow shoulders, and it hurts even if he won't think it.
Hisoka turns, and now the lamplight falls on the still-soft curve of his cheek and reflects in his eyes, which will always be childishly large. "Don't be stupid," he says, but his tone is more apologetic than annoyed. "You know I didn't mean it like that."
Tsuzuki smiles too quickly at him. "Alright."
"I couldn't. Tatsumi would have a nervous breakdown if found out you still don't know how to use the computer system." This was Hisoka's idea of teasing him. Hisoka's sense of humor is nothing like Tsuzuki's; it's too quiet and mostly internal. He doesn't bother to laugh at the things he thinks are funny, but he smiles sometimes, the smallest curve to his lips and a crinkling in the corners of his eyes.
He's doing it now, watching Tsuzuki and waiting to see if he gets the joke. Tsuzuki laughs and falls back on the bed, running a hand through his hair and glancing at Hisoka through his fingers. He likes to see him smile. "So mean."
Hisoka humphs softly, moving out of Tsuzuki's field of vision as he steps off the balcony and wanders across the room. "I'm not mean. You're too sensitive."
Tsuzuki continues to look through the open door, studying the now-visible tiny halos of yellow and white light. "You could," he says, trying to keep his tone light.
Hisoka mumbles something. Tsuzuki turns: Hisoka's stuck the case file in his teeth while he rifles through his suitcase with both hands. It makes him look silly, but only for a moment, and then he's found his pajamas and drops the file back on top. "I don't want to," he says again. "I never should have brought it up."
"Why did you?"
"Because it's been too long since we had a hard case. Something's got to go wrong."
"Cynic," Tsuzuki says, because it's so like Hisoka to think that that it must be true.
"Naïve," Hisoka says, which is the expected answer, and it's as comforting as his pessimism.
***
Tsuzuki's back cracks against the wall, Muraki's hands heavy on his shoulders, and his breath catches in his throat with a desperation like drowning. Self-preservation shuts down. Muraki's teeth are on his neck and it hurts but not enough and when they scrape down, down, he feels the echo in the arch of his spine.
Tsuzuki lies to everyone. He should be good at it by now, but he's not; he's never had enough discipline to be believable.
Muraki doesn't have to say a word: Tsuzuki betrays himself in the end. He shifts against Muraki in jerks far too small to escape, but he can't hold still, can't just watch. Something darker than excitement shakes his body and robs his composure and he thinks he should say something, hears himself choking on half-formed words, and none of them are no. His fingers are caught in Muraki's grasp and forced against the wall, but he laces them unthinking, holding to Muraki as tight as the man has him, and it's something to clutch at when his mouth opens for the kiss that tears at him. Muraki smiles when his last pretensions of resistance fall away.
Tsuzuki closes his eyes. He lies to himself as well.
***
Hakkai had a good thing going on, what with that schoolteacher's voice and sweetly polite smile. He might be a scary motherfucker, but he sure didn't look it. You'd never guess the guy could kill you without even getting his hands dirty.
Gojyo was more straightforward. Not that he wouldn't kill you just as quickly, but the blood-red hair and eyes let you know to expect that kind of violence. He figured that's why he and Hakkai made such a good team; with everyone's eyes on him, no one ever noticed the sneaky little bastard slipping in an extra card.
***
Hijiri laughed as he staggered against his friend, who was also finding their inability to walk straight indescribably funny. The ground didn't seem to be quite level, and the people swirling around them kept him from concentrating on where to put his feet.
He stopped suddenly, struck by inspiration. A girl bumped into him from behind; Hijiri didn't recognize her, but that was alright. Their group had gotten noticeably larger since they'd left the first bar. Some of them had recognized him from a TV appearance a few weeks ago, some had started following them when Hijiri had announced that it was his birthday and he was buying drinks, and some had just wanted in on the fun.
"Where are we going?" Hijiri said. Most of the group, predictably, shouted contradictory answers. Hijiri thought about it for a moment and then turned to the boy he was leaning on. "Where are we now?"
The boy belched- his name was Muramoto, Hijiri remembered, he played the flute- and shrugged. "I don't remember. I think we're looking for that new place. It's around here somewhere, I know it."
"Ah, who cares?" said someone else, taking Hijiri's other arm. "Look, that place over there is still open."
"We were there already!" Muramoto said.
"No, we weren't."
Hijiri drifted out of the argument, not particularly caring where they ended up, and belatedly realized that someone was calling his name. "Look, look, Minase! It's your little brother!"
"I don't have-" Hijiri started, peering in the pointed direction, and caught the briefest glimpse of narrow, gangly limbs and a staring, intent face before the figure disappeared in the shadows between two buildings. But the afterimage burned like neon; Hijiri had forgotten how much shorter he'd been before he got his growth spurt, how much skinner. He'd held himself differently; he'd moved differently.
Four years ago, he'd had a different body. Seeing it again, still unchanged, was as strange as finding an old photograph of someone long since dead.
"Who was that?"
"No one," Hijiri said, slinging his arm around the neck of his friend and steering him towards the open door of a bar across the street. "You're just drunk."
***
Cooking was an art. Sure, there were recipes that you could follow, with the ingredients and directions all laid out for you, but that wasn't really cooking. That was like comparing a paint-by-numbers kit to the Mona Lisa. I, Tsuzuki thought as he set the oven to preheating, have bigger intentions in mind than the flavor equivalent of a coloring book.
