Terazuma took a long drag on the cigarette, relishing the flood of nicotine through his system before exhaling into the warm night air.
He could hear the lively polka playing in the ballroom from this balcony, and Yuma cajoling another hapless shinigami into dancing with her, and was thankful to be away from that nonsense, if only for a few minutes. Much as he loved Kannuki and wanted to be able to do anything for her, he didn't see the point in dancing at parties. Dancing was something you did because there was a prize at the end of it, either a trophy or someone in your bed; and since he already had the latter and had no need of the former, the way he saw it, he had no need to dance.
"Think I could bum a cigarette?"
Well, that voice was unexpected. Terazuma turned to see Kazuma approaching his place by the balustrade, a lopsided grin on her lips. She looked more catlike and predatory than he'd seen her before, and knew it wasn't just the slinky dress that hugged her athletic curves and the man-eater hairdo. Stop it, Hajime. You do not find Kazuma Shin attractive. Think of Kannuki, for crying out loud!
But it was just a cigarette. "I didn't think you smoked," he said as he tapped one to the top of the pack. "I guess I always figured you for some sort of health nut."
Kazuma sighed, eyes lingering on the cigarette the whole time. "I used to, when I was a teenager and didn't care about leading a long, healthy life. Then one day I got serious about my future and decided to quit, just like that. Never looked back. I guess it didn't matter in the end, though, did it? The cancer-sticks didn't get me, but I died young just the same."
"It's Shungei, isn't it?" Terazuma asked as he lit Kazuma's cigarette. He hadn't intended it, but he supposed there was an unspoken apology in there somewhere.
"Ah," Kazuma affirmed. Exhaling a stream of smoke, she leaned her elbows on the balustrade, not seeming to notice or mind that she looked like she was going to fall out of her dress. And how was it Terazuma had never noticed her resemblance to Shungei before? No, must have been the possession altering her features ever so slightly—
"No one really tells you just how much of a give-and-take this possession thing is," she said absently. "Maybe if they did, no one would ever want to take on a parasitic shiki. I've been finding myself itching to do or say a lot of things lately that I'm pretty sure didn't come from me."
"The rage is the worst." Now that she brought it up, Terazuma saw how his daily existence had changed since he'd been granted his freedom. How easily things rolled off his back that once he would have found unforgivable. "Shikigami experience everything more intensely than humans. It takes a while to get used to it."
"That explains why I've been either tearing up or wanting to punch something for no good reason," Kazuma nodded. "It's been a roller coaster of emotion, for sure. I might have to get back into yoga because of this. But I have to say the worst part is not being able to touch the one person you really want to."
Terazuma couldn't argue with her there.
"You're fortunate in that regard, you know. You and Kannuki can finally be as intimate as you wish."
"Yeah," Terazuma snorted. "That's why she's been off dancing with Tsuzuki half the night and I'm out here on this balcony, pouring my heart out to someone who hates my guts."
Kannuki had looked good, too, in a formal gown of banana-yellow chiffon whose skirts seemed to hang suspended around her when she twirled into Tsuzuki's arms, as if she were dancing on the moon. The last straw had been seeing their sensual rhumba to "This Masquerade." (Or was it a cha-cha? Terazuma only knew a little about the differences from those dancing shows on TV.) After that, he just had to get out of there and lose himself in the warm, nonjudgmental embrace of a cigarette. I'm not going to be jealous, Terazuma had been telling himself all night; but of course he was, and of course he wasn't going to do a damn thing to rectify it.
Kazuma chuckled beside him. "You think I hate your guts, huh?" In the ballroom, a slow waltz started up, and she straightened, pinched out her butt and flicked it into the bushes. "Dance with me, Hajime."
"What?! Uh, for your information, I don't dance. And if I did, don't you think I'd be on the dance floor with Kannuki as we speak? No offense, but just 'cause you snogged me in the library doesn't mean I'm suddenly into you."
"Don't be a dumbass," Kazuma snorted. "I'm not the one who wants to dance with you. She does. And you know she's not going to take no for an answer."
Her newly fiery eyes met his in a hard stare, and Terazuma stood transfixed. For the moment, Kazuma ceased to be and it was Kokushungei standing before him, petulantly expecting him to offer his hand. Yes, Terazuma knew all too well that what Kitty wanted, Kitty got.
But. "You're not going to fursplode on me if I touch you?"
"I don't think it works that way. Besides, she really misses you."
"We never did get to do things like this before, when we were sharing the same body."
Bracing himself for the explosion nonetheless, Terazuma reached for Kazuma's hand and pulled her into his embrace. He felt stupid moving to the music, might have even said so out loud, but Kazuma just laughed. He wasn't her first choice of partner either, that much was obvious, but Terazuma knew from experience that when the Black Lion inside you was at peace, you were at peace. He let Kazuma lean her head against his shoulder, almost putting up his hand to hold back horns that weren't there, and surrendered himself to the rhythm of the waltz and the hot-coal heat of her against his body.
"She wants you to know she's sorry she ever let you go. She didn't mean to, but she's sorry she wasn't strong enough to hold on to the bond you had." And was it Terazuma's imagination, or did he hear tears in Kazuma's voice when she said that?
He didn't think she'd like it if he checked, so he pretended not to notice. "I'm sorry, too. Maybe it's for the best, though. I mean, the two of us were never that compatible to begin with. Not like you two."
That was a loaded observation if Terazuma ever made one. He kicked himself for it as soon as it was out. He didn't know how he would have responded if someone had said the same thing to him when he was newly possessed. So he didn't blame Kazuma for not saying anything for some time.
"I hope he didn't think I was sticking my nose in where it didn't belong, but even if we've only been partners for half a year, I feel like he ought to at least know I'm looking out for him. I mean, I guess technically we're ex-partners now, so it's not like I have this huge obligation to him anymore, but the guy he's with is my ex-partner, so I do know a little bit about what I'm talking about. And I get it, I really do. Tsuzuki's special. There's just this . . . aura about him, you can't help wanting to help him."
Natsume had hazy but happy memories of helping Tsuzuki figure out how to work the office printer, back in the good-old days of dot-matrix printing and continuous-feed paper reams. (Kids these days were so spoiled by technology.) In that first week, Tsuzuki played the lovable fool with a generous heart, taking Natsume out for sweets and tea to thank him for helping an "old man" adjust to the changing times.
But all that changed when Natsume got himself possessed. Sure, looking back on it now, nearly twenty years later, Natsume would be the first to admit he was careless. But how could he guard against that which he didn't know he was vulnerable to? Ignorance of danger was no excuse in Tsuzuki's mind. Whatever sympathies he may have harbored for his partner dried up. He didn't forgive, and he didn't seem to care who overheard when he argued loudly for Natsume's removal as a shinigami.
"That's where he gets you, though. It's like he just sucks you in with his charisma, so when he turns on you, the second you mess up, you're not prepared for it, you've got no defense for yourself. That's all I'm trying to tell him. Just, you know, guard your heart a little. Don't let him dictate to you how you have to be in order to do your job well. That's just a reasonable piece of advice to give a person who had your back, right? Or was I out of line? Do you think I overstepped?"
The rokurokubi wiping glasses behind the bar just stared at Natsume and answered neutrally: "Would you like another?"
