Death, & the Art of Living, a yami no matsuei fanfic

The Art of War
By: Vain
03.05-09.2005

Disclaimer: I don't own Yami no Matsuei or any of the characters therein—Yoko Matsushita does. The song Tear is by the Smashing Pumpkins and can be found on their album, Adore.

Summary: Hisoka learns that there comes a time when you must choose your battles andeven if you've chosen the losing sideyou have to stick it out to the bitter end. Complete.

Pairings: Tatsumi/Hisoka, Tsuzuki/Hisoka, Muraki/Tsuzuki, and past Tatsumi/Tsuzuki.

Rated: R

Notes: Many thanks to my beta, the bringer of lucidity: Jekka. ;;;;; Any remaining mistakes are 100 my own. And much wuv to Wolfpilot06, for trying really, really hard although the fates conspired against us.

This is my rebellion against the yoke of Tsuzuki/Hisoka fics. I KNOW there are more Hisoka fans out there and I CAN'T be the only one sick of seeing him constantly paired with Tsuzuki. C'mon, people. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

Translation Notes:

Bakemono janai - You're not a monster.
Tsuzuki wa ningen desu - You're human, Tsuzuki.
Tsuzuki ga suki desu - I like you, Tsuzuki.
Tsuzuki ga dai suki desu - I love you, Tsuzuki.
Watashi wa bakemono janai - I'm not a monster.
Urusai - Generally this means "shut up." It can also mean "you're annoying," or "you're noisy." It's an extremely rude thing to say.
Baka - idiot / stupid.
Iya - a vehement denial; "no."

Suki is actually an adjective for something that is liked or favored, but very, very rarely will someone Japanese actually say "anata wo ai shiteru" (I love you). Instead, the much more subtle understatement "anata ga dai suki desu" (I like you a lot) is used much, much, much more often in Japanese and is usually translated as "I love you" in English.

The lights came on fast
Lost in motorcrash
Gone in a flash unreal
But you knew all along
You laugh the light
I sing the songs
To watch you numb

I saw you there
You were on your way
You held the rain
And for the first time, heaven seemed insane
'Cause heaven is to blame
For taking you away.

I saw you there. In his arms. I never believed it before—never wanted to. I smelled him on you. Tasted him in your mouth. Felt his caress every time you touched me. And you'd smile inanely, stuff cinnamon buns in your mouth, and pretend that you gave a damn about me.

What happened to our ever after? Or stupid storybook ending? Didn't we work hard enough? Sacrifice enough? We faced the darkness. You and I—together and separately—we fought our battles and we won.

But I saw you there.

Sometimes when you win, you lose.

We have been partners for ten years now. Ten long years. The afterlife never seemed so short. And in the years after the fires of Kyoto, I came to depend on you. To need you. To trust you. To love you, even if it was in my own jaded, half-assed way.

You were the first person to touch me without making me cringe. The first time you made love to me, you were so hesitant—so terrified of hurting me—that it was almost exactly like all those timid, teenage virginal fumblings I'd read about. You made me feel like I wasn't soiled and dirty and wrong.

"Bakemono janai," you told me.

"Tsuzuki wa ningen desu," I whispered in reply. "Tsuzuki ga suki desu," I breathed inaudibly. "Tsuzuki ga dai suki desu."

"Hisoka . . ."

Hisoka . . . Hisoka, not 'Soka-chan. I always liked it best when you say my name. No one else calls me by my name. Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki, Kurosaki-san, Bon . . . Even he called me 'Bouya.' But you called me "Hisoka" right off the bat. You said my name as though it meant something. As though I meant something—something more than sakura-laden nights under the red moon, paperwork filed right on time, interesting experiments in empathy, or dark cages in the basement.

Watashi wa bakemono janai. You convinced me with just one word: Hisoka. And suddenly, I felt as though it might just be alright. I was worth something.

Why did you lie to me like this?

A part of me wants to rant, scream, and rage. I want to throw things, beg, curl up in a ball and die all over again.

Of all the things he's taken from me, you are the worst. The best.

I loved you.

Should I have been suspicious? Should I have wondered all those times when you didn't come back to my place as usual? When you'd slip out for a few hours on a case? Should I have figured things out when you'd refuse to meet my eyes or your back stiffened under my touch? Your emotions—once a violet swirl of promise—became shallow and banal. Should I have wondered when your eyes stopped shining for me? When your face ceased to light up when I entered the room? When should I have seen it?

When should I have known?

Was he simply too persistent? Too beautiful? Too marvelously "adult?"

You once told me that you sometimes didn't feel it was right to touch me the way you do, or feel the way you feel about me because of my appearance. You said that you felt guilty. We fought about it. Was that it?

Or does he please you more than me? I remember those hands, those lips, and that cruelly generous tongue. It haunts my dreams. I remembered the way my body betrayed me and how he laughed when I couldn't restrain my pleas for more. He was a very thorough rapist. Is he a similarly ferocious lover? Do you cry his name when you come? Do you enjoy being under him? Is that it? Because I wouldn't—couldn't—top for you?

Or do you love him? Do you say "Muraki" as though it means something? Do you say "Kazutaka?" Do you promise him "bakemono janai!" when he pushes into you and you melt beneath him? Because I know you melt beneath him. You need something in him and he will never let you go now. Never. I know him too well. I know you, too.

And I hate you both.

