izayoi-no-mikoto

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

Waiting for Someone to Come In

(For pyrrhical/anoyo.  Written for Not Prime Time 2018.  Takes place after Hisoka's Shikigami Recruitment Tour and contains spoilers for the entirety of the manga.)

Hisoka tumbles heels over head, his mind hazy, the world a blur.  But when he finally emerges from the wormhole, he falls straight into a pair of solid, welcoming arms, and he doesn't need his wits about him to know who it is; he can recognize the feel of those thoughts anywhere.

"Welcome home, Hisoka," Tsuzuki says softly, and his thoughts whisper, You're back, you made it, you're safe, you're here, you're back.

Hisoka's vision swims and his head spins.  "I did it," he says, but the words feel mealy in his mouth.  He swallows and tries again.  "I did it," he repeats, more loudly this time.  "Kurikara.  He's mine.  I did it."

"I know you did, Hisoka," Tsuzuki says, warm and comforting, and that's the last thing Hisoka hears before he passes out.

*****

When Hisoka wakes again, he's lying in a bed, the sheets warm from his body heat, the ceiling above him a bland off-white.  He blinks, slowly, with gummy eyes.  His mind is full of cobwebs and cotton; the gears in his brain are slow to turn.  How did he get here?  Where is here, anyway?

He's ended up somewhere unknown.  He goes stiff, his sluggish mind gradually awakening to panic, but he can't muster the energy for anything else.   The anxiety lasts only for a moment, though, because the room is full of gentle warmth, underlaid by a vague feeling of concern and overlaid by enormous affection, and Hisoka is safe here.  Tsuzuki, he realizes, and he instantly relaxes, his tense muscles easing, his head sinking back into the pillow.

"Hisoka?"

He turns his head, and yes, there's Tsuzuki, sitting in a chair next to the bed.  On the tray table beside him is a small plate, empty except for a fork and a few crumbs.  Of course, Hisoka thinks muzzily at him, you always need to eat sweets when you're nervous.  And then, Of course you were worried about me.  Even though you didn't need to be.

"You're awake," Tsuzuki says, relief apparent in his voice.  He rises from his chair and settles onto Hisoka's bed instead, close enough to touch.   "How are you feeling?"

Hisoka slowly pushes himself upright, taking stock of his condition.  A bone-deep exhaustion makes his movements slow and leaden, and his thoughts are still a bit scrambled, but other than that he feels, if not lively, then at least not terrible.  He's a far sight better than the first time he dared test Kurikara's patience, that's for sure.

"...I've been worse," he says at last.  He collapses against the headboard, his energy spent.  At least he's sitting up now; he feels slightly less helpless that way.   "I've also been better," he admits grudgingly.

"I was worried about you," Tsuzuki says--completely unnecessarily, because Hisoka can feel it.  "You were out for while."

"How long?" Hisoka asks.  "And where are we, anyway?"

"Back in Meifu," Tsuzuki replies, conveniently skipping over the first question.  "You completely passed out when you got back from Kurikara's test.  Seriously, you were out cold.  So I fixed things there and brought you back to Meifu."

Hisoka stares at him.  "You fixed things?" he demands.  "What, just like that?"

Tsuzuki's grin falters.  He fidgets, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly.  "Well, no," he says at last, a hint of a pout in his voice.  "It's still kind of a mess, to be honest.  But Kijin and Kurikara aren't trying to kill each other, and Souryuu seemed halfway willing to listen for once, so I decided to leave it to them.  I think they've figured out that they have bigger problems."  He looks up at Hisoka again, his expression unexpectedly serious.  "It was more important to bring you back safe."

More important than the continued existence of Gensoukai? Hisoka wants to ask, but before he can speak, Tsuzuki leans forward and presses his forehead to Hisoka's, and the words stutter and die in Hisoka's throat.

I was so worried, Tsuzuki's thoughts say.  I thought you might not come back.  I thought I'd really lost you this time.  I thought--

"You don't have a fever," Tsuzuki murmurs.  "Good."

Hisoka swallows.  "Did I have a fever?" he asks.  His voice emerges hoarse.

"You were burning up," Tsuzuki replies, pulling away.  "I was worried that Kurikara might have burned you from the inside this time."

Hisoka shakes his head.  "He didn't," he says.  "That wasn't--that's not what the test was about.  You were right, Tsuzuki.  It wasn't about the shikigami.  It was about me.  I had to prove myself to him."

"And I guess you did," Tsuzuki says.  "You're amazing, Hisoka."  His gaze is warm, his smile soft and proud and edged with just a hint of pain.  Then he closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Hisoka's once again.   "Really, you're amazing," he says, and his emotions gently curl beneath the surface of his words--that same fondness that so often marks his interactions with Hisoka, but so much greater than it was before.

Respect, Hisoka realizes, he respects me now that I have a shikigami. For a moment, the thought makes pride unfurl in his gut, and he allows himself to bask in the sense of triumph.  He's earned Tsuzuki's respect as an equal, as a capable shinigami in his own right.  Tsuzuki respects him now.

But if that respect is new, then why do Tsuzuki's emotions feel so familiar?

Somewhere deep in the dusty recesses of Hisoka's mind, a flicker of memory emerges.  It was a few years ago, an eternity ago, back when Hisoka had only just become a shinigami and did not yet know the meaning of trust. A man had died in Kyushu, leaving his sister, a ballroom dancer, bereft and heartbroken.  She had been sick, dying herself, and Hisoka and Tsuzuki had been sent to see her to her fate.  Instead, Tsuzuki, bleeding heart that he was, had wanted to grant her last wish: to dance in the competition she had intended to enter with her brother.

Tsuzuki loved.  In the deepest, most humanist sense, he loved.  He thought nearly everyone deserving of love, and he acted as though it were his duty to provide it.  He loved Toujou Hisae, too, in the way he loved so many--whole-heartedly and earnestly, not as a man but as someone who yearned for humanity.  There were very few people Tsuzuki did not think deserving of love, and those he instead loathed with whole-hearted intensity.  Muraki was one of those people.

Tsuzuki himself was another, but Hisoka had not yet realized it, back then.

Toujou Hisae had been a tragic young woman, bright and vivacious and clinging to life by her fingernails, and there was no way Tsuzuki could not love her.  Chief Konoe had foreseen this and warned Tsuzuki off, to no avail.  Of course Tsuzuki had loved her.  It was in his very nature, to love.

Of course, Tsuzuki himself had claimed otherwise.  Perhaps he couldn't distinguish the different gradations of love, or perhaps he was being deliberately obtuse, the way he so often was.  Either way, he'd scoffed at the very notion that he might love her.  "Of course I feel something for her," he'd said.  "It's called respect."

Even then, Hisoka had known better.  "You can't read other people's emotions, so maybe you don't know this," he'd replied, "but it can be hard to tell the difference between respect and love."

Now, Tsuzuki presses their foreheads together and whispers, "You're amazing," and his emotions are a flood, irresistible and all-encompassing and heart-pounding, a lake, a sea, an entire ocean.  Now, Hisoka thinks, Tsuzuki respects me, and then he realizes, and his eyes go wide and the bottom drops out of his stomach, because it can be difficult to tell the difference between respect and love, but the feeling pouring out of Tsuzuki isn't respect.

Hisoka thought he'd known better, but he hadn't known well enough.  He could have realized.  He should have realized.  He should have known.

But he hadn't, not until now, and the only consolation is that Tsuzuki doesn't realize it, either.

*****

Hisoka pleads fatigue, and it isn't even a lie.

"I'm exhausted," he says plainly, his head lolling back against the headboard.  "I need to sleep."  It isn't like him to admit weakness so freely, but his mind is whirling, poring over the past few years in an entirely new light, and Tsuzuki's thoughts, Tsuzuki's emotions, Tsuzuki's--everything, it's too much, far too much.  He needs to escape.  He needs to be alone.

He needs to not look at Tsuzuki and think, You're in love with me.

A thread of worry slides across Tsuzuki's mind, echoed by the slight furrowing of his brow.  Hisoka can't help it; he snaps.  "I'll be fine!" he snarls, burrowing back down into the bed and yanking the blanket up.  "Don't you have work to do or something?"

Tsuzuki's anxiety fades but doesn't vanish completely.  Hisoka's typical peevishness is, it seems, only somewhat reassuring.  "All right," Tsuzuki says far too agreeably, standing.  "It's almost nighttime, anyway.  Get some more sleep.  I'll be around, if you need me."

He picks up his dirty plate and heads out, pausing in the doorway just for a moment to glance back.  Hisoka waves him off, and Tsuzuki flashes him a grin that's almost believable.  "Sweet dreams," he says, and then he leaves.

Hisoka waits until the door clicks shut, and then he lets out a slow, shaky breath and rolls onto his back, one arm flopped limply over his forehead.  He squeezes his eyes shut for a long, long moment, and then he opens them again.

He recognizes this ceiling.  He's seen it before.  It's the ceiling of Enma-cho's infirmary, and the last time Hisoka woke up in this room, he'd been suffering from burns and smoke inhalation that even his shinigami constitution had difficulty healing, and Tsuzuki had been lying in the bed next to his, unconscious but impossibly, miraculously, alive.

Hisoka is a fool.

He should have known then.  Even trapped amidst the flames, he should have known the moment Tsuzuki buried his face in Hisoka's shoulder and clung to his jacket, should have known the moment a flicker of light cracked through the fathomless night of Tsuzuki's psyche.  Hisoka had seen the darkness of regret and guilt inside Tsuzuki's heart; he'd tasted the bitterness of self-loathing and despair that swamped Tsuzuki's soul.  He'd watched Tsuzuki go over the edge, past any point of rescue or salvation.  And yet, when Hisoka had leapt into the inferno, Tsuzuki had come crawling back over the brink.  For him.  For him.

Hisoka squeezes his eyes shut.  His mind is scrambled, and his heart aches.  "Tsuzuki," he whispers, but there's no response.  He's alone, and the room feels strangely cold.

*****

He doesn't think it's possible, but at some point, Hisoka falls asleep.  What he said to Tsuzuki wasn't a lie; Kurikara's trial had been both physically taxing and psychologically draining.  When he wakes up again, he's still too discombobulated and lethargic to say he feels truly refreshed, but at least he feels halfway like himself again.

Hisoka sits up and stretches, arms extending over his head until his back cracks.  Then he rubs his eyes, blinking in the predawn dimness, and sees Tsuzuki lying in the next bed over, curled up on his side atop the blankets, his breathing slow and steady.

Oh, Hisoka remembers, and his face goes hot.  Tsuzuki--

He shuts down the thought before it can finish.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the bed frame creaking loudly beneath him.  Tsuzuki's gentle snore hitches, and before Hisoka can even begin to panic, Tsuzuki is sitting up, yawning widely and blinking as though still half-asleep.  "Hisoka," he mumbles.  "You're awake."

Hisoka gulps.  "So are you," he says dumbly.  Of course Tsuzuki had to pick now to become a light sleeper.  He should have stayed asleep; Hisoka can barely look him in the eye.  Not that he can say that.  "What are you doing here?" he asks instead.  "You should have gone home."

"Someone had to keep an eye on you," Tsuzuki says.  He yawns again, not bothering to cover his mouth.  He's a mess; his hair is a bird's nest, his suit even more rumpled than usual.  But when he looks at Hisoka, his eyes are clear and his expression open and concerned, unclouded by the slightest hint of sleepiness.  "How are you feeling?"  The concern is all too real; it leaks out of him, so that Hisoka can feel it without even touching him.

"Okay," Hisoka replies.  It's a short answer, but he can't make his mind function properly.  How is he supposed to act around Tsuzuki?  He can't remember.

Tsuzuki frowns.  "You're a bit flushed," he says, standing up and approaching HIsoka's bed.  He bends down a bit, inspecting Hisoka's face.  Hisoka averts his eyes.   "Do you have a fever again?" Tsuzuki asks.

And then he braces one hand against the headboard and leans forward, as though to press his forehead to Hisoka's once again, and Hisoka doesn't even think.  "Don't touch me!"

He jerks a hand up, almost shoves Tsuzuki back, stops before he makes contact.  The rest of him is recoiling, shrinking away as though he could melt into the mattress, or perhaps just disappear into thin air.   It's the kind of reaction he hasn't shown Tsuzuki in ages (since Kyoto, some part of his mind whispers traitorously, or maybe even earlier, and this should have been a clue, too, he should have known), and it takes even Hisoka by surprise.

But it's even worse when he looks up to see that Tsuzuki's expression is crushed.

Guilt churns in Hisoka's stomach.  Sorry, he almost says, I can't bear to touch you, I can feel too of you much already and I can't take any more, but he can't say it.  He's hurt Tsuzuki enough as is.  "I'm not a kid anymore," he says gruffly instead.  "You don't need to worry about me so much.  And don't tell me you weren't worried, I know exactly how worried you were."  And he adds a pointed look, just to make sure Tsuzuki gets the message.

Tsuzuki gets it.  "Oh," he says, "your empathy," and then his expression goes sheepish, like it's his fault, and it only makes Hisoka feel guiltier.  But at least he draws back, sits back down on his own bed, withdraws to a distance that almost allows Hisoka to breathe.  "Sorry," Tsuzuki says.  He pauses, and then he adds, with a sincerity that makes Hisoka's heart ache, "I know you're not a kid.  But I can't help worrying about you.  You're my partner."

It's the truth; Hisoka can feel it.  Tsuzuki's emotions are muted--whether due to the physical distance or because he's trying to keep them in check, Hisoka can't tell--but he can't shut them down entirely, and Hisoka can still feel everything.   The concern is still very much present, but at least the stab of anguish he felt at Hisoka's retreat has already faded away, replaced by that same unbearable fondness, and flowing beneath it all, a steady undercurrent of--

Hisoka closes his eyes, just for a moment, and shields himself off as best as he can. It isn't enough; he can still feel Tsuzuki, can still feel the love pulsing through him with every beat of his heart.

"Hisoka?"

He opens his eyes, and Tsuzuki is gazing at him, his expression open and unguarded.  There is no lie in Tsuzuki right now, not the slightest shred of dissembling or deceit.  His heart and mind are an open book, no pretense or attempt to hide.

Hisoka had sensed it before, when he'd first realized, and now he has confirmation.  Tsuzuki is pure at heart; everything he feels, he feels earnestly, honestly, deeply.  But he feels so deeply that it wounds him, sometimes--beats him down, taunts him, destroys him--and that means he's also developed the ability to suppress it.  He can pretend to the world and to himself that he's nothing but a cheerful, oafish idiot; whatever he's truly feeling, he can batten it down, dredge up a vapid smile and deny it all, even as it's killing him from the inside.  But over the past few years, Hisoka has become attuned to what that feels like from the outside, and there's no sign of it now.  Tsuzuki is hiding nothing, and that can mean only one thing.

Tsuzuki doesn't know.

Tsuzuki is in love with him, and he doesn't even know it.

Hisoka can't wrap his mind around this.  He can't even think about it.   Desperately, he casts about for something to do, something to say, anything to distract himself.  Fortunately, he comes up with a topic quickly enough.  He's put it on the back burner until now, as it seemed absolutely insignificant compared to the bombshell revelation of Tsuzuki's feelings, but it's been niggling at the back of his mind ever since he woke up.  "By the way, where is everyone?"

