The House

by Cherrie

He finally lost it when he was told that he had to let go. Before everything comes down, he sought a way to keep what was his to himself entirely. (Hisoka x Illumi)

Title: The House
Author: Cherrie ( kurapikasama@yahoo.com )
Chapter: 1/1
Genre: Yaoi, Angst (dark fic)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: Hunter X Hunter © Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation.
Summary: He finally lost it when he was told that he had to let go. Before everything comes down, he sought a way to keep what was his to himself entirely. (Hisoka x Illumi)
Notes: Illumi had his share on sadistic possessiveness. It's Hisoka's turn now ^.~ This fanfic is dedicated to those who reviewed Dark Wings of an Angel. Honestly, I didn't expect anybody to review that, so it wasn't disappointing when I didn't have any reviews for a few days. I like dark romance for some reason, though I respect that some people do not. But still, thank you so much ^.^ Anyway, I kind of have this sinking feeling that Hisoka is not completely sane. I love him and all but...really. Gon and Killua might agree with me though ^^;

* * * * *

It was pouring outside, but that didn't stop him from going where he wanted to go to. He didn't even pay much attention to the rain, and he'd just walk without protest even when the wind blew at him mercilessly. He felt his usually gelled-back hair wet and now sticking to his nape and his cheeks, and his hands were all but shaking from the cold. But they didn't matter, just as it didn't matter that he could already see his breaths forming white clouds whenever he breathed out. He was used to the cold. From inside and outside he was cold, and it wasn't the rain that made it that way.

It's been cold around him since the last time he spoke to him.

His steps faltered when he neared his destination. The streets were deserted, and there was no solid structure that graced the area except for an eerie-looking house. The stone wall that separated the house from the grasses of the vacant lots beside it was covered by crawling weeds, weathered and chipped in places, making it all but useful. The black metal gate stood as always, rusted and broken.

Local children dubbed the house as haunted, very much because of how it looked. And that was why he made the house his, so that with the house's dark reputation, he'd be left alone in it. Many of his secrets lurked in the house's very walls, skeletons in closets and compartments that may or may not be taken literally. But unlike the many victims that found death in that house, there was one that stood above the rest.

The old floors creaked as he walked upon them, droplets of water dripping down from the material of his pants and from his boots. He left a wet trail of footsteps, but that was all right, for nobody would follow him here. People say that in this house lurks a deadly ghost, cruel and heartless, and strongly territorial enough to kill anybody who ever stepped upon its threshold. He was the only one who entered this house and survived. Then again, he ought to be.

He was the "ghost".

Territorial, yes. Once he's dubbed something as his, nobody else could ever touch it. Jealous and possessive he was, and perhaps that's the reason why he has killed so much.

After two sets of stairs, he reached the third floor. There was only one room in that floor. It was the largest in the house, and it was his favorite, and he often made it look really beautiful. It was the room he constantly used to think. It was the best room he had, and that was why he placed him there.

Yes, him. His beautiful one with the soft, midnight black hair, the one with the pale, moonlight skin. He whose eyes filled his mind even now, he whose lips were oh so soft and sweet. His was the kiss enough to start a raging war. So much power he held upon the world, and he knew only half of what he could do. He knew not what he had done to him. He knew not that he had been owned, and to give his priceless kiss to someone else is a grave sin cast against the one who owns him.

The man by the door walked towards the one bound on the wall, eyeing the shimmering threads that wrapped themselves upon that slender body. The young one's clothes stuck to him, the dried blood holding them in place. Red and white clashed beautifully, his white skin open and bleeding still. He took great care to do it this way, to prolong his bleeding without hurting him too much. It took a couple of days before he ceased to breathe, and even then, he kept on bleeding.

Looking at him now, he remembered why his beautiful one was here. He was his best friend, the only one he trusted enough to be with him without harm. He was his secret lover as well, always by his side whenever one of them needed comfort. His importance to him exceeded even that of what one might expect from him, their connection dangerously strong, and selfishly possessive.

This house was their meeting place. It doesn't matter which part of the world they were in. After months of separation, they'd know where to look, where to wait. In a way, this house wasn't solely his. It was theirs.