It took me a year's time to understand. A year during which attempts at "'Soka-chan" turned to "'Soka," turned to "Hisoka."

Hi. So. Ka.

Your kisses changed. Instead of cookies and overly sweet tea, they tasted like blood, tempura, and plum wine. Your touch changed. It became more demanding—hungrier—expectant. Sex changed. If felt wrong, having you inside me. It felt like him.

You became distant. I got angry. Instead of asking you what was wrong, I pushed you away. I shouted. Berated you. I became frustrated. I refused to let you in my bed sometimes. It was my fault. I wanted you to crumble and tell me what was wrong. I wanted you to open your shields. I wanted you to keep loving me.

But you didn't.

You turned aside.

It was raining when I saw you there. The bag hung loosely from my fingertips, brushing against the leg of my jeans, and the top of the leek stalks rubbed my forearm slightly. The rain soaked my head, seeped into my heavy jean jacket, and made my thin long sleeve tee cling to me. Thin, chilly rivulets ran down my face. It was our last night in Oita. I wanted to make you dinner. I wanted to make things better—make them like they had been before.

I never expected to find you in that alley pulling at his impeccable clothes while one of his long white hands tangled in your hair. My shields have improved so much that I'm almost like a normal person when I want to be, and my curse marks hadn't ached in so long . . . I didn't know you were there.

And then—as I was walking past, headed back towards our dreary inn room—I heard a soft noise, turned and saw you. You were kissing him; there was no mistaking that. Your hands gripped his head firmly, and your mouth was pressed against his mouth, and your leg was thrust intimately between his thighs and he was the one that moaned your name. I stood frozen in the rain, too stunned to collect myself, and if I had had the strength to look away, I would have called down Kurikara to incinerate all three of us. How could I continue, seeing—FEELING—your desire for him?

When you ripped off his tie and your head dropped down to his throat to ravage the white, white skin there, he looked at me. Your lover—my murderer—looked up at me and smiled. Had the expression been cruel, I would have screamed; I would have attacked. But instead, he merely looked . . . sated and abashed and so infinitely pleased with himself . . . He felt like triumph and lust.

He unwound an arm from your waist and held out his hand to me—HELD OUT HIS HAND—for me to join you. And then his smile was cruel and a whisper of the darkness that consumes him flickered at my mind, tasting my mental self like the tongue of a snake testing the air.

I fled.

You never even noticed, you were so absorbed in his throat and his gasps and his white, white hand as it slipped into the back of your pants.

I ran back the inn and bolted myself in our room, fast as I could. I hurled the bag of food across the room, ruining a wall hanging when it fell to the floor along with the broken glass bottles in the bag, and then threw myself down onto our small bed. The room's only bed.

I couldn't imagine sharing it with you now that you were bringing him back to me in your skin and mouth and body every night.

I wept. Buried my face in the pillow and shrieked and howled and rained curses on your head. How could you do this after making me love you?

The very thought of confronting you made me feel ill. The thought of looking in your eyes and seeing HIM terrified me.

Tsuzuki . . . Why don't you love me anymore?

I wrote a note, threw my things in my bag and left that night. I went back to Meifu. I needed to think. I needed . . .

I couldn't face you.

I couldn't tell you.

I couldn't say that I knew and then watch your face crumble or—even worse—watch you try to lie to me. I couldn't bear the sight of you.

Muraki will tell you in his own time—when he feels the need to hurt you. That's the kind of person he is. Let him evoke your tears. He will appreciate them in away I never could.

And do you know the way that I can
Do you know the way that I can't lose?
And do you know the things that I can
Do you know the things that I can do?

Where is your heart?
Where is your heart gone to?
Tear me apart;
Tear me apart from you.

It was 11:44 am.

The sunlight poured through his window and outside the flawless sakura drifted down like enchanted rain.

The clock on the wall clicked loudly. It was 11:45 am. And in fifteen minutes, everything he had ever believed about himself would be put to the test.

Tatsumi sat at his desk, right elbow resting on the polished wooden surface, as his fingers rested on his cheek. His pointer finger tapped on the arm of his glasses occasionally, making the clearly visible world shudder ever so slightly with every tap. The fingers of his left hand drummed on top of one of the two files in front of him. Both were fairly thick; after all, personal baggage is part and parcel to being a shinigami—but it was the smaller of the two that really held his attention.

Kurosaki Hisoka.

How he wished he could burn that name from his mind.

It was difficult. A stronger man would have broken by now. To see the boy—young man—every day. To look, but not touch . . . NEVER touch . . . It was difficult. But Tatsumi was a strong man; much stronger than most.

This new situation, however, had thrown him for a loop. Hisoka had discovered Tsuzuki's dirty little secret. There was a palpable chill between the two partners, and had been for almost three months. Ever since that exorcism in Oita, actually . . .

It was driving Saya and Yuma up the wall, the GuShoShin looked perpetually sad when either Hisoka or Tsuzuki was around, Watari had taken to hiding in his labs more than ever, Terazuma snarled at everything that moved in his general vicinity (including inanimate objects), and Wakaba simply stared at the floor, retreating into a wounded silence whenever one of the pair was near.

Tsuzuki either didn't know that Hisoka was aware, or was simply in denial. With him, it was often difficult to tell. He seemed to have gone the wounded puppy route and it was beginning to wear thin on everyone. No amount of inu-eyes and pleading glances would fix this. It hadn't been affecting their work as of yet (if anything, Hisoka's desire to be as far from his partner as possible ensured that their cases were solved in record time), but the tense aura between the two had everyone on edge. This could not be allowed to continue.