Natsume demurred with a wave, and the youkai bartender's head floated over to a guest who had just sat down at the other end of the bar, connected to his body by a long, snaking neck.
That was when Natsume's phone rang. The Eagles' "Witchy Woman."
"Hello, gorgeous," he answered without thinking. "You know, you're missing one hell of a dead man's party."
He heard Kira hesitate on the other end. "I'm sure. Did you just call me 'gorgeous'?"
Natsume winced. "Too soon?"
"A bit. But I'll let it slide this time. Something more important's come up."
Natsume didn't like her tone. There was something ominous in it. And as much as he would have liked to be on such terms with Tsukiori Kira as to receive social calls from her, he knew that definitely wasn't the case this time.
So he stepped away from the bar, finding a quiet corner where he could hear her better and not be overheard by too many others. "What is it this time? Another demon making and breaking pacts in the Living World?"
"If only it were that simple," Kira sighed. "I'm afraid this time it goes a lot deeper than that. I just wish I had some proof to back up my suspicions with. All I know for sure is that Ashtaroth and her followers are gearing up for something big. I don't know what or when, but I've received enough cagey answers from her most trusted officers that I'm certain it has something to do with Tsuzuki, or Muraki Kazutaka, or both. She's even holding a mortal woman in her custody, who—to make matters worse—appears to be carrying Muraki's child."
"You mean Sakuraiji Ukyou?"
On the other end of the line, Kira paused. "You know of her already?"
Natsume brightened. "We know all about Dr. Sakuraiji! And you'll be glad to hear she's not in Hell anymore. She's here in Meifu, alive and unharmed! One of our Peacekeeping officers who was being held captive over there with her broke her out and brought her here."
"Then it's worse than I thought," Kira said. "Look. Despite whatever she or this Peacekeeper might have told you, I don't think Sakuraiji escaped. One does not simply walk out of Pandemonium. Someone must have let her go."
"But why would any demon do that? Can't be out of the goodness of their heart if they don't have one."
"Then whoever broke Sakuraiji out must have done it with Ashtaroth's knowledge. Maybe even with her consent, or express orders. No one would dare to defy her will when so much is at stake. At least, no demon who expected to live very long afterwards."
"But Ashtaroth wants that baby like nobody's business. That's her babe with the power. If she let Sakuraiji go, then . . ." Then it hit him. Like a bucket of ice over the head. "Oh. Oh shit."
"Indeed. You've got to warn Peacekeeping that they need to beef up security in preparation for an attack."
"Uh, that's going to be a hard sell." Natsume rubbed the back of his neck, even if Kira couldn't see the gesture. "I'm afraid Peacekeeping is none too happy with me right now, after that little fiasco with Zepar in the library with the candlestick. And a few other things I've done in the meantime, now that I think about it. They aren't going to want to listen to me if I say it's a fine day, let alone that the King of Hell is planning something as stupid as attacking Enma-cho!"
"Well, you're just going to have to find a way to make them listen, aren't you?"
Keijou stood at the door of the Hall of Candles, knowing he was not supposed to be here alone, that he should not have stayed behind when the tour group moved on. The Count would be displeased if he found Keijou lingering here. But Keijou was one of Dr. Sakuraiji's appointed guardians, his presence in this mansion a matter of national security. What could the Count do, other than issue Keijou some harsh words and a slap on the wrist?
Once here, it was difficult to step away again. The glow of the candles mesmerized. The sheer number of them, overwhelming for the mind that tried to grasp the multitude. So many lives dancing like tiny stars on their wicks. So fragile, so easily snuffed out—
Stop it. You would never think that. That's an evil thought.
In his mind, he could hear laughter. But it was not so clear whether it was his own. Surely he would not laugh at the thought of innocent lives extinguished beneath his hand.
"You're an agent of death." The words just seemed to fall from his lips, in Keijou's own voice. He shook his head. Why had he said that? But he couldn't stop them, as though they were being pulled from him, extracted from him. "It's only natural you feel this urge. To take—"
Keijou clamped a hand over his own mouth, and to his relief, the words stopped. At least there was no one to hear him. Everyone else was too busy enjoying themselves at the party.
He should have been enjoying himself, too. After tonight, he should have been one step closer to his goal of avenging his partner's demise. Instead, he found himself anxious and bitter. And restless. Tsuzuki was here, under the same roof as Ukyou. And now he had all the Count's most prized possessions, objects of enormous power, practicallyat his fingertips.
He had to get out of this room before he did something he regretted, something that went against all his vows. But the candles called to him, teasing him to just reach out, just pinch out one flame, as if speaking to him through the devil's susurrant tide of breath at his ear—
No. This can't be happening.
But it would explain everything in one neat little package, said the voice inside his mind. His own voice, but warped, clouded, like his reflection in the fogged mirror. Did you really think you could fool yourself that you were immune? We had a tit-for-tat, remember? Quid pro quo, Mr. Keijou?
A memory of the kiss he shared with Focalor surged to the fore of his mind, as though he were being forced to remember something he had begun to think was just a bad dream. The foul taste of the devil's tongue had Keijou doubling over, almost retching. Just recalling it, he could feel it slithering down the back of his throat—
It wasn't his tongue, you idiot! And Keijou had walked himself right into Focalor's trap.
He wanted to vomit then, but knew it wouldn't do any good. It was too late. Had been the moment he stupidly agreed to do the devil his one, little favor. Keijou should have known. He must have known what was happening, in the back of his mind, he'd just kept telling himself that nothing was wrong—
I can see now why Sargatanas was willing to risk all for a shinigami body. Anything would beat wasting away in that rotting corpse. But this! This endless energy—like a perpetual motion machine. . . . With this vessel, and my powers, I feel as though I could do anything! Even achieve my vengeance on Tsuzuki, at long last.
Keijou couldn't help himself. The devil's hatred of Tsuzuki was so much greater than his own, he reveled in it, felt drunk on it. Consciously, he knew he didn't have reason to hate Tsuzuki this much, not even for Agrippina's demise. But he didn't care. This hate was intoxicating. It fueled him. It touched him like a cruel lover and made him want to do anything to have more, even fall to his knees and swear anything.
But relinquish control of his own body? No, he was still a servant of King Enma, a Peacekeeper. He couldn't—
He found his hand going to his sidearm, raising it before him. Down the sight, a single candle, its flame flickering in blithe unawareness that its fate was in Keijou's hand, in the twitch of his finger on the trigger.
"Wait!" he hissed. "Don't do this!" The shinigami part of him dug in its heels, as best it could. This was blasphemy. It was murder. He would be put on trial, publicly condemned, obliterated—no, more likely sent back to Hell, as a mortal soul this time, with specific instructions for his eternal torment.
Only if you're caught. But these walls are thick. No one will hear the gunshot. No one will ever know it was you.
"It's a life! Please don't make me—"
My, so principled all of a sudden. . . . Well, then. You know what to do, don't you?
In the end, it wasn't a choice Keijou made consciously, or even out loud. Clearly resisting was vanity anyway. It would only bring more pain, either for him or someone who didn't deserve it.
When he felt the force that gripped his body release, he almost dropped the pistol in relief. But as he replaced it in its holster, he hated himself for giving in, even if he had only chosen what he believed to be the lesser of all evils. Even the promise of seeing his revenge concluded could only dull the guilt and fear so much, like a drug whose effects he had already become inured to.
