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brigdhOkay, so I'm working on set of five AUs for my next Yami no Matsuei story. One of them was supposed to be based on the idea of 'what would happen if Hisoka had never met Muraki, never died, and never developed empathy?' I tried and tried to write this fic, but nothing was working. There were a million different scenarios: Hisoka gets married! Hisoka graduates from high school! Hisoka has kids! Hisoka confronts his father about the family curse! But none of them were working. And then, low and behold, the Dark Fic Muses of Hell came from their scary realm to talk to me.
Dark Fic Muses: Thou hast lost the way of this fic. Follow the true path, my child, and thy fic shall bring depression and creepiness to the land.
Me: Yeah, well, I'm trying. I mean, look at this one idea I had where Hisoka dies of old age-
Dark Fic Muses: You call that dark? That's vanilla ice cream in the middle of a blizzard compared to what we've got planned. Now get out of the way and let us write.
And that's what really happened. I absolve myself of all blame from this fic. It's still in the first draft, and still unbeta'd, but I'm posting it because Sephy posted bits of her story and I'm muchly grateful.
***********
Hisoka is well-known at the club, though he likes to pretend otherwise. Even with his hair dyed unnatural fluorescents and contacts in his eyes, his face is recognizable as the Kurosaki heir. And just in case they didn't know him by the curve of his cheek or his long legs, there are the scales growing in the space between his mesh shirt and leather pants, delicate as any tattoo. The people from the town know what it means, and they leave him alone. It's the outsiders who find him fascinating, the people who are just passing through and don’t know any better than to ignore the boy dancing by himself in the center of the floor.
Hisoka dances very well, he knows. He just closes his eyes and wishes himself far away from here, away from the townspeople who sacrificed his life generations before he was born, from this backwater club that plays songs only after they've been on the radio for months, from the people who crowd close enough to watch but never to touch, until there's nothing left but him and the beat. And it's the beat he lives for, the pure thump of the music, the bass turned up loud enough to make his bones vibrate and the guitars soaring high enough to make the glass inside him shatter.
Hisoka has a partner tonight, a man he's never seen before. He's probably here on business- he looks old enough for it, though not too old to look out of place in the club- just looking for some entertainment before he heads home again, wherever that is. He's not a very good dancer, truthfully, but Hisoka hardly needs a partner to spin his magic, the dance that gets him into the club every night, though he's still years younger than the age posted out front, and looks even smaller than that. The man's not bad either, and just talented enough to be interesting.
His hair is dark, but it's too dim and smoky for Hisoka to tell if it's black or brown. His eyes are the same; they could be black or brown also, or even a dark blue or green. He's handsome, though, and just tall enough that Hisoka has to look up without craning his neck. He's feeling restless tonight, and wonders what he can tempt this man into. He knows what he looks like, slender and dangerous and untouchable, because he's been told it over and over by men just like this one.
He wonders what the townspeople think about that one, that their beloved god-killer is whoring himself to death with random men in a club where the windows are nailed over with boards curling and peeling with ancient paint and the bathroom floors are streaked with mud from the last time it rained. None of them have cared enough to tell his parents or bar him from the door, so Hisoka assumes they reckon it's his fair trade. He's still going to die for them, so what does it matter?
Not that this man knows any of that, of Hisoka's part in an ancient contract, bound to this town by his parents and by the grave that bears his name, though it holds another body, of just how blood-soaked this place is. All he sees is a beautiful body and the dance Hisoka throws himself into, writhing with rhythms that, really, he is too young to know. But then, his sister was too young to know any of it, and they killed her anyway.
It's death and sex, and who could ever resist that? Hisoka can always get what he wants, as long as he doesn’t want too much. It ends up the way it always does, barely making it out of the door before they're on top of each other, clothes coming off as much as they’re going to, and thank God, at least this one has a car. Last night Hisoka had ended up getting fucked in the bathroom, old toilet-paper rolls and empty bottles scattered around his feet.