Tatsumi had no idea how to fix the situation, either. He hadn't even been aware of Tsuzuki's actions until a bit over a year ago. Tsuzuki just couldn't hide things from him when he pushed and the violet-eyed shinigami had been almost relieved as he shared his tearful confession over sake-laden tea.

"Please don't tell Hisoka! Please! I don't want to hurt him—really, I don't. I do love him, too . . . the best that I can . . . But if he found out . . . And with Muraki . . . It would break his heart. I want to be there for Hisoka. I'll always be there for him, but sometimes . . . I need certain things and Hisoka wouldn't understand, but I love him so much . . ."

"Tsuzuki . . . What have you gotten yourself into? I cannot . . . I cannot help you fix this. Kurosaki-kun deserves the truth. If you loved him as much as you claim to, then you would tell him—"

Sobs, now: "But he'll never forgive me!"

"Hisoka deserves better than this!"

And then it had all been out in the open. Tsuzuki had looked up at him, stunned, and Tatsumi hadn't been able to unclench his fists, or hide his anger, or look away.

"Tatsumi . . . You . . ."

The fingers that had been tapping atop Hisoka's file clenched into a fist at the memory of Tsuzuki's realization.

"You like him, don't you? Hisoka. You . . ."

"Asato, he is your partner . . ."

Tsuzuki's partner. Tsuzuki's lover. Tsuzuki's.

He'd tried to convince Tsuzuki to confess, to do the right thing, but they both knew that Tsuzuki was right and Hisoka would not understand. Not even Tatsumi could pretend to understand the strange, dichotomous hungers that relentlessly drove Tsuzuki. Even though he'd once loved his former partner more than anything in existence, he had never quite grasped the war between darkness and light raging inside the man. He'd given up on trying. Tsuzuki had needs that he could not fulfill and—though the childish man would always hold a special place in his heart—they could never retrace their steps and reclaim what they once could have had. Tatsumi had long ago resigned himself to loneliness.

Until a sullen, skittish young man in a bright orange shirt, ratty jeans, and beaten up sneakers had walked into JuOhCho, given the entire department a scathing, dismissive once over and then sashayed his way into the Secretary of Hell's office and sat stiffly in a chair like a wind-up soldier awaiting orders. There was something about him—an overwhelming force that drew the shadows in the room as though they were magnetized. To the Kagetsukai, it was like being caught in an undertow. For a wild, terrible instant, Tatsumi wanted to run those shadows over the boy—under his clothes and through his hair and inside of him. For one horrible, horrible moment he saw those vivid emerald eyes beneath him and wide with pleasure, that pale skin flushed with lust, those supple, coltish limbs gripping him tightly, holding him close.

He could hear that firm, cultured voice whimper his name.

For an instant, Tatsumi felt a desire so strong, he almost buckled beneath the weight of it.

Almost.

But the instant passed and the Secretary buried the emotions so deeply so quickly that he almost choked on his introduction. Kurosaki Hisoka. Tsuzuki's new partner. This could not be allowed.

When he finally found (made) the time to read through the boy's file, it was final. Some Pandora's boxes were best left closed; Kurosaki was one of them. Tsuzuki's obvious attachment to the boy after their first mission made it final. He distanced himself from the boy—was careful to treat him as he would any other shinigami. He tried to be sure that he was never alone with the boy. When Muraki attacked them in Kyoto, he stayed close to Tsuzuki. He could both shield the boy from Tsuzuki's guilt and make sure that he and the empath were never alone together. He didn't trust himself to be alone with Hisoka. Ever.

Tatsumi had been happy for Tsuzuki and Hisoka. They seemed to be balm for each others' soul. They were happy and so he was happy. Or so he told himself. The boy quite plainly only had eyes for Tsuzuki, that much was obvious. Nevertheless, it did not ease the awful clenching of his heart every time Tsuzuki was the subject of one of those wondrous blushes or rare smiles that Hisoka would conjure for no one else. Something in Tatsumi twisted every time he saw Tsuzuki kiss those pale peach lips. It was unforgivable, but they were the perfect couple.

Passionate, warm Tsuzuki and cool, sharp-tongued Hisoka. The undefeatable shinigami with the fragile mind, and the shattered man-child with the impossible, unbending will.

So perfect.

Any other man would be foaming at the mouth with the jealousy the sight invoked.

But Tatsumi was not any other man.

"Please don't tell Hisoka, Tatsumi!"

The Secretary of Hell jerked off his glasses with a sudden, violent motion and rubbed furiously at his tired eyes with one hand.

Kurosaki Hisoka.

Though Tatsumi had been pressuring his former partner to break off his half-hearted tryst with their empathic co-worker, Tsuzuki had remained indecisive and Tatsumi still could not deny the other man anything. And now Hisoka knew.

"I don't want to hurt him—really, I don't. I do love him, too . . . the best that I can . . . But if he found out . . . And with Muraki . . . It would break his heart."

Frustrated, the man leaned back heavily in his chair and stared blankly at the blurry ceiling. "Hisoka-kun . . ."

What was he going to do? There was nothing salvageable here, nothing but . . .

Those eyes glazed with lust, those cheeks flushed with desire, that sweet, pouting mouth . . .

