Respect, or lack thereof
It was just their luck that Yorkshin was the epitome of the urban lifestyle, lively and active at all times, even on the outskirts, even at this ridiculous hour. That meant that any establishment interested in keeping the income of jenny steady was open on a twenty three hour basis. Mister Zoldyck over there in the driver's seat seemed to want to take advantage of this, as he was currently parking what the redhead could now safely assume—now he that had enough clarity of mind to actually think— was a rented car in front of one of the most decadents and luxurious clubs in the city.
Neon lights blinded him after spending so much time cradled by darkness. Countless of working bodies crowded the streets. He could feel the vibrations of man-made noise bouncing against the windows.
A valet approached their car with prudent hesitation.
"Hisoka," Blank-faced Illumi called before stepping out, clearly expecting it would prompt him to follow.
Yoshi-
No. It was Hisoka now.
Hisoka internally rolled his eyes, chasing after his captor's coattails. He climbed out. Night breeze quickly gripped at his legs and arms, waking goose-bumps. He was getting used to that still; the uncharted tides of identity.
Yoshino had been the designation he was collared with when he had been first brought to Sunshine Valley. It was a common name for prostitutes, which had been fitting, given the circumstances. For a while Yoshino had been the mirror he had held up to the world in order to understand it; the sickly boy of exotic eyes and blemish-less legs with a rapid tongue who only knew of forbidden touch, tainted money and soft cries muffled in the dead of night. But that was the extent of his attachment to that name. Waking in the middle of nowhere, nameless and alone, being forced to join an underground organization for survival—none of that meant that he had to be the scrawny, pathetic, breathless thing the greasy headmaster or the handsy guards or the pathetic clients decided he was.
As…for his… traveling companion…
He looked up, a curious gleam contained in the gold of his irises. The man was currently ahead of him, his large strides increasing the distance between them with every step he took. The boy slowed his pace.
If, just if, Hisoka couldn't keep up with the man and he happened to drag behind and accidentally became lost among the crowd, then, what would…
Sandal-clad feet ceased advancing. The braid shrilled like an angry snake as the murderer turned to pin Hisoka with the hollow pits that served him in place of normal eyes.
In a matter of seconds he materialized beside him. "Now, now, this is not the time to be getting funny ideas. Behave yourself." The clutch that surrounded Hisoka's neck was a suffocating vice, completely at odds with Illumi Zoldyck's carefree and relaxed manner of speech.
I'm not a pet, he wanted to growl, exposing every tooth.
His left knee shook, dealing with the aftermath of muscle memory.
…Yes, getting used to that was infinitely harder than anything else he had to confront at the moment. For now, the humiliation of the leash would have to do.
"You kidnapped me," Hisoka hissed through a mocking grin and the bite of fingers around his throbbing nape, "to bring me here? Really?"
Quiet the pressure on his neck seemed to warn, as he was dragged like a particularly unruly dog towards the inside of the club. Hisoka choked on his bitterness, stirred on it in sarcastic silence.
No one batted an eye at the sight of a pre-teen being forced around by a grown up man; the why was clear once they stepped inside. Depravity of all sorts greeted his weary mood, women and men and children entertained the opulent clientele in ways that were not at all new to him, in stages, on countertops, and tables and couches, and he felt as the unwanted touch of fingers turned akin to the burn of a scarring brand.
As they approached the bar, Hisoka raised a hand, gently curving it over the potent pulse beating at the wrist which kept him passive and obedient, forcing onyx holes to part from the obscene displays and deign his presence. His lashes swept down, his gaze narrowed provocatively. Innuendos were caught in the slithering yellow that shone a dozen glimmers of wicked nature.
"Why Mister Zoldyck," his mouth was set on a teasing pout, his voice fell a tad darker, a tad breathier than it should have, "if a taste is what you wanted, you only had to ask."
Hisoka bridged the space between them, and there went his calves, and the balls of his feet, standing, floating above ground, all of his weight distributed to the strain of his toes. He wasn't tall enough yet to be able to look over the man's shoulder, despite his leanness. His forehead still rested far from his intended goal: the spot just below the hollow of a strong throat, where clavicles met, perfect for nestling.