Keijou spun for the door, before the devil inside could use those candles to his advantage again. "If we're going to do this right, there's no sense being in a rush. And no more mortals get hurt. Least of all Sakuraiji."
I wouldn't dream of it, Focalor purred.
In the meantime, Keijou would return to her side, to check that nothing had happened to her since he took this break. He wasn't sure how long he would be allowed to remain in control of his own body.
Hisoka wasn't sure how long he would remain in control of his own body.
The ginger ale that was supposed to calm his stomach so far seemed to be having the opposite effect. Though, to be fair, Hisoka's problem wasn't physical. Not entirely. The slithering feeling inside may have dulled, but the pressure was still there. Like a change in altitude when his eardrums refused to pop. Or a lingering dread like there was something important he had forgotten to do. He felt clammy and wasn't sure what, if he threw up, would come out: the little bit of food he'd eaten at this party, or the yatonokami.
The music and the crowds weren't helping one bit, either. They blurred together and spun round and round in his mind, making it hard to focus. Occasionally Hisoka thought someone was talking to him, but he'd whip his head around and discover it was two people talking to one another across the room. Was he starting to hallucinate? Did it even qualify as an hallucination when the voice inside your head was very real?
This is only going to get worse. You've got to see that now. The more you try to tamp this thing down—
Shit. Was that his own thought or the snake's? He couldn't even tell anymore!
But he felt the truth of it. That the more he tried to resist, to deny what he carried inside him and bury it deeper, the more conscious he was of its power, its hunger, its demands. They just kept floating back to the surface. How long could he keep himself under control?
You only have yourself to blame for your suffering. But you hold the power to end it in your own hand. You could feel so much better. Like a whole new man. You know what you have to do—
A hand landed heavy on his shoulder, and Hisoka spun beneath it, for a split second terrified that it too was a product of his paranoid imagination.
"Watari." He breathed a huge sigh of relief, heart still hammering away. "You scared me half to death."
"Yeah. Likewise, Bon. That was quite a jump there." His concern was clear in his eyes, just as it had been in his touch.
Behind him, Tatsumi was studying Hisoka through his glasses, and Hisoka had the strangest feeling that the secretary was trying to peer inside him, to the shadows of his soul.
"You okay?" Watari was saying. "You don't look so hot. And I don't mean in your usual can't-stand-crowded-places sort of way. I coulda sworn I saw you over here by yourself, giving yourself what looked like a pep talk."
Great, Hisoka thought. Now he looked like an insane person, too. Because he had no doubt that what Watari saw was correct, though Hisoka had no memory of doing it. "It's nothing," he said, waving his empty glass.
Which Watari snatched out of his hand with no resistance. "Bon, have you been drinking?"
Did he even need to ask? Didn't they know how much Hisoka hated alcohol? "It's just ginger ale. Natsume said it would help my nerves."
Watari gave the glass a sniff. "Right. Ginger ale. Emphasis on the gin. Exactly how many of these have you had?" Looks like me and Natsume are gonna have to have a nice little chat, he projected.
Suddenly Hisoka couldn't speak. Everything caught up with him in an instant in the presence of a soul he could confide in, and, to his immeasurable relief, Watari and Tatsumi hurried him into a private room before he could completely break down in front of the other departments.
"What's wrong?" Watari said gently as he sat Hisoka down. "Are you in pain? Is it the energy of this place? You want me to take you home?"
"He's calling me," Hisoka managed to grit out.
"Tsuzuki?" said Tatsumi. Doubtless thinking of the connection they shared.
But Hisoka shook his head. "Yato—"
His throat seized in a swallow, as if the snake didn't want him to say its name. But what he did say was enough. Watari glanced back over his shoulder, and he and Tatsumi exchanged a look of silent alarm. "When did this start happening?"
"A couple weeks ago, I guess?" Hisoka wiped his cheeks, and was surprised to find them wet. "Ever since I got back from Gensoukai. But it's gotten much worse since Tsuzuki's been back."
"You think he has something to do with it?" Tatsumi said.
"No." Of that much, Hisoka was certain. His empathy and feelings for Tsuzuki might have exacerbated things a little bit, but "It's me. It's entirely me. Ever since I summoned him in the Imaginary World—"
"Wait a minute, you did what?" Watari's eyes flew wide. "What do you mean, you summoned it? Like a shikigami?"
"I allowed him to come through and share my body." And couldn't they see that Hisoka didn't need their judgment right now? Couldn't they at least try to keep their thoughts of reprimand to themselves? "It was only temporarily. I needed Yatonokami's power to help me with Kurikara. I didn't think I would survive the fight otherwise."
"You mean you allowed it to possess you," Watari said.
"Why didn't you tell us this before?" said Tatsumi.
"Bon, what were thinking! I mean, obviously you were up against a dragon—but I'm talkin' 'bout after! Didn't you know you were setting a dangerous precedent? Did you even consider it might be irreversible?"
Hisoka would have been lying if he said that hadn't occurred to him at that time. He'd thought about it extensively the morning before he confronted Kurikara. Rikugou had ultimately convinced him it was his best option for success, but Hisoka still bore full responsibility for trusting in his logic.
"Of course I thought about it," he said. "I did what I thought was best at the time. It was my soul, my choice."
"Perhaps," said Tatsumi, "but that choice affects all of us. If you can't control it—"
"But I thought if I worked with Yatonokami instead of against it, I would be better able to control it! That's what should have happened. Now it's had a taste of freedom and it wants out. I can feel it pressing on me constantly, like I'm going to . . ."
"Explode" was what he had been about to say, but his gorge rose instead, and Watari, in his quick thinking, managed to get a china vase into Hisoka's lap just in time. No doubt it was an antique. The Count wasn't going to be happy when he found out about this.
Watari, however, looked a little relieved. "That's just the alcohol," he assured the other two, patting Hisoka's knee. "You should start to feel a little better now."
"You should have told us about this," Tatsumi said, clearly meaning Yatonokami's possession. "We could have helped you—"
"And done what?" Hisoka sobbed. "I'm stuck with this monster no matter what I say or who knows it! You can't exorcise it because it's a part of me. There's never been a time when it wasn't a part of me. And now I'm afraid if I give it even the tiniest bit of control I'm going to lose my body to this thing, and be shut up in my own mind like it was shut up inside me all these years. That's what it wants. For us to switch places—"
He couldn't trust himself to speak anymore. Just voicing that fear brought the very real possibility of it down hard, and his body started trembling and there was nothing he could do about it. He curled up, his fingers tight in his own hair, just willing the nightmare to go away and knowing it wouldn't.
Watari must have thought he was crying. He withdrew his hand from Hisoka's knee, and set the vase aside on a table. Even so, Hisoka could feel his helplessness, and his pity. Watari hated it when he could find no solutions to a problem.
"Kurosaki," Tatsumi tread cautiously, "I know this isn't a good time, but we need your help with a small matter."
Hisoka nodded his assent but didn't look up. Maybe if he could get his mind on something other than his own personal hell . . .
"Tsuzuki seems to have . . . well, disappeared. Wandered off, I should say. No one's seen him leave the Castle, but Peacekeeping is anxious that he isn't accounted for, which means Chief Konoe is anxious—"
"Which of course makes the Count very anxious."
"What about Wakaba? She was dancing with him last." Hisoka didn't mean for that to sound so resentful. It was just that each word felt like a chore to get out.
