Tsuzuki tastes of summer and sweat. Of sugar and indefinable luck. Of redsandpinksandgreens. (He watches his face. The muted expression. The slim, wavering trail of thought that still hangs like a half-slain tapestry between them.) His eyelashes are unconsciously fluttering. (Shuttered glances. It was sudden, Hisoka decided, in the rec room. The heated augmentation of the whisperings of war. The blood still fresh on his hands. The gun still hot. The revolver still clicking. Russian roulette. This was --- ohdammitohdammitohdammit...)

Tsuzuki's hands are at his shoulders. They are at his waist. They are pulling him closer and pushing him away. (He cannot decide. He can decide.) Their breath is much too mingled. He cannot pull in enough air. (His nose bumps his. It is bizarre. An unsophisticated dance. Tsuzuki's dress shoe is crushing his toes.) There is mud on the soles.

(There is mud on their souls.)

The next time it is frantic. Initiated by Hisoka and Hisoka, alone. (He sees the white-rind of bones. The ribs and the flickering pulse. Like sparks. Like the lighter that whines sweet and soft to touch the candle wick.)
It was Tsuzuki's voice, he found, that asked him for it. That told him:
"Hisoka? Its fine, its all right - I'm ---" And his fingers were shoving themselves against his open palms. Pulling at the back of his neck. The sheets were tangled around his ankles. The sheets were hot against his back. (All inexperience and all inelegance.)

He hadn't known what had possessed him, then. But, Tsuzuki's mouth - still, had awakened. Slow.
Doyouwantthisdoyouwantthis?

And the half-muttered, half-murmured response: Hisoka's eyes wide and body shivering. (Ofcoldoffearofar--)

"Yesyesyes."

And today, it is over coffee. The sleepy way of eyes. The way they tent themselves under the worn quilt, expressing faults in missions. Remembering. Fragmented. Like the dusty way the light streams into the room. Orange. Bright. (And Tsuzuki smells of musk and sugared-sighs as he presses against his side. Curious nose crinkling slightly as he burrows it in Hisoka's hair.)

"Sleepy?"
(And his voice seems so close.)

And to his surprise, it is Hisoka who presses his mouth, tentatively to the underside of his jaw. Cheekbones dusted pink. A delightful lopsided-half-frown.
"I wouldn't be, if someone didn't snore all night long."

And Tsuzuki opens his mouth to protest, but finds he is gladly cut-off, as Hisoka steals his words as he nudges him and kisses him again and again and again.

(you'resuchanidiot)

and

(iguess)

notes;
Ohmanohman, do I fall hard for imperfect kisses.