Author Notes:

I sat down for breakfast this morning and the first paragraph flowed out of my mind. So I wrote this despite the pending chapter for Wing. *crouches from reviewers' glares*

A reflective piece on Hisoka's thoughts and personality as his body language tells. I make up most of the body language in fact, =P but the reflection is what I'm after. I know at least one fact is incorrect according to the original manga, but it fits really well that I don't want to change it. ^^0

Hints on Tsuzuki-Hisoka, very repetitive writing style, implied background stories (this is set after St. Michel) and a lot of nonsense. Very mild angst and hopefully a little fluff.

Antithesis

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Often he will sit with his back straight, so he will seem every bit as tall as his static physique can stretch. So he will not fall asleep in the middle of work. So he can watch Tsuzuki across the pile of paper on the man's desk.

Sometimes he will not bother. They already know how small his figure is, how young. His fatigue will slump his shoulders. Tsuzuki will say he's too serious, too tense, and Tsuzuki will come over anyway.

Often he sits just on the edge of the chair, barely resting his weight on that piece of support. It is simply out of habit: the need to get up quickly at the call for their assignments, the ingrained aversion to touch, the cautious ready-to-leap posture developed through frequent exposure to danger.

It is what he always feels: not quite belonging anywhere. Not in his house. Not in this office. Not while he was alive, not after he is dead. Not to his family as a child, not to the division as a shinigami, not even to Tsuzuki save as an official work partner.

He knows it doesn't matter. He doesn't want to belong anywhere. He avoids being attached to anything, anyone. It sickens him to think of issues even remotely suggestive of possession, claim, control. And attachment gives him the silliest emotions he can certainly do without: constant fear of being abandoned, anxiety over the slightest hint of misery coming from Tsuzuki, loneliness he never bothers with before.

He walks just as gingerly as he sits: light, polite steps. He figures it comes partly from his family training. He walks in such a way as not to be a bother, as not to arouse attention, as not to intrude on others' personal space like how they have so often invaded his without even knowing it.

He doesn't care so much about all that anymore, but still he walks as though he is floating, untouched and untouching, barely leaving any imprint, any proof of his passing, his existence. Not adhering, not belonging.

The only exception, perhaps, is when he bends close to the table, resting his chin on his hand as he reads, as he writes, as he daydreams. Tsuzuki thinks it adorable. He wants to get rid of that habit then; he wants to be mature, not adorable. He wants respect, not attraction; equality, not protection. He thinks adorable is the word for babies, for schoolgirls, for dolls.

He does it, still. Habits are difficult to break. Tsuzuki's watchful, smiling eyes are difficult to cast off. The affectionate words, endearing terms, even he craves at last.

He knows he is not a kid, and he doesn't act like one. He knows Tsuzuki knows that; he knows Tsuzuki cares not how old he is. He can afford to be the adult when Tsuzuki plays the whining child. He has been a crying child in Tsuzuki's arms; he has been Tsuzuki's stronghold at the man's darkest moment of self-blame.

Often he will sit with his back straight, to convince himself of the strength he has, somewhere within the feeble form. To remind himself to be self-dependent, even while he struggles to be reliable for his partner.

Often he will sit with his back straight, so he will not look so fragile, so he will not make anybody worry. So Watari will not drag him to the infirmary, so Tatsumi will not force him to take the day off, away from the distraction the work provides, away from the presence of others that gives him headaches but soothes the all-too-quiet coldness within him. So Tsuzuki will not insist to touch him and check if he's all right; so Tsuzuki will not have to take him home.

Sometimes though, he will not bother. He will be too tired to keep up the front. He will secretly wish for Tsuzuki to come and ask, to flood his weary senses with concern and affection. He will enjoy Tsuzuki's touch while it lasts, will crave for it when it's no more.

He will indulge himself in that kindness for once, when he can momentarily relieve his perpetual insecurity, when he can safely let down his constant, exhausting shields, and let his heart be softened by the touch defined beyond mere skin contact.

The memory will amplify his yearning later, when he is again on his own. It makes him berate himself for giving in, for feeling too much, for having knowingly relaxed his guard against this weakness, this pitfall.

But it also makes him look forward to the next working day, the tomorrow he begins to take for granted. It gives him strength when he has to sit up straight again, when the other needs his shoulders to lean on, when the happiness he knows cannot last is once again a long and draining fight.

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