Tatsumi sat up suddenly and swallowed hard. "I am becoming a monster." His voice was hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears.

"You like him, don't you? Hisoka. You—"

"Asato, he is your partner . . ."

"Tatsumi . . ."

"Do you love Muraki, Tsuzuki?"

". . . I . . . No . . . Things—things aren't like that with us. It's not about love . . ."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"He . . . If he were a different type of person, I might have loved him. He's a monster, you know, but he's a person, too. I see that in him. That doesn't answer my question, though. Hisoka . . . You—"

". . . Kurosaki-kun is an . . . admirable person, Tsuzuki."

An admirable person. The memory of the words was sour on his tongue. Tatsumi swallowed and tasted bile. It made his throat hurt.

This was a disaster. For over eleven years he had been so careful . . . So meticulous. He never even allowed his gaze to linger. Eleven years of iron-clad control . . . And now he was going to compromise all of that just because he couldn't bear to see Hisoka's eyes look so lusterless.

Scratch that; he wasn't a monster—he was a fool.

The clock clicked with terrible finality and Tatsumi's blue eyes darted towards the wall where the timepiece hung. 11:59.

All I need to do is talk to him. Speak with him. Nothing more. So long as I do not leave the desk—so long as I do not touch him . . . All I need to do is speak with him.

Just speak.

He didn't dare attempt anything else. He could not bear to have Hisoka look upon him the way he looked upon Muraki and occasionally Tsuzuki. Even if he never touched the boy, the longing would be better than being put in league with those who had hurt him so badly.

. . . It was strange. The thought of Tsuzuki hurting anyone was entirely . . . foreign. It made him feel as though he had remained in Meifu too long, if he was still around to see such a day come to pass.

With a heavy sigh, Tatsumi straightened smoothed his vest. He opened his desk drawer and dropped Tsuzuki and Hisoka's files inside. It wouldn't do for the boy to discover his puerile interests in seeing this resolved. No, it would be far better to play the distant, disapproving superior.

He had a headache.

The clocked ticked noon and a light knock sounded, predictably on time. Unconsciously straightening in his seat, the Secretary pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Come in."

The heavy oak door opened with faint squeak and the youth shuffled part of the way into the room with an air of wariness. Beneath his bangs, Hisoka's vibrant green eyes scanned the room cautiously before landing on his supervisor. "You wanted to see me, Tatsumi-san?"

The Kagetsukai waved him the rest of the way in. "Yes, Kurosaki-kun. Please close the door behind you."

The boy's eyes narrowed momentarily, but he did as he was told, slipping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. Directed by another of Tatsumi's short gestures, the smaller shinigami settles stiffly into one of the functionally efficient chairs across the other man's broad desk. Tatsumi had never before called him into his office; usually he was with Tsuzuki, or Kanoe or one of their other coworkers. The man almost seemed to avoid him. This was the first time since Hisoka had come to Meifu that he'd been alone with Tatsumi for longer than a few seconds. The break in precedent hardly seemed to bode well.

Tatsumi folded his hands in front of him on his meticulously organized desk and stared at Hisoka expressionlessly. Back stiff and erect, Hisoka met his game unflinchingly. Somewhere on the wall behind him, a clock ticked out the seconds at a grating, rhythmic pace.

One. Two. Three.

Why had Tatsumi called him here? Hadn't he been careful? Professional? Proficient?

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

He'd been careful to avoid this kind of thing. It was no secret that Tatsumi valued Tsuzuki over all others. The teen had yet to confront Tsuzuki over his . . . liaisons with Muraki. He hadn't even told the other that he knew. Tsuzuki wasn't stupid, no matter how he acted. If their resident Sugar Glutton wanted to know—really wanted to know—he could figure it out.

Wasn't it obvious?

If their situations were reversed, what would Tsuzuki do?

What would Tatsumi do?

If Hisoka was Tatsumi, what would he do?

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

"Kurosaki-kun—"

"This is about Tsuzuki, isn't it?" the words left Hisoka in a rush, forced out between clenched teeth and heavy with hostility. The teenaged shinigami let out a short breath immediately after, as though the effort had exhausted him.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven. Forty-eight.

Tatsumi blinked.

The motion seemed to break some sort of tension between the two of them and the Secretary looked away. For a moment it seemed as though he wanted to rub his hands over his face, or sigh, or do something otherwise un-Tatsumi-like, but instead the man simply bowed his head.

The tension began to build once more and Hisoka forced a slow, steady breath out through his nose when he realized that it was coming from him. He wished he could read Tatsumi, but the man had far, far too much control for that. Tatsumi kept his mind so heavily shielded that—unless Hisoka could see or hear him—he wasn't even aware of the Shadow Master's presence. It was like he didn't exist. It was an eerie thing for an empath to face and more than once he had been absurdly grateful that he never had to face Tatsumi as an enemy. Hisoka's empathy was like his eyes, or his ears, or his sense of touch and he relied on it just as heavily. It was something so inherently a part of him that—regardless of the problems it caused him—he would never willingly relinquish it. In a fight with Tatsumi, it would be as though he were blinded or crippled; he wouldn't stand a chance.

The reminder only served to make him feel even more uneasy as he stared at the man across from him.