Hisoka can taste sake in his mouth, almost sweet. The man fumbles with the car door handle, trying to open it one-handed while Hisoka sucks on his tongue and works his way into his pants. It finally, and Hisoka tumbles inside, landing flat across the backseat. The man is a silhouette of shadow in the doorway as he pauses, pulling something from his wallet. A condom and lube. Hisoka wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all suddenly, at the man’s stupid attempts at normality. But if he wants to pretend that this is something more than it is, something better than a grope in a backseat, like high schoolers on their first date, Hisoka doesn't care enough to tell him otherwise.
Quickly enough now, and the man's gotten back in the act, moving fast enough that even Hisoka can't complain. They're both hard and ready, sweat-soaked from the heat of the club, and the man's just rough enough that it almost hurts, and Hisoka arches his back in relief. It's alright for a minute, just the rhythm that's part of the dance, and the silence that lets Hisoka hear the music of the club over their pants. As long as he keeps his eyes closed, he doesn't need to think of anything except the beat and the rhythm, the steady thump-thump, like a heart beating or a snake coiling. But then the man feels the need to make conversation. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Hisoka says, practically growls, because he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't care about ages or names, he just wants a little bit of pleasure before it's too late.
“Sixteen,” he echoes, the word barely a breath across Hisoka’s ear. “*Fuck*.”
“Exactly,” Hisoka says, pressing his hips up harshly. It's a fumble in the tight confines of the car, but he manages to turn them over, straddling the man’s hips, his legs scrunched tight against the backs of the front seats. It's better this way, where he can throw back his head and really move, and not need to worry about the man. Hisoka settles into the rhythm quickly, knows just how to grind his hips. The man doesn't seem to mind the change in position, throwing a hand up to press it into the window behind him for leverage, his face pulled tight in pleasure. One of the parking lot's lights throws a thin strip of neon blue-white light across them, just enough to reveal a shoulder, a chin, a wrist. Hisoka can see scars on that wrist, thin lines pale against the skin. He lets his head fall back so that all he can see is the car's roof, strands of hair falling across his open eyes. It looks plain black now, in the darkness, but under the lights of the club it's streaked, red and neon blue and white.
It's over just as quickly as it began. Hisoka wipes himself off as best as he can, and twists for the door, intending to head back to the club. It's not even midnight, and he has no more intention of staying here than he does of going home.
“Wait.” Hisoka glances over his shoulder at the man. He hopes he won't ask for his name, he hates it when they think that this meant they have a connection now. The man's risen up to his elbows, looking disoriented and crestfallen. The strip of light falls across the center of his face, distorting it and leaving the chin and forehead in shadow. He blinks, and Hisoka notices that his eyes are purple, really purple, not colored contacts like the sort Hisoka wears.
“What?” Hisoka finally asks, impatient.
“Are you leaving?”
“What did you think this was?” Hisoka would have laughed at him, on another night, but he doesn’t have it in him today. He's tired of the same thing, over and over. “I'm not your partner, or your lover, or whatever you’re thinking about. We fucked. It doesn't mean anything.”
The man draws back slowly. “Of course.” He closes in on himself, and Hisoka can nearly see it happening, watch as he turns off caring. He's impressed. This man is nearly as skilled as Hisoka himself. Not impressed enough to stay though, and he gathers his clothes before stumbling out of the car. The man watches as he makes his way back to the door of the club, and Hisoka can feel those strange eyes following him. He turns back once before going through the doorway, but he can't pick the right car out from the others crowding the lot, and he wonders if why he tried.
end.
Yeah, I scare myself sometimes too.
Dark Fic Muses: Thou hast lost the way of this fic. Follow the true path, my child, and thy fic shall bring depression and creepiness to the land.
Me: Yeah, well, I'm trying. I mean, look at this one idea I had where Hisoka dies of old age-
Dark Fic Muses: You call that dark? That's vanilla ice cream in the middle of a blizzard compared to what we've got planned. Now get out of the way and let us write.
And that's what really happened. I absolve myself of all blame from this fic. It's still in the first draft, and still unbeta'd, but I'm posting it because Sephy posted bits of her story and I'm muchly grateful.