Watari exchanged a quick glance with Tatsumi. "We already asked. She hasn't seen him since he said he needed a break and wandered back in the direction of the buffet. No one's seen him at the buffet either."
"We thought you might be able to use your connection to locate him. Just to set our minds at ease that he's not causing trouble. If you're feeling up to it, that is."
Tsuzuki was lost.
He might not have admitted it out loud, but there it was. He thought when he started out on this little adventure that he remembered the layout for this part of the Castle, but now that he was here, none of the rooms looked familiar.
He stopped to mentally retrace his steps. He was pretty sure this wasn't the enchanted part of the Castle, but it was entirely possible the Count had redecorated since the last time Tsuzuki had been in these halls, or that his memory was faulty. The low gaslight in the wall sconces wasn't helping his sense of navigation any, either. Either way, he had let old habits get the best of him and had probably drunk too much for this.
Maybe he should just forget all this and head back to the party. According to the Count, the Kiseki wasn't here. And it would have been foolish of Enma to allow the book to be kept under the same roof as the candles of the living. The real thing was probably somewhere within the offices of the Judgment Bureau. Most likely close to the throne, where no unauthorized personnel was going anywhere near it.
Tsuzuki's hopes sank at the thought. Even if he somehow managed to get close, Peacekeeping wouldn't rest from persecuting him until he had a minder much less generous than Hisoka. He was certain that Todoroki, at least, would prefer to see Tsuzuki on a physical short leash rather than just a metaphysical one.
And yet, he needed to get to that book. He couldn't explain why he wanted it so badly, not even to himself, but he wanted it just the same. Wasn't even sure he wanted to use it, just knew he had to have it in his hands, in his possession. He wouldn't feel any peace until he did.
Well, if the Kiseki wasn't here, there was no use continuing to look for it. Tsuzuki was about to return to the party—when he heard footsteps approaching down the empty hallway. Crap! If it was Watson or one of his coworkers, Tsuzuki could probably deal with it, BS his way out, but if it was anyone in a Peacekeeping great coat. . . .
And speaking of coats, damn but Tsuzuki was getting hot in his wool tuxedo jacket. Normally by this point in the party he would have ditched it. But the sweat tickling his back was the least of his concerns, now that he was moments from being caught out where he had no right being. Tsuzuki held his breath, waiting for the person to reveal themselves. But the footsteps stopped. All he heard was the pounding of his own blood—
"My dear Tsuzuki, what on earth are you doing up here?"
Naturally, of all the people to run into up here—alone—Tsuzuki had to run into the Count. He resisted the instinctual urge to spin around at the sound of that voice behind him. It would only have made him seem guilty. He was confident he could play his way out of this one, if he just kept his wits about him.
When he turned, it was with the most innocent and embarrassed grin he could muster. "Count! Boy, am I glad to see you. Sorry to wander off from the party. I was just enjoying a glass of good-old hospitality and thinking, I seem to recall the Count having some more excellent ports than this in his collection, he must be holding out on us. So I figured—really stupidly, now that I say all this out loud—that I'd go down to the wine cellar and help myself—"
"Tsuzuki. My wine cellar is in the basement."
"Yeah. I know that. Where else would a cellar be?"
"Then what are you doing on the second floor, wandering about my personal offices?"
The Count pressed the back of his gloved hand to Tsuzuki's forehead. Not that the problem wasn't painfully obvious just from looking at Tsuzuki, or being close enough to smell his breath. "You have been enjoying my hospitality. A little too much, it seems."
"I'm fine," Tsuzuki insisted. With a shake of his head that, despite his protestations, was a really bad idea in hindsight. The hallway tilted, and he staggered to catch himself—which only helped to sell his innocence. "I can more than handle myself—"
"Yes, you seem to have a certain way of handling yourself at my parties. Usually involving a pile of your clothes on my ballroom floor by the end of the night?" Tsuzuki could hear the Count's grin, even if he couldn't see it. He was at least sober enough to tell the man was getting a laugh out of this. "You must be pretty deep into your cups if you can't even tell your upstairs from your downstairs, though. Honestly, you'd think I would know better by now and ban you entirely from the champagne. It goes straight to your . . . Well, I was going to say head, but that always seems to be the most adversely affected organ, doesn't it?
"But you're absolutely right about the port. Quite astute of you," the Count said with a touch of pride. "Mr. Tatsumi may be a man who can identify a fine vintage when he tastes it, but the way he goes through the stuff like it was water, I must say, strictly between the two of us, I often feel as though I'm being taken advantage of."
He neglected to mention, of course, that Tsuzuki was an even worse offender. "No, I think you have him just about pegged."
"What do you say we go down to the cellar together and treat ourselves, hm?" So saying, the Count put one invisible arm around Tsuzuki's waist. The better to support him, of course. "Just one glass of port each. Maybe two, in honor of Mr. Tatsumi. But we mustn't take too long at it," he added with a lascivious chuckle, "or someone might send a search party after us."
He made to go in that direction, but was taken aback when Tsuzuki planted his feet and stayed stubbornly where he was. "Well? Aren't you coming?"
"Actually, Count, I thought maybe we could stay right where we are."
He could feel the weight of the Count's stare through that half-mask, trying to figure Tsuzuki out. "Why don't we find somewhere you can sit down, get you off your feet." He even seemed to laugh, just a little. As though something Tsuzuki had done or said was new to him, unnerving to him.
At the Count's confusion, something cruel seized hold of Tsuzuki, and he pushed the other up against one of the decorative tables that lined the hallway. The Count may have been invisible, but the mask could not disguise the mass of his body from Tsuzuki's touch. Tsuzuki could feel the plushness of a tuxedo beneath his fingers, and a formal starched shirtfront like what men often wore to the dance halls of his lifetime, stretched across a toned, middle-aged frame. It was a bit strange, to know that he had a solid body under his hands, but in the mirror mounted on the wall behind the Count, Tsuzuki could see only empty air in front of himself.
That, and the hollow back side of the Count's mask.
"Tsuzuki, what are you doing?" The humor had all but left the Count's voice, in its place a warning.
One Tsuzuki ignored. "Oh, I don't know," he said while he traced invisible lapels between his thumbs and forefingers, fascinated that the tips never touched. "I guess I was just thinking about what you're always saying, about how I never pay you back for all the loans you've given me over the years. And I thought maybe . . . maybe I could begin paying them back tonight."
He felt the Count's breath quicken under his hands, knew the man knew exactly what Tsuzuki meant. Still, he stammered, "Really, Tsuzuki, I don't care about the money. Look around you. Do you think it will hurt me if I'm never reimbursed? Call it a gift rather than a loan."
But Tsuzuki shook his head. "No, a deal's a deal. I said I'd pay you back, and since you said, if I had nothing else, I could pay with my body—"
"It was a joke!" The Count forced a laugh. "I wasn't really suggesting that you should prostitute yourself!"
Sure, a joke. Tsuzuki could feel, pressing against his hip, just how much of a joke it actually was to the Count. And he took some courage from that. "You sure seem like you mean it," he said, dropping his voice to a murmur as he leaned into that invisible, but very solid, eager body. "I feel the way you watch me, thinking that because you're invisible behind that mask I won't know what you're really thinking. What you really want—"
"Tsuzuki, that's enough." The Count grabbed his jacket in both hands, tried to break out of his hold.