The unease caused by the other man's presence was only one half of the story, though. Only the softest flicker of emotion ever came from the Shadow Master, and even then, it was only when the man was greatly distressed. It made him a mystery—one that fascinated Hisoka. A part of him hungered to feel Tatsumi lose control. He longed to feel the tsunami crash of Tatsumi's mind against his. Hisoka experienced the world through his empathy. Due to the other man's shields, he only had an incomplete picture of Tatsumi. Some reckless part of him craved the full revelation of the Tatsumi Seiichirou . . . even if that revelation came in anger.

But Tatsumi would never attack him, if only for Tsuzuki's sake. No matter what the issues between him and Tsuzuki, the Secretary of Hell would never hurt his former partner like that. Nor was it in his nature to so breach the rules of propriety. Logic notwithstanding though, the memory of the Kagetsukai's brief battle with Muraki made his palms sweat.

What the hell business of Tatsumi's was it anyway?

Tatsumi raised his head slowly and exhaled lightly, as though breathing out something unpleasant. "Actually, this has nothing to do with Tsuzuki-san. I called you here because I wished to speak about you, Kurosaki-kun."

The words sounded loud in the stillness of the small, Spartan office, but somehow the ticking of the clock sounded deafening in comparison.

Hisoka recoiled a bit until his back hit the hard back of the seat. "I beg your pardon?"

Tatsumi swallowed heavily and the boy's eyes tracked the subtle bob of the older man's Adam's apple. It was easier than looking into those terribly piercing blue eyes.

"You have seemed . . . despondent for the past several weeks. It has become cause for concern."

There was a faint scraping sound as Hisoka balled his hands into fists and his nails scraped the arms of the chair. "Did Tsuzuki put you up to this?"

If anything, Tatsumi's eyes hardened, becoming even more piercing. "No. This has nothing to do with Tsuzuki-san." He leaned forward slightly, the action making him draw his shoulders back slightly so that he appeared even larger. "Do you desire a new partner, Kurosaki-kun?"

"What?" A shaky, too-short huff of air left Hisoka and he stood. He grit his teeth hard, but his voice was cold and hard as stone. "Do you have something to say Tatsumi-san? If so, then please do—I have a good deal of paperwork to complete."

Tatsumi rose as well, but he took a step away as though trying to give Hisoka room. "You have completed your paperwork for the day."

"But Tsuzuki has not completed his." The challenge was evident in the young man's voice.

Tatsumi frowned darkly. "You mean that you have not completed it for him."

Hisoka froze and for a moment he felt something terrible rise inside him and his power—usually so docile and dormant—seemed to buzz and swell inside him with the promise of violence. But this was Tatsumi and Hisoka had been taught self control since before he was old enough to learn. The moment passed and the buzz of power faded, leaving him empty and hollow-feeling inside. The boy suddenly slumped dramatically, shoulders dropping as all the tension fled him. Exhausted and soul-weary, Hisoka stared up at the older man for a moment and simply felt sick to the absolute core.

"Bakemono janai."

Urusai, Tsuzuki.

Hisoka swallowed an inexplicable lump in his throat. "Do you wish me to leave JuOhCho, Tatsumi-san?" Though quiet, the words drowned out even the loud clicking of the clock.

The stunned look on Tatsumi's face was without compare. The man's eyes widened and his lips parted and—even through both their shields—Hisoka could feel the faintest tickle of some deep swell of emotion that surely would have been too much to bear if he had felt the whole of it.

The teen closed his eyes to block out the anger he was certain would follow. "If I go, you and Tsuzuki-san—"

And then Tatsumi was upon him. Hands were gripping his shoulders painfully, and two thumbs were pushing painfully on either side of his collarbone. All the air burst from his lungs in a gasp as his back was slammed into the closed door. "This has nothing to do with Tsuzuki!"

Hisoka's eyes snapped opened and suddenly all of his senses were filled with the overwhelming presence of Tatsumi, even as his empathy instinctively groped for the nonexistent spot where the man should be.

"Ta—Tatsumi-san . . ."

Hisoka could feel the old man's heavy breath puff lightly over his nose and mouth. It tasted of biscotti and Earl Grey.

He gaped up at the face so very close to his own, trapped inside that strangely stricken blue gaze, and dropped his shields before he could even think about it. A wave of emotions overwhelmed him: Terazuma's ferality, Saya's carefully hidden sorrow, Watari's deeply buried loneliness, Tsuzuki's faintly rancid guilt, Yuma's tightly leashed rage . . . Every person in the Shokan division's emotions except the one whom he wanted to feel. The sudden inundation was overwhelming and for the briefest instant the empath felt faint and the world turned gray as his eyes rolled up in his head. Then it abruptly stopped and he felt a strangely curious sensation, almost as though someone were wrapping his mind in gauze. He was aware of the emotions around him, but he could no longer feel them.

And he could no longer feel Tatsumi near him anymore.

Hisoka blinked rapidly to clear his head and fuzzy vision. He was stunned to find himself still on his feet. It seemed as though he should have fallen over.

Already Tatsumi was across the room, leaning heavily on his desk and watching Hisoka's movements with vaguely wild eyes.

Feeling somewhat bereft and completely out of his depth, the green-eyed shinigami shakily pushed himself away from the door and took an unsteady step towards the Secretary. Some part of himself was telling him to flee, but for the most part, he just wanted to know what the hell was going on. "Tatsumi-san—"

The man flinched slightly and would have taken a step back if his thighs hadn't already been pressed against the desk. He looked away from Hisoka, a faintly red dusting coving his cheeks. "I—" Abruptly he stood, the suddenness of the motion making Hisoka flinch, and squeezed his hands into tight fists. Then he bowed so low he was almost parallel to the floor. His glasses slid forward on his nose.

