1. Slit
T: In which you are treated to a very dark AU which will piece itself together as we go along. Warnings of, AU, angst, dark themes, OOC, slash and other such bundles of fun! Everything in italics is a flashback of some form or another. I own only the bits and pieces that are not canon.
The room was filled with steam so thick that he could feel the muscles in his eyes straining to focus on the objects clutched tightly within his hands. It aggravated him that he needed to pay such careful attention and yet he knew well how clumsy his hands could be, how even the briefest moment of distraction might lead to the blade hitting skin rather than well oiled stone.
Back and forth, back and forth, with each stroke he gets that little closer to attaining the only thing that he had every truly wanted. A spike of anticipation and, pre-empting the resulting tremble of his fingers, he sets his tools down onto the edge of the bath.
A deep inhalation of the steam's faint rose scent is enough to calm his mind once more and, as he sinks his naked body into the all but scolding bath water, he feels his muscles following in kind.
For the first time in ten years he is well and truly at peace with himself.
He allows himself time to saver this sensation and then he reaches again for the blade.
Another pause and then, with a long, confident, stroke, he slits his wrist.
Smiling his first and last true smile he closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable.
There are people talking somewhere to his left, their voices so very distant that, for an instant, he believes that their 'salvation' has come just too late. Yet as their words become clearer and he feels his eyes fighting to open he understands that this is not the case…understands that, once again, his one true desire has slipped free his grasp.
Fighting back the all too familiar mix of irritation and self revulsion he takes a deep, centring, breath, then slides his eyes open.
There are two men at the very end of the bed he is currently occupying, one wearing the traditional white coat of a doctor and the other a well worn suit jacket that speaks of an occupation somewhere in the financial sector.
They are currently engaged in what looks and sounds like a particularly heated debate and, having no desire to be as witness to any further violence, he gently clears his throat.
An instant later the doctor is there at his side a disturbingly chipper smile all but threatening to split his lips.
"How are you feeling, Takeshi-san?" He flinches at the use of that name and, as the doctor opens his mouth to apologise, to make things even worse, he makes a firm stopping gesture with his hand and says,
"I go by 'Hisoka' these days," before gesturing about him and enquiring, "As to the other…I am alive, aren't I?"
The doctor's smile vanishes at that, though whether for the annoyance of being met with a question to answer his own question or because he understands what such a response might mean, he is not yet certain. The latter would mean that this man was a great deal more intelligent than his face would leave to believe; that he would have to tread just that little softer if he was to gain his freedom with any sort of swiftness.
"The answer to that question is no, Hisoka" This last comes from the other gentleman and, fierce yet stunningly beautiful violet eyes ceasing his own, he adds, "You won."
It is the oddest of statements, not simply because it makes no logical sense but also because of the shear strength of understanding contained within it. Never before has someone used such words in such a way and, curious, his eyes stray to the skin at the other's wrists.
The left is just as a wrist should look; all beautifully sculpted bone and taught, faintly tanned, skin. The right is all but shrouded from view by a cheep, faux leather, watch strap and yet, if he strains his eyes just that little bit further, he can see the faint white pigment of scar tissue there against the tendons.
A rush of questions that he instinctively understands can not be asked just yet and a choice that has him instead asking,
"How can that be the case?"
Sighing the doctor flashes his companion a displeased glare before responding,
"This is the ministry of Hades, the institution set up to judge the sins of the dead. My companion and I are Shinigami of the summons department, charged with the task of collection those souls that go missing along the way."
"Then I'm here as a…client?"
"Ah, no…more like a new recruit." The doctor responds, his face lighting into another smile as he extends a hand and says, "I'm Watari and that's Tsuzuki."
Pointedly ignoring the hand he states simply,
"I did not ask for this."
"Perhaps not and yet there would have been good cause for you to have been given this 'second chance'…it's a 'gift' that's not bestowed lightly, after all." Again Tsuzuki has chosen his phrasing with the utmost care and, curious, he enquires,
"It's possible that this 'second chance' can be used as punishment, yes?"
