"The poison is still disrupting your system," he murmured, carding his fingers through the tousled hair. "The healing process has to run its course."
He sighed a little as he rose, taking the too light form with him. Tsuzuki's body was burning up energy and the little he had managed to feed him wasn't enough.
"Do you require more soup?" a gravelly voice asked.
The Count looked down on his only companion in this prison, nodding a little. "Yes, Watson. Make it a strong one. He needs it."
The dwarfish, inhuman creature waddled off and the Count carried his patient back to bed. It didn't take long for Watson to arrive with the strong broth, which he placed on the nightstand.
The Count rested his chin on his folded hands, looking at Tsuzuki, mind going through so many memories.
They had entrusted him with this special person's care because no one else could come close. All shinigami were susceptible to the poison leaking out Tsuzuki's pores. He was no shinigami, and neither was Watson. They were immune.
They trust me to take care of you, he thought. They trust me not to harm you. As if I ever could, Asato. I would never lay a hand on you, whatever perverted pleasure I seek otherwise.
And he had sought many in his damned existence. He had distracted himself with many things, had done what others would call sick and perverted. It was what had convinced him sometimes that he was still alive, that he could still feel. Watson never judged; he was still here, still served, was the only one to talk to when the days grew too long to bear.
"Even if you had given yourself to me willingly," the Count whispered, "I could never ask of you to share this curse with me, Asato. Because you'd be trapped in my misery, my pain. You don't deserve this. Not you."
No one did. He was serving his eternal sentence alone.
"They trust me," he murmured and reached out to touch one lax hand. "And I swear to all Powers that I will not ever hurt you."
###################
Tsuzuki sat in the large bed, leaning back against freshly fluffed up pillows, eyes on the sunny day outside. He felt much better than the day before, of which he remembered very little. Just fragments, mostly tactile sensations of someone touching him, and of a voice. A voice that had talked to him before, had soothed his nightmares, and there was only one who could have been here, he knew. There were only Watson and him and… the Count.
Isolation. Quarantine. Until he was better, until the poison was completely out of his body.
Touda's presence was back, it was weak and wavering, but it was back. If he concentrated, he could feel the shikigami, could touch him for brief moments, and he was held fiercely throughout those temporary interludes. The more he healed, the better the link would become. Touda had soothed him, had told him everything would be fine, that he should just relax, and Tsuzuki followed that suggestion.
His mind reflected back on the voice. On the touches. On the presence that had been there for him throughout the worst nights.
The door opened and he turned his head, looking at the roughly cut half-mask floating in mid air, the white gloves covering long, slender fingers, and he knew that this man had sat with him, had been there.
"Hello, Tsuzuki," the Count said calmly. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," he answered. "A bit tired, but fine."
"Good. If you wish for something to read, I can have Watson bring you a book."
Tsuzuki still stared at the invisible face, something niggling in the back of his mind. "No," he heard himself decline the strangely unexpected offer. "I'm too tired to read, actually."
The Count nodded, not coming any closer, not showing his usual exuberance, and there was very little suggesting that he was leering at the man who was currently wearing a simple white shirt and nothing much else. Tsuzuki had never really known the Count not to pursue him, to take every available chance to touch and make lewd comments.
"Call for Watson if you need anything," the invisible man now said, already leaving again.
"I will."
He tried to look into eyes he had never seen, gauge what was going on, but the Count turned and just left, his movements somewhat jerky and subdued from the little Tsuzuki could see.
See…
He had never seen the man who was taking care of him.
The niggle was back and suddenly he had a flash of strange eyes, warm and caring and loving. Eyes that looked at him while ungloved hands caressed his heated skin. He looked into a handsome, young face, with black hair, unlined by age; a face that spoke of sadness, of love, and of reverence.
He blinked, staring at the closed door.
Had he looked at what lay beneath the mask? If yes… why? Why had the Count taken off the mask? In all his seventy-odd years Tsuzuki had never seen the master of the Palace of Candles for real.
Why now?
######################
He was working; actually doing his job. As much as it was routine by now, it was a routine that was so mind-numbing that it deadened all thoughts, especially of the man still recovering within these walls. The Count stared at the names and numbers, wrote his lines into the book that held all names of the dead, all the people whose flames had been extinguished, and he wrote on.
