Disclaimers: I do not own Yami no Matsuei. It, in all its splendid awesomeness, belongs to Matsushita-sensei, the genius who created it.

Full summary: Tsuzuki x Hisoka. "…and though he seemed so distant and indifferent, I could tell that he loved the man with all of him." A young writer recalls how she, late one night, contemplates her life and how it changed because she was granted one single gift—a chance to see love in its purest form.

Hmm, I'm bored…really, really bored. So what do I do on a lazy afternoon such as this? Usually, I pass the time by simply taking in a languid expression and pretend I'm dead…but since the day is cool and my mind is still somewhat active, I decided to write something. So if you're reading this, be ready to flame me for writing useless garbage. I hope this turns out fine, though I must warn you I have no beta (anyone out there willing to be one?)…

Before you continue to the fic, I'd just like to say a few words. As this is written in the pov of a non-canon character, I know that this will probably be hated or flamed. But I ask you, dear reader (if there's anyone at all!), please be patient with me. At first this fic may seem weird or waaaay out of the YnM scene, but I promise you that everything here revolves around Tsuzuki and Hisoka, and the relationship between them. I just want to ask you to please be patient. A million thanks!

A blessed psalm in the wind

by: Sagiri

   I was sitting in my office on my swivel chair one day, when my older brother came to visit me. It was a great surprise and of course, as expected, I immediately rose to my feet to greet him with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, but he held up his hand to stop me. It had been seven years since he came to see me, and for me, that seemed more like two decades or three. We were the best of friends in our childhood days, and as I stood before him curiously blinking and silently hurting at the same time, he seemed so distant and so unlike the boy I grew up with and knew to be my brother. We stared at each other for a while, both clearly lost in our own thoughts. It was when five minutes of silence seemed to have passed that I finally gazed straight into his eyes.

   "Brother—" I started, but he immediately cut me off.

   "Why didn't you tell me?" he huffed, disappointment spreading across his face.

   For a long moment I stood silent, contemplating on whatever it was that had disappointed him. It was a rare occasion for him to be so uptight—he always was the more cheerful and optimistic between the two of us—that to see that questioning look on his face made my head churn and my insides flip-flop in worry. Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, anxious, and confused at the same time. I took a step forward and was about to ask him what was the matter, when he suddenly pulled me into a tight embrace.

   "You ugly hoe," he began jokingly, "Why didn't you tell me you were writing a book?"

   To say that I felt relieved was an understatement. I thought I had done something so terrible and unforgivable—but here was my brother, trapping me in his strong arms as a boa constrictor would its squirming prey. He let me go, but kept his hands on my shoulders as he looked me over. He shook his head after a minute and proudly grinned at me in such a way that made me remember an event in the past when he stole candies despite having suffered a terrible toothache.

   "Ma petit soeur—my little sister, all grown up now and writing 'world-famous' books!"

   I blushed, pleased and embarrassed at the same time. "Heh,"

   We talked for an hour, both of us very eager to tell each other about what had happened in the past seven years. I listened very carefully as he spoke about his life as an archeologist and the travels he made to exotic places. Then came another pleasant surprise—he was going to be married in seven months to a lovely young Briton he met when he was in southern France. I could tell that he would be very happy in the future, for the young woman in the photograph he enthusiastically showed me was very lovely indeed with aristocratic features and all, and she seemed kind and proper, but had a somewhat adventurous twinkle in her clear blue eyes. She was very attractive, and I could just see them together, for my brother was gentle but strong, and he was handsome and intelligent at the same time. After he told me of what he would do after they were married—live in London and have many children ("Four or five…maybe even six!")—he turned serious and looked at me intently.

   "And you?" he asked. "What have you been up to—I mean, before your success?"

   "Oh, just brushing up on my writing." Was what I wanted to say, but I simply pressed my lips together into an embarrassed smile. I had done nothing at all.

   He stared at me curiously, and when I still said nothing and refused to look at him fully, he gave a laugh. "I don't believe you, sis!"

   Then he fell silent. An uncomfortable silence drifted between us—the first in the history of our lives as brother and sister. I finally gave a sigh and turned to face him.

   "When Maman [1] died," I began, "I felt so empty. I didn't want to do anything but think."

   He leaned back on his chair. Everyone knew that he was the closest to our mother. They were so alike in many ways—she was devoted to science and travelling, deeply fond of adventure and wild juggles. Ever since we were children he always showed a liking for that sort of life—heavy laden with dangerous climbing and ascending and information gathering. I sighed again and shook myself out of my reverie.

   "And the fact that we had to go and live our own separate lives didn't help…and Father was never really there, too."

   He still said nothing, but continued to stare at the floor as if it was something so fascinating. Maybe it was. After all, it was made out of pure marble, and had streaks of baby blue on it that were so light you would have to look closely to be able to notice them. The floor itself was much like a painting—a soft, light abstract painting on a smooth, white canvas. One particular streak caught my eye. It started about an inch away from the tip of my loafer, and ran in a crooked line that somewhat faded in the middle, then began once again with a strong, solid dot and continued on to the other side of the room where I could no longer see it.