His young lover's hair was soft to his touch. They slid sensuously smooth between his fingers. He loved playing with his hair, luxuriously long and dark. The knowledge that he was the only one who could touch it without being driven away also added to its appeal. His young one, like him, was territorial, and he despised the touch of another up until he found him. He was the only one who could touch him, and he liked it that way.

Which was probably the reason why he was so furious the last time they spoke. That had been their last meeting, though how one would put that description into meaning, he couldn't decide.

I will stop seeing you from now on, were his initial words. Dark, piercing eyes stared at him then, cold and almost uncaring. He stood there, right there on that very window that now trickled with rain, like a prince making a public proclamation. Beautiful like always.

What? Why? He could remember himself asking. He couldn't believe the words he just heard. That, or he didn't want to believe them. In many ways, he has bound himself to the other that to ask him to let him go would be impossible.

In a few days from now, I'm going to get married. I've done what I could to go against it, but I can't completely go against the family. We need an heir, and Killua's still too young. My father's dead, and its been decided that as of now, I am the only one who could take the responsibility.

Like hell he ever cared about that. He never had a family, so he didn't know how it felt like to pledge loyalty to your own keen. But what he did know though, was that this was the moment he's been dreading, if ever he actually feared something at all. It wasn't about whether or not he would come back to him once he's served his purpose. It was the fact that he was his, and to be with someone not him was unforgivable.

He's been told about the practices of that certain family, and whether or not his young lover refused to remind him, it didn't matter. He remembered it, and he despised every minute of thinking about it. Upon marriage, the son must remain with his wife till the end of his days, and to leave her would be out of the question. Why they wanted monogamy was beyond him. Surely it didn't change anything. Love was never an issue with them, so who cares?

But no. His young assassin was just the type to leave him for his family. He asked him to leave them, to run away with him, but he refused. That was his mistake. To make him feel insignificant when he's all but placed in a pedestal in turn wasn't fair. To choose duty over him wasn't fair. He was the only one he has, and he promised to stay by him no matter what happens. A promise made initially for friendship, then for lust, then for something else stronger than both combined.

That was why he was here. A promise was a promise. It could be deadly when crossed. A promise made between them was held down by words coated in blood. His loyalty to him surpassed any sort of betrothal or marriage, that was how things should be. But no. He broke his end of the promise and left him to bleed, cold and alone.

Shuddering from a memory that seemed so distant now, he looked up at the young man again, over and over saying he was so beautiful. He slithered underneath that sleeping face, his hand cupping one side of those smooth cheeks as he licked those ashen lips. They were unresponsive, and yet they tasted so sweet, and memories upon memories of how fiery his kisses were flooded him with illusions enough to savor the stillness of the other's body.

He pulled away briefly, just to scan him up again. This was their fault really. His own fault for being too selfish, his fault for being cold enough to dismiss his feelings as if they were nothing. His beautiful one was an assassin, so for him to be cold is almost expected. But that is no excuse, and he's angry with him because of it. And yet, he missed his warmth, and he missed the way he'd be able to hold him, missed the way he'd let him stay.

Carefully, he cut the sharp threads that held his body, for the first time freeing him. He fell immediately in his arms, lifeless still - and forever will be. He was cold now, like him. No more warmth emanated from his now hard skin, and his beautiful, almost feminine eyes would never open for him to see again.

The water on his hair dripped down still and wetted his face, but the rain isn't the only reason why clear liquid flowed down his cheeks. Leaning on the wall to support them both, he slid them down to sit on the wooden floor. He looked around him. The room was a mess, resulting from their last fight, and he kept it that way perhaps to make him remember his young one's last words.

You're a selfish bastard and I hate you.

No words for apologies now, but it was ironically the perfect time for mourning. He leaned his head on the wall and held him closer. If ghosts were real, would he be there to haunt him? He wished he would. He missed him so. He was alone now, in this house, and he's somewhere far away from him. He wanted to go after him.

His eyes scanned the room again, and far away he saw a single silver pin lying on the ground.

His.

He felt cold.

- End -