Since he first woke up back in Meifu, he's seen neither hide nor hair of anyone but Tsuzuki, hasn't even felt the vague buzzing of people bustling around the office.  It's like the place is completely empty except for the two of them, and while he wasn't expecting the entire Summons Division to show up at his bedside or anything, he had been expecting some sort of welcome back.  He knows from experience that anyone who's laid up in the infirmary can expect at least an intermittent stream of visitors.

"Ah.  That."  Tsuzuki rubs the back of his neck.  "It's just the two of us right now.  Everyone else is busy."  He starts ticking them off on his fingers.  "Chief's meeting with the higher-ups. Tatsumi and Watari are out on a field mission.  The Gushoushins are doing tons of research for them.  Wakaba-chan is supposed to be taking caring of things here while Tatsumi's on the ground, but she and Terazuma have their own workload too, so--"

"Wait, hold on," Hisoka interrupts.  "Tatsumi-san and Watari-san are on a field mission?"

From the day Hisoka first arrived at the Summons Division, Tatsumi and Watari have both worked largely behind the scenes, Watari occupied with tinkering in his lab and Tatsumi managing the day-to-day affairs of running the Summons Division.  Now they're on active duty?  What caused that turn of events?

"It was a case that couldn't wait," Tsuzuki says.  "And we were busy in Gensoukai, and Wakaba-chan was too busy with her own assignment to open the gate for us anyway, so apparently Chief decided to have Tatsumi and Watari take care of it."

"Huh." Hisoka digests this.  It's not that he doubts either Tatsumi or Watari--they're both smart, capable men, each with significantly more years of experience as shinigami than Hisoka has years of life and death combined--but that doesn't mean field work is their specialty.  They spend most of their working hours in Meifu for a reason.

"We should take over for them," Hisoka says, getting out of bed.  "It's supposed to be our job, right?  Let's go."   And without further ado, he strides for the door.

"What?  Hisoka! You're still recovering!"  Tsuzuki scrambles after him.  "Let's leave it to Tatsumi and Watari.  They're handling it, okay?"

"Yeah, but we can handle it better," Hisoka insists.  "This is our job.  We should be doing it.  Besides, even if I am still recovering, I'm stronger than I used to be."

Instantly, Tsuzuki crackles with disapproval.  "Hisoka," he says reproachfully.

Hisoka stops, his hand on the doorknob, and sighs.  "I don't mean because of Kurikara," he says.  "Well, yes, because of him.  But it's not because I have a shikigami, it's because of what I had to do to get him.  I learned my lesson, Tsuzuki.  I wouldn't have Kurikara if I hadn't."  He turns around, intending to say something else, but then he looks up to meet Tsuzuki's gaze, and the words wither on his tongue, instantly forgotten.

Tsuzuki's amethyst eyes, always beautiful, are even more striking now.  He watches Hisoka carefully, as though from a great distance, pondering, assessing, judging, and Hisoka finds himself pinned to the spot, unable to breathe.

At last, Tsuzuki heaves a great sigh and closes his eyes in surrender, and the moment shatters.  "I'll acknowledge that you're stronger now," he says somberly, gazing at Hisoka with less intensity but greater concern.  "I don't think you were ever weak, but yes, you're stronger now.  But strength isn't enough.  There are things that no amount of strength can protect you from."

"I know," Hisoka replies, his voice just as quiet.  And he does know; Tsuzuki is the strongest shikigami he knows, and yet he has seen the limits of that strength, and he knows its brittleness only too well.

"There are some things that having a shikigami can't protect you from," Tsuzuki presses on.  "There are some things that getting a shikigami still doesn't make you strong enough to face."

Alarm bells go off in Hisoka's mind.  His stomach twists into knots, and his hands clench into trembling fists.  "Tsuzuki."   He speaks through gritted teeth.   "What is this case about?"

Tsuzuki's eyes narrow.  "It's Tatsumi and Watari's case, not ours."

"Answer my question!"

"It's not your case to worry about!"

Hisoka swallows, and a yawning gulf, half terror and half outrage, opens up inside his chest.  Tsuzuki's caginess is abnormal.  The edge in his voice is nearly eviscerating.  And he might have been able to hide his increasingly frantic desperation from someone else, but he can't hide it from Hisoka.

"Tsuzuki," Hisoka says.  Anxiety nips at his heels. He has to take a deep breath before he can continue.  "It's Muraki, isn't it?  He's back."

Even saying his name makes Hisoka shudder with dread.  He knows deep down that Muraki isn't dead--and he's not sure he'll ever really believe it possible for Muraki to die, even if he buries the body with his own two hands--but enough time has passed since Kyoto, enough time without a single whisper of that particular brand of evil, that Hisoka has allowed himself to relax, just a little. Muraki is almost certainly still around somewhere, but he isn't here, isn't pursuing them, taunting them, attempting to destroy them from the inside out, and Hisoka can live with that.  But if Muraki is back--

The thought makes his stomach curdle.  But though Tsuzuki's expression hardens at hearing Muraki's name, the bafflement that takes its place a second later is very real.  "What?" he says, drawing back in surprise.   "No.  Muraki's not involved."

Hisoka experiences a moment, just a moment, of relief.  Then the dread becomes flowing back, because if it isn't Muraki, then--"Then what is it?" he snarls, jabbing Tsuzuki in the chest with one finger.  "Why won't you tell me?  If it's not Muraki, then what are you trying to protect me from?"

Tsuzuki crosses his arms and lifts his chin.  "Isn't it enough that I'm trying to protect you?  Why can't you trust me on this?"

"Oh, so you are keeping something from me!"  Hisoka is the verge of hysteria, but he can't stop it, can't pull himself back.  "You can't protect me from everything, you know!"

"Why is it so wrong of me to want to protect you?" Tsuzuki shouts.  "You're my partner!  Of course I want to protect you!"

"You're not doing this because I'm your partner!" Hisoka shouts back.  "You're doing this because you're in love with me!"

Silence descends, but his ears are still ringing.  He pants furiously, gasping for air, his entire body trembling.

And then, too late, he realizes what he just said.

He looks at Tsuzuki, panic welling up in his chest.  Tsuzuki stares back at him, slack-jawed.  Then his eyes go wide, and he drops onto the nearest bed right where he stands, his back slumping, his arms hanging limp.  "Oh," he says.  "Oh."

Hisoka buries his face in his hands.  "I'm sorry."  The words are a rough whisper.  "I shouldn't have said anything.  I'm sorry."

Tsuzuki's emotions churn wildly, an overflow, an onslaught.  He leans forward, elbows braced heavily on his knees, hands clasped before him, head bowed.  He's silent for a long, long time.  Then he finally asks, his voice hoarse, "How long have you known?"

"Not long," Hisoka says miserably.  "I just realized when we got back to Meifu."

Tsuzuki absorbs this in silence.  He still doesn't raise his head.  "I didn't know," he says at last.  His voice is small.

Hisoka closes his eyes.  "I know," he replies.

Tsuzuki hunches over further still, curling up on himself, his hands clenched against his forehead. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry," and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

And then, abruptly, his emotions break off into nothingness, and he lifts up his head and smiles.

It's as sudden and complete as though a telephone wire has been cut.  The sudden emptiness leaves Hisoka reeling; he has to put a hand to the wall to steady himself.  "Tsuzuki," he chokes out.  "Tsuzuki."

Hisoka doesn't like swimming in other people's emotions, especially not when they're as strong as Tsuzuki's, but this--it's unnatural, it's wrong, it's dangerous.  It's a too-familiar hollow mask, a shield that was supposed to be broken and cast away.  He hasn't seen Tsuzuki like this since before Kyoto, and seeing it again, after all this time, terrifies him more than even the thought of Muraki coming back.

After all, they've escaped Muraki's clutches on more than one occasion, and Hisoka is sure they can do it again if they must.  But he doesn't know if he can talk Tsuzuki down from the ledge a second time.

"I'm sorry, Hisoka," Tsuzuki says, still wearing that awful grin.  "I'm more trouble than I'm worth, aren't I?"  He says this so blithely that Hisoka almost doesn't hear the cruel words themselves.   "You probably should get more rest.  I'll leave you alone now."

And he leaps to his feet and strides to the door, brushing past Hisoka without another word.

Hisoka's hand stretches out of its own avail; an instinctive reaction, but too late, too late.  Tsuzuki is already out the door, out of reach.   "Tsuzuki!" Hisoka shouts, darting after him.  He flings himself through the doorway, clinging to the doorjamb for support and reaching out for that retreating back.  "Tsuzuki, wait!"

A few steps down the hallway, Tsuzuki pauses.  He doesn't turn around, but the fact that he's still here, waiting, is enough of a shred of hope for Hisoka to cling to.

"You can't," Hisoka says, half command, half plea.  "You promised me.  You promised that you'd stay with me."  He swallows.   That was what it had meant, right?  That was why Tsuzuki had remained his partner.  That was why Tsuzuki had clung to him amidst the flames.   That was why Tsuzuki was still alive.  "You can't leave me now."

The words themselves are grand, but his voice is wretched and piteous.  Please, he thinks desperately, please.

At last, Tsuzuki looks back.  It's just a glance over his shoulder, but his expression is painfully sincere, too conflicted and tortured to be anything but genuine.  "Sorry, Hisoka," he says.  "I'm not--I'm not going anywhere, I promise.  I just," and he pauses there, uncertain.  "I just need to be alone for a bit."

Hisoka's outstretched hand wavers in the air, then falls.  He swallows his anxiety and nods.  "Okay," he whispers.  "Okay."

Tsuzuki turns away.  "I'll see you later," he says, and Hisoka watches him go, watches until he vanishes around the corner and out of sight.

*****

There's no one around to tell Hisoka that he needs to stay in the infirmary, so he decides he's fit to leave and discharges himself.  But he's only three steps out the infirmary door when he stops and realizes that he doesn't know where he's going.

His instinct is to chase after Tsuzuki, to find him and cling to him and say... what?  He doesn't even know.  All he knows is that he let Tsuzuki out of his sight, and it feels like a grave mistake.

He makes himself take a deep breath, lets it out slowly.  Inhale, exhale.  I'm not going anywhere is a promise.  I'll see you later is a promise.  He has to take Tsuzuki's words to heart.

So instead of looking for Tsuzuki, he goes home.

The fact that he'd considered going anywhere else is a sign of how unsettled he is.  He's still wearing the same jeans, t-shirt, and jacket that he'd been wearing when Kurikara had plunged him through the wormhole for his trial, and he and his clothing are both overdue for a wash.  He can't remember when his last proper meal was.   And even if he has spent the past however many hours sleeping, he's still too weary to be of any real use on the job--not that there's anyone around to assign him any work.  Really, he's in no condition to be doing much of anything; home should have been the first place he thought to go.

Home was the first place I thought to go, some part of his mind whispers, but it's talking about another type of home, and Hisoka can't think about that, not yet.

Instead, he ignores that voice and goes home.  To an empty house with an address and his last name on a name plate by the front door.  Home.

*****

A long, hot bath, a clean change of clothes, a nap, and two solid meals later, Hisoka feels mostly human again, or as human as he ever feels.  Unfortunately, his suboptimal physical condition had been the least of his dilemmas, and fixing it only makes him think about the things that aren't as easy to fix.

He prowls around the house for a while, an outward manifestation of his churning thoughts.  He's never been good at asking for or taking advice, but even he knows he could use some right about now.  He thinks about Kurikara, but dismisses the thought almost immediately.  Tsuzuki might be able to have heart-to-heart conversations with some of his shikigami, but Kurikara isn't Suzaku or Byakko or even Touda, and of course Hisoka isn't Tsuzuki.  And even if he could talk to Kurikara about this, he doubts Kurikara would have good advice to give anyway.  After all, Kurikara's idea of the right way to solve a problem is to take all the blame and wear the mantle of a traitor.  Rupturing the relationship is the exact opposite of what Hisoka wants to do.

But then what do I want to do? Hisoka wonders, and he has no answer.

He isn't angry at Tsuzuki.  Tsuzuki annoys and exasperates him with frustrating regularity, but this isn't--this is different.  It isn't Tsuzuki he's angry at.  He's confused, and embarrassed, and no small amount disgusted with himself for being so blind.  It's not that he thinks he should have expected it--Tsuzuki being in love with him is nothing like a matter of course, nothing predictable, nothing even remotely explicable, and Hisoka is baffled by the very fact of it--but rather that the signs were, in retrospect, right in front of him this entire time.  Hisoka is an empath, for crying out loud; Tsuzuki's inability to identify his own emotions shouldn't have stopped Hisoka from being able to do so.

But now he does know, and he still has no answers--not about why Tsuzuki is in love with him, or what he's supposed to do about it.

Walking and thinking in circles is of absolutely no help to anyone, so eventually Hisoka forces himself out of the house. For lack of anything better to do, he goes to the library.  He has no goal, no clear objective, but maybe he can distract himself with a book for an hour or two.

When he arrives at the library, though, he sees it isn't empty.  Behind the counter, the younger Gushoushin pecks frantically away at his computer keyboard, his brow a mass of wrinkles and his beak clacking irritably.  "This doesn't make sense," he mutters, his eyes rapidly scanning line after line of text on the screen.  "The numbers don't add up, only sixteen--"

Hisoka leans against the counter.  "Hi."

Gushoushin squawks in surprise.  "Hisoka-san!" he squeaks, his eyes widening, his voice even more high-pitched than usual.  "You're up!  You're awake!   How are you?  Is it all right for you to be out of the infirmary?  I thought Tsuzuki-san was with you!"

"I'm fine," Hisoka says, waving a hand dismissively.  "A bit tired, but nothing one more good night's sleep can't fix.  And Tsuzuki's not with me because"--because I scared him off--"because I don't need to be watched over.  I'm fine.  See?"  He gestures at himself, as though the fact that he's standing there is evidence enough of his health.

Gushoushin looks him up and down, patently suspicious.  Hisoka scowls, but he puts up with the scrutiny with what is, in his book, good grace.  "Well, as long as you're all right," Gushoushin says at last, though he sounds unconvinced.  Then he beams.   "Tsuzuki-san said that your trip to Gensoukai was successful.   Congratulations on acquiring a shikigami!"

Hisoka feels his cheeks go hot.  "Thanks," he mumbles.  Not that he isn't happy about having a powerful shikigami under his command, but accepting praise graciously is something he still isn't good at.  "I wasn't expecting to see you," he says, more to take the focus off himself than anything else.  "I heard everyone's busy.  Apparently Tatsumi-san and Watari-san are actually on a case?"  He cranes his neck, trying to peer at the computer screen.  "Is that what you're working on?"

"No!" Gushoushin flaps wildly and plasters himself to the screen.  "No, this is something completely different!  It has nothing to do with what Tatsumi-san and Watari-san are doing!"

Hisoka glares at him.  Gushoushin stares back, his eyes huge and his cheeks puffed out, and then he wilts.  "I suppose that wasn't very convincing," he says, then offers a weak, shrill laugh.

Hisoka doesn't laugh with him.  "No," he says, his voice flat, "it wasn't."

They remain staring at each other, Hisoka still leaning threateningly toward the computer, Gushoushin still glued to the screen.  At last Hisoka sighs and straightens, surrendering.  "Tsuzuki wouldn't tell me either," he says, looking away.

