Memento Mori
Before the imposing edifice he stood, a young man immersed in contemplation. He was relatively tall, clad entirely in black, the edges of his trench coat whipping around his legs due to a slight breeze.
He was a brunette, and upon closer scrutiny, one would be rather surprised to discover that he possessed a pair of brilliant violet eyes.
Breaking out of his thoughts, he sighed, as he vanished slowly from where he had stood moments before.
His footsteps didn't make the slightest of sounds against the polished floor of the corridor he was presently walking down. It was logical, really, for he was about as substantial as air in this form. Nevertheless, out of habit more than anything else (perhaps he had spent too much time on Earth as of late, masquerading as your average human); he evaded those who came his way: a miscellany of doctors, nurses and relatives. There were several who came into contact with him, who passed right through him, but were assaulted by a brief yet sudden chill soon afterwards.
He noticed that a few of them had exited the same room, noting the sorrowful expressions they wore: to him, the cause of their sadness was all too obvious, but, he was, intrigued that there were those who would actually grieve over this particular person.
The room was white: white walls, white curtains, white furniture- there was a tragic, despondent air to it, this lack of colour: it was Life drained of its vibrancy and vigour, purged of anything and everything save an encompassing apathy; and beneath that, lay as well, the traces of surrender- yes, but to what? In this case, he thought, it might have very well been to Mistress Fate herself: that bitter, inevitable fate every creature on Earth came to face at the end- Death.
And indeed, in this matter, and in regards to the man he had come to see, the colour 'white' was significant of Death, as was its opposing colour: 'black'-
"I knew you'd come, Tsuzuki-san," came a quiet, silken voice. A silver, feline eye regarded him with a familiar glint of amusement, while the artificial left eye, obscured by the fall of fine, platinum blond hair glowed a little. A pair of lips was upturned in their typical semblance of a smile, which always seemed more like a rather devious smirk. (Despite the years that had lapsed between them, these traits, which he had always identified with this man, had remained etched in his mind, all the more so since that incident in Kyoto.)
The owner of the voice beckoned the young man named Tsuzuki forward. He complied, and took the seat by the other man's bedside. The bedspread and the bed itself abided the room's colour scheme as well- unsurprisingly –but, they appeared considerably dark, in comparison to the gaunt figure nestled between the covers, whose pallor might have led one to his mistake him for a ghost. The man shifted, drew close to him.
Their faces were barely apart, and the man's breath ghosted over Tsuzuki's face: "To be quite frank with you," said the pale man, "I actually expected the bouya to pay me a visit as well," there was bitterness here, so well imbued into the man's speech, he could nearly taste it, "Perhaps, he would have liked to see me as I am now: broken, beaten…and, yes- dying." The final word was spat out, for it was a vulgar admittance to failure, a terrible, harrowing defeat, that had cost the man most everything he had, "He might have exacted his revenge, too- murder me as I did him so long ago."
There was a moment's pause, and Tsuzuki replied, "Hisoka is beyond that now, Muraki. You and I know it. He's severed his 'strings': he's no longer your puppet."
"So it would seem," that trademark smirk graced pale lips, "I would miss him though, he was such a delightful plaything, after all."
It was simply in the patronizing way it was said, that utterly blasé manner in which Muraki used when he referred to his 'dolls': the people he manipulated, which invoked certain unpleasant memories, and set loose an unknowingly seething anger that crept and crawled under Tsuzuki's skin for only God knew how many years: all of which culminated in his subsequent actions, short-lived civility flying out the window.
Tsuzuki rose, as he grabbed Muraki by the collar of his clothes, nearly lifting the latter fully off the bed (dear God, the former thought, had he always been this light?)
Despite his weakness, and Tsuzuki's chokehold, Muraki laughed: "Yes, Tsuzuki-san, give it to me- Death! Death swift and quick and-"
Tsuzuki released him: "No, it's better if I don't kill you. In any case, you deserve it," he paused, and added, solemnly, "to wait as you do, in agony, to die," he finished, his face grim.
Muraki sighed, straightened himself up, and smiled, wistfully at the other man, "Ah, you're as beautiful as ever, Tsuzuki-san, even in your anger, and hatred against me," Tsuzuki glared icily at him, to which he met, with his own intense silver gaze, "But, I am being quite serious," he continued, never once looking away, "won't you have pity on me and end this now?"
Tsuzuki was, in a word: incredulous, "Pity?!" His voice rose several octaves, "You expect me to pity you after all you've done?" Here, a maelstrom of other emotions assailed him, the most prominent one being rage, with disgust and spite coming in at a close second. Surely the doctor was mad to have even asked such a thing of him. Furthermore, Muraki's past actions had warranted such a punishment: this slow, agonizing way of dying, and to face an eternity of unimaginable torment thereafter-
"As much as I want to rip your throat out Muraki," he said, as levelly as he could manage, pondering the thought, "I won't. I don't want your blood on my hands- it's what you want, isn't it?"
"And so you punish me by not granting my wishes? How cruel you are, Tsuzuki-san," Muraki replied, placidly. Tsuzuki sensed that the other man's attention was gradually being diverted, for Muraki's long fingers reached out towards him seemingly in pursuit of something much more fascinating and desirable. They came remarkably close to him, mere milimetres away from his cheek, before Tsuzuki's senses returned to him, and slapped Muraki's hand away.
"Don't touch me," he said, in a near-growl. But, it was barely a second later that Muraki defied his warning, as the taller man, in one swift moment, had leaned in and kissed him on the lips. Suffice to say, Tsuzuki was shocked by the suddenness of Muraki's actions, his mouth pried open with teeth and tongue, in a way reminiscent of that time in Kyoto- when they had shared what would have been their 'first kiss'.
Much to his own surprise, he had yet to shove the man away-as was typical of him-, even as Muraki began to explore his mouth, despite his sentiments towards the doctor, complying instead- perhaps it was some twisted sympathy, which had sprung from his prior musings- of Muraki's fate to eternal perdition –that allowed the invasion of his mouth, by his nemesis, no less.
It was with reluctance that Muraki drew away; moments later, and instead, settled upon tracing Tsuzuki's lips, idly, with his thumb. During this, Tsuzuki discovered that his ability to speak, together with the function of his other limbs had been curiously disabled, thus, allowing the doctor to progress with his actions unhindered.
"Did you know, Tsuzuki-san," Muraki said, out of the blue, in a soft, almost intimate whisper, "that besides smoking," here, a devilish sort of grin graced the doctor's aged visage, "you were the only other addiction I could never quite kick?" The grin presently metamorphosed into a dreamy sort of smile, "Both cravings were eerily similar, don't you think? They were bound to be the death of me, eventually, and yet, I could never live without either- especially you, Tsuzuki-san."
As Tsuzuki's overall presence dissipated from the room he was now confined to till the end of his days, he felt the apathy and lethargy invade his being once more, and compelled him to lie glumly upon the bed of white. It sickened him to no end, this, this…certainty of his death: oh, yes, he was to die, despite his earlier ideals- to conquer it and laugh at it in its face. Well, no more.
As was typical of those in his condition, he sighed.
But, at the very least, Tsuzuki's visit had made this all the more tolerable.
A/N: Forgive me if the characters seem a tad…off. (I haven't written a real fic for this fandom for several years already.) Constructive criticism is, of course, welcome.