Real cooking was about having an understanding with the food. Ruka had never owned a cookbook in her life, but she'd had an almost instinctual connection with the meals she made. She never looked up the right combination of home-grown spices to mimic the taste of expensive saffron or cardamom, or how far water could stretch a broth without losing its taste, or whether a long boiling or quick grilling would best hide the imperfections in a cut of meat. Tsuzuki had never been quite as good as she had. Things that made sense when he thought of them- and why shouldn't the pungent tang of garlic be the perfect compliment to chocolate's dark, thick stickiness, after all?- never seemed to work out in ways that other people admired. Or even tolerated.
The batter seemed a little thick, so Tsuzuki added some more water into the bowl. Too much spilled in, though, and he sprinkled some flour over it to even things out. Food was more important than anything else, and that wasn't just his stomach talking. It was why it made such a good gift; nothing else you could give someone was as necessary to life. You didn't have to go hungry for long to realize how important food was. Cooking and eating were basic needs, so sharing them had to symbolize a connection between you and the other person. He dropped equal spoonfuls onto the tin, making sure they had enough space between them to expand. His muffin tin was dirty, but this flat pan should work as well.
Tsuzuki checked the oven. He'd really tried to match Hisoka's tastes this time. Nothing too sweet; that was easy. He'd been sure to put plenty of salt in these cupcakes.
***
Hisoka's mission was declared a failure. Though nothing truly irreversible occurred- there'll be apologies made and gift offered on both sides, and other meetings will happen soon enough- certain gestures still need to be made. Someone has to be blamed; guilt has to fall somewhere.
Hisoka, despite his youth and inexperience and the growing machinations of some relatives, is a prince. Tsuzuki is not even a member of the tribe. Tsuzuki is not a member of any tribe, in fact; wherever he comes from, it's somewhere far away from the desert tribes and their strict bonds of family and kinship. That alone would be enough to make him a convenient scapegoat.
The only thing known of Tsuzuki's past is that recently he was working in the guards of a neighboring clan. Of course, he's not from there either. He's uncannily skilled with swords; everywhere he goes the rumor starts to spread that his fighting is a thing of beauty and power, like seeing a painting, hearing a song, maybe even like touching a god. Or the opposite.
The purple eyes don't help those rumors.
So while everyone wants Tsuzuki- no one could deny that he's the best fighter since the time of legends- no one really *wants* him. Having him around makes the chiefs and priests uncomfortable; it's like having a secret weapon you're not sure won’t backfire. Tsuzuki's likeable- loveable even! He always knows everyone, and has a few words for them, and he's good with kids, and he has the best jokes to tell when you're drinking- but he never quite has friends. Tsuzuki's too… *too*. Too friendly, too good, too mysterious, too loud when he's laughing and too quiet when asked about his past. There's something off-putting about a man renowned for his killing ability trying to be your buddy. Besides, he tends to insist that prisoners go free instead of killing them.
He gets passed from tribe to tribe whenever someone new hears about him and decides to offer more pay or bribes, and there's never anyone who knows him well enough to insist he stay. That's as much as anyone knows about him; he must have started somewhere, he must have been someone before this, but he won't tell.
Nagare hired him specifically to serve as Hisoka's bodyguard on this, his first diplomatic mission. It's a move that managed to somehow be both a compliment and an insult, all at once. Tsuzuki's the best money can buy, and positioning him as the head of the prince's retinue is a display of wealth, an extravagant gift, a show of pride. And yet- Tsuzuki is a stranger, unknown to anyone in their tribe. How do you trust a man who won't even say what family he's from? Placing Hisoka at the mercy of Tsuzuki's protection shows more concern for appearances than the safety of his son.
And firing him is both simple and obvious. Tsuzuki doesn't protest; he's been watching the way this family interacts and the way they speak to each other, and certain things are becoming obvious now. He may have saved Hisoka's life, in the end, but he should have noticed earlier that the boy's rudeness was really caution, his anger a defense. Who does he have to blame but himself that he was so slow to care? Nagare is right.
Which is why it's Hisoka who has to refuse to accept it. Nagare carefully and exactly explains the details, Tsuzuki bows his head to let his hair fall into his eyes, and Hisoka lifts his chin and says, "No."
There's a moment of confusion. "What do you mean?" Nagare asks.
"It means no," Hisoka says shortly. "None of this has anything to do with him; if you need someone to take the fall so badly, punish me. Don't try to pass the blame."
Nagare considers him silently. One of the older cousins shifts, a soft stir in the quiet. "So self-sacrificial," he says, too sweetly. "Maybe when you grow up you're learn that things don't work that way-"
Nagare cuts him off with an outstretched hand. "Don't bother trying to warn him; actions make a better teacher than words ever will." To Hisoka, he says, "You're too stubborn. You fool yourself into thinking there's something noble about refusing to give in. It's just harder." He waves him away. "Come back later. Your uncles and I have to talk in private."
Outside the tent, the sun's still not much above the horizon. Shadows stretch long and pale, and the white light makes things look cleaner than they really are. "You didn't have to do that, you know," Tsuzuki says offhandedly, following Hisoka.