There are a lot of things about Tsuzuki that are amazing, but his judgment is not necessarily one of them.  If anything, Hisoka has had plenty of occasion to question Tsuzuki's judgment, especially where Hisoka himself is concerned (why were you so sure I couldn't handle Kurikara, why did you think I would let you die, why did you fall in love with me), and he'd thought Tsuzuki's current protectiveness was just more of the same.  But Gushoushin is equally unwilling to tell him anything about the case, and Gushoushin wouldn't unilaterally decide to withhold information.  Which means that this isn't just Tsuzuki worrying about him; this is a lot of people worrying about him.  And even if he is willing to question Tsuzuki's judgment on occasion... well, it's harder to do so when everyone else agrees with Tsuzuki.

A sudden chill sweeps through Hisoka, and he shivers.  "Gushoushin," he says, "what's going on?"

Gushoushin fidgets, his eyes darting this way and that.  "I don't know if I should be the one talking about this with you," he says, too diplomatically.

"Fine," Hisoka snaps, throwing his hands up.  "Fine.  I'll just go ask--"

Then he breaks off, because who is he supposed to ask?  Chief Konoe's out of the office.  Tatsumi and Watari are on a case.  The other shinigami are just as likely to be out of the loop.  And Tsuzuki is out of the question.

"Fine," he mutters.  "I guess I'll try to figure it out on my own."

And without another word, he stomps off to the office.

*****

Hisoka isn't really expecting to find any incriminating evidence at the office, but he'd hoped he could find at least some kind of hint. Instead, there's... nothing.

His own desk is just as he left it: generally clean and organized, a few papers set off to the side, nothing horribly neglected.  Tsuzuki's desk, by contrast, is more of a disaster zone--papers stacked haphazardly here and there, a pen left uncapped, a box of staples that turns out to be empty, a coffee-stained mug.  It could be worse, Hisoka supposes.

He delivers the dirty mug to the office kitchen, throws out the staple box, and starts going through Tsuzuki's papers.  There are dozens of printouts on A4 paper, take-out menus for cafes and restaurants from Fukuoka to Kagoshima, a handful of old receipts, a stern note written in Tatsumi's equally stern hand.   Hisoka pages through them all, skimming through everything that looks even remotely work-related, but they're all irrelevant to his current mission--nothing but meeting minutes, old case files, and overdue, half-finished reports.

With a frustrated sigh, Hisoka tosses the last take-out menu back down onto the desktop (La Boîte Prête--the best crepes in Nakatsu! it boasts, with shiny photographs of crepes piled high with strawberries, kiwi and whipped cream).  He throws himself into Tsuzuki's swivel chair and glares at Tsuzuki's desk as though it's to blame, then glances speculatively at the door to Tatsumi's office.  That would be the most promising place to check, but Hisoka knows better than to risk Tatsumi's wrath by nosing around his office without permission.  Chief Konoe's office, too, is a no-go.  The bulletin board has no new postings, the fax machine sits docile and empty, and the printer is turned off, no recent print-outs to be seen.  There's nothing.  Whatever case Tatsumi and Watari are working on, the office is determined not to let Hisoka find out about it.

Hisoka closes his eyes and leans back, letting the backrest take his weight.  He has to admit it: He's run up against a wall.  "Think," he mutters to himself, turning the chair in a lazy circle on its swivel.  "Think, how else can I figure out--"

And, out of nowhere, his empathy overwhelms him.

Hisoka gasps, jerking himself upright.  It's gone already, has vanished as quickly and unexpectedly as it came; it lasted for a moment, barely a heartbeat, and he feels nothing now.  But even that fraction of a second was more than enough, because even if it wasn't long enough for him to identify exactly what it was, it was long enough for him to identify who those emotions belong to.

After all, he can recognize Tsuzuki's thoughts anywhere.

Hisoka looks wildly around the office, but Tsuzuki isn't there.  He gets up and goes to the door, looking down the hallway both ways, but it's empty.  He looks out the windows, too, to the cherry trees in full bloom outside, but there's no one to be seen.

His brow furrowed, Hisoka stares at Tsuzuki's office chair, and then, tentatively, he sits back down, closes his eyes, grips the armrests, and turns the chair, slowly.

It's easier, usually, to pick up emotions and thoughts from people; they're brand new, fresh, uninterrupted by time or distance.  But he can pick up emotional residue on objects, too--something that's been touched or worn or used, something that might pick up the emotions and thoughts of the person who owned it.  He doesn't do it often, prefers not to use his empathy at all if he has a choice.  But he does it now.

He turns the chair, centimeter by centimeter, until again, out of the blue, his empathy reacts.

He spins past it, on instinct, and then he shakes his head at himself.   "Get a grip," he scolds himself, and then he takes a deep breath, corrals his own emotions, and spins around in the chair again.  He tests it, turning a bit more this way, then back.  Sure enough, he can pick up Tsuzuki's emotions when the chair is facing one direction and one direction only.

Hisoka's eyes are already shut, but he squeezes them tighter still, biting his lip and ducking his head.  He knows this feeling.  The warmth is familiar, the respect sincere, the admiration blinding, the fondness almost painful.  It swamps him, fills him up, makes his heart clench.  He knows it so well, and now he knows what it means.

So he isn't surprised when he opens his eyes and sees that he's angled directly toward his own chair.

He spins back toward Tsuzuki's desk, and the flood of emotion snuffs out. Then he hunches over, elbows resting heavily on the desktop, the heels of his palms pressed against his closed eyes.  His heart swells inside his chest until it aches.  "Tsuzuki," he whispers.

Then he sits up and turns Tsuzuki's chair around, once again, to face his own.

*****

He doesn't know how long he sits there, letting Tsuzuki's feelings seep into his skin.  But he doesn't move until he hears footsteps in the hall, at first distant, but approaching.

Hisoka gets up out of Tsuzuki's chair, sits in his own, turns to face his own desk.  He crosses his arms on the desktop, his heart racing, and deliberately does not look toward the door.

He knows who it is.  He can recognize those thoughts anywhere.

"Oh, here you are!"

Hisoka looks over his shoulder.  Standing in the office doorway is Tsuzuki, wearing his favorite black trench coat, his tie loose and his eyes sparkling.  He has a cardboard drink carrier with two paper cups in one hand and a white paper bag sealed with a bit of blue tape in the other. When he sees Hisoka, he beams.  There's a damper on his emotional output, so Hisoka can't quite pick apart and identify each individual emotion, but there's one he can't ignore, because the sweeping wave of yearning affection outpaces all of the rest of them combined.

Hisoka swallows.  "Tsuzuki."

"I was looking for you," Tsuzuki says breezily, striding into the office. He plops himself down into his chair, clears a space on his desk with an elbow, and sets down the drinks and paper bag.  "What are you doing in the office?  I thought you went home."

Hisoka's mouth is dry.  He can't remember how words work.  How can Tsuzuki act so... normal?  It's almost as if nothing happened.

He doesn't want to pretend that nothing happened.  He doesn't know the right way forward, but he does know that going back is not the answer.

Tsuzuki cocks his head.  "Hisoka?"

There's a hint of uncertainty, now, in his voice and his expression and his thoughts, and Hisoka instantly feels a worm of guilt gnawing at his insides.  He's sick of making Tsuzuki feel off-kilter and unsure of his place.  He knows what Tsuzuki looks like when he's on the verge of retreat, and he never wants to see Tsuzuki look that crestfallen again.

"I was trying to see if I could find anything about the case Tatsumi-san and Watari-san are working on," Hisoka says.

Tsuzuki's bright smile falters, and his shoulders sag.  He wrings his hands, obviously chagrined.  "Oh," he says, "about that," and then he visibly brightens.  "I brought us something!"

He gestures grandiosely to the latest addition to his desk.  Hisoka notices, belatedly, that the cups and the paper bag alike are emblazoned with a curlicue logo that reads IKEZONO-TEI CAFE & PATISSERIE.  Sweets.  Of course.

"Why don't we go outside for a bit?" Tsuzuki says.  "It's nice out."

It's always nice out in Meifu, Hisoka thinks, and don't change the subject on me, but Tsuzuki is here, making an overture, bringing a peace offering as though he's done something wrong.  "Sure," Hisoka says.

Tsuzuki picks up the drinks and the bag of unidentified snacks, and Hisoka falls easily into step beside him.  "I dropped by your house, but you weren't there," Tsuzuki says conversationally as they walk down the hall.  "Did you even go home?"

"Of course I did," Hisoka replies with a huff.  "I took a bath and ate real food and got some more sleep and everything.  I told you, I'm not a little kid, Tsuzuki.  I can take care of myself."

Tsuzuki grins at him.  "Good boy," he teases.  "If my hands weren't full, I'd pat you on the head."

Hisoka sticks a hand out.

Tsuzuki stares at it blankly, then looks at Hisoka.  "Um...."

"You just said your hands are full," Hisoka says.  "I'll hold something, if you want."

Tsuzuki blinks, as though he's not quite sure he's heard correctly, and then, carefully, he holds out the bag.  Hisoka takes it by the handles, their fingers brushing.  Tsuzuki's still staring; embarrassed, Hisoka turns his burning face away.

A moment later, Tsuzuki's hand settles on Hisoka's head.  It administers a few gentle pats before coming to rest, and then, almost timidly, Tsuzuki's fingers curl in Hisoka's hair.  His touch is feather-light, as though he can hardly believe what he's daring to do, and Hisoka closes his eyes and does not shiver.

"I'm glad you're taking care of yourself," Tsuzuki says softly.

"You should take better care of yourself," Hisoka replies, and hazards a glance up.

Tsuzuki's hand has gone still.  He's still looking at Hisoka with wide eyes, as though he's seen something incredible and precious, as though he's dedicating this moment to eternal memory.  There's a sliver of naked hope in his gaze, and it rings through his thoughts as well, desolate and small and fragile and beautiful.

Something flutters in Hisoka's chest.

Tsuzuki's fingers stroke Hisoka's hair, just once, and then he pulls his hand away.  "Let's go sit down!  The coffee will get cold if we keep dallying."  And he marches away, his free hand shoved in his pocket, whistling idly.

Hisoka puts his own hand to his head, as though to capture the shadow of warmth before it fades, and then he hurries after Tsuzuki.  He catches up just outside the front door, where Tsuzuki shades his eyes against the brilliant blaze of sunlight.  Yes, it's always nice in Meifu, but Hisoka has to admit that it's a particularly lovely day today; the sky is deep azure and completely clear, the air comfortably brisk.  The reflecting pool in front of the Ministry is utterly still, reflecting the marble facade of the building like a photograph.

There are a handful of tables on the strip of brick beside the reflecting pool, and Tsuzuki takes one that's half-shaded by the outstretched branches of a particularly impressive cherry tree.  He sets the drink carrier down on the table, peers at the two cups, then hands one to Hisoka.  "This one's yours.  Black."

"Thank you," Hisoka says, taking his coffee and sitting down.  He takes a sip.  No sugar, just as Tsuzuki said.  He drinks more.

Tsuzuki takes his own seat, plucks apart the tape sealing the bag, and pulls out a white paperboard box.   It's pretty sizeable, but then again, Tsuzuki can pack away sweets like he has a separate stomach for desserts.  He rubs his hands together in anticipation, and then he opens the box and folds down the sides to reveal a single enormous slice of cheesecake.

"Wow," Hisoka says.

Tsuzuki grins and scoots the cheesecake into the middle of the table.  Then he dives back into the bag and produces not one, but two plastic forks.  He holds one out to Hisoka.  "Here."

Hisoka can't help his expression.  "You're sharing?" he asks, surprised.  Tsuzuki is normally quite possessive of his sweets; Hisoka has never seen him share except under duress.

"You're still recovering," Tsuzuki says, his tone far too cheerful.  "You need all the energy you can get!  So I'll share this one time."

I'm fine, Hisoka thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut.  Tsuzuki is skittish, and the last thing Hisoka needs is to give him a reason to bolt and hide and pretend it all away.

"And it's not too sweet, so you should be able to eat it," Tsuzuki adds.  "I asked to make sure."

Tsuzuki chose a less sugary treat just because he remembered that Hisoka doesn't much like sweet foods.  Tsuzuki, who could devour the goods of every patisserie, creperie, cake shop, ice cream parlor, chocolatier, and candy store in Tokyo and still have room for more sugar.  If that's not love, I don't know what is, Hisoka thinks wryly, and he slowly opens the plastic pouch containing his fork.

Tsuzuki, of course, is way ahead of the game.  He stabs his fork into the cheesecake, pops a bite into his mouth, and hums and wiggles with relish.  "It's delicious!" he exclaims, then scarfs up another two or three bites before noticing that Hisoka hasn't started.  He pauses, then nudges the cake a bit closer to Hisoka.  "Seriously, Hisoka, I think even you'll like it."

Dubiously, Hisoka carves off a bite of cheesecake and slides the fork into his mouth.  Tsuzuki watches him expectantly, almost bouncing in his seat.  "Well?  Well?"

"It's good," Hisoka says cautiously.  Very good, in fact; deliciously creamy, smooth and light, just a hint of sweetness.  Not too sweet.  He eats another bite.  "Really good."

Tsuzuki grins, relieved and pleased.  He's happy to have picked something that Hisoka likes.  He's happy to be sharing with Hisoka.

Now that Hisoka thinks about it, this isn't the first time that Tsuzuki has willingly shared with him; it happened back in Gensoukai, too.  Hisoka had been laid up in bed, fresh off his first, disastrous attempt to claim Kurikara as his shikigami, wallowing in his failure and ashamed of his own short-sightedness and inferiority.  Tsuzuki had been watching over him, protective and concerned beneath his affable, silly act, and at one point he'd interrupted Hisoka's self-flagellation to say, "You can't share what you have with others until you're happy yourself."  And as if to drive the point home, he'd torn his mooncake in two and handed half to Hisoka with a grin.

The mooncake had been too sweet for Hisoka's taste, but he'd eaten his half down to the last crumb.

"You're happy," Hisoka blurts.

Tsuzuki jolts as though startled.  "What?"

Hisoka stares at their shared slice of cheesecake.  "You're happy," he repeats.  He feels awed by this, somehow.  Tsuzuki is happy. There had been a time when the very idea of Tsuzuki being genuinely happy seemed foreign, impossible.  But he's happy, now--not a fleeting happiness born of the moment, but a deep-down happiness born from within.  An imperfect happiness, perhaps, but a true one.

For a long moment, Tsuzuki is silent.  He looks down at the cheesecake, prodding it gently with his fork.  "You make me happy, Hisoka," he replies at last, his voice quiet.  "All I want is for you to be happy, too.  I hope you know that."

There is no lie in Tsuzuki's words; his emotions are painfully earnest, and they make Hisoka's breath catch.  He stares blindly at the tabletop.  I'm happy when you're happy, he thinks, but he doesn't know how to say it aloud.

"Why are you in love with me?" he asks.

Tsuzuki freezes, his fork halfway into the cheesecake.  He takes a breath, as though trying to steady himself.  Hisoka can catch brief flickers of his thoughts, mere glimpses, like molten sparks burning into nothingness, like summer fireflies vanishing into the night.  Because you make me feel human.  Because you give me a purpose.  Because you cared about me when I didn't care about myself.  Because you're vulnerable, and brave, and wounded, and strong.  Because you're the place I can always come home to.  Because you let me in, and taught me how to let you in.

 How could I not love you?

"It's you. Isn't that reason enough?" Tsuzuki asks.

Hisoka doesn't respond.  His heart is too big for his chest, and it thrums inside of him, pulsating to a rhythm that is terrifying in its newness and comforting in its familiarity.  How could I not love you?  The very idea takes his breath away.  He knows that feeling.  He knows it only too well.