But Tsuzuki wouldn't let him. He circled both arms around the Count's waist and locked his hands together, refusing to let go. The Count could squirm in his hold all he wanted, could claim with all the sincerity he could muster that he wasn't into this, but the more they struggled against one another, the more his body betrayed him and proved Tsuzuki's point.
How could the Count possibly retreat and claim it was all a game now, after decades of innuendo and confessions of affection? Tsuzuki knew better. He'd been around enough men like the Count to know when the weight of a hand or a joke was not merely play but expressed genuine desire. And it was a rush, to know that in being desired, he wielded such power over another. If a heartfelt look and a plea was enough to convince the Count to give him money, what could Tsuzuki get him to promise for a night in his bed?
Not that Tsuzuki intended to go that far. For the supposed second-most-powerful man in Enma-cho, the Count was an easy mark to play after Muraki. "How can you say 'enough,'" Tsuzuki asked him, "when I'm offering you exactly what you've always wanted?"
Whatever protestations the Count may have been about to give, they were thrown to the wind when he crushed his mouth to Tsuzuki's. His gloved hands slid up Tsuzuki's back, grasping at his shoulder blades, desperate to hold him close.
But Tsuzuki wasn't going anywhere. He leaned into the kiss, returning urgency with patient exploration. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find, but the lips that kneaded his were flesh and blood, with breath behind them, breath that tasted of sweet wine. The hair Tsuzuki ran his fingers through was cut and styled much like his own. His thumb brushed across an ear that wasn't pointed or otherwise grotesquely shaped, but was indistinguishable from a normal human ear. He might have been a demon, but the Count felt just as human as Tsuzuki did, with no obvious deformities to hide from the public. So why the mask?
Tsuzuki could contain his curiosity no longer. For so long he had ached to see what was under that mask, to know what this eternal secrecy was all about. It only took a gentle tug and the mask came away from the Count's skin, deceptively light in Tsuzuki's hand.
Suddenly visible, the Count gasped and let go of Tsuzuki, raising his hands to his own face. But in vain. Tsuzuki had already seen enough.
His feeling of triumph died the moment Tsuzuki saw the Count for what he really was, and turned to incredulous defeat inside him. As if some sadistic god had reached down and rent him in two with a touch and he hadn't yet realized it, Tsuzuki could only stare at the impossible visage in front of him. Wishing to God his eyes were playing tricks on him, but knowing that they weren't. Fate had to be this cruel. "It's . . . it was . . . you? All this time. . . ."
The Count still covered the side of his face where the mask had been, but it did him no good. "Tsuzuki," he choked while, with the other hand, he reached for Tsuzuki. "Give me the mask."
As if those words broke a spell, Tsuzuki remembered how to move then. He recoiled from the Count's reach, and not only because he could not give the mask back once he had taken it.
He had to get away from that face. That handsome, disgustingly familiar face.
He barely heard the Count calling for him to wait, begging to be given a chance to explain. He hardly noticed the stairs as he flew down them two and three at a time, somehow in his desperation to escape managing not to trip and tumble down the whole flight. He could already feel tears of shame burning behind his eyes, emotion or bile or both rising in his throat, but he had to get out of this godforsaken Castle first, before he could begin to allow himself to stop and think about what he knew he would never—no matter how much he wished it—be able to forget.
Hisoka wasn't sure what had just happened between Wakaba and Terazuma, but the former was pissed. And leaving in a hurry, swinging her shrug violently beside her. Terazuma walked fast to keep up, insisting all the while that something wasn't what it looked like and also didn't mean anything. "If you would just stop for a minute and let me explain—Kannuki!"
Was it wrong that Hisoka felt a little bit better knowing he wasn't the only one having a shit time at this party?
"Any word yet on Tsuzuki?" Hisoka said as Konoe and Tatsumi wove through the crowd toward him.
"Not yet," said the latter, "but I told the Count what you told me. He said he would take care of it."
Feeling much improved the more he sobered, Hisoka had decided to rejoin the party with the others. Yatonokami had quieted somewhat, as if all Hisoka had needed was to share his worries with another soul, but he could still sense its restlessness beneath his skin. He always would, he supposed. It was just another new reality to get used to.
"Thank you, Kurosaki," said Konoe, saying nothing of what Hisoka had shared with Watari and Tatsumi about his personal problems. Perhaps he still didn't know. "I hope you didn't feel like we were asking you to inform on Tsuzuki. Only, if I didn't assure Todoroki that we had the matter under our control—"
"He might have put the whole Castle on lockdown until Tsuzuki was located?"
Konoe looked at him sideways, as if trying to decide whether his mind had just been read or the Peacekeeping chief was simply that predictable. He cracked a smile.
Though his words were bitter. "I wonder if Todoroki doesn't wish Tsuzuki was still out there somewhere, unaccounted for. He certainly enjoyed being in command. Always did. But he forgets, when he oversteps his bounds like he did when he sent his agents to arrest me, who's really in charge here."
"Enma seems to have no trouble turning a blind eye to his overreach."
"Enma forgets nothing. Neither, for that matter," the chief added pointedly, "does the Count," and it was clear to Hisoka then that that was whom Konoe had been referring to as the one in charge.
"Hey. Kurosaki. You're Kurosaki, ain't ya?"
Hisoka turned at the new voice and saw a man in a business suit with tie sloppily pulled undone coming toward him. Hisoka had seen him around before, he recognized the man as a new recruit in the Peacekeeping department, but other than the fact that the man looked enough like Terazuma to be his older brother, the face wasn't ringing any bells.
He was obviously shitfaced, though, and after everything he had already been through tonight, Hisoka didn't think he needed this to top it all off. "Can I help you?"
"You don't recognize me, do ya?" Imai said. He snorted, and it turned into a snarl. "'Course you don't. You intentionally withheld critical information from a police investigation, so why would you recognize the guy you killed—"
"Wait, what investigation?"
"Kumamoto, last fall? The fuckin' Livertaker murders? Shit, you really don't remember, do you, kid?"
It came back to Hisoka all in a rush. So much had happened since that case, he thought he could be forgiven for forgetting a mortal detective who had interviewed him once while he was undercover. Though the dead detective's outrage told him otherwise. It was an egregious enough offense that Hisoka had lied to him and thereby obstructed justice. Hisoka didn't think the detective would buy his explanation that Hisoka had to do it in order to keep his shinigami identity secret.
"I remember," he said. "But what are you doing here?"
"I'm dead, asshole! Isn't that obvious? I'll give you one guess as to who's responsible."
God, the guy was projecting like crazy. Hisoka remembered being angry and scared over his own death when he was new to the Judgment Bureau; but feeling that intense rage from someone else, while being the target of it at the same time, was a different experience. Added to which, the horror of Rikugou's explosion, the inferno zooming toward him with no time to run, no time to hide or even think about anything but imminent death—
"That's right," Imai nodded when he saw the understanding come over Hisoka's features. "You summoned that bird that went off like a nuclear fucking bomb, and it wiped me and half a city block full of innocent people out in an instant! I bet you never even stopped to think about the lives you were destroying that night, did you?"