The man who had violently intruded on the false orphanage with murder in his mind failed to provide him with a visible reaction. But Hisoka, if nothing else, was prodigious in the art of luring hidden animals to wander far from foliages, caves and lairs, and he smiled mockingly, dainty hand of untrimmed nails and poorly disguised cigarette burns coming to rest on the murderer's heartbeat, uncaring of the echoes of familiarity that plagued him as the scene became clearer: his forward posturing versus the reticent airs, the nasty glare of teeth and the firmly set mouth, the mischievous twinkling and the unreadable immensity, the shared breath, and the tension knitted deeply into his muscles, waiting for the inevitable break.
His reaction might not have been visible, but it was felt. Hisoka was in for a neck full of bruises, for sure, if those fingers were to continue digging as though they ached to be every sinew and nerve traversing it. The boogeyman's heartbeat in turn was too calm for it not to be a carefully devised response.
That hand, which had killed dozens upon dozens, struggling against him, and that rhythmic tune, which must have picked up at some point during his night hunt, solemn beneath his touch. And it was familiar, somehow. This paradox.
"You never know when to shut your mouth."
You know me.
Hisoka inhaled stale smoke, citrus perfume, acidic sweat and a deep primal smell, which could only be that of blood, occult underneath the other scents' pungent dance. He felt stuck again, in the car, an unnervingly hot caress on the underside of his knee.
He made to say something—will you teach me how?—but a needling sensation fell upon his nape and slashed harshly through the moment, rupturing it like an angry child throwing a temper tantrum over a subpar drawing, ripping the paper in half.
He turned, not noticing the rapid shift that pupil-less eyes did before he even conceived the thought of moving.
The jut of his hipbones hitched in recognition, insect-like paws itched at his thighs, ankles caved in under an unimaginable pull. Richard, his brain provided unhelpfully. Beady eyed, soft-spoken, closet-sadist fucker who had caused him more bone fractures than he could count on two pairs of hands.
He was looking at Hisoka now, from the other side of the room, a scarcely dressed girl on his lap, planting kisses on his disgusting jaw, and a naked, blue haired boy between his legs, performing what he himself had been obligated to do barely five days ago.
Fingers let loose, his skin rose, draped in shivers, and the threatening prints left on him resonated, like afterimages of echoing memory, screaming abandonment.
"Stay here," Illumi Zoldyck ordered with his brand of tranquil emptiness, and Hisoka could only stare owlishly at the broad rigidity of his shoulder-blades as he began to follow the trail of breadcrumbs towards Richard, deadly efficiency drafted onto each of his movements, as if he couldn't afford any of them to go to waste.
All of the previous tension was instantly forgotten.
He was—
(the courtyard littered in body parts, bloodstained grass feeding from the eerie brushes of midnight dew, the soft exhalations of velvety cologne coming from the ghost of a scar beneath the man's ear, where he had breathed unevenly against, as he was held in the unbreakable shackles of solid arms, carried through the infested cemetery of his keeper's own making)
Hisoka was forced to suck in his conflictive emotions. The volume of their hollering decreased and among them, resolve fought tooth and nail to prevail.
Right then, he should have heeded the calls of his curiosity, stayed and determined what Illumi Zoldyck wanted with that man, what business did they have together that was urgent enough that Illumi would risk leaving Hisoka alone, unsupervised. He should have shrugged off the warning and eavesdropped anyways. Followed the figures that quickly beelined for the entrance of the club, after Illumi leaned in and whispered something in Richard's ear, draining any semblance of lividness at being interrumpted from the businessman's face. There were many things he should have done, but instead, he preferred to toe the line of adrenaline, the one he had forsaken in the car, submerged in dread, controlled by fear, and his choice was made under the influence of his desires.
Thus, he ignored the command. He did not stay. Whatever happened, he was bound to find out.
Hisoka slipped through the breaches in the mingling pool of drunkards and dancers and executives and mafia heads and workers as swift as a passing rumor. Limbs crooned at him from time to time, demanding attention; he avoided them, slid around obstacles with laughable ease, his steps light, and the spring in them hurried.
His captor (or rescuer, depending on the perspective) did not follow.
It was not that Hisoka believed he had any real possibilities of escaping.
However, he was eager to know how far he could push before he was forced to retreat.
The answer, in the end, was fifteen minutes.
That was also the amount of time it took him to get over from one end of the club to the other. His roaming about endless, badly lit, emptied and decaying corridors finally set him on the right track, and he soon found an escape route. He turned a corner, darkness at his heels, and there it was.
The green fire exit sign beckoned like a victory chant at the end of the narrow passage.
A distasteful purple light bulb coughed in and out of functioning, hanging perilously from the ceiling by a gnawed slip of thread.