Hisoka shrugs. "Now we're even." He hadn't thought about it, in truth, beyond a brief instinctive flash of irritation at the unfairness. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a bodyguard loyal to him instead of his family though, and Tsuzuki's certainly proved his worth in that direction. The man risked his life for him, when it wasn't his responsibility, when no one had asked him to.
Hisoka had seen him practicing in the morning and evenings, but it still hadn't prepared him for the sight of Tsuzuki in battle; he moved like flames, and his eyes burned. Hisoka doesn't believe in stories. He doesn't let silly fears make his decisions. So it doesn’t matter that Tsuzuki could be a djinn come to life, all made out of fire and power and danger, with wishes to grant, if you were ready to pay the cost.
But Hisoka doesn't believe in stories, and he didn’t keep Tsuzuki around because of any personal preference. He figures he owed the man one, that's all.
***
"This isn't fair."
The man who was watching him- no, *guarding* him, because though he wouldn't actually look at Hisoka, his slouched position in the doorway made several things clear. "No? You're the one who snuck in."
"If you let me go, it wouldn't be a problem anymore." Hisoka could hear his tone going flat and sullen, like a child about to throw a tantrum, but he'd given up trying to reason with these people. There wasn't even enough room to pace; he been shut in the back of some moving van, half-full of heavy things wrapped in dusty cloth.
The man shifted restlessly against the edge of the door. He looked as uncomfortable as Hisoka was. "There's nowhere for you to go. The sun's set, there's not a single house in sight, and you're miles and miles from Momma's farm."
"That's my concern, not yours."
"You got yourself into this mess," the man said, crossing his arms and looking out over his shoulder. Hisoka could see a slice of the outside, a vast flat plain turning indigo in the twilight. "We can't afford to coddle runaways. Police'd be happy to pin the blame on some traveling strangers for whatever kid goes missing next." He sounded like he was repeating something he'd been told.
Hisoka crossed his arms. "So instead you break the law by imprisoning me? Smart move, there. What's supposed to stop me from going straight to them and letting them know everything that's going on as soon as I get out of here?"
The man finally looked at him, a cruel grin on his face. "What makes you think you're going to get out of here?" Something was strange about him, something a little off about how he held himself or the twist to his smile.
"Please. You're not scary." Hisoka rolled his eyes. "What do you do- play a clown?"
The man let the silence stretch just a moment too long to be comfortable. "Nah. I'm the star attraction, the main sideshow. I'm the demon."
There was anger in the man's voice, but Hisoka didn't think it was directed at him. Even with the deepening shadows shadowing his face, the man looked far too normal. His hair was long overdue to be cut, and looked barely brushed, and his dirty clothes were patched and ragged as anybody's. Hisoka snorted. "You mean people pay to get a glimpse of you? That's a waste of money; what's so demonic about you? The eyes? Purple's just another color."
The man was silent.
"Just because some people are stupid enough to still believe in superstitions doesn't mean I am."
The man laughed despite himself, surprised. It wiped the strangeness from his appearance as quickly as if it had never been there, and he looked normal and pleased. He straightened up, standing more comfortably. "Look, don't worry. The manager's just trying to scare you. We'll drop you off some place safe tomorrow morning, and you'll be home by afternoon."
"What if I don't want to go home?"
The man considered him, still smiling in a friendly way. "What would you want to do that for? You don't want to hang around with us."
Hisoka shrugged. "Don't see why not."
***
They could have pulled in every worker from every one of JuOhCho's divisions, and that still wouldn't have been enough to deal with all the dead. None of the Shokan workers had time for the paperwork; they left it to Konoe to deal with. He'd ceased pretending to organize his in-box and out-box; the forms were stacked in wobbling piles leaning against the walls of his office. They were all in Hiroshima now to deal with... with this. Anything wrong in their normal districts would have to wait.
They don't realize they're dead, Tsuzuki had told him on one of his brief stops back, ferrying a huddle of souls. It was so quick. They remember a lightening flash. Light. They say- they say that couldn't have been enough to level a city.
Hiroshima had always had the best okonomiyaki. But no one was bringing him souvenirs now; the off-duty shinigami drifted futilely in the hallways, empty-handed and red-eyed and silent.
They left their shadows, Tatsumi-san had said aburptly, haunted. He had looked as if he was barely there. Konoe didn't think he'd slept in days, and had wondered whether the stress had broken the newcomer until he saw the photographs for himself.
He'd clapped Tsuzuki on the shoulder as they left, said something vaguely encouraging. Tsuzuki'd tried to smile, poor boy, but the expression only stretched his lips thin and pale and made the skin seem too thin over his bones. It died quickly, and he'd stared at Konoe with those eyes he was so sensitive about, pleading for something Konoe couldn't grant.
He pretended he didn't notice. Only a few more, right? Just bring them back, and we'll see what can be done. Nothing. Send them on. Meifu had long since run out of places to put them while they were processed, and souls littered the streets and parks like beggars. It'll all be over before you know it. It took a long moment before Tsuzuki had nodded, fingers too tight around the case folders he held. Tatsumi met Konoe's gaze silently, dulled past accusation or pain.