How can he say that? Of course I thought of them! But could Hisoka really say he felt weighed down by the guilt of their deaths? "It was an accident. I never meant to—"
"Which just makes it all the worse, doesn't it? You bit off more than you could chew, unleashed something you knew damn well you couldn't control, and I was left paying the price for it! I had a partner," Imai growled through his teeth, "a family, a career—a life—and you took that away from me, you stuck-up piece of shit—"
That was enough to convince Konoe and Tatsumi, who had been listening from the sidelines, to step between Imai and Hisoka before the former resorted to fisticuffs.
But he was right. Hisoka couldn't deny that he was absolutely right. He deserved every epithet the detective could throw at him. He should have felt more guilty than he did for what he had done; this condemnation was a just start.
"Hey! What the hell is going on here?" Kazuma shouted as she ran toward the commotion. She broke Imai away from Tatsumi's grasp and shook him hard herself. "I leave you alone for a little bit and you go and confront the person responsible for your death? You don't just do that!"
Thankfully, she was precisely who Imai had been wanting to see, and his beef with Hisoka was just as quickly set aside. "Sempai, thank god! Where were you? I saw something, I wanted to tell you right away—"
"Another premonition?" Kazuma sounded alarmed, but Imai assured her, "It hasn't come true yet."
Premonition? Another one? What's this all about? But a sudden commotion at the top of the stairs grabbed their attention before any more could be said about it.
Hisoka felt even before he saw Tsuzuki coming down. Pushing his way through the crowd, he went to intercept his partner and ask him just where he had been all this time.
But the look of utter distress on Tsuzuki's face, even more than the wave of jumbled emotion surrounding him, stopped Hisoka dead. Tsuzuki wouldn't look at anyone around him as he flew down the last flight of steps and straight toward the exit. But he was aware of the attention he'd grabbed. Don't look at me—stop looking at me like that! As if you were all so much better than me. . . . I wish I could just disappear. This can't be happening, it can't. . . .
Before Tsuzuki barged through the front doors and out into the night, Hisoka saw him wipe his cheek on his tuxedo's sleeve. He'd been crying. And for that reason alone, Hisoka knew he should go after him. Bad things happened when Tsuzuki was left all alone in that state.
"Tsuzuki, wait!"
All eyes turned to the man who rushed to the mezzanine of the grand staircase and, seeing his quarry had already escaped him, froze in his tracks. In an immaculate tuxedo, complete with white kid gloves and a medallion at the hollow his throat, he was clearly a guest of the party, not to mention a striking individual of enormous presence. But Hisoka was sure he hadn't seen the man about Enma-cho before. Perhaps in his mid-forties, with an aristocratic poise and noble lines to his face, and the crimson-purple eyes of a demon.
When he saw he had the entire party's attention, the man compulsively raised a hand to cover one side of his face. Hisoka could feel the stunned silence fall over the room, like a sudden change in pressure, the moment it dawned on the other guests they were looking at their host, the Count, as he truly was, for the first time.
"Get out," he growled at the crowd, like a wounded and cornered animal.
But everyone was too stunned to move.
"GET OUT!"
The gas lamps flickered and dimmed, as if they too wanted to obey his order; and for a second, something of the demonic nature within came through the Count's aristocratic features. His anger was like a pulse of negative energy through the ballroom, and it was warning enough to make everyone suddenly quite eager to leave the building.
But it was the shame it carried with it that caught Hisoka's attention, in the moment just before the Count swept back out of the room, covering his face, a troubled Watson hurrying to catch up.
"I guess this party is over," Konoe sighed.
"Someone should go after him," Tatsumi said, meaning Tsuzuki. "I don't know what that was about, but it couldn't have been good. We cannot let Tsuzuki vanish again—"
"Leave it to me," Hisoka said. He didn't need Tatsumi to finish that thought. He knew Todoroki and his agents would be only too willing to institute another manhunt.
"You know where he's going?" said Konoe.
Hisoka didn't exactly, but "I can feel him." And he held up his wrist for illustration, upon which the lines of their connection glowed silver-blue. "I'll catch up and stay with him, make sure he can't get into any more trouble."
"Maybe you could find out what in the world he's just done while you're at it. I've never seen the Count so angry. Hell, I've never seen the Count at all." By the sound of it, Konoe was still having trouble believing he just had.
"Are you sure you don't want company?" Tatsumi asked, probably thinking of Hisoka's own emotional breakdown earlier that night.
But Hisoka shook his head. "Tsuzuki might be more willing to confide in me if I'm by myself. Right, Chief? Besides, we've known each other this long and we're still partners. I can handle his moods."
"Keep me informed," Konoe said. "The last thing Tsuzuki needs is Todoroki thinking he's gone rogue again and sending his whole department out to search for him. I should have warned the Count this party was a bad idea. It's just too damn much too damn soon."
The bond between them led Hisoka back to his own apartment. But when he arrived and turned on the light, he found the place empty.
Which was odd. From everything he had been told, it should have been next to impossible for the spell that bound him to Tsuzuki to be tricked or tampered with. Maybe Hisoka just hadn't interpreted the signal right. Or maybe Tsuzuki had come to his apartment, but promptly teleported somewhere else that just hadn't caught up to Hisoka yet.
He went to the kitchen sink to get a drink of water and try to clear his head, when a sound like a small animal moving around got his attention. I'm pretty sure I don't have rats. . . .
When he turned to face the living area, he started, because there was Tsuzuki, sitting on the floor slumped against the sofa, in his crumpled tuxedo, as though he had been there the whole time. He must have been. Hisoka would have heard, or at very least felt, anyone entering after him. So the binding spell hadn't lied; but why hadn't he seen Tsuzuki until now?
Then he caught the look on Tsuzuki's face, the familiar despair, the silent desperation. Hisoka wanted to reach out, to put his arms around Tsuzuki and comfort him like his partner would have done for him in a heartbeat if their situations were reversed.
But he stopped himself. "What are you doing here?" The question came out barely more than a whisper. Something wasn't right. With Tsuzuki—with any of this. Hisoka just couldn't say what. "You just let yourself in?"
"I'm sorry, Hisoka." Hisoka's heart broke to hear the self-loathing in Tsuzuki's voice. Back again—but then it never truly left. "I didn't know where else to go. I didn't think anyone else would understand."
Now he regretted being so harsh. "It's okay. We were all worried for a second that you might have run away on us again. I'd much rather find you here. Even though a heads-up that you were coming over would have been nice."
He pulled out his phone and started typing, which earned him a worried sound from Tsuzuki. "I'm just letting the chief know I found you and you're safe," Hisoka explained.
"Please don't tell him where I am."
"He doesn't need to know that. At least not yet."
Tsuzuki let out a breath of relief, albeit a ragged one. "I thought about running away again. But it's not like there's anywhere I can go now. And besides, you'd just find me again and I'd be in even more trouble than I am already. I knew everyone would want to know what that commotion back at the Castle was all about, I just . . . couldn't bear to face any of you right then. You know how that is, don't you?"
It was his eyes that finally pulled Hisoka to his side, when he raised them. Shining and red-rimmed with tears shed until he had run out.
"Tsuzuki, what did happen back there?" Hisoka said as he knelt down beside him. His senses screamed at him that this was a delicate situation, he should tread accordingly, but he had to know. "You ran out of there like you'd just been given the worst news of your life. And when the Count came out after you, he wasn't hiding his face from us. I could feel his anger, it was so strong, and . . . his hurt, like you'd betrayed him. . . ."