***********
Hisoka is well-known at the club, though he likes to pretend otherwise. Even with his hair dyed unnatural fluorescents and contacts in his eyes, his face is recognizable as the Kurosaki heir. And just in case they didn't know him by the curve of his cheek or his long legs, there are the scales growing in the space between his mesh shirt and leather pants, delicate as any tattoo. The people from the town know what it means, and they leave him alone. It's the outsiders who find him fascinating, the people who are just passing through and don’t know any better than to ignore the boy dancing by himself in the center of the floor.
Hisoka dances very well, he knows. He just closes his eyes and wishes himself far away from here, away from the townspeople who sacrificed his life generations before he was born, from this backwater club that plays songs only after they've been on the radio for months, from the people who crowd close enough to watch but never to touch, until there's nothing left but him and the beat. And it's the beat he lives for, the pure thump of the music, the bass turned up loud enough to make his bones vibrate and the guitars soaring high enough to make the glass inside him shatter.
Hisoka has a partner tonight, a man he's never seen before. He's probably here on business- he looks old enough for it, though not too old to look out of place in the club- just looking for some entertainment before he heads home again, wherever that is. He's not a very good dancer, truthfully, but Hisoka hardly needs a partner to spin his magic, the dance that gets him into the club every night, though he's still years younger than the age posted out front, and looks even smaller than that. The man's not bad either, and just talented enough to be interesting.
His hair is dark, but it's too dim and smoky for Hisoka to tell if it's black or brown. His eyes are the same; they could be black or brown also, or even a dark blue or green. He's handsome, though, and just tall enough that Hisoka has to look up without craning his neck. He's feeling restless tonight, and wonders what he can tempt this man into. He knows what he looks like, slender and dangerous and untouchable, because he's been told it over and over by men just like this one.
He wonders what the townspeople think about that one, that their beloved god-killer is whoring himself to death with random men in a club where the windows are nailed over with boards curling and peeling with ancient paint and the bathroom floors are streaked with mud from the last time it rained. None of them have cared enough to tell his parents or bar him from the door, so Hisoka assumes they reckon it's his fair trade. He's still going to die for them, so what does it matter?
Not that this man knows any of that, of Hisoka's part in an ancient contract, bound to this town by his parents and by the grave that bears his name, though it holds another body, of just how blood-soaked this place is. All he sees is a beautiful body and the dance Hisoka throws himself into, writhing with rhythms that, really, he is too young to know. But then, his sister was too young to know any of it, and they killed her anyway.
It's death and sex, and who could ever resist that? Hisoka can always get what he wants, as long as he doesn’t want too much. It ends up the way it always does, barely making it out of the door before they're on top of each other, clothes coming off as much as they’re going to, and thank God, at least this one has a car. Last night Hisoka had ended up getting fucked in the bathroom, old toilet-paper rolls and empty bottles scattered around his feet.
Hisoka can taste sake in his mouth, almost sweet. The man fumbles with the car door handle, trying to open it one-handed while Hisoka sucks on his tongue and works his way into his pants. It finally, and Hisoka tumbles inside, landing flat across the backseat. The man is a silhouette of shadow in the doorway as he pauses, pulling something from his wallet. A condom and lube. Hisoka wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all suddenly, at the man’s stupid attempts at normality. But if he wants to pretend that this is something more than it is, something better than a grope in a backseat, like high schoolers on their first date, Hisoka doesn't care enough to tell him otherwise.
Quickly enough now, and the man's gotten back in the act, moving fast enough that even Hisoka can't complain. They're both hard and ready, sweat-soaked from the heat of the club, and the man's just rough enough that it almost hurts, and Hisoka arches his back in relief. It's alright for a minute, just the rhythm that's part of the dance, and the silence that lets Hisoka hear the music of the club over their pants. As long as he keeps his eyes closed, he doesn't need to think of anything except the beat and the rhythm, the steady thump-thump, like a heart beating or a snake coiling. But then the man feels the need to make conversation. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Hisoka says, practically growls, because he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't care about ages or names, he just wants a little bit of pleasure before it's too late.