It wasn't fair, but there was nothing else to do. One hundred thousand dead, two hundred thousand dead; numbers that high were all indistinguishable, meaningless. Konoe couldn't imagine that many people. His employees, his small bunch of proud, powerful, crazy shinigami were meant for more than herding huge groups of nameless dead; the overtime and stress was destroying them, and their chief was too tired to even hear their complaints. The mechanical bureaucracy of JuOhCho was the only thing left to him: sign his name, stamp the form, send it on to the next office. Promise them it'd all be over soon.
***
It was one of those indistinct winter days, the sort when everything sparks with static electricity and skin cracks from lack of moisture and even the sky looks arid and evaporated; in short, things felt dry. Irritating enough to anyone, but no one, Watari felt, understood the pain of having long hair on a day like this. It *frizzed*. It *tickled*. It clung to his cheeks and neck and when he tried to brush it back, it tangled around his fingers.
It didn't take a highly-trained (if somewhat eccentric) scientist to see the obvious solution.
A few minutes later, Watari felt remarkably relieved. He was more comfortable, happier, and his head felt a lot lighter. Surprising what a difference a little hair made. 003 hooted mournfully, pulling a long golden strand from the wastebasket in what an observer might have almost thought to be a reproachful manner. Watari ignored her. He considered his new appearance, using a turned-off computer monitor for a mirror- which worked well enough, although he looked somewhat monochrome. He rubbed his shorter, and suddenly *much* curlier, hair, tousling it. "It looks good," he announced. "A bit rough around the edges, sure, but I think it makes me look younger. I am getting over the hill, after all."
003 dropped the hair, hooted, and picked it up again.
"Well, yes. It's not as though I can age. But even if your job provides the side benefits of eternal youth and beauty, one shouldn't ignore fashion." He ran his hand through his hair again, tipping his head slightly to one side. "I wonder what Tatsumi will think of it."
His reflection grinned back at him.
***
Tatsumi had stopped in the store to pick up necessities- stamps, envelopes, stationary; the constantly-disappearing staples of all bureaucracies- when something caught his eye. Glowing warmly despite the dull florescent lights, buttery leather seemed poured across its cover and spine, entirely unmarked but for a subtle pattern on the edges. The paper inside was tinted faintly blue, narrow-ruled and perfectly aligned atop the back cover.
The price tag was not nearly so agreeable. Still, Tatsumi had reserved funds for one personal expense this month. It would be a pleasure to hide the red of the budget in such a portfolio.
***
Friendship, Hisoka decided, was a lot like being annoyed all the time, and not minding. Because it wasn't as if he liked the way Tsuzuki acted; the man was a slob and an idiot and had as much restraint as a five-year-old, and Hisoka meant every single one of the various things he'd called him.
Well. He meant them when he said them. And he usually meant them afterwards, especially if Tsuzuki laughed off the insult. Really, it was only rarely that he felt cruel and tactless and mean, and that was just because Tsuzuki could take him so seriously. It seemed that the only times Tsuzuki was ever serious was when he'd found something new to feel guilty over, and that was bad enough for Hisoka to almost wish he'd stick to slacking off and eating pie.
But most days were somewhere between those two extremes. Even Tsuzuki- who to first appearances was capable only of an insanely giddy cheerfulness and darkest depression- relaxed, and managed to pester Hisoka about a new store or going drinking or a person he'd met, whatever his latest distraction from work was, without the air of forced casualness that could make him so fragile. Ordinary days then, meant Tsuzuki's hand in Hisoka's hair as he teased him, and his arm looped carelessly around Hisoka's neck when he leaned close to pass along some new piece of office gossip; they were lunches at familiar places as Tsuzuki caught up with every waitress and busboy, or dinners at some excitingly new restaurant and squabbles over the price.
There had to be some special property of friendship that could make that all seem ordinary, because there wasn't any other explanation for how Hisoka could find Tsuzuki on his doorstep at 2am, drunk and saying stupid things in a soft voice and waiting for Hisoka to make it better, and take it in stride. A year ago, when he was still alive, there was no one Hisoka wouldn't have shut the door on- not that anyone he knew would have come to him for help. Tsuzuki was the only one foolish enough to trust him.
It must be friendship, because Hisoka hadn't changed. He wasn't ever going to be a nice person, and he wasn't any less annoyed than he would have been before, but he let Tsuzuki in anyway. Something had to be different. And with Tsuzuki sprawled over the couch, his dirty shoes still on and a hand covering reddened eyes, it was a bit more comforting to blame friendship than insanity.
"Look at this one!"
Hisoka glanced over his shoulder at the set of curtains Tsuzuki was lifting off the shelf, but his expression froze before he'd turned halfway. "What color is that?" he said, in the same tone of voice that someone might use to ask 'which bit was her head?'
Tsuzuki caught the tag dangling from one of the beaded chains which decorated the bottom half of the glossy fabric. "Tahitian Sunset."
"No," Hisoka said, his face settling into a look of horror.
"But it's got a pie design on it! With ice cream."
Hisoka took at a corner of the curtain to get a closer look, holding it between his fingers gingerly, as if he was afraid it might rub off on him. Which, Tsuzuki reflected, considering the strangely greasy look of the thing, it might. "What does pie have to do with Tahiti?"
"I think that's just their way of saying red." Tsuzuki turned the curtain to a new angle in the light. "Or maybe orange. What color does it look like to you?"
"One that will never be seen in our house." Hisoka dropped his corner and surreptitiously rubbed his hand on his jeans, wincing as the beads tinkled and chimed as they fell against each other.