Hisoka's eyes widened. "Tatsu—"

"Forgive me, Kurosaki-kun." His voice sounded hoarse and rough—not at all like the cultured, polished waves the younger shinigami was accustomed to. "I—What I have done is unforgivable. It was not my intention to—to assault you in such a grievous manner. If you wish to file a report on my conduct, I understand. In fact, I encourage you to do so. I—"

"Why did you call me here?" the boy interrupted.

Still bowing, the older man raised his head slowly and looked at the empath. His blue eyes seemed strangely dark, almost bruised, and beneath the still iron-clad control of his expressions there appeared to be an aura of infinite sadness that drew Hisoka to him like a magnet. The suffering of other was terrible for an empath to bear—even if he could not feel it himself.

Unable to stand it, Hisoka turned away. Tsuzuki could do his own damn paperwork. He couldn't deal with this right now. Tomorrow, he would come in and see Tatsumi in the staffroom and they would act like none of this had ever happened, but for today, he simply could not handle all of this at once. When his hand touched the doorknob, Tatsumi's voice called him back.

"I know . . ." He sounded weary. "I know about Tsuzuki-san and Muraki."

Hisoka's hand fell limply away from the knob and his head titled back slightly as he closed his eyes in pain. Oh, God.

For a moment, the silence stretched on between them. Then Hisoka dropped his head wearily. Questions boiled inside him. Who else knows? For how long? How did you find out? Have you talked to Tsuzuki? What does that have to do with you calling me in here? Why didn't you tell me? . . . But the only thing that left his mouth was: "It's not your concern."

He didn't need anyone's damn pity.

Tatsumi wouldn't let well enough alone. "I . . . I simply wanted you to know that . . . There are people here you can talk to, should you need to do so."

The invitation hung heavily in the air for a long moment before Hisoka turned around and regarded his supervisor with hard eyes.

"You mean you?" There should have been rancor or contempt in his tone, but the words merely came out sounding flat and empty.

Tatsumi's eyes darkened even further, if possible, and the man seemed to draw back. Whatever shadow of emotion had haunted Tatsumi's visage vanished altogether and Hisoka felt the strange shield around his mind shift and flutter like wisps of smoke. The sensation sung to him—enticed him with feather-light strokes against his awareness—and the empath felt himself inexorably drawn toward it's source as it attempted to withdraw. Somehow, the thought of losing that gauzy barrier atop everything else was painful and he reached out, both mentally and physically, to pull it back. Tatsumi jerked backwards, but had nowhere to go and his entire body froze as Hisoka's hand landed on his chest. The contact seemed to startle them both and the teen's eyes went wide as he looked up at the larger man.

A shimmer of something rippled against his mind, vibrating the gauze Tatsumi had wrapped 'round him and the hand he had pressed against the other man's vest suddenly gripped the fabric, as though the motion would help him get hold of that odd feeling. Tatsumi's hand flew up and wrapped round his wrist as though preparing to jerk him away, but froze instead, tightly holding onto the boy's much smaller hand.

Confusion and hundreds of flickers of sensation danced at the edge of the empath's perceptions. He gasped and instinctively took a step towards the source of those madly tempting feelings. Tatsumi inhaled sharply as the distance between them shortened. The velvet brush of thoughts was added to those flutters of emotion and the combination of sensations felt almost painfully good—like hot molasses running over his mind, vibrating to a nearly frantic hum of " Thiswasamistake.Thiswasamistake.Thiswasamistake.Thiswasamistake."

The boy's lips parted and a faint whimper left his lips as he opened his mind wider for the sensations. Face pale, Tatsumi gently disengaged the boy's hand from his vest.

"You—you should go, Kurosaki-kun."

The verbal sound of Tatsumi's voice seemed to wake Hisoka and the boy shook his head as though awakening from a trance. His eyes widened to almost comical proportions when he realized the position they were in and he jerked back, but stopped when he realized Tatsumi still held his hand. His gaze flickered to the large hand grasping tightly at his smaller one before rising back to the Kagetsukai's face. The pull of his almost-sensed emotions was strong.

The empath licked suddenly dry lips. "Let me feel you . . ."

The older man shook his head slightly. "Kurosaki—" Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

There was such desperation behind the thought that Hisoka couldn't restrain himself; his mind pushed violently against the gauze protecting it. There was a moment of stillness, and then the makeshift shield swelled and expanded for a brief moment before part of it suddenly yielded. The resulting flood of information took the boy's breath away.

Worry. Curiosity. Fear. Desire. Frustration. Jealousy. Bitterness. Green, green eyes.

The sun was shining brightly. Tsuzuki sat in one of the chairs while the Secretary sat in front of him on the desk, his arms crossed sternly before his chest. The man's heart lurched at the misery radiating from his violet-eyed former partner.

"Please don't tell Hisoka!" Tsuzuki wept, practically wringing his hands in distress. "Please! I don't want to hurt him—really, I don't. I do love him, too . . . the best that I can . . . But if he found out . . . And with Muraki . . . It would break his heart. I want to be there for Hisoka. I'll always be there for him, but sometimes . . . I need certain things and Hisoka wouldn't understand, but I love him so much . . ."

