commencer;

it is a ghost he hears in the most silent of hours, each time he closes his eyes.
(the flicker of something never quite there, but entirely sacred. at the age of five, he could not understand.)

his mother just sits beside his bed and listens,
"he's a nice person mom, can't he stay here?"

and she says nothing, the moon like a beacon to her darkdark hair, as she holds his tiny hands in her own.

I.

At the age of ten, he spots him again. Tangible. Careful. Alive.
(he is waiting in line, for a store that no longer exists, and is quiet and watchful, like he was expecting for it to mold and reopen, fresh and renewed, like it was in the back of his mind.)

He does not tell his father who he is, or why he was found with him, but in that time - five minutes was all that he needed - he knew just how to comfort him. Knew just how he lied.

And he could not answer how, but as he glanced at him, told him to just go - he touched the boy's thin arm, his elbow, and gave him a timid smile.

"If you want sweets, I can tell you where to go!"

II.

At the age of fifteen, he's confused and vivid, wild.

(he sneaks out in random fits. to trudge amid the inky skyline. all deep browns and dulling blonds, like licks of stubborn sunshine in his features.)

He is tall, awkward, and graceless. (in all things, but ---)

On this night, he paces. And he does not know why.
(the park he's passed one hundred times is no longer familiar to him. the streets have lost their names. he can no longer place them. he does not know the ---)

Time seems to lurch. And he can feel the sicknessachepainfear at the back of his mind. Like greensandgraysandwhites. But, these do not belong here. In his sensations. In his heart.
(in the way he lifts his eyes, spotting a somehow familiar figure in the dark.)

and on his lips, and in his voice - he chews on names and dates and times. he slips out, blurts out:

"Hisoka! See, I'm on ---"

and it is lost, from here - but all he can remember is the startled, startled look and the curious emotions that stirred in the backlights of his eyes.
(and a name, his name, but somehow - not the same. the flooding belief. relief. the way he knew just how he'd taste, cold and sleepless, like the disappearing timber line.)

and the way he looked at him, the way he snapped at him, all venom and distaste and lies.

(and awakening, later - alone and confused and so, so --- , to the rumble of engines, the whispers of children, and the flicker of fading, green eyes.)

he had stood by

III.

At the age of twenty, he is oddly handsome and modest and kind.
(though, even now, he has a perchance for sweets and a hard time sharing - a difficulty keeping his flat clean, the coffee off his new ties.)

He has a hard time leaving the house in the morning without looking for something, that he cannot place, to utter goodbye to. To hold onto, tight.
(sometimes, and he thinks he is just going crazy, he glimpses a young boy in the kitchen in his peripheral vision, against his right side, thoughtfully scrubbing the dishes or rubbing his eyes.)

and he is like peace and the world and the sunlight. he is like something he knows should be on his mind. he is almost too thin and too pale and frightfully bright.

(And he tells his doctor this. Once a week. The medications don't work. And all he can see is the brilliant, sometimes murderous, ever-green of his eyes.)

IV.

Near the end of his life, he turns twenty-six and finds he can no longer sleep at night.
(his mother is worried. his father is gone. and his sister is by his side. uttering soft words into his hair, smelling like lilacs and sunshine.)

In times where his senses are particularly mottled, he asks for his watch and a prayer.
(dragon scales. fire red wings. black flames. small bones. desire. and the hair of a boy that was always there.)

V.

In days before he died, his wrist was held in constant tourniquets.
(there was no sign of injury. there was no sign of pain. but, it stung and bled without ever showing the feathering of veins. he joked, or tried, to get his sister's smile - by calling it stigmata. by citing he was holy, and not just insane.)

VI.

when he dies, he is twenty-six years and sixteen-days.

VII.

They say he died in his sleep, but his sister had always known better. The autopsy cited strangulation. The cutting off of air.
(and his lungs, they said, were so so black - so so filled with ash and soot and smog, unsung.)

VIII.

it is a beautiful place, with an unfortunate riptide.
(he can feel the current suck him in, slow. he can see the way the man's golden hair is as untamed and as glowing as sunshine.)

"I'm Watari," he said. He held out his hand, all familiarity, pale skin and smiles.

(and you are tsuzuki, right?)

IX.

His partner is the same boy he had come looking for, and he bites his bottom lip as he enters their office and tries and tries not to lose this all.
(notagainnotagainnot---)

"Good morning, Hi---Kurosaki-san."

X.

A half a year later, Hisoka is no longer fragile, static, and distant. He is a warm weight at his side. A lulled, easy breathing. (and his face is so serene - opened)
And though he may look different, he is the same to Hisoka's eyes.

(a half-hearted jest, the way he knew how to make his coffee right, even for the first time.)

the way that, when he woke, his arms would always welcome him home.

(youcamebackyoucamebackyou---)

---
"welcome home."
---

in muted laughs;

The first time he sees Hisoka smile (again), he knows it is all he ever wanted.
(and that, all his life, his green eyes and thoughts and soul was always, always, always - what he's always looked for to guide him ---)

a smile. and he is fleeting as he kisses the tip of hisoka's nose, he seeming to fade into the sunlight, and hisoka knows he's afraid that he ---

"Did you think about the blue paint yet? For the study walls?"

a lifted eyebrow. hisoka's fingers, winter cold. he allows tsuzuki to warm them in between his own. his eyes are hiding fondness, or at least they try:

"You remembered that from last time?" A pause, and he considers, "I thought I'd told you no."

(but just before he can retort, hisoka rolls his eyes. fits his hand, like it always does, closer in his own.)

"I was thinking gold."

(and hisoka need not say a word. he just allows himself to be encompassed in the warm expanse of tsuzuki's arms, the old couch creaking - and listens to their blended breathing, tsuzuki's fingers smoothed and skin just a little dark. and he's beautiful just the same, and he knows, because in between his hitching sighs are soft, soft moans. relief. and hisoka leans against him and shuts his heavy eyes.)

neither wake up from another dream, that night.

(instead, it is just the inklings of a continued past, and the warmwarm weight of gold.)

---
notes; Gold is commonly compared to wisdom, wealth (in my perception, in all things), and illumination. It also has a few more personal meanings to me, like health - and familiarity. Also, to be honest, I think Tsuzuki would have experienced such things in that manner, rather schizophrenic-esque, because in my head lie multiple gaps in memory, false replacements, and many sorts of different years and lives.

Its hard to explain, but when it occurs, it is exceptionally beautiful.