"We could put it in the kitchen?"
"No." Tsuzuki tried to shift the curtain to a more appealing arrangement, and ended up covering most of it with his hands. Hisoka raised an eyebrow at his efforts, and moved to another curtain halfway down the aisle. Tsuzuki could see from where he was standing that it was off-white with a border of black; in other words, something Hisoka was sure to start describing as understated and refined any moment now, as though those things didn't also mean boring and completely uninteresting. "Though it would fit. That thing looks like your cooking tastes."
Tsuzuki considered protesting the insult. He didn't think his cooking was so bad, and he ate enough food to be an expert on taste. But that argument was a waste of time, because all of his best efforts hadn't been able to convince Hisoka to eat anything he'd made in months, and anyway, right now he had bigger fish to fry!
Figuratively.
He tried another track, pouting and twisting his fingers in the curtains. "You're not letting me choose anything."
Hisoka shrugged, uncaring. "It's not my fault your sense of style looks like radioactive experiment gone wrong."
Tsuzuki gasped, letting tears well in his eyes. "You're so mean!"
Hisoka didn't answer, but his lips got thin and eyes focused intently on the curtain in his hands. Tsuzuki knew that look. It meant Hisoka was really putting an effort into ignoring him. But Hisoka was also glancing at the other shoppers worriedly, which meant that Tsuzuki had already won. He sniffed. Loudly. "No! No curtain," Hisoka whispered desperately, starting to turn red.
Tsuzuki took a deep breath and opened his mouth, prepared to wail, but Hisoka caved before he even got started. "Okay! Fine! We'll buy it! Just shut up." He smacked Tsuzuki in the shoulder. "I'd like it if all of the Meifu didn't think we're crazy."
Tsuzuki grinned and bounced as he slid of the plastic-wrapped packages off the shelf. "Should we pick out towels now?"
"Idiot."
Hisoka has an unfair advantage: at least he can read his partner's moods, if his partner is going to be strangely silent and melancholy and stand on the hotel balcony staring into the distance for what seems like hours.
Tsuzuki has to ask.
"What are you thinking about?"
Hisoka shrugs. "I'm not sure." He shifts his weight, thinking carefully before speaking. He still does that sometimes, portioning out his words as though he resents giving them up. Tsuzuki can be patient; trying to rush Hisoka is more likely to end the discussion than result in faster revelations. "Muraki's probably dead by now."
"Probably," Tsuzuki echoes, hedging his answer. Hisoka is a dark patch against the city lights, his silhouette a solid shadow at the edges where he blocks out houses and streets and other hotels. The lamp next to the bed reaches just far enough to illuminate a few of the wrinkles on the back of his shirt, to catch in the blonder strands of his hair. Tsuzuki doesn't want to talk about this.
"I stayed for that." Hisoka adjusts his grip on the railing. He still holds himself too stiff and strict when he's uneasy, an old habit that refuses to die. "Muraki was my reason for not moving on."
"I know." Tsuzuki won't say more than that, but even though he refuses to consider the logical consequence to Hisoka's beginning, he can feel it. He stares hard at Hisoka's back and memorizes the familiar outline, long, thin limbs and narrow shoulders, and it hurts even if he won't think it.
Hisoka turns, and now the lamplight falls on the still-soft curve of his cheek and reflects in his eyes, which will always be childishly large. "Don't be stupid," he says, but his tone is more apologetic than annoyed. "You know I didn't mean it like that."
Tsuzuki smiles too quickly at him. "Alright."
"I couldn't. Tatsumi would have a nervous breakdown if found out you still don't know how to use the computer system." This was Hisoka's idea of teasing him. Hisoka's sense of humor is nothing like Tsuzuki's; it's too quiet and mostly internal. He doesn't bother to laugh at the things he thinks are funny, but he smiles sometimes, the smallest curve to his lips and a crinkling in the corners of his eyes.
He's doing it now, watching Tsuzuki and waiting to see if he gets the joke. Tsuzuki laughs and falls back on the bed, running a hand through his hair and glancing at Hisoka through his fingers. He likes to see him smile. "So mean."
Hisoka humphs softly, moving out of Tsuzuki's field of vision as he steps off the balcony and wanders across the room. "I'm not mean. You're too sensitive."
Tsuzuki continues to look through the open door, studying the now-visible tiny halos of yellow and white light. "You could," he says, trying to keep his tone light.
Hisoka mumbles something. Tsuzuki turns: Hisoka's stuck the case file in his teeth while he rifles through his suitcase with both hands. It makes him look silly, but only for a moment, and then he's found his pajamas and drops the file back on top. "I don't want to," he says again. "I never should have brought it up."
"Why did you?"
"Because it's been too long since we had a hard case. Something's got to go wrong."
"Cynic," Tsuzuki says, because it's so like Hisoka to think that that it must be true.
"Naïve," Hisoka says, which is the expected answer, and it's as comforting as his pessimism.
Tsuzuki's back cracks against the wall, Muraki's hands heavy on his shoulders, and his breath catches in his throat with a desperation like drowning. Self-preservation shuts down. Muraki's teeth are on his neck and it hurts but not enough and when they scrape down, down, he feels the echo in the arch of his spine.
Tsuzuki lies to everyone. He should be good at it by now, but he's not; he's never had enough discipline to be believable.