“Sixteen,” he echoes, the word barely a breath across Hisoka’s ear. “*Fuck*.”
“Exactly,” Hisoka says, pressing his hips up harshly. It's a fumble in the tight confines of the car, but he manages to turn them over, straddling the man’s hips, his legs scrunched tight against the backs of the front seats. It's better this way, where he can throw back his head and really move, and not need to worry about the man. Hisoka settles into the rhythm quickly, knows just how to grind his hips. The man doesn't seem to mind the change in position, throwing a hand up to press it into the window behind him for leverage, his face pulled tight in pleasure. One of the parking lot's lights throws a thin strip of neon blue-white light across them, just enough to reveal a shoulder, a chin, a wrist. Hisoka can see scars on that wrist, thin lines pale against the skin. He lets his head fall back so that all he can see is the car's roof, strands of hair falling across his open eyes. It looks plain black now, in the darkness, but under the lights of the club it's streaked, red and neon blue and white.
It's over just as quickly as it began. Hisoka wipes himself off as best as he can, and twists for the door, intending to head back to the club. It's not even midnight, and he has no more intention of staying here than he does of going home.
“Wait.” Hisoka glances over his shoulder at the man. He hopes he won't ask for his name, he hates it when they think that this meant they have a connection now. The man's risen up to his elbows, looking disoriented and crestfallen. The strip of light falls across the center of his face, distorting it and leaving the chin and forehead in shadow. He blinks, and Hisoka notices that his eyes are purple, really purple, not colored contacts like the sort Hisoka wears.
“What?” Hisoka finally asks, impatient.
“Are you leaving?”
“What did you think this was?” Hisoka would have laughed at him, on another night, but he doesn’t have it in him today. He's tired of the same thing, over and over. “I'm not your partner, or your lover, or whatever you’re thinking about. We fucked. It doesn't mean anything.”
The man draws back slowly. “Of course.” He closes in on himself, and Hisoka can nearly see it happening, watch as he turns off caring. He's impressed. This man is nearly as skilled as Hisoka himself. Not impressed enough to stay though, and he gathers his clothes before stumbling out of the car. The man watches as he makes his way back to the door of the club, and Hisoka can feel those strange eyes following him. He turns back once before going through the doorway, but he can't pick the right car out from the others crowding the lot, and he wonders if why he tried.
end.
Yeah, I scare myself sometimes too.
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no subject
Date: 2003-04-07 08:53 pm (UTC)Damn again. Okay, I'm handing over my title of Depressing Fic Queen -- behold the new winner and champion. Oh my God, this was just beautiful...well, the concept wasn't pretty but your execution was fabulous. I could smell the smoke and taste the alcohol...feel the crush of people around him... And the car. My God, woman! And our little rant about slut Hisoka inspired this? *grins* Glad to be of help then. I love this, love the darkness, and the alternate Hisoka is just so heartbreaking. And as with the other Hisoka ficlet you've written for this series, the ending just kills me. Auggh! *sniffles. I'm afraid to see what you're going to do with the Hijiri (and where is that draft? I wanna see it!) piece.
I love this paragraph in particular -->He wonders what the townspeople think about that one, that their beloved god-killer is whoring himself to death with random men in a club where the windows are nailed over with boards curling and peeling with ancient paint and the bathroom floors are streaked with mud from the last time it rained. None of them have cared enough to tell his parents or bar him from the door, so Hisoka assumes they reckon it's his fair trade. He's still going to die for them, so what does it matter?___>
It just captures the pathos and tragedy of the fic so well.
Bravo!
Sephy
no subject
Date: 2003-04-09 03:08 pm (UTC)Tee hee. I'm glad you liked it, because I was worried that it was such a strange idea. And yeah, I was thinking about slut Hisoka, and how different he would have to be, and what his circumstances would have to be like, and that was pretty much the inspiration. Don't you feel special? ;)
I'm working on the Hijiri peice, but I'm not quite satisified with it yet. And I know, LJ is for posting things before you're done with them, but I'm paranoid about people reading what I've written before I'm happy with it.
And hee again. Now I can't stop grinning. Thanks. :)