Tatsumi sighed, anger and sorrow weighing heavily upon him. "Tsuzuki . . . What have you gotten yourself into? I cannot . . . I cannot help you fix this. Kurosaki-kun deserves the truth. If you loved him as much as you claim to, then you would tell him—"

Stop.

Sobs, now: "But he'll never forgive me!"

"Hisoka deserves better than this!"

The shout startled them both, and Tsuzuki stared at the Shadow Master, stunned. Then his eyes narrowed beneath their veneer of tears and his misery melting into a terrible kind of horrified realization. "Tatsumi . . . You . . ."

Stop!

Tatsumi looked away. "Asato, he is your partner . . ."

"Tatsumi . . ."

The silence between them was painful.

"Do you love Muraki, Tsuzuki?"

". . . I . . . No . . . Things—things aren't like that with us. It's not about love . . ."

Stop this now!

"Then why are you doing this?"

". . . Kurosaki-kun is an . . . admirable person, Tsuzuki."

STOP!

The force of the thought physically repelled Hisoka, and the shinigami's slender frame literally lifted off the ground as his mind was forcibly slammed back into his own body. He hit the ground hard, stunned and pale, and stared up at the man for a moment, unable to breath. He could see his own reflection in Tatsumi's eyes, but he couldn't tell whether the fear he read there was the other man's, or his own. He didn't want to know.

Tatsumi looked down at the young man crumpled on his office floor in undisguised horror and reached out to pull him up. "H—Hisoka-san—"

". . . Kurosaki-kun is an . . . admirable person . . .

No . . . He wasn't. He wasn't. He was anything but.

For an instant the boy stared at the older man's extended hand as though it was a poisonous snake. Then, disgusted with himself and utterly horrified by his own actions, Hisoka did the only thing he could: he scrambled to his feet and fled. The bang of the office door slamming behind him muffled the hollow sound of Tatsumi falling to his knees.

You laugh the light
I cry the wound
In gray afternoons

I saw you there
You were on your way
You held the rain
And for the first time, heaven seemed insane
For taking you away
'Cause heaven is to blame
For taking you away.

Hisoka did not go to work the next day. Nor did he go the day after.

Tatsumi decided to do a surprise audit.

By the time Saya and Yume had left his office in tears, followed by a menacing shout of "No more dresses!" an uneasiness had settled over the office and everyone was treading lightly. Tsuzuki—who seemed to be the only person with the vaguest clue of what was going on—sat at his desk and worried over paperwork. When asked where Hisoka was, the man would only say, "Tatsumi said that he called in sick."

Aside from the suspiciousness of Tatsumi being the one to report their teenaged co-worker's status (normally Tsuzuki and Hisoka seemed joined at the hip), the fact that the boy had never voluntarily taken a day off in over ten years made everyone curious. No one dared approach Tsuzuki about it, though. Misery and unhappiness clung to the man like a second skin and there wasn't a sweet in sight. There was a silent consensus that Tsuzuki's unhappiness, Tatsumi's sudden display of fiscal sadism, and Hisoka's absence were connected—after all, when Tsuzuki was unhappy, Tatsumi inevitably saw to it that a whole bunch of other people were unhappy, too—but no one could quite come up with a working theory. Though things had been deteriorating between Tsuzuki and Hisoka for a while, no one was quite sure what was going on. The only thing that was clearly evident was that it had to be pretty bad for their infamous Sugar Glutton to lose his appetite. Tsuzuki seemed entirely lackluster. The tense attitude was affecting everyone and not even Terazuma's baiting could rouse him.

Left with no one to torment and with no Hisoka to threaten him into staying in line, the feral shinigami took his temper out on the first person who would sit still long enough for him, inciting a once in a lifetime fit of temper from Watari that ending with the blond yelling something about Terazuma praying that he didn't need medical care anytime in the near future. Apparently, Tatsumi's latest round of kamikaze budget cuts—one of the few things that could irritate the genki blond—had hit the labs hard. Though it wasn't even tax season yet, the Shadow Master was truly in rare form—not even the Chief's souvenir budget had survived intact.

Three days after Hisoka's abrupt leave of absence, the boy returned. It was a ridiculously sunny day (all the days in Meifu were sunny), and the light squeak of his sneakers against the brightly polished linoleum was a welcome sound. A single, violent glare stilled any salutations or inquiries that his coworkers may have had. Utterly ignoring the tension around him, the boy stalked into the office, threw his bag haphazardly in his chair, and deposited a box with a fresh cinnabon and a half dozen Boston cream donuts in front of his partner's stunned face. Then, without missing a beat, the teen then turned sharply on his heel and carried the rest of the sweets into the break room with nary word.

When he returned, everyone had returned to their desks and appeared to be diligently going about their business. It was obvious that they were trying to spy on the two Kyushu partners, though. Hisoka deposited two croissants and a cup of coffee on his own desk with a snort before dropping his bag on the floor and sitting heavily onto his chair. Across from him, Tsuzuki watched the younger shinigami with an almost timid air.

The boy looked from his partner to the untouched sweets expressionlessly for a moment before asking, "Did you already eat?"

The question seemed to startle the man and Tsuzuki looked away to stare at the food again. "Ah . . . No . . ." He stared down at the chocolate frosting on one of the donuts for a moment as though it held the answers he was seeking. When he looked back up, his oddly colored eyes had a too-bright sheen beneath the halogen lighting. "You wouldn't take my calls . . ."