Muraki doesn't have to say a word: Tsuzuki betrays himself in the end. He shifts against Muraki in jerks far too small to escape, but he can't hold still, can't just watch. Something darker than excitement shakes his body and robs his composure and he thinks he should say something, hears himself choking on half-formed words, and none of them are no. His fingers are caught in Muraki's grasp and forced against the wall, but he laces them unthinking, holding to Muraki as tight as the man has him, and it's something to clutch at when his mouth opens for the kiss that tears at him. Muraki smiles when his last pretensions of resistance fall away.
Tsuzuki closes his eyes. He lies to himself as well.
Hakkai had a good thing going on, what with that schoolteacher's voice and sweetly polite smile. He might be a scary motherfucker, but he sure didn't look it. You'd never guess the guy could kill you without even getting his hands dirty.
Gojyo was more straightforward. Not that he wouldn't kill you just as quickly, but the blood-red hair and eyes let you know to expect that kind of violence. He figured that's why he and Hakkai made such a good team; with everyone's eyes on him, no one ever noticed the sneaky little bastard slipping in an extra card.
Hijiri laughed as he staggered against his friend, who was also finding their inability to walk straight indescribably funny. The ground didn't seem to be quite level, and the people swirling around them kept him from concentrating on where to put his feet.
He stopped suddenly, struck by inspiration. A girl bumped into him from behind; Hijiri didn't recognize her, but that was alright. Their group had gotten noticeably larger since they'd left the first bar. Some of them had recognized him from a TV appearance a few weeks ago, some had started following them when Hijiri had announced that it was his birthday and he was buying drinks, and some had just wanted in on the fun.
"Where are we going?" Hijiri said. Most of the group, predictably, shouted contradictory answers. Hijiri thought about it for a moment and then turned to the boy he was leaning on. "Where are we now?"
The boy belched- his name was Muramoto, Hijiri remembered, he played the flute- and shrugged. "I don't remember. I think we're looking for that new place. It's around here somewhere, I know it."
"Ah, who cares?" said someone else, taking Hijiri's other arm. "Look, that place over there is still open."
"We were there already!" Muramoto said.
"No, we weren't."
Hijiri drifted out of the argument, not particularly caring where they ended up, and belatedly realized that someone was calling his name. "Look, look, Minase! It's your little brother!"
"I don't have-" Hijiri started, peering in the pointed direction, and caught the briefest glimpse of narrow, gangly limbs and a staring, intent face before the figure disappeared in the shadows between two buildings. But the afterimage burned like neon; Hijiri had forgotten how much shorter he'd been before he got his growth spurt, how much skinner. He'd held himself differently; he'd moved differently.
Four years ago, he'd had a different body. Seeing it again, still unchanged, was as strange as finding an old photograph of someone long since dead.
"Who was that?"
"No one," Hijiri said, slinging his arm around the neck of his friend and steering him towards the open door of a bar across the street. "You're just drunk."
Cooking was an art. Sure, there were recipes that you could follow, with the ingredients and directions all laid out for you, but that wasn't really cooking. That was like comparing a paint-by-numbers kit to the Mona Lisa. I, Tsuzuki thought as he set the oven to preheating, have bigger intentions in mind than the flavor equivalent of a coloring book.
Real cooking was about having an understanding with the food. Ruka had never owned a cookbook in her life, but she'd had an almost instinctual connection with the meals she made. She never looked up the right combination of home-grown spices to mimic the taste of expensive saffron or cardamom, or how far water could stretch a broth without losing its taste, or whether a long boiling or quick grilling would best hide the imperfections in a cut of meat. Tsuzuki had never been quite as good as she had. Things that made sense when he thought of them- and why shouldn't the pungent tang of garlic be the perfect compliment to chocolate's dark, thick stickiness, after all?- never seemed to work out in ways that other people admired. Or even tolerated.
The batter seemed a little thick, so Tsuzuki added some more water into the bowl. Too much spilled in, though, and he sprinkled some flour over it to even things out. Food was more important than anything else, and that wasn't just his stomach talking. It was why it made such a good gift; nothing else you could give someone was as necessary to life. You didn't have to go hungry for long to realize how important food was. Cooking and eating were basic needs, so sharing them had to symbolize a connection between you and the other person. He dropped equal spoonfuls onto the tin, making sure they had enough space between them to expand. His muffin tin was dirty, but this flat pan should work as well.
Tsuzuki checked the oven. He'd really tried to match Hisoka's tastes this time. Nothing too sweet; that was easy. He'd been sure to put plenty of salt in these cupcakes.
Hisoka's mission was declared a failure. Though nothing truly irreversible occurred- there'll be apologies made and gift offered on both sides, and other meetings will happen soon enough- certain gestures still need to be made. Someone has to be blamed; guilt has to fall somewhere.
Hisoka, despite his youth and inexperience and the growing machinations of some relatives, is a prince. Tsuzuki is not even a member of the tribe. Tsuzuki is not a member of any tribe, in fact; wherever he comes from, it's somewhere far away from the desert tribes and their strict bonds of family and kinship. That alone would be enough to make him a convenient scapegoat.
The only thing known of Tsuzuki's past is that recently he was working in the guards of a neighboring clan. Of course, he's not from there either. He's uncannily skilled with swords; everywhere he goes the rumor starts to spread that his fighting is a thing of beauty and power, like seeing a painting, hearing a song, maybe even like touching a god. Or the opposite.
