I.

Hisoka's fingers curl into his, as if they fit a gun.(And he can hear the soft, strangled noises he makes in his sleep every night. Trying, if vainly, to lull. To send his touch into each, solid memory. All brittle lines and watery walls.)

he knows he has failed everytime when hisoka's index finger hooks the hollow between his own fingers and thumb, and pulls.

II.

Hisoka's scars are always vivid when he kisses him, and Tsuzuki shuts his eyes.

(he will never know and it will be his lie)

III.

When Hisoka's breath is high and wavering, Tsuzuki hums low songs at the bottom of his throat.

It is an incantation of better times, where Hisoka does not have to try and pretend he is not gripping Tsuzuki's hair like it was his lifeline, that it is "yes, and please" that he mutters under his breath.

(and as he glances up to see his eyes, his fingers pressed against the pale, pale skin of his inner thigh, Hisoka's soft, soft pleading to "just go away, this is tsuzuki. this is---" dies.)

comeonhisokaitsallright.

He arches, hard, and Tsuzuki swallows - what words he had, gone with it.

IV.

Hisoka's empathy is sharp and bright and swarms like rivers in the back of his mind when he finds that he is standing at the foot of the bed, his posture stiff and sleep-slurred words under his breath:
"You wanted to leave me, didn't you?"

(his hands are bandaged and oddly thinned as he takes them in his own. coaxes him into the sea of white-white sheets and antiseptic, and breathes him out and in.)

He has no answer for his inquiry. Hisoka sucks air in.

(he has touched the raw spot on his right rib)

V.

Hisoka's skin smells like sweat and heat and injury as he presses into him. His words like desperate whims. (isthisokay?areyouallright?doyourealllywantthis?)

And Hisoka's fingers, slightly whiter than than the rest of him, are flat against his cheeks. His palms moving to cradle, as they shift to hook around his ears. (it is the sound of the ocean of the anxious seas.)

His eyes are startlingly green.

(movetsuzuki.)

And he listens.

(and all he can hear the blood in his ears and hisoka's half-sobs and the wet, wet sound of kisses.)

VI.

Hisoka's fingertips are singed and he can hear him almost whimper as he places the burnt digits in his mouth. His tongue against the skin.

And Hisoka reasons, his voice beautiful and ugly and thin:
"Notherenotnow!" He tries to pull away, but Tsuzuki's fingers are wrapped around his wrist, "Tsuzuki,youthinklikeadog!"

(and he remembers what he had told him. they know instinctively to clean the wounds.)

So, Tsuzuki knows, it can't hurt to keep an eye out.

VII.

"I could hear you thinking from the kitchen." Hisoka's eyes are hooded, and his breathy voice is punctuated by childish sniffs. (Tsuzuki almost cringes, before he places a tissue up to his nose. Instructs him to blow.) Hisoka rolls his eyes.

(he obeys, and is pleasantly surprised when tsuzuki later ladles him a little soup.)

"Did you burn the house down?" The noodles are slightly raw still, but Hisoka is satisfied to have something he can taste outside the mucus in his mouth. And it is Tsuzuki's turn to roll his eyes as he places a fleeting kiss against the corner of his mouth. On the bridge of his red nose. (Ignoring Hisoka's protests that he is going to catch his cold.)

"Yes. And everything else in a five mile radius," And he places the bowl down. Gives small shoves to Hisoka's shoulder, "Move over."

(and hisoka has no time to ask him what in the hell he thinks he is doing when tsuzuki curls up next to him, his long fingers on the curve of his over-heated spine, the words on his lips undeniable: "the best way to rid of a cold is through sweat.")

And for the first time, Hisoka smiles.

VIII.

He lets Hisoka hit him when he wakes up in the infirmary bed. His eyes are wild and ever-green and murderously bright.

"I told you not to! I told you to get behind me!" His voice cracks. His face is whitewhitewhite and his words are melting, vile. (his lips taste like salt when tsuzuki pulls him, shaking, to him. wraps his arms tight and tighter around him.) And he goes on like that, Tsuzuki wincing as Hisoka finally collapses, shivering and nervous and alive. (his ribs are broken. he is fortunate to be conscious. awake. a---)

and all thought ceases when hisoka mutters against his shoulder, his neck, at the corner of his eye

"iloveyouiloveyoui---"

(And Tsuzuki almost cries.)

IX.

(he remembers when hisoka told him once his that his thoughts were a bright, bright blue.)

It was in the quiet of the office lobby. In the pale sunrise. His scarf in Hisoka's bony fingers. His body bent obediently to meet Hisoka's eyes.
"You think in bright, bright blue."

And it was so nonchalant. Like he had never said it. His fingers were shoved in his beaten coat pockets before Tsuzuki had time to seize them and ask what was going on.

But, on this morning, Tsuzuki thinks he knows what he meant as he approaches him with coffee at the bay window of the study, Hisoka's eyes turning in the last moment to register what he had brought him.

(and in the quiet, curled up on the couch with hisoka by his side, he utters:
"You think in pale, pale green.")

And neither reason to shut their eyes when Hisoka kisses the tip of his nose, and smiles.

X.

He has come to know every part of him. Every inch of skin. Every method he has tried to hide a beautiful, meek smile.

So, before he comes to bed that night, he removes his watch. Hesitates. And breathes out, deep when Hisoka utters for him to sit beside him. When he curls his fingers just below the scarred skin. When he tilts his head down to place his mouth on the ugly, marred skin and whispers nothing, but praise and elegance, beauty - when Tsuzuki groans low in his throat, and knows that all this while ---

(hisoka has accepted every part of him. every inch of him. and this time, hisoka does not bother to hide the reassuring smile.)

end;

(when hisoka sleeps now, his fingers curl into his as if they're meant to, as if this was the reason to be here and there and now. as if this is the reason why tsuzuki lives.)

He is.