Oh, Hisoka realizes, oh.

Tsuzuki resumes his assault on the cheesecake.  After another few bites, he sighs and sets down his fork.  "It's your family," he says.

Hisoka's head jerks up.  "What?" he asks stupidly.  He's still hung up on Tsuzuki's thoughts, the ones left unspoken; the sudden change in subject leaves him scrambling for purchase, and he can't keep up.

"The case Tatsumi and Watari are working on," Tsuzuki says.  His eyes are averted and his voice is low and reluctant, as though the words are being dragged out of him against his will.  "That's why I didn't want to tell you.  Because it's about your family."

Hisoka stares.  His family.  His family.

There are only two options: Either someone's dead who shouldn't be, or someone isn't dead when they should be.  Either way, by the time it's all said and done, someone will be dead for good.  Who is it?  His mother?  His father?  His uncle?  Some other relative?  Maybe an employee.  Maybe someone he's never even met.  Maybe someone who abused him, locked him up, and watched him die.

"Hisoka?"

"What happened?" Hisoka asks.

Tsuzuki slowly exhales.  "We got a request for an investigation," he says.  He balances a bite of cheesecake on his fork but doesn't eat it, just holds it up and stares at it.  "About your mother.  Rui.  But if Tatsumi and Watari's investigation is anything to go by, it goes a lot deeper than just her.  Apparently the Kurosaki family is," and he trails off, vacillating.

"Is what?" Hisoka asks.

Tsuzuki eats the bite of cheesecake, chews, swallows.  "Cursed," he says.

Hisoka's blood runs cold.  He knows what it is to be cursed; he still has the marks of Muraki's curse on him, and he probably will until the day Muraki dies.  He's not sure he would wish that upon even his parents--and he's wished a lot of terrible things upon them over the years.

His appetite is gone now.  He lays down his fork and clutches his cup of coffee instead.  "A curse," he says.  He's surprised by how level his own voice is.  "And we're sure Muraki isn't involved?"

"They're not convinced yet that it actually is a curse," Tsuzuki replies.  "But if it is, it's a lot older than Muraki.  Generations older.  We're talking about the entire family line."

The entire family line.  All of Hisoka's ancestors.  Hisoka himself.  He's long known the Kurosaki clan had something dark and rotten beneath the veneer of old family honor and tradition, but he hadn't imagined something like a curse.

He still isn't sure how to feel about this.

Hisoka takes deep breath, takes a moment to put his thoughts in order.  When he speaks again, his voice is dangerously low.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tatsumi and Watari were taking care of it," Tsuzuki says.   "On Chief Konoe's orders, by the way.  He didn't want to make you take a case involving your family."  He pauses, and Hisoka wonders just how much he knows.  Hisoka hasn't talked much about his life before death, and he doesn't want to start now; he's afraid to discover just how much Tsuzuki has learned from other sources, how much he's pieced together himself.  How much he suspects.  How Hisoka looks in his eyes.

"I agreed, when they told me about it when we got back to Meifu," Tsuzuki continues.  "You've dealt with enough lately, Hisoka.  You don't need to deal with investigating your own family."

"They aren't my family," Hisoka says quietly.

He can feel Tsuzuki's eyes on him, but he stares at the plastic lid of his coffee cup, seeing nothing.  "I was born into that house, but they aren't my family, not in any way that matters," he says.  "My family is the Summons Division."  And then he looks up, straight into Tsuzuki's concerned gaze.  "You're my family."

Tsuzuki had opened his mouth as though to speak, but at Hisoka's words he freezes, his jaw hanging.   He makes a strangled noise, but no words come out.

"You're my family," Hisoka repeats, and there's a lump in his throat now, but he pushes past it.  "You're the first person who's ever been family to me. I told you, back in Kyoto, that there's only one place I come home to, and that's here."  His voice cracks.  His eyes sting, and he squeezes them shut.  "I don't mean a place.  I mean you.  You're my home."

"Hisoka," Tsuzuki breathes.

With a growl of frustration, Hisoka hunches up, curling his arms over his head.  "I'm not," he starts, stumbles, tries again.  "You know I'm not good with people.  I never was.  Even with my empathy, I can't--I don't know how to interact with people.  I can't deal with their thoughts, their emotions."

Tsuzuki, for once, remains silent.

"I always hated my empathy," Hisoka continues, his voice barely rising above a whisper.  "I could always feel too much.  My parents thought I was a monster.  Muraki killed me because I found him murdering someone, and it was my empathy that led me straight to him.  Empathy, it--it's useful sometimes, yeah, but having this power isn't worth it.  You're lucky you don't have it."  He swallows.  "But I wish you could have it, just for a bit.  Just one minute, that's all.  Because then you could feel what I feel, and I wouldn't have to figure out how to tell you in words."

He takes a shaky breath, and then he peeks up.  Tsuzuki sits motionless, his chin propped up in one hand, gazing at Hisoka.  His expression... isn't stricken, quite, but it's pretty close. Hisoka can't read its meaning.  "Say something, damn it," he snarls.

Hesitantly, Tsuzuki reaches out.  His fingers brush Hisoka's wrist, then slide down to take his hand.  With his touch comes a surge of emotion--a wave of nervousness, a trickle of disbelief.  Stunned awe.  Hope against hope.   And, most strongly of all, with a pulse as warm and regular as the beating of a heart, love.

Hisoka wants to crumple beneath the onslaught.  He wants to let it flow over him until he forgets that Tsuzuki ever thought of dying and leaving him behind.  He wants to wrap his arms around Tsuzuki and never let go.

"Say something," Hisoka whispers.

"You're amazing, Hisoka," Tsuzuki replies.

That's not an answer, Hisoka thinks, but then he thinks of respect, and love, and the ways in which they overlap and blur, and maybe it's more of an answer than he'd thought.

Tsuzuki's hand tightens on his.  "Hisoka," he says, "Hisoka, is this okay?"

"Yeah," Hisoka answers roughly, and he squeezes back.

*****

When Chief Konoe returns to the Summons Division the next day, his brow even more wrinkled than usual, Hisoka and Tsuzuki go to his office, and Hisoka says, without preamble, "I want to take over the case."

Chief Konoe scowls.  At least he gives Hisoka a bit of credit; he doesn't patronize him by asking which case.  "Tatsumi and Watari are on it," he says gruffly.

It's supposed to be a dismissal, and a firm one at that.  Hisoka ignores it.  "They haven't been on active duty for decades," he says.  "Besides, if anyone knows the Kurosaki family, it's me.  Tatsumi-san and Watari-san had no idea what they were getting into--to be honest, I'm surprised Nagare hasn't chewed them up and spit them out already.  I know how this family functions.  I know what kind of people they are.  I should have been on this case from the beginning."

"You were in Gensoukai," Chief Konoe replies.  "And Kannuki-kun was busy, so we couldn't ask her to open the gate for you.  It was only to be expected that we'd pass the case on to someone else.  You must see the sense in that."

"Okay, so that made sense at the time," Hisoka allows.   "But I'm back.  I'm fully recovered.  And I've got a shikigami to boot, in case something goes really wrong.  There's no reason not to put me on the case."

Chief Konoe purses his lips.  "I think you'll be biased."

"Oh, because that's never happened before," Hisoka retorts.  "If you cared about that, you never would have let me and Tsuzuki stay on half our cases, what with Muraki showing up all the time."

By now there's a vein pulsing in Chief Konoe's forehead.  "Tatsumi and Watari can handle it," he grinds out.

"Probably," Hisoka agrees.  "But I don't see why we should make them handle it on their own when I could help."  He pauses.  "Or are you going to tell me that they couldn't use even a bit of help?"

Chief Konoe shifts his gaze to Tsuzuki, obviously disgruntled.  "Don't you have anything to say about this?" he demands.

Tsuzuki shrugs.  "We all should have known better than to think I could have kept something from my partner," he says cheerfully.  "And when Hisoka decides to do something, he's going to do it."

Chief Konoe glares at them both, drumming his fingers against his desktop.  Then he lets out an explosive sigh and leans back in his chair.  "Fine," he spits, throwing up his hands in exasperation.  "Fine.  Go to Kamakura.  But!"   He half-rises from his chair, wagging a finger at Hisoka.  "Don't you dare show your face!  We don't need your parents wondering why their son is back from the dead.  You're to work strictly behind the scenes unless Tatsumi says otherwise, understand?"

Hisoka nods.  "Yes, sir."

"All right."  Chief Konoe collapses back into his chair.  "Go," he says, "before I change my mind," and he tiredly shoos them away.

"We'll be off, then!" Tsuzuki announces, tossing Chief Konoe an insolent salute, and then he half-drags Hisoka out of the office.

Hisoka, of course, objects to this manhandling--"Stupid, I can walk on my own, let go!"--but he stops when, out in the hallway, the goofy grin slides off Tsuzuki's face.  "What?" Hisoka asks, suspicious.

Tsuzuki studies Hisoka, then says, "Are you sure?"

Hisoka barks out a mirthless laugh.  "About sticking my nose into this investigation?  No."  He scuffs one foot on the floor.  "I don't even really know what we're getting into, and I don't know how I can help.   But I am the one who knows the Kurosaki family best.  If there's anyone who should be there, it's me.  That's a fact, no matter how I feel about it."

"We don't have to go," Tsuzuki insists.

Hisoka shakes his head.  "We're going," he says.

Still, Tsuzuki hesitates.  "Will you be okay?"

"Will you?" Hisoka counters.

Tsuzuki's smile goes rueful.  "I will be if you are."

Hisoka swallows.  "I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he confesses.

"I don't really know, either," Tsuzuki replies, his voice just as soft.  "But I think we can figure it out."

They're not really talking about the case anymore.

Hisoka swallows and nods.  "Yeah," he says, "yeah," and he reaches out, hesitates for a bare second, and then takes Tsuzuki's hand, lacing their fingers together.

Tsuzuki's smile is blinding.

Hisoka takes a deep breath, then squares his shoulders and lifts his chin.  "Let's head out," he says.  "We've got work to do."

"I'm right with you," Tsuzuki says.  His hand squeezes Hisoka's, and his eyes are full of all the love in the world.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of unrequited love - Mirai Nikki

(contains spoilers through episode 22.)

The truth was this:  Aru never thought, not for a single moment, that he really ever had a chance.

He tried, of course.  Akise Aru was not a man who would go down without a fight.  He knew he was smarter than anyone else, more observant, more ingenious; he knew, too, that his love for Yukiteru knew no equal, no matter what Gasai Yuno thought.  So he tried.  He befriended Yukiteru, swore never to lie to him, protected him, defended him.  He did everything he could. It still wasn't enough.  But then again, Aru never really thought it would be, and he knew, too, when to admit defeat and change course. The sight before him was ghastly.   Bodies sprawled awkwardly; blood splattered and pooled on cracked concrete.  But Yukiteru stood above it all, his entire body trembling and the pistol threatening to slip from his grasp, and Aru had eyes only for him. Yukiteru-kun will never be mine, he realized as he climbed up over the rubble.  No matter how much I love him, he'll never be mine.  And then, bitterly, I can't beat her. Gasai Yuno.  She was insane but clever, obsessive but sincere in her attachment.  Hot-headed and cold-blooded, she was a force of nature, one that could be neither defied nor denied, and Aru could not beat her, not in this.  She had sunk her claws into Yukiteru so deeply that even if Aru uncovered her secrets, untangled her plots, outsmarted her, defeated her, and pried Yukiteru from her clutches, the scars would remain. He couldn't beat her.  But that didn't mean she had won. "Yukiteru-kun," he said. Yukiteru's gaze skittered his way.  "Akise-kun," he said, his voice quavering, his lips quivering.  "I have to kill you, too." I know, Aru thought.  It's okay. But he didn't say it aloud; he couldn't afford the risk.  His options were limited.  His choices were constrained.  He could not change the future that was written in his diary. "I didn't take Gasai-san seriously enough," he said instead, flipping open his cell phone, "and I regret that now.  I should have killed her when I had the chance.  If I'd killed her then, none of this would have happened.  She wouldn't have gotten into your head.  No one would have died." He gazed at the cell phone screen a moment longer, and then he looked up.  Yukiteru was shaking, his eyes brimming with tears, his teeth gritted as though biting back a scream.  He held the gun in both hands, aiming dead ahead, but he shook so much that the barrel bobbed and weaved, as though he didn't dare shoot Aru straight in the heart. "I want to protect you," Aru said.  He poured every last ounce of sincerity into his voice, gazed at Yukiteru unwaveringly.  "And that means I'm going to choose the future where you survive." Yukiteru's eyes widened. Aru glanced down at his cell phone again.  Gasai Yuno's future diary is destroyed, it read, the text sharp and clear on the screen.  He'd changed her future once, and this catastrophe was the result.  He wouldn't do it again.  If he did--if he let Gasai Yuno survive--then Yukiteru would die. Aru closed his eyes, his heart clenching.  Once this future became reality, he'd lose Yukiteru forever.  By killing her, he would surrender; in death, she would win the battle for Yukiteru's heart.  But it was worth it.  It was worth it, because Yukiteru would survive, and that was all that mattered. I can't beat you, he thought.  He may never love me the way he loves you.  But he will be alive because of me, and that will be my victory.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of lonely bombs - Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

Blowing shit up usually made him feel better.

The school called, of course.  As punishment, Bianchi sat him down for a stern talking-to, one eye twitching like she was actually angry instead of just enjoying the opportunity to razz him.  It made him want to puke his guts up and die.  Then she sent him to recuperate with Dr. Shamal, who of course would have none of it.  "I don't treat men," he said bluntly, dismissing Hayato with a lackadaisical wave of his hand.  "Go be sick somewhere else."

So Hayato went home and curled up in bed, glaring at the wall as though it were responsible for his curdling stomach.  It wasn't, of course.  He still felt sick, but it wasn't the wall's fault.  At this point, it wasn't even Bianchi's. Fuck, he thought, his fingers itching for a cigarette, or maybe a stick of dynamite.  Fuck. He glared at the wall some more, rage still churning in his gut, and then he got up, stormed out, and went back to school.  It was nighttime by now, late enough that every last teacher had long since gone home.  A bit of dynamite took care of the locked gate--he could have picked the lock or jumped the gate, but fuck that, he was in the mood for destruction--and then he was in.  He stalked to the charred concrete that marked where a bench had stood until he'd blown it to smithereens this afternoon.  Then he set off a few sticks of dynamite on the same spot. It should have made him feel better, but it didn't.  So instead he blew up every trash can on campus, one by one, a cigarette smouldering at his lips as he lit stick after stick of dynamite.  The explosions were immensely satisfying, and the concussive shock waves made him shiver, but as soon as the smoke blew away, the raw, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach returned, more acidic and grotesque than before. Soon he'd blown up every trash can he could find, including a few that he was pretty sure even the janitors had forgotten existed.  In the end he stood panting furiously, down four cigarettes and a week's worth of explosives, his hands clenched into fists and his eyes narrowed and that gaping hole still eating him alive from the inside. "Fuck," he said, "fuck all of you!"  And he was screaming, now, his voice breaking, his throat rending, no words, nothing but white-hot rage. At last his voice failed him, and he could do nothing but gasp for air, trembling.  He gnashed his teeth and wished he could blow up all of Italy. No.  Not Italy.  He wanted to blow up all of Japan. It was absurd.  It was infuriating.  The Vongola Family was going to be entrusted to some idiot Japanese kid?  One who was a clueless coward, if the photograph was anything to go by.  Some guy who didn't know anything, who just happened to be born into the Vongola bloodline, who knew nothing of Family or honor or loyalty or courage or-- Hayato groped for another stick of dynamite, but he was out.  There was nothing more he could blow up.  Nothing else he could do. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth until his jaw creaked.  He couldn't accept this.  He couldn't.  He couldn't. Then he opened his eyes and stared at the ground, his mind racing.  He couldn't accept this, couldn't accept this Sawada kid as his next boss, but maybe he didn't have to.  If he went to Japan, if he proved that Sawada didn't deserve to be the Tenth.... He felt his lips pull back into a sharklike grin. Gokudera Hayato wasn't called the Smoking Bomb for nothing.  He was good at blowing shit up.  He could blow this up, too.  And by the time he was done, the entire Vongola Family would wish they'd never even heard of Sawada Tsunayoshi.  