The purple eyes don't help those rumors.
So while everyone wants Tsuzuki- no one could deny that he's the best fighter since the time of legends- no one really *wants* him. Having him around makes the chiefs and priests uncomfortable; it's like having a secret weapon you're not sure won’t backfire. Tsuzuki's likeable- loveable even! He always knows everyone, and has a few words for them, and he's good with kids, and he has the best jokes to tell when you're drinking- but he never quite has friends. Tsuzuki's too… *too*. Too friendly, too good, too mysterious, too loud when he's laughing and too quiet when asked about his past. There's something off-putting about a man renowned for his killing ability trying to be your buddy. Besides, he tends to insist that prisoners go free instead of killing them.
He gets passed from tribe to tribe whenever someone new hears about him and decides to offer more pay or bribes, and there's never anyone who knows him well enough to insist he stay. That's as much as anyone knows about him; he must have started somewhere, he must have been someone before this, but he won't tell.
Nagare hired him specifically to serve as Hisoka's bodyguard on this, his first diplomatic mission. It's a move that managed to somehow be both a compliment and an insult, all at once. Tsuzuki's the best money can buy, and positioning him as the head of the prince's retinue is a display of wealth, an extravagant gift, a show of pride. And yet- Tsuzuki is a stranger, unknown to anyone in their tribe. How do you trust a man who won't even say what family he's from? Placing Hisoka at the mercy of Tsuzuki's protection shows more concern for appearances than the safety of his son.
And firing him is both simple and obvious. Tsuzuki doesn't protest; he's been watching the way this family interacts and the way they speak to each other, and certain things are becoming obvious now. He may have saved Hisoka's life, in the end, but he should have noticed earlier that the boy's rudeness was really caution, his anger a defense. Who does he have to blame but himself that he was so slow to care? Nagare is right.
Which is why it's Hisoka who has to refuse to accept it. Nagare carefully and exactly explains the details, Tsuzuki bows his head to let his hair fall into his eyes, and Hisoka lifts his chin and says, "No."
There's a moment of confusion. "What do you mean?" Nagare asks.
"It means no," Hisoka says shortly. "None of this has anything to do with him; if you need someone to take the fall so badly, punish me. Don't try to pass the blame."
Nagare considers him silently. One of the older cousins shifts, a soft stir in the quiet. "So self-sacrificial," he says, too sweetly. "Maybe when you grow up you're learn that things don't work that way-"
Nagare cuts him off with an outstretched hand. "Don't bother trying to warn him; actions make a better teacher than words ever will." To Hisoka, he says, "You're too stubborn. You fool yourself into thinking there's something noble about refusing to give in. It's just harder." He waves him away. "Come back later. Your uncles and I have to talk in private."
Outside the tent, the sun's still not much above the horizon. Shadows stretch long and pale, and the white light makes things look cleaner than they really are. "You didn't have to do that, you know," Tsuzuki says offhandedly, following Hisoka.
Hisoka shrugs. "Now we're even." He hadn't thought about it, in truth, beyond a brief instinctive flash of irritation at the unfairness. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a bodyguard loyal to him instead of his family though, and Tsuzuki's certainly proved his worth in that direction. The man risked his life for him, when it wasn't his responsibility, when no one had asked him to.
Hisoka had seen him practicing in the morning and evenings, but it still hadn't prepared him for the sight of Tsuzuki in battle; he moved like flames, and his eyes burned. Hisoka doesn't believe in stories. He doesn't let silly fears make his decisions. So it doesn’t matter that Tsuzuki could be a djinn come to life, all made out of fire and power and danger, with wishes to grant, if you were ready to pay the cost.
But Hisoka doesn't believe in stories, and he didn’t keep Tsuzuki around because of any personal preference. He figures he owed the man one, that's all.
"This isn't fair."
The man who was watching him- no, *guarding* him, because though he wouldn't actually look at Hisoka, his slouched position in the doorway made several things clear. "No? You're the one who snuck in."
"If you let me go, it wouldn't be a problem anymore." Hisoka could hear his tone going flat and sullen, like a child about to throw a tantrum, but he'd given up trying to reason with these people. There wasn't even enough room to pace; he been shut in the back of some moving van, half-full of heavy things wrapped in dusty cloth.
The man shifted restlessly against the edge of the door. He looked as uncomfortable as Hisoka was. "There's nowhere for you to go. The sun's set, there's not a single house in sight, and you're miles and miles from Momma's farm."
"That's my concern, not yours."
"You got yourself into this mess," the man said, crossing his arms and looking out over his shoulder. Hisoka could see a slice of the outside, a vast flat plain turning indigo in the twilight. "We can't afford to coddle runaways. Police'd be happy to pin the blame on some traveling strangers for whatever kid goes missing next." He sounded like he was repeating something he'd been told.
Hisoka crossed his arms. "So instead you break the law by imprisoning me? Smart move, there. What's supposed to stop me from going straight to them and letting them know everything that's going on as soon as I get out of here?"
The man finally looked at him, a cruel grin on his face. "What makes you think you're going to get out of here?" Something was strange about him, something a little off about how he held himself or the twist to his smile.
"Please. You're not scary." Hisoka rolled his eyes. "What do you do- play a clown?"