Tsuzuki wouldn't face him, instead staring into some memory inside himself that Hisoka, despite their bond and all his mental prying, wasn't privy to.
And it worried him. It made him think he was going to lose Tsuzuki all over again. The one time Hisoka wanted to feel what Tsuzuki was feeling, and of course his partner was a blank wall to him.
Hisoka swallowed down his own fear, pressed on, gentler, though he suspected he already knew: "If the Count did something to you, I'll never forgive him. I don't care if he is some powerful demon or the second-most-important guy in Enma-cho, I'll file a formal complaint on him. Get Watari to spike his Darjeeling or something." Neither one had the stomach for humor at that moment, though, and Hisoka could have kicked himself for trying to lighten a mood he had no right to lighten. He just felt so impotent at that moment, and hated it. "I just can't stand it when you let him harass you—"
Then Tsuzuki opened his hands and Hisoka saw the Count's mask staring back up at him. He half-expected to hear the Count's voice suddenly issuing from it. It seemed so surreal, for it to just sit there like an inanimate thing. A cracked remnant of something already long broken, yet radiating powerful magic even as it rested in Tsuzuki's palm.
There had to be a reason the Count was so protective of the mask. It couldn't be just for the anonymity it provided him. It must be a relic of enormous importance. And what did Tsuzuki go and do so soon after coming back to Meifu, knowing he was on probation, but pull a stunt as blasphemous as this. "Tsuzuki, what have you done?"
"It's my inheritance, Hisoka."
"What?" But even as the question was out of his mouth, he knew what Tsuzuki meant. Just didn't want to believe it—couldn't let it sink in, couldn't let it be true—
"You think I stole it," Tsuzuki said, "and that I'm going to be punished severely for that sin. But is it a sin—is it really stealing, if this mask was always meant to come to me eventually? If you think about it, I'm just claiming it sooner rather than later."
Tsuzuki turned it in his hand as though he were examining some long-forgotten artifact from his childhood. "I know why Enma chose me now—"
"No." Hisoka didn't want to hear it. As if that could stop it from being true. "There's no way you can be sure, unless he actually said—"
"He didn't have to. The second I saw him without the mask—the second I looked in his eyes, and saw they were just like mine, I knew. And he didn't deny it. He couldn't, not without lying, and demons are terrible liars." Tsuzuki's voice grew small, like it was far away: "It was so obvious, Hisoka, funny how obvious it was, really. Like looking in a mirror, if a mirror could show you yourself twenty years older."
He turned to look at Hisoka, and Hisoka couldn't continue to deny it. Those purple eyes . . . He had been surprised to see the Count's were so similar, though he had told himself, desperate to downplay the similarity, that their color was just a mark of a demon, nothing special about it.
"You know, something about the Count has always felt nostalgic to me," Tsuzuki confessed to him. "I could never explain it, it was just a feeling I'd get in his presence. Like being dandled on the knee of someone whose face I could never remember. My mother always said he had eyes like mine. My father, I mean. She never kept any pictures of him around the house. Now I understand why—"
The last words Tsuzuki barely got out before fresh tears welled up, and his face contorted in a pained grimace. Hisoka didn't think then, just reached out and drew Tsuzuki to himself, holding his partner to his chest as the sobs came.
Tsuzuki shook against him. His tears wet the front of Hisoka's shirt, and his arms went around Hisoka's waist, holding tightly on to him. It was another moment before Hisoka realized he was crying as well. The tears poured silently out of him, wetting Tsuzuki's hair beneath his cheek.
Hisoka wouldn't have been able to say for sure whether it was Tsuzuki's emotions soaking into him that moved him, or his own sympathy for Tsuzuki. Probably both. He could imagine how traumatic it must have been, to discover the invisible presence Tsuzuki had worked for the past seventy-five years had been his father all along. And all the Count's cruel jokes and flirting, his inappropriate touching and obsession with Tsuzuki's body, could not have made the revelation any easier. As if it weren't hard enough for a person to understand that they were half demon. Did the relationship between parent and child have to be so twisted, so corrupt, as well? Maybe Hisoka should have counted himself lucky, to have had a father who wanted nothing to do with him.
If anything gave Hisoka strength in that moment, oddly enough it was the knowledge he had of his own conception. We're alike, you and I, he wanted to tell Tsuzuki. You're not alone. I have a demon in me, too, so I know how this feels. It wasn't the same, but it wasn't all that different either. Not in any way that mattered. Ever since Kyoto, Hisoka had felt certain he and Tsuzuki had been given to each other as partners for a reason. He'd thought he understood that reason, but he had known only a small part of the whole story.
Only now did he discover the buried truth. No one else could understand what it was like to be part demon, and to come out of it stronger and more human for the knowledge. Enma must have foreseen this. He must have known that they alone were qualified to comfort one another.
So Hisoka didn't shush Tsuzuki, or try in vain to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Tsuzuki had never done the same to him, had never lied to him or downplayed his feelings when he knew it would not help the pain. Hisoka just held on, and let Tsuzuki cry against him, cling to him, and tried the best he could to project a sense that Tsuzuki was not alone. Now wasn't the time for Hisoka to confess the truth about himself; but he could show Tsuzuki that he was loved, no matter what he was or whom he came from. That this pain, too, was something they shared. And Hisoka would gladly take Tsuzuki's share of the burden on to himself if Tsuzuki got tired of carrying it.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Tsuzuki's head, and felt Tsuzuki start to relax in his hold. A sigh instead of a sob against his chest. A squeeze of gratitude. "Thank you, Hisoka."
"I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done for me," Hisoka whispered.
Tsuzuki forced a laugh. "You'd be surprised how few people would be willing to do that, though. For a thing like me."
When he said "thing," Hisoka felt nuances of "trash," "beast," "abomination." A monster that should never have been suffered to live. How to make Tsuzuki understand that none of those was new to Hisoka either? He wanted to wipe the hate of those words from both their souls. "You're my partner," he said. "But more than that, you're my friend. Seeing as I've never had many of those, that isn't a word I use lightly."
Even then, "friend" didn't really cut it. Tatsumi was a friend. The Gushoushin were friends. Even Saya and Yuma, though they drove him nuts, ought to be considered in the same category. Hisoka didn't want to think of Tsuzuki as just a friend anymore. Tsuzuki was . . .
Unique. Dearer than the rest.
Essential. And beloved. Cherished.
Wanted.
Tsuzuki pressed his face into Hisoka's dress shirt, and Hisoka thought of telling him off for wiping his snot on it.
Until he realized that wasn't what Tsuzuki was doing. And it was his mouth that Hisoka felt pressed against his shirt front, Tsuzuki's breath hot against his chest. Tsuzuki's fingers spread out against his back, as though his hands might gather more of Hisoka into themselves by doing so.
When Hisoka realized what he was doing, he froze. This wasn't a dream, not a devil-induced hallucination. This was really happening. Tsuzuki raised his head so he could press his lips to the side of Hisoka's throat, and Hisoka could not delude himself that those were anything other than kisses. What had he done to give Tsuzuki the idea that this was appropriate right now? Or was it the long period of absence that had brought this on? Until this past week, Tsuzuki had been careful not to force his affections on Hisoka. He had always recognized that, because of Hisoka's past, this was a dangerous line to cross.