Silence ran amok on this side of the club, it was the kind of silence that deafened and swallowed the rest of the senses. The ruffled laughter and high-pitched moans had faded at the exact instant the chic décor transitioned to the shuddering apparel that characterized run-down buildings. Granted, he understood why anyone would choose to loiter somewhere with better lighting, relatively pleasant smells that weren't that of piss, animal droppings and humidity and mold, and far from horrifically painted walls that didn't look like they were rotting from the inside, crawling with rats and cockroaches alike. But he was testing, experimenting, and he really didn't have a choice on the matter of locations.
His heart on his mouth, already weary and fed-up with the oppressive atmosphere, Hisoka's legs drove him towards the door. He rested five spread fingers on the rusty surface, while the other five descended to hover cautiously over the knob.
Anxiously, he kept the oxygen resting within his lungs at bay.
Creak.
The hinges of the door shrilled and the sound reverberated throughout the lonesome corridor like a drawn out scream.
From mouth to navel, that was how far his heart fell.
Hisoka's sneer solidified on his lips, a last protective measure against the chilling energy that crept in through the slight opening of the door. It was like it was reaching, this obscure entity, bestowing appendages to the blackness.
The head leaned in first— popped inside with the abruptness of a bursting balloon—, a pale blob of effervescent brightness attached to what seemed like an abnormally elongated sweep of neck, negative strands fabricating a nebulous halo around it, deformed eyes immense and bleak in the sparse illumination of the hallway. Close second came the peaks of spidery knuckles as they curled over the door, fingers slowly drumming tap tap tap a smidgeon above the desperate push of Hisoka's own.
There was a drop of blood on Illumi's chin, very red and very odd-looking. Some of that gore inclined oddity could be glimpsed too lining the tender flesh protected by the cover of nails. Hisoka was certain that this was all intentional; for someone who had walked off a slaughter site without a tear of red on him, sloppiness was not allowed to be anything other than deliberate.
He wanted him to see. Wanted him to be aware of what had become of Richard's fate.
A humid silhouette in the shape of the readhead's hand was left on the door, glistening, as his palm slid down the chipped painting, and the boy stepped back, eyes unrelenting in their pursuit of the man's every move, calves sticking to the filthy wall on his right at some point in his retreat.
The door shut closed, the rest of Illumi's body swooshed in like a rash gust of wind.
"Were you going somewhere?"
He sounded pleasant, perhaps even cheerful, compared to his usual inflection. One skeletal digit casually rubbed at the incriminating splotch on his face as he talked. After he was done Illumi held the finger up to eye level and detachedly examined the copper coloration on the pad.
His chin was still smudged with residues of blood, and it looked like he was wearing the stain of crimson lipstick instead.
"Nope, Mister Zoldyck. The thought didn't even cross my mind." Hisoka said innocently, shoulders cringing inwards. "I was just scouting the place." He flashed a smile, dimples twinkling.
In an obvious attempt at deflecting the attention from his actions, the boy wondered aloud, "And where were you? What where you doing? I was starting to get bored, all by myself."
Illumi's lids winked like the ones on a doll would, "Ah, is that so? I was not expecting it would take me so long. I must admit I got carried away."
Otherwise he would have caught up with him sooner, was the underlying message.
He lifted an arm, and as he did, dark tendrils appeared to awaken again, curling, twisting, seething—reaching. Hisoka's pupils dilated, observing its progress as it neared.
"He was disrespectful beyond belief. So much that his proximity alone was sickening. Some people need to be taught the meaning of respect. But spoiled and rotten individuals like that man require a more… permanent reinforcement. Their behavior cannot be enabled without eventual punishment."
Wait. Respect?
Hisoka's eyes duplicated in size.
From all the reasons, all the motives he could have had for doing it, he had murdered Richard out of some need to enforce a distorted ideal of respect? This, from the very same man who had dragged him around and—
Ha!
Well, that was just—
Unbelievable.
The arm froze in the air, phalanges tingling, millimeters away from enclosing his bare shoulder, startled by the sudden combustion of mirthful cackles flowing from the boy's bent form, "Pfffft! Haahahahahaha!"
Gold squinted gleefully, forearms plastered to the curved bow of Hisoka's stomach while he laughed wholeheartedly, genuine joy climbing out to infect their surroundings with the same load of mirth.
"How amusing! What an amusing person you are, Mister Zoldyck!"