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