A/N: All right, so I noticed Kanki Youji working on her story "Hetalia A-Z" (which if you haven't read, I recommend), and decided why not try one for Yami? We talked about it and she agreed that I should. So here's the first chapter of it. Don't be afraid to leave reviews giving suggestions for future titles; Goddess knows I'll need them.
Oh, and in case you don't know me well already, probably not a lot of fluff in these. Just a quick angst warning.
Every morning, Hisoka woke up to the sound of Tsuzuki's voice.
(I'm cooking breakfast, he would say. Hisoka would have to rush up and into the kitchen to stop him before he burned down the kitchen trying to make oatmeal.)
Every morning, Hisoka woke up to the feel of Tsuzuki's emotions swarming his own with irritating determination.
(Happiness and insufferably blue shades of doubt.)
Every morning, Hisoka woke up to the taste of Tsuzuki's coffee.
(He made it black especially because Hisoka asked him to. It was more than his family had ever done.)
Every morning, Hisoka woke up to the smell of Tsuzuki's toothpaste.
(Dark mint, like a peppermint patty, or like the last few snowflakes when spring is trying to break through.)
Today is different.
This morning he wakes with a stiff sort of feeling in his stomach, one that burns bitter and green, and when he reaches over to the other side of the bed, there is only the cold sheet against his deprived fingertips.
There is only the sound of silence echoing throughout the hallways, where a cheerful and laughing voice had once been. (Or else sobbing inside for something he could never have.)
There is only the feel of the cold enveloping his thin arms until he can sense goosebumps rising on his flesh.
(Don't touch me, he used to say. Funny that now all he wants is the exact opposite.)
Only the smell of stale laundry and the lingering scent of Tsuzuki's cologne.
(It smells like loneliness. Like one swing left on the play equipment, but the chain is twisted, warding away visitors.)
There is a feel to the air, to the house, that makes him curl back beneath his sheets and bury his face and take a deep breath of a presence that was once here. This sheet, that pillowcase, that bottle of sake in the fridge (half-empty, not half-full, not anymore), that sense of longing deep in his cold, numb core.
These remind him of why he promised himself, so long ago, to never get attached.