The man let the silence stretch just a moment too long to be comfortable. "Nah. I'm the star attraction, the main sideshow. I'm the demon."
There was anger in the man's voice, but Hisoka didn't think it was directed at him. Even with the deepening shadows shadowing his face, the man looked far too normal. His hair was long overdue to be cut, and looked barely brushed, and his dirty clothes were patched and ragged as anybody's. Hisoka snorted. "You mean people pay to get a glimpse of you? That's a waste of money; what's so demonic about you? The eyes? Purple's just another color."
The man was silent.
"Just because some people are stupid enough to still believe in superstitions doesn't mean I am."
The man laughed despite himself, surprised. It wiped the strangeness from his appearance as quickly as if it had never been there, and he looked normal and pleased. He straightened up, standing more comfortably. "Look, don't worry. The manager's just trying to scare you. We'll drop you off some place safe tomorrow morning, and you'll be home by afternoon."
"What if I don't want to go home?"
The man considered him, still smiling in a friendly way. "What would you want to do that for? You don't want to hang around with us."
Hisoka shrugged. "Don't see why not."
They could have pulled in every worker from every one of JuOhCho's divisions, and that still wouldn't have been enough to deal with all the dead. None of the Shokan workers had time for the paperwork; they left it to Konoe to deal with. He'd ceased pretending to organize his in-box and out-box; the forms were stacked in wobbling piles leaning against the walls of his office. They were all in Hiroshima now to deal with... with this. Anything wrong in their normal districts would have to wait.
They don't realize they're dead, Tsuzuki had told him on one of his brief stops back, ferrying a huddle of souls. It was so quick. They remember a lightening flash. Light. They say- they say that couldn't have been enough to level a city.
Hiroshima had always had the best okonomiyaki. But no one was bringing him souvenirs now; the off-duty shinigami drifted futilely in the hallways, empty-handed and red-eyed and silent.
They left their shadows, Tatsumi-san had said aburptly, haunted. He had looked as if he was barely there. Konoe didn't think he'd slept in days, and had wondered whether the stress had broken the newcomer until he saw the photographs for himself.
He'd clapped Tsuzuki on the shoulder as they left, said something vaguely encouraging. Tsuzuki'd tried to smile, poor boy, but the expression only stretched his lips thin and pale and made the skin seem too thin over his bones. It died quickly, and he'd stared at Konoe with those eyes he was so sensitive about, pleading for something Konoe couldn't grant.
He pretended he didn't notice. Only a few more, right? Just bring them back, and we'll see what can be done. Nothing. Send them on. Meifu had long since run out of places to put them while they were processed, and souls littered the streets and parks like beggars. It'll all be over before you know it. It took a long moment before Tsuzuki had nodded, fingers too tight around the case folders he held. Tatsumi met Konoe's gaze silently, dulled past accusation or pain.
It wasn't fair, but there was nothing else to do. One hundred thousand dead, two hundred thousand dead; numbers that high were all indistinguishable, meaningless. Konoe couldn't imagine that many people. His employees, his small bunch of proud, powerful, crazy shinigami were meant for more than herding huge groups of nameless dead; the overtime and stress was destroying them, and their chief was too tired to even hear their complaints. The mechanical bureaucracy of JuOhCho was the only thing left to him: sign his name, stamp the form, send it on to the next office. Promise them it'd all be over soon.
It was one of those indistinct winter days, the sort when everything sparks with static electricity and skin cracks from lack of moisture and even the sky looks arid and evaporated; in short, things felt dry. Irritating enough to anyone, but no one, Watari felt, understood the pain of having long hair on a day like this. It *frizzed*. It *tickled*. It clung to his cheeks and neck and when he tried to brush it back, it tangled around his fingers.
It didn't take a highly-trained (if somewhat eccentric) scientist to see the obvious solution.
A few minutes later, Watari felt remarkably relieved. He was more comfortable, happier, and his head felt a lot lighter. Surprising what a difference a little hair made. 003 hooted mournfully, pulling a long golden strand from the wastebasket in what an observer might have almost thought to be a reproachful manner. Watari ignored her. He considered his new appearance, using a turned-off computer monitor for a mirror- which worked well enough, although he looked somewhat monochrome. He rubbed his shorter, and suddenly *much* curlier, hair, tousling it. "It looks good," he announced. "A bit rough around the edges, sure, but I think it makes me look younger. I am getting over the hill, after all."
003 dropped the hair, hooted, and picked it up again.
"Well, yes. It's not as though I can age. But even if your job provides the side benefits of eternal youth and beauty, one shouldn't ignore fashion." He ran his hand through his hair again, tipping his head slightly to one side. "I wonder what Tatsumi will think of it."
His reflection grinned back at him.
Tatsumi had stopped in the store to pick up necessities- stamps, envelopes, stationary; the constantly-disappearing staples of all bureaucracies- when something caught his eye. Glowing warmly despite the dull florescent lights, buttery leather seemed poured across its cover and spine, entirely unmarked but for a subtle pattern on the edges. The paper inside was tinted faintly blue, narrow-ruled and perfectly aligned atop the back cover.
The price tag was not nearly so agreeable. Still, Tatsumi had reserved funds for one personal expense this month. It would be a pleasure to hide the red of the budget in such a portfolio.