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of deep winter - Hanakisou (written for Be The First)

"You have to kill me," Kuroto said.

He stood worn, bowed, motionless.  He stood with his hands limp by his sides, his fingers slack, his shoulders slumped.  He stood stark against the backdrop of silvern frost and sleet-gray sky, his silhouette dark and his face shadowed. The sight wrung Hanashiro's heart, but all the same, he had never seen anything more beautiful. "Hanashiro," Kuroto said, desperate. "No," Hanashiro replied, and he turned around and continued forging his way through the snow. The air barely stirred, but snow kept drifting down, flake by flake, soft and beautiful and deadly.  The chill was bone-deep, but Hanashiro kept his back straight and his head held high, did not pull up his hood or huddle deeper into his cloak, because the winter was his.  The brittle, stinging cold was his.  The deceptively gentle snow was his. The dampness seeping through his sturdy boots was his.  The eternity of white spread out before him, and the ominous clouds overhead, and the dying forest behind him, they were all his. This winter was because of him, and that meant it was his. He pushed on, slogging through the knee-high snowdrifts with numb feet, and sure enough, after a few moments of agonizing stalemate, Kuroto surrendered and followed.  "Hanashiro," he called out.  "Hanashiro, wait." Hanashiro stopped and turned back around.  "Kuroto," he said, and the name tasted like new-fallen snow on his tongue, sharp and crisp and pure.  His heart clenched again, but for a different reason this time. Kuroto trudged along, sinking deeper into the snow with each step, until he at last caught up and fell in beside Hanashiro, where he belonged.  "Hanashiro," he said again, frustration coloring his voice black and bitter.  "Stop it.  You can't keep this up.  You know what you have to do.  We both do." Hanashiro shook his head.  "I don't have to do anything," he said.  "Just because I can kill you doesn't mean I will." "You have to," Kuroto pressed. Hanashiro smiled, somehow.  He forced it onto his lips and gazed up at Kuroto and did not weep.  "No," he said, "I don't." Kuroto's brow furrowed, but Hanashiro refused to have this argument. He reached out and grasped Kuroto's sleeve, giving it a little tug. "Look," he said, and gestured out to the desolate, snowbound wilderness before them.  "Look at this.  Forget everything else.  Just look. Isn't it beautiful?" Kuroto gazed off into the distance, his ice-blue eyes faraway.  Hanashiro, too, turned to look--at the mounting snow, at the terrible sky, at the vast emptiness that threatened to swallow them all.  "Beautiful," Kuroto said at last, but Hanashiro couldn't tell if it was awe or doubt in his voice. Relentlessly, the snow continued to fall, like delicate white blossoms tumbling from the heavens. A chill swept over him, and Hanashiro shivered suddenly, violently.  It was cold, so cold, but he had made his choice, and he would take responsibility for it, would own it.  He owned this winter, and its cold, and the cruel silence it wrought.  And he accepted it, because as long as this winter was his, it meant that Kuroto was his, too. He could end this winter, end it with a single merciful thrust of his sword, but he did not, would not.  Instead he reached out and took Kuroto's hand in his, clutching with all the strength he had in his stiff, frostbitten fingers.  After a moment, Kuroto squeezed back, and Hanashiro closed his eyes and bit back the tears before they could fall and freeze on his cheeks. It was so, so cold.  But Kuroto, still, was warm.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of flowerchoke sadworld - Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle

[Part 1: Love]

Children never caught the flower disease.

Adults looked on, nostalgia buried somewhere in their twinkling eyes, as they watched children in the throes of puppy love.  They called it different things--puppy love, a crush, infatuation--but no matter what they called it, it was always the same thing in their eyes, something cute, simple, shallow.  No child could catch the flower disease, they said, because a child could only have a child's love, and that was hardly any love at all.

But Syaoran knew better.

When he'd first met the princess, he'd been blinded by her--her pure heart, her spirit, her kindness, her love for all things that lived and breathed and grew.  Sakura was beautiful in all ways a person could be beautiful, and she opened him up and brought sunshine and glory to his life in a way he’d never imagined possible.

He'd loved her since the beginning.  To be fair, in the beginning it had been the childish love that adults found so charming, and innocent, and harmless, and false.  He had not caught the flower disease because his love had been a child's love.  But he was older, now, and his love was too.  And every time he said her name--Sakura, the most beautiful of flowers--her eyes sparkled and her smile grew even warmer, and the swelling in his chest was no puppy love.

His Majesty performed outrage and the High Priest smiled indulgently, but what they refused to see, Syaoran knew.  Syaoran was young, but no matter what they thought, he was no child.  His love was not a child's love, not anymore.  The reason he didn't catch the flower disease wasn't because his love was insufficient, or immature, or untouched by the struggles and sorrows of real love.  It was because Sakura looked at him the way he looked at her, and even though neither of them ever said it, even if nothing could ever come of it, he knew.

Syaoran loved her, with a love as full and true as any love could be, and no flowers took root in his heart.

[Part 2: Loss]

"I can grant your wish," the witch said.  "But there will be a price."

"I'll pay it," Syaoran said.  No hesitation, no second-guessing.  "Whatever the price is, I'll pay it."

Anything to save her.  Anything.

"You must sacrifice that which is most important to you," the witch told him.

Syaoran clung Sakura closer still.  Even in unconsciousness, her brow was furrowed, as though in pain or sorrow.  Her cheeks were pale, and her body was cold and growing colder still.

"Anything," he said.

"And I cannot bring her memories back for you," the witch added.  "I can send you to other worlds, but finding her memories is something you will have to do."

"I'll do it," Syaoran insisted.  "I'll do anything."

On either side of him, the two strangers stared.  The witch gazed at him, too, her expression inscrutable.  "You realize that I haven't told you what the price is."

"I'll do it," he repeated.

For a long moment, the witch was silent.  "Your relationship," she said at last, her voice soft but unbreakable.  "The thing you value most is your relationship with her, and so that is the price you must pay.  The relationship you once had with her will forever be gone.  Even if you recover all her other memories, she will never regain her memories of you.  That is the price I ask.  Are you willing to pay it?"

Syaoran's eyes widened.  His heart thudded in his chest, its beat roaring in his ears.  He tried to hold Sakura gently, securely, but his hands trembled.

Sakura wouldn't remember.

She wouldn't remember him.  She wouldn't remember when they'd first met.  She wouldn't remember telling him to call her by her name, or the birthdays they'd shared, or the way she always came to greet him when he returned from an expedition.  She wouldn't remember him.

Syaoran squeezed his eyes shut, his back bowing and his teeth gritting.  She wouldn't remember him.  Her memories of him, of them, would be gone, escaped like so much dust into the universe.  But in exchange, he could save her life.  They could forge new memories together, and if he was lucky, one day she would again offer him that smile, as warm and brilliant as the sun.

Syaoran swallowed and raised his head.  "I'll go," he said again.  His voice was hoarse, but determination burned hot in his chest.  "I will not let Sakura die!"

The witch studied him with narrowed eyes.  She was something ethereal, otherworldly, beyond comprehension.  When she nodded, there was something unidentifiable in her gaze.  Admiration, perhaps.  Or perhaps pity.

"Very well," she said, and she raised her hand.  "I accept your payment."

Agony struck him blindsided, as sudden and sharp as a knife to the chest.  He tried to gasp but couldn't.  Something crawled inside him, soft and fluttery, filling his lungs and catching at the back of his throat, and he gagged and hacked and heaved, one hand clapping over his mouth--

And into his palm tumbled wads of petals, a beautiful pale pink, slick with saliva and speckled with blood.

Syaoran coughed and retched until his throat threatened to rend and the petals spilled through his fingers and down onto Sakura’s limp body.  After an eternity, it stopped; finally, mercifully.  Syaoran gasped out rough, ragged breaths and stared at the flowers, his mind curiously empty except for echoes of the princess's voice.

Don't call me Princess!  Call me by my name!

"Sakura," he whispered, light-headed and dazed.

His hand was filled to overflowing with cherry blossoms--the most beautiful of flowers, and the most short-lived.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of axes - Animorphs

(contains blatant disregard for the actual meaning of the prompt and the actual events of canon)

<Rachel's here,> Tobias reported, and a few seconds later, a bald eagle flapped into the barn.  She landed awkwardly upon a bale of hay, wings flaring to keep her balance, and then she started demorphing.

"Rachel," Cassie said softly.  "We were starting to worry."

Rachel was still a growing bundle of feathers, blond hair, and stretching body parts when Tobias came swooping in.  He wasted no time.  <We can't just leave him there,> he said hotly, feathers puffed out.

<He’s right,> Rachel agreed, and then she got her lips and mouth back.  "We need to go back," she continued aloud, glaring at me with what were still fierce eagle eyes.  "One way or another."

One way or another.  I pressed my fingers to my temples and tried to think.

"We have bigger issues," Marco snapped.  His face was pale.  "They've got him, okay?  The Yeerks have him.  Either he cut his own throat or he's got a slug in his head, and we'd better hope it's the first because if not, we're all dead."

Cassie shook her head.  "We don't know for sure that they have him," she said.  "We know that we got split up, we know that he got left behind, but we don't know if they have him.  He might have morphed something small and escaped notice.  He might be hiding."

"Or he might be a Controller," Rachel snapped.  She was fully human by now, but she paced back and forth like she wanted nothing more than to morph grizzly and go charging in.  "In which case we can't just leave him.  One Visser with the ability to morph is one too many.  Either have to free him or--"

"Rachel," Cassie said reproachfully.

"We can't assume he's okay," Marco argued.  "We can't assume we can save him.  We have to assume the worst, and the worst possible situation is that he's a Controller and that they know everything.  Everything, okay?  Who we are, where we live, who our families are.  That the Andalites aren't here, and that the only thing standing between the Yeerks and domination of the entire Earth is a ragtag group of human kids."

Tobias' head cocked to the side.  <Guys.>

"There are bigger priorities than him," Marco pressed on.  "Bigger than any one of us.  We need to survive.  If the Yeerks know who we are, we need to take our families and go."  He whirled on me.  "If they've got him, we're all in danger.  They'll come for the rest of us.  And if they get the rest of us, humanity is toast.  Jake, they'll tell your brother and the next time you go home--"

"You don't need to tell me," I replied, my voice low.  "I know what Tom will do."

<Guys!> Tobias shouted.  <He's-->

And then the door blew open, and Ax came barging into the barn in full Andalite glory.

"Ax!" I exclaimed.

<He's okay,> Tobias finished.

For a certain definition of okay, maybe.  Ax's sides were sweat-slicked and heaving, and his eye-stalks and tail both drooped with exhaustion.  But he was alive and not visibly wounded and, most importantly, not in the hands of the Yeerks, and a sigh of relief escaped me before I could stop it.

Marco beamed at him.  "Ax, my man, you got out!"

"Are you okay?" Cassie asked.

<Yes,> Ax replied. <I am well.  I got out.>

I stared at him, suspicion blooming in my gut.  "Ax," I said.

<Yes?>

I didn't say anything for a moment.  I glanced instead at Tobias, tipped my head slightly.  He stared back at me, his hawk gaze sharp and pitiless.  <Jake,> he said, but then he deflated, and there was surrender in his thought-speak.  <Fine.>

He fluttered out the barn window and into the sky.

I turned my attention back to the alien in our midst.  "Ax," I said, "I'm glad you're back, believe me.  But you know what we have to do, right?"

"Jake?"  Marco asked.  He crossed his arms.  "Are you serious?"

"He was among the Yeerks," Rachel said.  Her voice was hard, her gaze harder.  "Alone.  Without any of us there.  And he just somehow managed to escape?"

"We'll need to keep you somewhere for three days," I said, as though the thought alone didn't make my stomach curdle.  We'd been through this before, with Temrash 114 in my head; I didn't want us to have to do it again.  But we didn't have a choice.  "Just in case."

<Of course,> Ax said, and took a step forward.  <I understand.>

Exactly what Ax would say.

Exactly what a Controller would say.

I took a deep breath, and then I nodded.  "Okay, then," I said, and turned to Cassie.  "Where can we keep him?  We can't let your parents stumble onto him, we need to be able to keep him from going anywhere, and someone needs to keep an eye on him at--"

<Guys!> Tobias yelled.  <Incoming! It's-->

And for the second time, a streak of blue charged into the barn.

My thoughts raced; my instincts moved even faster.  "Battle morphs!" I shouted, lunging away, and already I could feel the muscle mass piling on, my tailbone elongating, my teeth sharpening.  There were only two living Andalites on Earth.  If the one already here was Ax, then the one who'd just arrived was--

<Prince Jake!> the second Andalite shouted.

I didn't stop morphing, but I froze.  Stared at him even as my vision shifted from human to tiger.  It was Ax.

There were two Axes.

<I apologize, Prince Jake,> Ax said.  If he'd had a mouth, he would have been panting.  His eye-stalks twisted to stare at the other Andalite. <It's-->

He didn't need to say who it was.  We all knew.

Stupid, Jake, a voice snarled in the back of my mind.  Visser Three can morph.

The first Ax looked at me, his eyes narrowed slyly in an expression I'd never seen on his face before.  <Well,> he said.  <It looks like today is full of surprises for everyone.  But this is the last time you'll catch me by surprise.>

His tail swung, and I leapt forward with a roar.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

Yuletide treat - Vatican Miracle Examiner

(contains spoilers for the anime.  Set soon after episode 12.)

Roberto is kind, and loyal, and good.

It doesn't particularly surprise Ryouta to discover this; in the course of his short life, he has looked up to two people above all others, Kou for what he has done in life and Josef for what he did in death, and both of them counted Roberto as someone special.  To earn the friendship and admiration of two such people is no small feat, and it says much of Roberto that he has done it.

Ryouta knew this before, but it was more an intellectual exercise than anything else; he hadn't met the man, had never spoken to him, had never witnessed the workings of his mind or the kindness of his spirit or the depth of his loyalty.  Of course Roberto had to be a good person, Ryouta thought, but he thought little deeper than that.

Then his condition takes a turn for the worse, and he sees three specters before him, and--Ah, it's time, he realizes, it must at last be my turn to die.

But it isn't.  Ryouta wakes up again, somehow--miraculously--still alive, and that is when he meets Roberto for the first time.

"That belongs to you," Ryouta says, nodding at the golden bookmark, and a flood of emotion pours over Roberto's face, too vast and too swift for Ryouta to translate, and--Ah, he thinks, I see why you became his friend, Josef.