Now everything had changed. And though anxiety quickened Hisoka's pulse, he couldn't say he didn't want this, so he did nothing and Tsuzuki's mouth moved closer to his.
When they finally met, it was hardly anything like the kiss Hisoka had given him under the cherry tree. A different sort of pleasure warmed his belly, darker and more tangled than that morning. Heady and addicting, and for that precise reason, terrifying. Hisoka's grip on Tsuzuki's jacket tightened, at first to push Tsuzuki away, but then to keep him close. Despite the fear, he wanted more, and wasn't sure if this desire was his own or Tsuzuki's, but it didn't seem to matter. Hisoka had to pull away eventually to catch a breath, however, and he tried to explain, "Tsuzuki, I don't know if I—"
"You've always been so kind to me, Hisoka." Those murmured words cut him off, dragged Hisoka's will down with their depth of feeling. "Even though I don't deserve it. I never tell you how much I appreciate it."
Let me show you, his mind whispered to Hisoka's. And Hisoka might have shivered at the promise in it, if his stomach wasn't currently doing flip-flops inside him, and if Tsuzuki's hand on the back of his neck didn't feel so much like a restraint. His mouth was on Hisoka's again, but Hisoka couldn't find it in him to protest.
The feelings were overwhelming: the pressure of those lips, the possessiveness of Tsuzuki's hands, his emotions. More than anything else, his emotions. He didn't bother to shield them from Hisoka now, and Hisoka wasn't entirely sure anymore that he didn't want to feel them. He felt like a passenger along for the ride in his own body, a sponge soaking up all Tsuzuki's affection for him, which was anything but professional, or the sort of affection that friends or brothers might feel for one another. There was desire there, carnal but also tender, desperate and frightening and exhilarating all at the same time. How did a person even begin to respond to so much stimuli, coming at him all at once?
In the back of his mind, Hisoka was aware of being lowered to the floor. It didn't seem like he had much of a choice, but he welcomed the press of Tsuzuki's mouth along his jaw and throat, heavy and warm, his partner's hands sliding down his body. Wasn't this what he had wanted, in his guiltiest dreams and in the dark corners of his mind that Zepar had illuminated for him? This wanting had been hiding inside for such a long time, in both of them. Why wait any longer? Why not surrender to it?
Tsuzuki managed to get his hands under Hisoka's shirt, and the drag of his fingertips was shocking against Hisoka's bare skin. His knee between Hisoka's thighs and the dizzying surge of anticipation that came with it left Hisoka gasping for breath. He wanted desperately to enjoy this, like any normal human being with a normal upbringing would. He wanted so much to be able to give himself up to the moment, to the pleasure of the friction, the intoxicating warmth of being desired by someone he loved.
He didn't want the memories to come, at that moment or any other, but they did. Rushing back, all on their own.
Muraki's hands on his bare skin, writing the curses that Tsuzuki's fingers now unconsciously traced. Everything about him an intrusion, a wedge splitting Hisoka apart from himself. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. If he didn't stop this now, he didn't know what was going to happen. He could feel it starting again. The prickling under his skin, the slithering in the gut, the pressure building within. The terror of losing control. . . .
"Tsuzuki—wait—" He tried to push himself up, to escape the leg between his own.
But Tsuzuki wouldn't let him. He grabbed Hisoka by his trouser braces, pulled him back down and toward himself. Pushed Hisoka's knees apart. Panic rose inside Hisoka at finding himself again in that familiar, vulnerable position. He could feel Tsuzuki's state of arousal even before his partner pressed against him, ashamed that his own body's reaction wasn't doing much to help his case. "I can't tell you how long I've wanted this," Tsuzuki said, sliding with purpose against Hisoka's erection, jutting into his pelvis. "But you must know that already. The way you've always teased."
"W-what're you talking about?" was all Hisoka could think of to say. He wasn't doing anything—that was the problem!
"Come on, Hisoka. You have to know what you do to me. You're the empath, after all. You can't tell me you didn't want me to feel this way." Tsuzuki's teeth were at his ear, his fingers at the buttons of Hisoka's trousers. "You've been practically throwing yourself at me since I got back." Tsuzuki laughed, a desperate puff of breath against Hisoka's skin. "It's weird, like you're in my head, but I like it. Like it's my first time, all over again."
So Hisoka was projecting, and not even on purpose. A feedback loop, Zepar had called it. But it seemed to Hisoka more like a spiral, looping downward faster than he could ever hope to climb up out of. Desire was magnified until it burned like a furnace, and Hisoka couldn't tell anymore whether these feelings were his own or he was just channeling Tsuzuki's back into him. The pleasure of Tsuzuki's touch only reminded him that Muraki had given him pleasure too, to go with the pain. So that Hisoka couldn't say he was blameless in what happened. More pleasure than he could bear. . . .
Yatonokami was relishing this. Hisoka's heart was in his throat from sensory overload, but the snake within him was expanding, unwinding with anticipation. The sound of Tsuzuki undoing his own fly was different from that night beneath the cherries, and the same. He tugged at Hisoka's trousers hard enough to pop the buttons off the braces until they came down off his hips, and Hisoka was pulled bare-assed down the rug, hoisted into Tsuzuki's lap.
He did fight back then, pushing Tsuzuki away with a strangled "Get off me!" and grabbing for his own pants, struggling to get them back up again. What are you doing? Don't! The protests in Hisoka's head should have been his own, but they weren't. Not entirely. Hisoka couldn't believe it, that to Tsuzuki it was as if Hisoka was the one taking something precious away from him. "This is moving too fast, Tsuzu—"
Tsuzuki took Hisoka's wrists in his hands and slammed them back to the floor, pinning him there. It wasn't so much the force of it that shook Hisoka breathless as it was the unquestionable will. The refusal to listen to Hisoka's protest. And the cold distance that came over Tsuzuki's eyes that Hisoka could only describe as inhuman. Monstrous.
"I need this, Hisoka, I need you," Tsuzuki said through his teeth. How could Hisoka tell him to stop now, everything in him seemed to beg, when he was the one who started this?
But I didn't! Hisoka wanted to shout back. At least I didn't mean to. His wrist burned and he tried to twist it away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the marks of the binding spell flaring—as well as the scars of his curse beneath it, disappearing up his sleeve. And he could feel the pleasure coiling inside Tsuzuki—not the same pleasure that had started this, but a sadistic joy at Hisoka's discomfort, at his fear, slithering through Tsuzuki's soul like a worm.
Hisoka knew this jealousy, this twisted, spiteful wanting. He had felt it when Tsuzuki was possessed by Sargatanas. Only it didn't belong solely to the devil. Hisoka must have known that all along. That there was something inside Tsuzuki, buried so deep down that it took a possession to bring it back to the surface, that was every bit as evil as Tsuzuki always claimed he was, and Hisoka always denied he was.
This is where Muraki got it, he thought, hating himself for thinking it and hating Tsuzuki that it was true. He really was no different from Muraki. The same sickness festered in them both. Like son, like father. The only difference was, this time Hisoka was dead, and he didn't have to lie there and let the night of the lunar eclipse happen to him all over again.
He teleported out of that place. And when the dark conference room back at the Summons office materialized around him, and the oppressive weight of Tsuzuki's body and spirit were gone, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and wept.
He just prayed the locating spell only worked one way.