"It's possible, yes," the other responds before adding, "though let's hope that it doesn't prove the case here,"
He wishes to explore that statement more, wishes to drain this intriguing individual for every inch of knowledge that he holds and yet…
"I think that's enough for today you two, it's been a long day for us all and even Shinigami need to recharge their 'batteries' every now and again," the one who had named himself Watari remarks as he makes a deliberate show of shooing Tsuzuki out of the room.
Pausing on the threshold he turns and, smile becoming impossibly wider he says simply, "It was nice meeting you…Takeshi Katsurou," before all but skipping away.
He is certain, simply for the tone that the other uses to utter that name, that there was some pure motivation behind the choice to do as such. Is certain that the other had not truly thought through why he had been so very desperate to keep the air free of those syllables. However, knowing that truth does not stop the murderous rage or the simple want to take the doctor's throat in hand and squeeze. Nor does it stop the hard rush of memories or the dirty, sullied, feeling that accompanies them always.
He wakes to the whisper of a hushed conversation somewhere just to his right and the sharp smell of disinfectant in his nose.
His eyes feel heavy, something that makes it as the greatest effort to open them and the work of what seems like an age to actually get them to work with any sort of efficiency.
At first he can see only white and then harder edges of silver and finally the subtle blending of light and shadows combine together to form the familiar aspects of a hospital room.
The whispers cut off as his conscious state is registered and a brief instant later he is looking into the concerned eyes of his family doctor.
"Do you know me, Takeshi-san?"
Body tensing at that name, at this situation, he cautiously nods his head and smiling what he supposes is intended as an encouraging smile, the doctor then enquires,
"Do you know why you are here?"
"I must have had another of my turns…hurt myself as I fell." The lie is so well practiced that it feels almost as a truth even to himself and yet, for the very first time, the doctor does not accept the story.
"Takeshi-san…Takeshi-san I'm afraid that something terrible has occurred."
There is so much that they have not said to one another, the unspoken words as the thinnest wall there between them and yet…
It has been three years now since first they had met, since they're lives had been bonded together both by 'the job' and that other, unspoken, connection.
To begin with his new partner had been cold and diffident, only speaking to inform him of certain points of legislation or to confirm some small detail of the case they'd been working on. It was a distance that he'd welcomed at first, for he'd had no wish to accept this new reality nor it's permanency in his life.
As the months had rolled on and it'd become clear that he wasn't 'getting free' any time soon his curiosity had started to get the better of him and he'd asked simply,
"What did you mean by what you said that very first day, Tsuzuki?"
His partner had smiled an odd smile and responded,
"If your being here is meant as punishment then you shall never gain the release you so desire."
Somehow something in that statement had lifted a veil from his eyes and, more for confirmation than curiosity, he'd enquired,
"You have no desire to be free, do you?"
"No." Such a simple word and yet contained within it so very much more.
That word, that one moment of total honesty, had been as a bridge and suddenly Tsuzuki was no longer cold nor distant…suddenly he was treating him as a friend, then as a relative and now…
Sometimes he believes he is simply imagining it, that his own attraction to the elder Shinigami is making him interpret things in a manner other than had been their intent.
Then there are the times when the other leans just a little too close, or watches him just a moment more than is necessary…the times when his hands linger or it seems as though just the smallest of movements shall bring them together into a kiss.
It is a maddening, intoxicating, thing and he finds he has no want to break free of it…finds that he has become so very attached to the other that he would rather give up everything than see him hurt.
It frightens him to feel so very much for just one person, not simply because of how vulnerable it makes him but also because of…before…
This is why he keeps quite, why he shies away still from every touch and every moment that might shift into something else.
It is better, after all, that Tsuzuki learns to hate him, abandons him for someone oh so much more worthy.
Better that the other is kept at a distance…
T: I wanted Hisoka's 'true' name to read something along the lines of 'warrior son' or 'victorious son'…though being not Japanese I've had to piece something together from various 'kanji in this name means this' sights!