That should, he thinks, be the end of it.  Kou spends seemingly every waking moment at Ryouta's bedside, but aside from that one time, Roberto doesn't accompany him, doesn't impose on them, doesn't interrupt.  Ryouta isn't particularly affected by this one way or the other, and in all honesty he didn't expect anything different.  Perhaps Roberto makes himself scarce because he's overwhelmed by the discovery of Josef's sacrament, or perhaps he just isn't as invested in Kou's little brother as Kou himself is--either of which would be perfectly understandable, and Ryouta sees no reason to even ponder the question.  But as Ryouta's condition improves from catastrophic to perilous to actually not half bad, Roberto increasingly visits--sometimes with a book under his arm, sometimes bringing nothing but himself and a gentle smile, always sincere--and Ryouta soon wonders if perhaps the reason for Roberto's prior absence was simply that he didn't want to infringe on their brotherly bonding when Ryouta's time might have been running out, or their celebration upon discovering that Ryouta would, at least for now, survive.

Today Roberto announces his arrival with a knock on the door.  At first Ryouta can't guess who it is, but Kou breaks off mid-sentence and glances over at the sound, his face already lighting up.  It's as though he can sense Roberto's presence through the wall, or perhaps can recognize the weight and cadence of his knuckles on wood.  Either way, he clearly knows who it is without asking, and it's the sheer joy in his expression as much as anything else that makes Ryouta call out, "Come in."

Ryouta is strong enough that his voice carries, now.

The door creaks open, and Roberto steps inside.  "Roberto!" Kou exclaims, as thought he can't hold back his excitement.  He so often greets Roberto this way; it tickles Ryouta, just a little, to see his responsible, mature older brother unfold like this.

"Hiraga," Roberto says by way of greeting, and even though using the surname should sound distant, impersonal, he manages to imbue it with a fathomless fondness that fills every syllable.  Then he looks over at Ryouta.  "Hello, Ryouta," he says pleasantly, and though the depth of emotion has slipped away, the warmth is very real.  "How are you feeling?"

"Quite well, thank you," Ryouta replies. "In fact, I feel better than I have in... quite a long time."

Roberto and Kou exchange a glance, one of those looks that speaks to implicit understanding of things left unsaid and a bond extending beyond the capacities of human explanation.  It's at times like this that Ryouta wishes he were inside their circle, wishes that he could understand exactly what they do, how they live, the things they've seen and experienced together, because there is obviously something here that he doesn't understand, something involving him, and--

But at the same time, he wants no part of it.  He knows that there are some places he is not meant to intrude.

"I'm glad to hear that," Roberto says, and he pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside Kou.  "I was just thinking that if your doctors okay it, you might appreciate something other than hospital food.  I'm pretty good in the kitchen, you know."

Kou beams.  "Oh, will you cook for him, Roberto?" he asks, excited, then turns to Ryouta with bright eyes.  "Roberto is a fantastic cook, Ryouta, I promise you that you've never tasted anything nearly so delicious--he can make positively anything, one time we were in North America and he made us bison--"

And so begins a cascade of gushing descriptions of pancetta-wrapped beef tenderloin, and cranberry-gorgonzola-pecan spinach salad, and braised soy-apple pork chops, and all matter of cuisine that Kou without exception praises rapturously, his hands clasped and stars in his eyes.  Roberto doesn't even try to cut in; he just watches and listens with his cheek propped up in one hand, wearing an expression that is equal parts bemused, flattered and hopelessly fond.  And if he won't stop Kou, well, then Ryouta can't find it in himself to stop him, either.

"--and if you have the opportunity to eat Roberto's cooking, you simply cannot pass it up!" Kou concludes at last with a decisive nod.

Ryouta blinks, dazed.  "I look forward to it," he says faintly, because it seems like a safer option than mentioning any specific details that might get Kou started again, and also because it's true--after all, he trusts his brother's judgment implicitly, in all things.

"You're exaggerating, Hiraga," Roberto says with a roll of his eyes.  "If you talk up my cooking that much, he'll only be disappointed.  It's better not to give him false hope."

Kou gapes as though Roberto's self-effacement is a personal insult.  "Disappointed?  I have never once been disappointed by your cooking, Roberto!  If anything--"

Kou's renewed fervor is cut short by the ringing of his cell phone.  He breaks off to fish his phone out of his pocket and glance at the screen.  Then his face goes blank.  "I apologize, but I have to take this," he says, his eyes flitting to Roberto.  Roberto gazes back, then nods.  Vatican business, then.  Kou excuses himself from the room, leaving Roberto and Ryouta to their own devices.

Roberto waits until the door softly clicks shut, and then he turns to Ryouta.  "I wish it could have happened without you almost dying, but I'm glad I finally got to meet you," he says.  The bluntness is painful, but refreshing--everyone knew Ryouta's life had hung in the balance, but no one else has dared speak the words aloud in his presence, as though giving voice to the thought might bring the reaper back to finish the job.  Roberto, it seems, has no such qualms.  "Your brother speaks well of you."

Ryouta's cheeks go hot.  "My brother is too kind," he says, enfeebled.

Roberto chuckles softly.  "That's true," he allows.  "But that doesn't mean he's wrong."

Ryouta's cheeks must be bright red by now, he's sure of it.  Of course his brother speaks well of him; a good older brother cares for his younger brother, and Kou is nothing if not good in every way.  But hearing someone else say it is completely different.

"I've always looked up to him," Ryouta admits.  "I know I can't do everything he does, especially when I've been in the hospital so much. But I try to live up to his ideals."

"Not many people can live up to Hiraga's ideals," Roberto says, unexpectedly frank.  "Believe me, I've tried."

Ryouta studies him, not bothering to try to hide it.  He's pretty sure Roberto would see through him anyway.  Roberto meets his gaze, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  "You must miss him," he says, gently.  "What with him being gone on missions for the Vatican all the time."

"I do miss him," Ryouta says.  No point denying it.  "But I know he's doing what's important to him."

Roberto's pursed lips soften, just a bit.  "When he got the phone call saying your condition had worsened, he dropped everything to fly to Germany to be here with you," he says.  "You're important to him, too.  Don't forget that."

Ryouta flashes back to that moment.  The three specters he'd seen so often, too often, except now they loomed over him and he realized, Ah, this time they're here for me--and then, that tiny voice of weakness, the one he'd spent so long trying to crush out of existence, raised its head and whispered, faint and defeated:  I just wish I could have seen my brother one more time.

"Father Roberto," Ryouta says, "can I tell you something?"

Roberto's eyebrows rise.  He reclines in his chair, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap.  "What is it?"

"I don't know if you'll believe me," Ryouta says.

Roberto's somber expression doesn't even twitch.  "My job is quite literally to try to disprove miracles," he says.  "I have to be skeptical about everything.  So no, I can't promise I'll believe you.  But I can promise that I'll hear you out."

So Ryouta tells him.

Ryouta tells him about the three hooded specters.  Ryouta tells him about Danny, and his mother, and all the sick and ailing children he'd seen swept away in their wake.  Ryouta tells him about praying for the dying, believing it was all he could do, believing it was the reason he was put on this earth.  Ryouta tells him about the sacrament.

Ryouta tells him about seeing the three specters once again and realizing, deep in his gut and with chilling certainty, Ah, it's my turn.

He falls quiet at last, and Roberto sits beside him and lets the silence stretch.  It grows deeper and heavier, and Ryouta fidgets, second-guessing his decision.  He doesn't believe me, he thinks, suddenly doubting himself, he doesn't believe me, I've ruined everything, I--

"I'll be honest," Roberto says abruptly.  "I don't know if you can actually see, I don't know, the agents of Death or whatever you'd like to call them.  I don't know if they actually exist or if you're just hallucinating them or if you're making them up out of whole cloth.  I don't even know how I would prove or disprove it.  But I do believe you."

Ryouta's breath escapes him in a relieved rush.  His head suddenly feels too light.  "You believe me?"

"You're an honest kid," Roberto says.  "Like I said, I don't know if what you see is real or not.  But this isn't an investigation. It's real enough to you, and that's all that matters to me."

Ryouta swallows, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry.  He manages to control himself and settles for sniffling a bit instead.

"But Ryouta," Roberto continues, leaning forward again, and now his face and his voice are so grave that Ryouta feels his heart drop, "you have to promise me one thing."

Ryouta gulps.  His hands clench into nervous fists beneath the sheets.  "What is it?" he asks, his voice small.

What could Roberto want of him?  Was he going to demand that Ryouta never breathe a word of this again?  Never speak of this to Kou?  Or--

"Promise me," Roberto says, "that if you ever see them come for your brother, you'll tell me."

Ryouta's anxiously churning mind screeches to a halt.  He stares at Roberto, perplexed.  "Why?" he blurts.  "It's not--" and then his voice falters, and he has to gather himself up again before he can resume speaking.  "It's not something I'd wish upon anyone else," he mumbles at last, the words dragged almost unwilling out of him.  "To know that someone will die, and not be able to save them--"

"I'll save him."

Ryouta had been saying something, but the sheer ferocity in Roberto's voice makes him forget all words.

Roberto takes a deep breath.  "I'll save him," he repeats, more restrained this time, but without losing an ounce of steel.  "No matter what, I'll save him."  He stares at Ryouta as though willing him to understand something that cannot be put into mere words.  "I'd go through Hell to save him," he says, quiet and strained but utterly unyielding.  "I'd do anything to save him.  So you have to promise me.  Please."

Unable to speak, Ryouta nods his agreement.  A promise.  Roberto leans back, as though he is only now satisfied.

The door swings open.  "My apologies," Kou says, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he reenters the room.  "I couldn't--" he breaks off, glancing between the two of them as though he can sense the heaviness of what has in his absence passed between them.  "Did I interrupt something?" he asks.

"No, no," Roberto says, leaning his chair back on two legs and waving a lazy hand in dismissal.  "Ryouta and I were just chatting while you were gone.  Your brother's a good kid, you know?"

Kou's hesitation instantly evaporates.  "I know he is," he says, casting an affectionate look Ryouta's way, and so he misses the painfully soft expression that sweeps over Roberto's face.

He misses it, but Ryouta doesn't.  I'd do anything for him, Roberto had said, and Ryouta suddenly knows, with more certainty than he thinks he's ever felt in his life, that Roberto's words are the truth.  And Kou might not know it yet, might not yet realize it, but--

Ah, Ryouta realizes, now I know why my brother loves you.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

Dialogue prompt “I never told you—” - Tokyo Babylon/X

(contains spoilers for pretty much absolutely everything about Subaru and Seishirou)

Subaru shot upright with a gasp.

He gulped for air, his eyes darting about, his entire body strung taut.  Sweat plastered his bangs to his forehead.  For a moment, a bare heartbeat, there was nothing but darkness and panic and the desperate sound of his own ragged breathing.  But then his vision adjusted, his reeling mind returned to wakefulness, and the world settled into place, as docilely as though it had never even wobbled.

The clock beside his bed read 4:51, red numbers glowing angrily in the predawn dimness.

Subaru closed his eyes.  His panting slowed, by fits and starts, until his breathing was only slightly shaky.  His hands were clenching the clammy sheets as though trying to rend them apart, he noticed distantly; he pried his fingers open and pressed them flat against the mattress instead, and ignored the way they trembled.

"Subaru-kun."

Subaru shivered.

He should have known.  From the moment Seishirou appeared, he should have known it was a dream.

Subaru inhaled, exhaled.  Slowly.  He raked his damp hair away from his face.  A dream, his treacherous mind whispered, just a dream.

He didn't dream of Seishirou every night, but when he did, it always started the same way.  It started with them facing each other, and Seishirou smiling, and Subaru prepared to die, waiting to die, ready to--

They all started the same way, but they didn't all end the same way.  Sometimes Subaru dreamt of what should have been, Seishirou's hand plunging through his chest and gripping his heart the way no one else ever could.  Sometimes he dreamt that no one died, and Seishirou reached out and touched his cheek with gentle fingers and a concerned expression and for the first time in his life meant it.  Sometimes Subaru dreamt that the world ended right then and there, that the earth cracked open beneath them and swallowed them both whole, together.  But most of the time, his dreams were merely a reflection of reality, and he again and again felt the slick warmth of Seishirou's blood on his hand, and the puff of Seishirou's dying breath on his cheek, and the soft murmur of Seishirou's dying words as he leaned forward and whispered--

Subaru closed his eyes and swallowed.

He'd killed Seishirou in his dreams tonight, too.  But this time, in this dream, Seishirou had leaned forward and whispered, "Subaru-kun, I never told you--"

And then his words had stopped, and his breath.

...Just a dream, his mind whispered, again.

Subaru pressed one hand to his suddenly throbbing eye and curled in on himself, his face buried in his bent knees.  "Seishirou-san," he said to no one, weak and brittle and crumbling, the words a plea that he was powerless to control.

Even now, even after everything, he couldn't stop himself from dreaming about Seishirou.  Couldn't stop his heart from clenching every time he saw Seishirou, crystal clear, in his mind's eye.  Couldn't stop Seishirou's voice from echoing in his memory, as close and real as if the man were sitting right there next to him.

I never told you, the Seishirou of his dreams said, a traitor to the truth.

"I wish you'd never told me," Subaru whispered, his cracking voice filling the darkness.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of canon-divergent AU - DRAMAtical Murder

(warning: follows the True End storyline until it really, really doesn’t)

Clear stood by wringing his hands fretfully; Koujaku helped him sit up.  But even when they spoke, Aoba couldn't hear them.  All he could do was stare up, up, up, his jaw agape and his mind frozen with shock.

The elegant, intimidating tower that had once stood as the glorious symbol of Platinum Jail now stood shattered.

The once-sweeping arcs were jagged now, smoking shards of metal slashing the azure sky.  Beneath it, all around them, lay ruins, the nearby buildings collateral damage, the street littered with crumbling fragments.  Even as Aoba watched, a sliver of steel surrendered to gravity and snapped off to tumble, spinning and glinting, to the ground.

"The tower," Aoba whispered.

All around him, people ran, cried, shouted.  A woman stumbled by, one arm drenched in blood.  Nearby, two men argued, one gesticulating wildly, the other with his arms crossed, both wearing the same tense, furrow-browed expression of terror just barely held at bay.  Somewhere in the distance, a girl's voice screamed, wordlessly, endlessly.  But even in the middle of the chaos, Aoba was encircled by a bubble of calm.  Everyone else was there--Koujaku, Clear, Noiz, even Mink--all of them quiet, collected, above the panic engulfing the rest of the world.

Aoba's eyes flickered over them, one by one, and then he exhaled, slowly, shakily.  Everyone was here.  Everyone was okay.  Everyone--

I'll always be by your side, a voice murmured deep in Aoba's memory, and his eyes went wide.

Where was Ren?

Aoba looked this way and that, his head on a swivel.  Ren wasn't curled up in Aoba's lap.  Koujaku didn't have him.  Neither did Clear.  He wasn't sitting nearby.

Ren wasn't anywhere to be seen.

"Ren," Aoba said blankly, his heart racing, his throat suddenly dry.  "Where's Ren?"

Koujaku and Clear glanced at each other.  Noiz stared into the distance at nothing.  Mink turned his back.  No one spoke.

Aoba turned toward Koujaku, grabbed him by the arm and gave him a rough shake.  "Koujaku," he said, and hated the way his voice quavered, "where is Ren?"