"I didn't take anyone's calls." Hisoka tore the end off one of his croissants and put it in his mouth, still staring at the other man.

Tsuzuki avoided his eyes, choosing instead to poke at one of the donuts. "Tatsumi said—"

"I didn't talk to anyone," Hisoka interrupted in an oddly flat tone. "You didn't come to see me."

The man tore apart the pastry he held, seemingly unaware of the thick custard that oozed out of the middle and onto his hands and desk. His voice was a whisper. "I didn't think you'd want to see me. You spoke with Tatsumi and then you left so quickly . . ." The words trailed off and their implications, coupled with the horrible misery radiating off the man, seemed to congeal in the air between them.

Hisoka took a measured sip of coffee, ignoring the momentary bolt of pain he felt as he burnt his tongue.

Tsuzuki looked up at him then, raising his shields so that his sorrow faded to a shuttered agony. "'Soka-chan, I didn't mean—"

"Tch." A sound of contempt. The coffee cup was placed back on the polished surface of the desk with a slight click. The boy propped his right elbow up on his desk and rested his chin on his hand. He looked both sad and tired and the sight branded itself on Tsuzuki's soul.

The youth blew a strand of long dirty blond hair from his eyes. "Baka."

In the face of such a—a Hisoka-esque reaction the dark-haired man found a tremulous, watery smile shiver over his lips. "Hai . . . I really am stupid." The statement made Hisoka cock his head to the side and looked at him a bit harder before Tsuzuki turned away from the exposed feeling such scrutiny caused. "I really am—"

"Iya," the empath whispered suddenly. "Tsuzuki wa ningen desu."

Tsuzuki looked up again, startled.

Hisoka merely watched him with thoughtful eyes. "Tsuzuki . . ." His jaw clenched a moment and it seemed as though he wanted to look away, but they maintained eye contact. "Tsuzuki ga suki desu."

Abruptly the boy stood, a slight blush staining his cheeks, and he turned to go. Unable to let it end at that, Tsuzuki suddenly found himself on his feet, one hand grasping the retreating shinigami's wrist, holding him in place. The boy turned to watch him with those strangely expectant eyes, demanding something that the other man could not fathom.

Tsuzuki swallowed heavily, his violet eyes looking bruised in the brilliant office lights. Neither of the pair seemed to be aware that everyone else was watching them. "Hisoka—"

The blond shinigami closed his eyes as though in pain and slowly shook his head once. He gently pulled his wrist from Tsuzuki's grip and regarded the man sadly for a moment. "Sometimes . . . when you win, you lose, Tsuzuki."

This time, Tsuzuki let him go.

Ignoring the confusion and sadness swirling behind him, Hisoka turned again and left the main office, heading down the long back hallway, past the break room and the side hallways to the labs and archives until he reached Tatsumi's door. He opened it without knocking. The Secretary was seated behind his desk, wading through what appeared to be a sea of budget reports. He looked up when the door opened, reddened eyes narrowing slightly when he saw who was there. He did not look surprised.

"Kurosaki-kun."

"Tatsumi-san," the boy responded just as cooling. He leaned slightly against the doorframe, keeping the door open just enough for his slender body to remain both half in the room and half in the hallway. "May I come in?"

"I—" The Shadow Master looked away, eyes flickering from the boy to the reports he held in his hands and then back. "You should not," he replied in a slightly stronger voice than he had previously used.

"I know." Something wild and enticing shivered along the edges of Hisoka's awareness. He ignored it. "May I come in?"

For a moment it seemed as though Tatsumi would relent, but then his gaze hardened again. His eyes flickered to the gap Hisoka was squeezing through in disapproval, making it clear that he did not like discussing this under such delicate circumstances, but he still did not invite Hisoka all the way in. Instead, he swallowed hard and laid his papers down with a carefully controlled motion. He blinked once in a slow, tired fashion, and then looked back up at his tormenter. "I . . . have taken liberties with you. And for that, I apologize."

"You apologize, but you are not sorry," the teen countered without condemnation.

The Kagetsukai's eyes narrowed in a threatening manner.

Hisoka met his gaze with a daring that was both enticing and infuriating. "The shadows move around me, you know."

If he were anyone else, Tatsumi would have cursed. As it was, though, the man merely lifted his chin, accepting the challenge in the other's voice. "No. I am not sorry."

The blond nodded as though he had not expected anything else. "May I come in?"

"Tsuzuki—"

"Does not need me right now," the empath finished. His eyes seemed to shine in a cat-like fashion and for a strange moment, Tatsumi fancied he could see himself in them. "May I come in?" the boy pressed again. The way he said it made it sound as though it was the last time he'd ask.

For a moment, Tatsumi remained silent and he and the boy merely stared at one another across the office. Then, with a soft sigh, the man pushed his papers aside and settled back in his chair. "Come in, Kurosaki-kun."

A faint smile tugged at the blond's lips as he acquiesced. The door clicked shut behind him.

Sometimes when you lose, you win.

The lights came to pass
Dead opera motorcrash
Gone in a flash unreal
In nitrous overcast

And do you know the way that I can
Do you know the way that I can't lose?
And do you know the things that I can
Do you know the things that I can't lose?

Tear me apart
Tear me apart from you
Where is your heart?
Where is your heart run to?

Fin