I.

The ride to Hisoka's flat isn't too long.

(On each day in Autumn, it is the most that he wants. A memory. A time. A place. The roads coated with reds and grays and golds.) The smell of the asphalt and the open, blue bowl. (From his bus seat, crowded with the misplaced, the young, and the old - he can smell the flickering ocean. The uneven notes of the sea. It sounds like breathing. The soft way the elderly woman beside him leans, against his shoulder in sleep.)

It reminds him of gulls. Of wayward minnows. (They're just netted here, for a while, until engines cease. Until the driver's voice crackles over the speakers, startling them from their murmured rest, their mismatched being.)

"Stop thirteen. Stop thirteen"
(His voice seems far away.)

And Tsuzuki moves to coax the old woman awake almost apologetically.
(She has a kind face, he realizes, when she opens her eyes. They're small and light and almost gray. She must have been beautiful, once. He pushes the warmth of his smile down when she notes him, taking his arm to help her with standing. So she won't sway.)

He can hear the wheels whining. And he can see the gratitude in her aged face as he inclines his head, dark hair and dark eyes and tanned skin.

"Have a nice day, dear."
(Her voice is clear, not feeble.)

He can still hear her when he steps off the bus, ducking his head so it won't brush the ceiling. He can still hear her when starts the familiar walk, the scent of decay and dirt and spice on his skin.

He can still hear her, as he lifts his hand in goodbye.

(He smiles.)

II.

The walk to Hisoka's flat (always seems) long.

(he can hear the way of his feet. the rustling leaves. in spring, it is children and birdsong. in winter, it is snow and caroling all night long. in summer, its cicadas and murmuring trees.)

in his mind, it is always all of these. a cacophony. the strange, anticipatory beating of his weak heart.

His hands are always shivery-whitewhitewhite-clammy when he reaches his door, alone with his thoughts and the need for something more than ---

(and he always greets him at the door. his eyes cool, for an instant, thinking - before letting him in. he's always brightbrightbright and ---)

Except, not this time. There is no familiar moment upon his doorstep as he approaches. There is no whispered breathing. The lowered curl of his eyelashes. The palepale fingers around the frame of ---

(hisheart.)

He wishes he could take that back.

(But, instead he takes up his copied keys and gingerly unlocks the door.)

III.

The walk into Hisoka's flat is always (un)easy.

(his walls are startlingly bare. necessities only. and tsuzuki will sometimes shift a chair, just to see the pieces moving. just to make sure he's ---)

There's one blood-orange vase by the living room chair. Close enough, that if he might rest there, he could touch it with his fingertips. Marvel. Quiet. Soft. (He will sometimes place a flower there. Sometimes more. Today, it is mums, soft and subdued and growing by the road. Wild.)

He thinks of the words he laid on his tongue. Prepared.
("Beautiful things can have ugly meanings.")

He runs a hand through his hair.

IV.

The walk into Hisoka's bedroom is new. He has trouble breathing.

(The air is so still, in here. And that is all. It has nothing to do with the mess of wheat-colored hair splayed on white pillows. A small tangle of limbs and heat and warmth under blankets so thick it makes him exhausted just to watch.)

That was ---

(he is already there. his hand hovering by his arm. his breathing paused.)

"Hisoka?"
(his name tastes the same on his tongue. sweetsaltysoft.)

He is not surprised when there is no response. (He is not surprised, at all.)

(he tries not to laugh tries not to think about --- tries not to think about ---)

but hisoka's breath hitches. a sharp intake of air. waking limbs. waking up.

And he can almost feel the pause. The strange stop motion of thought.
(Hisoka's eyes are soso green. Blurry. Dimandstrangeanddark.)

tsuzuki?
His name sounds smooth by way of his mouth. Watery syllables. Brooksandriversandstreams. (Tsuzuki removes his hesitant hand.)

and to tsuzuki's sight, the world melts slow and orange. the light paints the walls, bright and golden. golden and dark. and the feeling of quiet swells, like a bird's notes. a sparrow's song.

(Is it always like this?)

Hisoka shuts his eyes again.

V.

coffee and tea. there is sugar at the corner of tsuzuki's lips as he smiles. crystallized.

"But, you're so cute in the morning!"

Predictably, Hisoka rolls up the newspaper and whacks his wrist. Murmurs almost fondly. Almost low and ---

Coffee on his tongue. The glaze of the mug, mirroring the faint glow of his eyes:
"Says you."

whispered:
"I do."