Koujaku hesitated, his eyes cutting away.  He licked his lips, swallowed.  "I don't know," he said gruffly.  "We couldn't find him.  He wasn't with you."

Aoba's heart hitched, faltered, and collapsed.

I'll always be by your side.

Aoba pushed Koujaku away and hauled himself to his feet.

"Aoba--"

"Master!"

He stumbled, nearly slammed face-first into a broken slab of concrete, just barely caught himself.  He knocked away their hands as they tried to help.  Ren, he thought, and staggered blindly away.

They didn't try to stop him.

Ren had to be somewhere around here, and so Aoba searched.  He wandered through the chaos, his eyes constantly scanning the cracked concrete, his feet kicking aside shards of glass, his hands shoving aside rubble, his throat going hoarse as he shouted Ren's name again and again.  Time warped, seconds expanding to fill hours, then minutes vanishing into nothingness.  Ren, he thought desperately, you said you'd always be with me, you said you'd stay with me, you said--

And then he caught a glimpse of a dark blue tuft of fur.

"Ren!" Aoba shouted.  No conscious thought, no time to fear the worst--he leapt forward, dropped to his knees, and began digging frantically through the debris, hands scrambling for purchase, his vision blurring--

Ren.  Ren.  It was Ren.

The Allmate lay sprawled on his side, his fur a dirty, knotted mess, his fluffy tail curled at an awkward angle, his eyes closed.  With a lump in his throat, Aoba picked him up with trembling hands.  "Ren," he whispered, almost pleading, and tucked Ren into the crook of his arm.

A faint whirring sound, so faint Aoba barely heard it, and then Ren opened his eyes.

The sheer relief was staggering.  Aoba gasped for air, suddenly light-headed.  "Ren," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Ren blinked.  His dark eyes focused.  For a moment there was silence, and then he said, in that voice that rumbled deep in his chest, "Aoba."

Aoba choked up on nothing and cradled Ren close, his fingers digging into matted fur.  "Ren," he said, "I thought I wouldn't find you, I thought you were gone, I thought--"

I thought I'd lost you.

"I apologize," Ren replied.  "I didn't mean to worry you."  He bumped his head into the underside of Aoba's chin, reared up to place one paw on his shoulder, and licked a tear off his cheek.  "But I told you I would always be by your side," Ren said.  "That will never change."

Aoba's heart swelled.  "Ren," he said, overwhelmed, and gently pressed their foreheads together.

"Aoba," Ren murmured back, his voice soft and deep and so full of love that Aoba wanted to cry, and he closed his eyes.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of age difference - Mirage of Blaze

He's so young.

The first time Naoe has this thought, it catches him blindsided.  It's not something he's ever thought about Kagetora before--not in any previous life, not even when Kagetora, at 24, performed seppuku on the other side of the battlefield.  Kagetora fought, and killed, and died, at ages younger than Naoe's body is now, and yet never had Kagetora seemed young.

But now Kagetora is a sixteen-year-old boy, prickly and brash and overflowing with teenage angst, and even though Naoe would recognize him anywhere, the truth is that he doubts himself, just for a moment.  When he first sees the boy using his school blazer to try to put out a fire that doesn't exist, Naoe knows, with bone-deep certainty--and, simultaneously, with disbelief curling in his gut, he thinks, Is that really him?

It's really him.  Of course it is; Naoe would know him anywhere.

It is him, but at the same time, it isn't.  It doesn't take Naoe long to figure out that Takaya--that's his name in this life, Ougi Takaya--has no memories of his life as Uesugi Kagetora, of any of his other lives.  Naoe knows it from the first time they come face-to-face and Takaya's eyes are the eyes of a teenage punk, not those of a tiger.  He doesn't remember, Naoe realizes, and then--he's so young.

The more time he spends with Takaya, the more he feels Takaya's youth.  Takaya worries about his best friend and his little sister.  Takaya shows his disapproval by scowling and stomping off.  Takaya cuts class and gets into scuffles with teenage riffraff just like him.  Takaya is in so many ways a child, just a child, and it makes Naoe's stomach clench and his skin buzz to know that he could reach out and Takaya, with a child's innocence, would let him--

Takaya is young in ways that Kagetora never was, trusting in ways Kagetora never was.  And Naoe has lived a long, long time--too long, he sometimes thinks--but never has he felt so old.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of new beginnings - Saiyuuki

(contains spoilers for Hakkai and, to a lesser extent, Gojyo backstory)

Gojyo wishes he'd never learned the man's name.

He hears it echoing in the back of his mind--not always, just every now and then; irregularly, but a punch in the gut every time.  A series of silent whispers and hisses, a voice that secretly taunts him:  Cho Gonou, it says, Cho Gonou.

After the shitshow is over, after the monk and the monkey have dragged Cho Gonou off to face his fate, Gojyo is left alone, abandoned and akilter in a world that has suddenly skewed on its axis.  It won't last, he tells himself.  His life will go back to normal, back to his regular days of boozing and gambling and fucking, and all of this will fade into the past, just some shit that happened once, something Gojyo will only remember when he needs a good story to tell over poker--Hey, did I ever tell you about that time I found a dude passed out in the gutter?  He was hurt, so I took him home, patched him up--I’m a good guy like that.  Anyway, turns out he'd fucked his sister and killed a bunch of people.  Yeah, that was some weird shit.  Then take a swig, lay down his full house, and crow over his winnings, Cho Gonou once again forgotten.

But that's not what happens.  Instead, Gojyo wakes up in the middle of the afternoon, his eyes blurry and his head splitting, and the only part of his mind that isn't hung over reminds him, you brought a man to this bed, once.  He walks home at two in the morning, and he falters mid-step because there's a figure sprawled out on the side of the road and, for a second, he thinks he sees a sliver of one emerald eye.  He hears the rap of knuckles on wood, and for one wild, crazy moment, he thinks someone's knocking on his door, and he flashes back to brilliant blond hair and a scowl and a sour voice spitting Cho Gonou, and this time Gojyo can't say he’s never heard of the man, because he knows Cho Gonou, he knows exactly who Cho Gonou is, he knows--

He knows, and the world never settles back on its axis.

He knows, too, that Cho Gonou is gone.  No matter what the monk says, Gojyo doesn’t believe in rebirth or reincarnation, not really.  Still, whenever that voice at the back of his mind whispers, Cho Gonou, Gojyo wants to pop open a can of beer and pour it out to him, or maybe just slug it back, and send up a thought to nothing and no one:  I don't know where you are, but I hope it's at least a little fucking better than here.

But he doesn't, because there's no point.  There are no new beginnings, only endings.  His mother--an ending.  Jien--an ending.  His innocence--an ending.  Cho Gonou, too, has met his end.  And Gojyo knows that no amount of feeling stomachsick or heartsick will give either of them a new beginning.  He knows that.  And yet--but still--

Fuck it, Gojyo decides, and he fetches a pair of scissors.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of role swap - Tennis no Oujisama

"Adieu," Niou said.  "Adieu.  Adieu.  Adieu."  His voice echoed in the emptiness.

He critically studied his reflection, adjusting his hair just ever so.  A few more dark strands nudged to the side, and--perfect.  In the mirror, Yagyuu stared back at him, the lenses of his glasses gleaming.

"This is an absurd idea, Niou-kun," Niou said.  "I have full confidence in my ability to play the role of you.  But do you truly think you can use my Laser Beam?  Yanagi-kun will notice the difference immediately."

Yagyuu's words settled in his mouth easily, smoothing out his nasal drawl into something proper and refined.  Yagyuu's propriety snapped his back ramrod-straight; Yagyuu's silent judgment pinched his face into a sour expression.

Yagyuu would be right about one thing:  Niou's Laser Beam wasn't quite up to snuff.  But in every other way, Niou could play a perfect Yagyuu Hiroshi.

He knew everything about the way Yagyuu presented himself to the world.  He knew how Yagyuu wore his shirt collars and socks, the timbre and rise and fall of his too-polite voice, every slight twitch of his eyebrows and lips.  Of course he knew; he had spent untold hours watching Yagyuu.

He looked away from the mirror, slouched, reverted.  "I don't need to hit a perfect Laser Beam, it just needs to be good enough."  Then he smirked, trademark Niou.  "Besides, even if Yanagi notices, no one else will.  They'll have enough trouble with my Laser Beam, and then how do you think they'll feel when they face the real thing?  You might as well stab a dagger in their hearts."

He knew what Yagyuu would say to that.  "Even assuming that was the case," he said, in Yagyuu's most unimpressed voice, "I fail to see the purpose.  Surely it would be a better use of our time and energy to focus on more reasonable strategies, rather than parlor tricks."

Niou snorted.  "You can't fool me, Yagyuu.  You love a good parlor trick.  And you like crushing your opponents just as much as I do."

And it was an absolutely nasty strategy, from a tennis perspective.  This level of psychological warfare on the court would destroy even the much-ballyhooed Golden Pair.  It was exactly the type of ploy that the Trickster would come up with.  But the honest truth was that, this time, Niou didn't give a fuck about any of that.

This wasn't about pulling off some trick.  This wasn't even about tennis.  This was about Yagyuu.

"You have a horrible wicked streak, Niou-kun," he said, in the guarded voice that Yagyuu used when he didn't want to reveal how intrigued he was.  In the mirror, Yagyuu's narrow eyes gleamed, and his lips twitched, just a flicker of a vicious smile that was instantly subsumed by the genteel Gentleman.  Just a hint of what Yagyuu really was, somewhere beneath that perfect mask.  It was the part of him that made Niou want, and want, and want--

Yagyuu, Niou thought, but when he reached out, his fingers touched nothing but glass, and the illusion shattered.

He knew better than to think he could have Yagyuu.  But sliding into Yagyuu's skin was the next closest thing, and he'd thought it would be good enough.

He was a fool.

Niou stared at his reflection, but he couldn't see Yagyuu there anymore.  "Adieu," he murmured, and pulled his fingers away.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of kneeling - Shirogane no Ou

(set immediately after Fenrir Craft and thus contains spoilers for the entire series)

As he sat on the veranda, His Majesty dozing at his back, Right-Eye took stock of the situation and concluded that it remained entirely untenable.

Immediate catastrophe had been averted--the King of Zephil had been turned away, His Majesty was safe, Right-Eye hadn't been thrown out of the palace or executed for treason--but still, Right-Eye knew his position remained tenuous at best.  It galled him to acknowledge that; what else did he have to do to prove himself?  The tattoo on his left arm was largely unrecognizable now, ink replaced by damage that would soon become scar tissue; Ulysses was dead twice over, once a decade ago and again today by his own proclamation; he had defended His Majesty against Zephil's plot, raised his sword against his own blood brother.  Most importantly, his king wanted him, trusted him, believed in him.

But it wasn't enough.  The fact remained that Right-Eye had been born and raised a prince of Zephil, and if so many people had distrusted him when they didn't know his provenance, then surely they would feel their distrust justified when they learned that his veins carried the royal blood of an enemy nation.

And it wouldn't stay secret, Right-Eye knew that.  Too many people knew, now, and those who didn't would be able to put all the clues together soon enough.  And between the Royal Guard and His Majesty's advisors, there were plenty of people who wanted nothing more than to run Right-Eye out of the country--or run him through with a blade.

Right-Eye wrapped his arms around his knees and took a deep breath.  His Majesty wants me here, he reminded himself, clamping down the anxiety that gnawed a hole in the pit of his stomach.  As long as His Majesty sits on the throne and wishes me to be his right eye, I will remain by his side, and nothing and no one can change that.

"Right-Eye? Have you seen--oh."

"See, I told you he'd be here."

Right-Eye looked over his shoulder and saw Wolfgang standing at the veranda door, Lord Shirogane draped over one shoulder.  "Sorry for barging in," Wolfgang said.  "I knocked, but you didn't answer."

"My apologies," Right-Eye replied.  "I didn't hear you from out here.  How can I help you?"

"I was looking for that idiot," Lord Shirogane announced, nodding at His Majesty.  "Is he asleep?"

Not anymore, Right-Eye thought.  His Majesty hadn't moved, and his breathing remained soft and steady, but he was pressed up against Right-Eye's back, a long line of warmth; when his muscles tensed, Right-Eye could feel it.

"It's been a long day," Right-Eye said apologetically; an understatement if there ever was one.  "I didn't want to wake him."

"Well, at least send him to bed," Wolfgang said, half scolding, half fond.  "If he wakes up with a crick in his neck, he'll make everyone else's lives miserable, you know he will.  He's a pain in the ass like that."  He deposited Lord Shirogane in Right-Eye's lap.  "You need to take care of him, Right-Eye," he said, his expression sober.  "He won't let anyone else even try."

Right-Eye gently gathered up Lord Shirogane.  "I'll do my best."

Wolfgang nodded and turned to leave.  When he reached the door, though, he paused, one hand grasping the doorjamb as though for support.  "Right-Eye," he said, never turning around, "you're going to stay, right?  Stay with him?"

Right-Eye lowered his eyes to Lord Shirogane, who gazed back up at him speculatively.  "Of course," he said, to both of them.  "As long as His Majesty will have me, I will be his right eye."

"Good," Wolfgang said, as thought that was the only thing he had wanted to hear, and he left without another word.

For a few moments, there was silence.  A few seconds of peace and calm.  Then Lord Shirogane said, "Hey," brusque and unyielding, and he thwapped his tail over Right-Eye's shoulder and smacked His Majesty on the back of the head.  "You're a terrible actor."

"Lord Shirogane," Right-Eye said reproachfully.

"What?  I know he's awake."

"Shut up," His Majesty grumbled, and now he was sitting up, no stretching or yawning, not the slightest pretense of sleepiness.  "Can't a man have an hour of peace?"

"Not around here," Lord Shirogane said, far too chipper.  He wriggled out of Right-Eye's hands and up His Majesty's arm, settling around his shoulders like a mantle.  "Did you properly talk things out?  He looks like he's about to run away again."  He glanced slyly at Right-Eye as he spoke.

His Majesty scowled.  "He's not going anywhere," he growled, and then he turned and looked at Right-Eye.  "You're not going anywhere," he repeated.  Right-Eye couldn't tell if it was more question or threat.  His Majesty kept glaring, and Lord Shirogane abandoned subtlety and craned his head to peer at him, too.

Right-Eye averted his gaze; those three eyes staring at him were three too many.  "As long as you want me, Your Majesty," he said, "I'm yours."

His Majesty snorted, unimpressed.  "But?" he asked.

Right-Eye lowered his head.  "But people will ask questions," he said.  "If you thought it was bad before, it will be many times worse now.  Once it gets out who I am--who I was...."  He shook his head.  "There's only so much you can do to protect me, Your Majesty."

"A king's duty is to protect," His Majesty replied.  His voice was disgusted; Right-Eye had to tell himself, more than once, that the disgust wasn't directed at him.  "You're my right eye.  Anyone who still has a problem with that can go fuck themselves."

"It isn't that easy, King," Lord Shirogane said.

His Majesty let out a sound like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to be sick or to shoot someone.  He grabbed Lord Shirogane by the nape of the neck and dragged him down to stare him in the eye.  "Not you, too," he snapped, giving him a disapproving shake.

Lord Shirogane wormed out of His Majesty's grip and inched back up onto his shoulder.  "They're idiots," he said, "but they're idiots who are helping you run the country."

"I'll fire them."