   "But I can tell that you've changed." My brother suddenly said, looking up. He too had been watching the same streak of blue.

   "We both have," I silently replied.

   I could see him shake his head from the corner of my eye. "Maybe in the physical and a little in the mental sense, I've changed. But in more important aspects," he paused, as if not knowing how to continue. He licked his lips and bit on the lower one—a habit he had acquired when we were nine. "I don't know how to put it." He confessed. "You just seem so different to me now."

   I wanted to tell him how distant he seemed to me, how much he'd actually changed in my eyes, but the sudden ringing of his mobile phone stopped me.

   "Oui [2]?" He paused to listen, then broke into a smile. "Mais oui [3]!"

   As he chatted away in French I could not help but stare at him in awe. We were born to notable English parents, and though we often travelled to France, we had never stayed there for more than a week, and even his 'information gathering' in the southern areas lasted for only five days. And yet, here he was in my office, speaking with such fluency one would think he was born and raised French. Even I, who had lived in Japan for seven years now and have been studying the language since I was seven, still am, and perhaps, will always remain, impeccably British.

   He suddenly turned to me. "I'm sorry, sis. I have to go."

   I wanted to ask him to stay a while, but instead I simply nodded my head. We stepped into each other's tight embrace and gave one another a kiss on both cheeks, and I silently stood and watched, with my hand grasping the door post tightly, his retreating form. When he stepped into the elevator he kept looking at the patterned floor before him. I turned to leave, but paused. Just before the elevator doors closed, he had looked up and smiled.

~~~ 

   I lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. The air was cool and quiet, the trees immobile in the absence of the wind. Usually at this time of night I would've dozed off completely, but the silence that hung in the evening air only amplified my discomfort—I already had too much in my mind. I bit my lower up and gazed at the ceiling contemplatively. I wasn't thinking really, just going about the random thoughts in my head. Suddenly, without a warning, my body leaped up from my bed, and I soon found myself sitting on my swivel chair in front of my desk in my study down stairs, staring blankly at the screen of my laptop.

   "Do you need anything, ma'am?" a quiet voice came from the darkness.

   There was no need for me to look up; I already knew who it was.

   Albert had been in the family for forty-five years now. He had started to work for mother's family when he was thirty, and had taken on the job as grandmother's driver. Clever but obedient and loyal, he became a very dear friend, and soon became much like an uncle to my mother. I looked up at him and smiled. No words—not even a book written on his behalf—could ever express my gratefulness to him. Naturally, since he was close to my mother, he was also very close to Xavier...even up to this time, I still don't know what propelled him to follow me here to Japan and become my butler. Everybody knew he would've easily chosen my brother over me.

   My smile grew wider. Though already seventy-five, he still looked and acted no more than fifty. "No, Albert. I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

   This was his cue of dismissal.

   "Ma'am," but he stepped forward.

   I looked at him with a questioning gaze. He seemed to be deep in thought. "What is it, Albert? Is something the matter?"

   He smiled and I froze. Ever since I was a toddler, I would always see his gentle, elderly face with a somewhat fatherly smile. But the death of my mother and the constant drunkenness of my father in what would be the last three years of his life wiped out that knowledgeable smile of his, and though he would always keep on smiling as he usually did, mirth never touched his eyes and his laughter. But now…

   "Master Xavier came this afternoon," he supplied.

   Ah, no wonder. He always saw Xavier as a son. "He came to me too, only this morning."

   "That was what he said, ma'am." he took out something from the pocket of his pinstripe pyjama pants. "He told me to give you this tomorrow morning. 'A letter for my dear sister, Albert. Call it a bit of a surprise, if you like'."

   He placed the letter on my table.

   "He said tomorrow morning, Albert. Why are you giving it to me now?"

   He gave a little laugh. "Master Xavier always had a knack for making people think. And knowing him, ma'am…well, why else would you stay up so late?"

   Even without words Xavier had this ability to make people think and realise a few things that often helped them later on. It was no surprise that I would fall prey to my brother's…'mind games'. And usually, when I was troubled or had a lot on my mind, my body would move on its own accord, and I would always find myself up and thinking of something to write about, just like I was that evening. I gave a sigh at that thought. I must be an open book for Xavier and for Albert. Perhaps maybe even to the rest of the world.

   "I know the master must've said or done something, and usually he would take pride in having kept you up so late." he further explained. "But when he came this afternoon he had a look of guilt in his eyes. So I reckon this must be an apology of some sort…or an explanation to whatever it was that caused your puzzlement."

   "You know him too well," it was my turn to laugh. "Thank you, Albert."

   He bowed. "You're welcome ma'am. Good night, please get some rest."

   As he left, I gazed at the small envelope that held my brother's letter.

To be continued...

[1] Maman—mother (French)

[2] Oui?—yes? (French)

[3] Mais oui!—yes, indeed! (French)