There was a soft noise, a door opening, and he glanced up, freezing. Violet eyes in a pale, tired face met his own gaze, and he was infinitely glad that he couldn't be seen by Tsuzuki.
"Tsuzuki… what are you doing up?" he asked, thanking the Powers his voice was stable.
Looking at the young shinigami, dressed only in a simple shirt and dark pants, he tried to think of anything but the man before him. He honored his promise; Tsuzuki was Hisoka's partner and he would never touch him again.
"I was alone," Tsuzuki said softly. "And Watson's not exactly the company I was looking for. Why do you evade me all of a sudden?"
The question was direct and the Count sighed softly.
"I'm not evading you, Tsuzuki."
The angel of death walked closer, violet eyes clear and for the first time showing no signs of fever or pain. And they were harder than usual. There was an intensity the Count had rarely seen there before.
"You are. Whenever I visited before, you never let an opportunity go by to… be with me."
"You are my guest," was the firm answer. "You are sick. Your care was entrusted to me because I'm the only one who couldn't fall victim to the poison."
The violet gaze unnerved him and his hands clenched slightly.
"Which is why I thought I would have some company while I recovered; at least I had hoped you'd be there while I was awake and coherent enough, not feverish and barely lucid."
He… knew? He remembered?
An icy cold feeling shot through the Count and he felt the breath leave his body. No, he couldn't have!
"Tsuzuki… I know I left a rather… bad impression on you ever since we met, and I apologize for my behavior," the Count said, tongue leaden, feeling strangely detached by the sheer panic that the other man might have seen him. "I know you and Hisoka are partners, and I honor your relationship. My past pursuits were never meant in any harmful way… I just… it's rare I get visitors and you were such a delightful way to wile away a few moments…"
He stopped, freezing a little. Gods, why was he talking about this?
Tsuzuki's gaze never wavered. "So now you have me as a guest, for days, but you only spent time with me while I was unconscious. Why? If your claims are true you wouldn't touch me now, you wouldn't make me repay my debts."
"No more debts," he answered automatically.
It had been a game, like so much else. It had been his way of being close to his life line. He had wanted to see Tsuzuki again and again.
Both men looked at one another and Tsuzuki's face was hard to read.
"Why?" he asked softly, breaking the silence.
The Count rose abruptly, pushing away from the desk, away from the close proximity of the man he loved, though in no way Hisoka or one of his shikigami did.
"I doubt we have much to talk about," he answered warily.
"You cannot leave this place; all information comes through whatever channels you use. Your life here is… restricted." The words cut into him, delivered slow and measured. "And you want to tell me it doesn't matter if I'm here, able to answer questions, give you a bit of life from the outside?"
The Count started to tremble. "Tsuzuki…"
"I hate to be alone," the shinigami repeated his earlier statement. "I hate to be confined. I wouldn't be able to last in here, without my friends, my shikigami… Hisoka…"
The tremors increased.
"I never understood what this is for you, what this means, that this is your punishment for whatever it was you did."
You have no idea, he thought desperately. No one but Enma-Daiou will ever know.
"But I'm here now and I don't want to spend another hour in that bedroom, staring out the window, hoping I can get a fragment from Touda to keep me from trying to leave this place before the contagion no longer exists. Please… talk to me… don't leave me alone!"
He was in front of the younger man, touching the too pale and haggard face with one gloved hand, shushing him. Drawn to the pain, to the sheer need like a moth to the flame, he wanted nothing more than to calm the waves, soothe the pain.
"You're not alone," the Count murmured. "I'm here. We can spend the time together, as much as you're comfortable with."
A smile graced the tired features. It softened the expression, turned the man who had pierced his soul into the innocent creature that had captured his heart.
"How about some tea?" the Count offered, reluctantly severing the contact he had had with the still slightly too warm skin.
"That would be nice."
He nodded. "Sit down on the couch, make yourself comfortable. I'll call Watson."
It was how they spent the afternoon and when Tsuzuki started to nod off, the Count just accompanied him to the assigned room. He watched as Tsuzuki curled up and fell asleep, and he smiled gently. A smile that no one saw.