Right-Eye closed his eyes.  "The younger brother of the King of Zephil went undercover as a nameless mercenary, infiltrated the palace, won the king's trust, and began exerting his influence on the king.  Eventually, the king became nothing but a puppet, and the foreign prince effected a purge of the Quatredina government, eliminating everyone who criticized or questioned the king's decision to keep the heir to the Zephil throne as his personal bodyguard and bringing the country one step closer to being overthrown by Zephil."

The story practically wrote itself.  And Right-Eye didn't know how to change the narrative.

"That's absurd," His Majesty snapped.  "You're not working against me.  You're protecting me.  You're my bodyguard.  You would take an arrow for me."

"I would," Right-Eye said softly.  "And yet I’m not the one who did take an arrow."

His Majesty recoiled, his expression stricken.  "That's," he snarled, his voice ablaze, but nothing followed, as though he, too, began to sense the futility of it all.  He turned away, teeth gnashing, and then he let out a sound of utter frustration and braced his forehead against his clasped hands.

"King," Lord Shirogane said, sounding surprised.

Right-Eye's stomach twisted and curdled inside him.  "Your Majesty...."

"You're my right eye," His Majesty muttered.  His shoulders slumped with bone-deep exhaustion.  "I gave up my right eye once.  It was my choice, it was my responsibility, and I won't let anyone else take the blame."  At last he looked up, and Right-Eye's breath caught in his throat, because His Majesty's single pale eye glinted with that absolute refusal to surrender that was part of his blood and his bones.  "But what happens to my other right eye is also my choice and my responsibility, and I'll be damned if I lose my right eye again."

Right-Eye swallowed.  "Your Majesty," he whispered, his voice thick, and found no other words to say.

What had he done to deserve this?  After everything that had happened in his life, how had he earned such unshakeable trust and loyalty?

The moment was shattered when Lord Shirogane spun about, landing his tail square in His Majesty's face.  His Majesty spluttered on a mouthful of fur and scowled, but Lord Shirogane merely huffed, looking at them in turn.  "This is touching and all," he said, sardonic, "but what are you going to do about it?"

"Do about it?" Right-Eye echoed.

"We shouldn't have to do anything about it," His Majesty said crossly.  "It should be a non-issue."

Lord Shirogane smacked him in the face again.

"Do about it," Right-Eye repeated, ruminating over the words.  Now that he thought about it, what had they done about it?  Right-Eye had always tried to stay present but unobtrusive--to remain by His Majesty's side enough for his loyalty to be known, but not let anyone look too closely for fear of what they might see.  His Majesty had not always kept his cool, but he had at times shied away from being too full-throated in his defense of Right-Eye, lest people think the king protest too much.  They had tried to let the evidence of Right-Eye's actions be enough to defend him.  But what had that achieved?  Nearly the entire court and Royal Guard had stood up against him, and that was before his past had been revealed.

"Perhaps we should confront it head-on," Right-Eye said slowly, pondering even as he spoke.

His Majesty raised one eyebrow.  "Meaning?"

"My past is out," Right-Eye said.  "There's no way to unopen that box.  So instead of trying to keep it quiet, we announce it to the world."

His Majesty's draw dropped.  His gaze went incredulous, then sharp.  "You're an idiot."

"We can make a whole production of it," Right-Eye continued, warming to his subject.  "We announce that I was a prince of Zephil, and then I publicly renounce my birthright.  I'll swear a formal oath of fealty.  I'll kneel before you, vow to serve you, pledge my loyalty to you.  My tattoo is mostly unrecognizable by now, I think, but I'll take a brand to burn the rest of it off, and--"

"Enough!"

His Majesty surged to his feet.  Lord Shirogane yelped and clung to his shoulder by the very tips of his claws.  Right-Eye stared up at him, shocked into silence.

"They'll eat you alive," His Majesty snarled.  He clenched his hands into fists so tight they trembled; his voice was so livid it could have sparked a wildfire.  "You'd be throwing yourself to the wolves."

"Hey," Lord Shirogane objected.

"It's not happening," His Majesty spat.  "I won't let you hurt yourself for me, and I won't let you kneel before me.  They've done enough to you as is.  If the choice is to have you humiliate yourself in front of the world, I'd rather throw them out, and fuck the consequences."

Right-Eye stiffened.  "Your Majesty," he said.  He couldn't keep the edge from his voice.

"You aren't even going to hear him out?" Lord Shirogane asked.

"No."  His Majesty tore Lord Shirogane from his shoulder and practically flung him at Right-Eye.  "And you're going to convince him that he's being a fucking idiot, because I'm not listening to this anymore."

And without another word, His Majesty turned and stalked away, his shoulders tense and his footsteps heavy.  He slammed the door behind him with a bang.

In the ensuing silence, Right-Eye felt the tension drain from his body.  He slouched where he sat and let out a heavy sigh.  "I didn't think it would upset him that much," he admitted, settling Lord Shirogane more comfortably in his lap.

Lord Shirogane snorted.  "King isn't exactly known for his composure," he said, "but he has even less of it when it comes to you."

Right-Eye lowered his gaze.  "I'm sorry."

"Wait, wait, why are you apologizing?  I'm sorry!  It's not your fault!"  Lord Shirogane frantically patted Right-Eye's leg with his tail, a gesture that was probably meant to be comforting.  "It's just the idiot being an idiot!"

"The idiot," Right-Eye said, "is my king."

Lord Shirogane deflated.

Right-Eye took a deep breath and collected himself.  Then he picked up Lord Shirogane, lifting him until they were eye-to-eye.  "Do you think it's as bad of an idea as he does?" he asked.

"It's a crazy idea," Lord Shirogane said bluntly.  "And it'd probably blow up in your face.  But it just might work."

It wasn't like anything else had improved Right-Eye's standing in the eyes of the country, so he saw no reason they shouldn't give it a shot.  There was only one problem.  "But he'll never stand for it, will he?" he said, glum and rhetorical.

"You might be able to convince him," Lord Shirogane said doubtfully.

Right-Eye sighed again.  "I know he's trying to protect me," he said, lowering Lord Shirogane onto the bench beside him.  "But I'm his bodyguard.  More than that, I'm his right eye.  He gave me a name, and a place, and a purpose.  A king's purpose may be to protect his country and his people, but my purpose is to protect him."

Lord Shirogane's ears drooped.  "Protecting him as his bodyguard is one thing.  But he doesn't want you lowering yourself for his sake."

"He is my king," Right-Eye said through gritted teeth.  "I would gladly take His Majesty's brand on my arm.  Swearing my loyalty to him in front of the world is no humiliation.  I would be honored to kneel at his feet."

"Kneeling for your king is great and all, but you realize that I'm the important part here, right?" Lord Shirogane asked dryly.  "I'm the reason he's the king, after all."

Right-Eye dredged up a fraction of a smile.  "I would kneel for you too, Lord Shirogane," he said.  "If you wanted me to."

Lord Shirogane wasn't wearing his regular smirk anymore.  Instead he gazed back, his eyes uncharacteristically frank.  "I would let you kneel for me," he replied.  "But only because he wouldn't let you kneel for him."

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of secrets - Tokyo Babylon

"Subaru-kun," Seishirou said, audibly taken aback.  His wide eyes dropped down to the burden in Subaru's arms.  "I was about to say this was a pleasant surprise, but I see this isn't a pleasure visit."

Subaru gasped for air, trying to catch his breath enough to speak.  "Please help her," he said.  His voice came out ragged; his heart still thundered furiously in his chest.

The dog lay limply in his arms, panting even harder than he was.  Each exhale was accompanied by a piteous, high-pitched whine, and her eyes were glazed over.  Subaru was glad he was wearing his black coat--his client didn't need to see him covered in blood stains.

Seishirou stepped back and held open the door, and Subaru gratefully stepped inside.  "What happened?" Seishirou asked.

Subaru swallowed.  "I think she got hit by a car," he said.  "I found her on the side of the road."  He looked up at Seishirou, beseeching.  "Can you help her?  Please?"

Seishirou nodded firmly, his expression set and serious.  "Of course," he said, and he carefully gathered the dog into his arms.  No pause, no hesitation, careless of the blood that would no doubt stain his suit jacket.  His hands were tender as they brushed Subaru's, as he relieved Subaru of his charge.

Seishirou always was kind.

The dog let out a weak yelp as she was jostled, and Seishirou murmured reassuringly, shifting her until she went slack and docile.  Only then did he look up, his attention on Subaru once more.  "Do you want to stay and wait?"

Subaru shook his head.  "I can't," he said.  "I have a job to get to."  One he was already late for, to be honest.

"I see."  Seishirou looked slightly disappointed, but unsurprised.  "An onmyouji's work is never done, I suppose.  Well, thank you for bringing her to me.  It's always good to see you, even in situations like this."

Subaru didn't blush; that was just Seishirou being Seishirou.  Instead he took one more look at the injured dog.  She still seemed to be in pain, but her panting had subsided somewhat, as though she knew she was now in good hands.  "Thank you, Seishirou-san," he said fervently.

"Don't worry, Subaru-kun," Seishirou said.  "I'll take care of her."  Gently, he scratched the dog behind one ear and smiled.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of sex demons - Yami no Matsuei

(contains vague references to Hisoka backstory and a blatant and wilful misinterpretation of the prompt’s actual meaning)

Tsuzuki has issues.  He has so many issues that he could spend the rest of his afterlife counting them off and he'd still never reach the end of the list.  He knows what it's like to have issues, and so he's okay with it.  He really is.

"I'm sorry," Hisoka whispers, his voice wracked, his shoulders trembling.  "I'm sorry."

"Hisoka," Tsuzuki says, helpless.  He doesn't say anything else; he can't think of the right words to say.

Instead he sits up, pulls back.  Hisoka remains lying flat on his back, his shirt rucked up and his jeans unzipped, but there is nothing unsexier in the world right now, because his face is buried in his hands and his entire body is collapsing in on itself, misery rolling off him in waves so thick even Tsuzuki can feel it.

"I can't," Hisoka says.  He almost chokes it out; the words are wrung out of him, warped and excruciating.  "I can't.  I'm sorry, I can't."

They'd kept the lights on this time, because last time they'd tried with the lights off, and Tsuzuki had thought there could be nothing worse.

This is worse.

Tsuzuki swallows past the lump in his throat, wishes he weren't so powerless.  "Hisoka," he whispers again, because there is nothing else he can say, nothing more important.  He reaches forward, wraps his arms around those slender shoulders, pulls Hisoka close; the only skin-to-skin contact is the gentle bump of forehead on forehead.  He screws his eyes shut and focuses, hard, I love you I love you no matter what I love you, and Hisoka lets loose a sob and clings, his fingers clutching at Tsuzuki's shirt.

"I'm sorry," Hisoka repeats, his voice ground to rawness and full of tears, and he drops his forehead onto Tsuzuki's shoulder.  Tsuzuki can do nothing but hold him tighter, heart clenching.

Tsuzuki's okay with it, he really is.  They all have their demons, and he wants nothing more than what Hisoka can give.  He just wishes Hisoka could believe him.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of counterfeiting - Silver Diamond

When Chigusa opened his eyes, he didn't see the strange clothing, or the slightly different hair color, or even the befuddled expression.  All he saw was that face, and it was the face of his enemy.

The Prince?!

Faster than thought, Chigusa moved.  He leapt up from his bed of grass and ivy, his gun in hand, and he grabbed the Prince by the shoulder and shoved him down.  The Prince let out a shout--The Prince can speak, has anyone ever heard him speak? some part of his mind wondered, but no time, no space for thought, the Prince was here and today, at last, Chigusa would end him.

Chigusa shoved the barrel of his gun right in the Prince's face, so close that not even a Child of God or an Ayame Prince could possibly survive, and then he pulled the trigger.

Click.

"What?" the Prince yelped, his eyes wide and his face pale.  "What is that?  What are you--what?!"  This was the voice of the Ayame Prince?  This frantic tumble of confusion and fear and anger?

No time.  No space to think.  The bullets, Chigusa realized dimly.  I'm out of bullets, my gun is withering--

He'd just have to kill the Ayame Prince with his bare hands.

But before Chigusa could strangle him, the Prince moved.  He reached up one hand, but not to attack Chigusa, not to seize the gun and wither it to dust.  Instead the Prince pushed the barrel of the gun away, just a gentle nudge with the back of his hand--

And the wood let out a gentle pop and started growing.

One leaf, two.  Twigs.  Branches.  Growing, sprouting, alive.  Scrambling, Chigusa thrust the barrel straight into the soil, and the gun took root and exploded upwards, bark crackling, leaves rustling, limbs reaching out and out and out--

It grew.

Chigusa stared, slack-jawed with shock.  He was empty-handed.  His gun was supposed to die, and instead it had become a tree.  A vibrant, beautifully green tree, full of life and vigor.  The stuff of dreams and fairy tales.

Chigusa had never seen anything so incredible.

It grew, he thought again, scarcely able to believe his own eyes.  His entire mind felt numb.  It grew when he touched it.

And then he looked at the Prince, who looked as confused as Chigusa felt, and then started babbling in that voice that couldn't be the Prince's--

Sanome.

This boy wasn't the Prince.  He looked the same, he looked almost exactly the same, but Chigusa could see the differences now that he looked--the hair color, those strange clothes, and those facial expressions, so mobile, so varied, so human, so genuine.  The Ayame Prince, with all his cool superiority and his cloak of lies and deception and his soft smile that hid a black soul of monstrosity and destruction, was nothing but a washed-out mimicry in comparison.  This boy was no Ayame Prince; he was a sanome, something different, something else, something real--

You, Chigusa thought, you are what I have been looking for all this time.

[izayoi-no-mikoto]

100 words of flowers - Silver Diamond

Rakan never gets sick of his garden.  He never gets sick of spraying water over bushes, of digging his hands into soil, of watching flowers grow for him.  He doesn't get sick of handing over flowers to other people, either, of watching their eyes light up as they gently stroke the leaves or bury their noses in the petals.  Admittedly, he does sometimes get a bit sick of people joking about him being the flower boy, but he accepts the ribbing good-naturedly, or at least he tries, and it's a small price to pay for the glorious riot of color that fills his backyard.

He's always had a green thumb.  Sometimes he wonders if it has something to do with the way he came tumbling into this garden as a baby; perhaps only the blossoms here respond to his touch, and flowers in any other garden or greenhouse would refuse to bloom for him.  But even if that's the case, he's grateful for what he has.  He's happy here, living in the house he's grown up in.  He's happy attending a normal school, buying food from normal shops, hanging out with normal friends, planning for a normal future.  If the flowers in this garden grow a bit more beautifully than anywhere else, well, that's just the right amount of unusual for his taste.

So when Rakan snips some irises or lilies and wraps them up in a bouquet, he only concerns himself with the flowers--how well they've grown, how deep their color, how long they'll last before they begin to wither.  He doesn't ponder too deeply about why he has such a fine touch for plants or why there is no flower that will not grow for him.  He doesn't wonder if there's something particularly strange about his affinity for all that is green, and he doesn't yearn for anything other than the normal life he has.

(There's got to be something more than this, some insidious, traitorous part of him whispers, deceptively quiet for the way it burns like a wildfire within him.  He quashes it down, because his flowers are beautiful and he doesn’t need anything else, but it burns there within him, sullenly refusing to flicker out, and it isn't until a strange man comes tumbling into his garden that he realizes that maybe, that little voice was right.)