All right folks. Before someone calls the “wahhbulance,” on me like last time, this piece is experimental. It does not follow specific events, because it is slice of life. I focus more on the characters than I do no the actual plot of the story, so please do not whine about how I am ignoring plot points like an imbecile. I feel really silly even having to write this, because it is very painfully evident that: A) I think you’re intelligent enough to realize I must have read the manga all the way through and beyond. B) I love these characters, but I like to focus on the small parts of them. C) I am certainly intelligent enough to capitalize and write in complete, coherent sentences if I want. However, this is not the case. I don’t feel like being boring and doing the same thing all the way through. Not to mention, it is called a style, people. Please look up the definition if you have problems identifying what I mean.

My moodiness aside, here we are! This is extremely long in comparison to all my other pieces, so I expect it to take a while to fully absorb. You know, like good coffee or something.

Also, the real title is just below this block of TL;DR.

in which personal space is divided and conquered (or how hisoka deals with the fact he's inevitably falling for someone or how tsuzuki breaks barriers with no particular coherency, but hisoka lets him because he's an idiot and he (might secretly like him a little bit) tolerate him more if he did or get out of my head, my dreams, and otherwise my system, please.)

I.

(In the rec room, Hisoka presses the flat of his palm against his forehead and wishes on some unknown entity to take him away from the noise.)

Another monthly meeting comes down to chaos. And if it were possible, Hisoka would melt into the (passably comfortable) high-back chairs, and keep to the ease of the silence. (Away from the babble of voices, blue-green-red. The sharp expressions, the frustrated creasing of brows. The way everyone and anyone seems to blare bright and loud against the cramped, brown room. The decidedly ancient wood work. And---)

He closes his eyes. (And he doubts anyone will notice, because Tatsumi's voice is still pitching budget cuts, and he can hear Tsuzuki's distinctive whine and the low, irritable growl with which Terazuma responds.)

"No one asked you!"
(Tsuzuki. Hisoka belatedly thinks of storms and the crackle of lightning. He thinks of rain and the odd way his eyes catch hues. Violet and indigo.)

"Well, maybe if you were more---I don't know, constructive, maybe you wouldn't be paying money every month instead of earning it."
(Terazuma. And he sounds like a flickering fire. The sudden rush of oxygen to flames. The strange, billowing tails of red-orange-gold.)

"I'm plenty constructive!"
(He can imagine Tsuzuki's mouth twisting. Fuming. Somehow more en---Oh, no. He did not just think---) A pause. And the room is quieting. (Hisoka feels his hand slip off the arm of the chair. He doesn't move to remedy it.) An unknown lapse of time. His body feels somehow, somehow warmed: "...Right, Hisoka?"

(He doesn't remember his response, but the room is now silent. The first sound that floods back in is the low murmur of Watari's amused inflection. The first sensation is---)

He can feel a hand on his forehead. The way fingers rest against his temple. The calloused nature of skin. He can feel the heat. The familiar echo of static and blue. And he can almost taste the scent of their body. And he recognizes it, suddenly, to be---

And before Hisoka knew it, his eyes had already shot open and he had launched his chair back (thankfully, this one had slightly functional wheels) a grand total of three inches before Tsuzuki'sworriedcuriousconcerned expression came into sharper focus. (And he realizes that Tsuzuki is only two inches away leaving one inch of breathing space. One inch of---)

"Are you feeling all right?" (No one else is speaking, but he can hear Tatsumi's exasperated sigh, because all he is aware of now is Tsuzuki. And---)

His fingers are back again. He feels them pushing his bangs back, and Terazuma makes a noise of disgust and Tsuzuki makes good use of his free hand to promptly salute the --- and Hisoka quotes, --- "stupid mutt."

And Hisoka, finally regaining the presence of mind, shoves his hand away. (Rolls his eyes. And he hopes and hopes and hopes that the blush isn't nearly as visible as it feels.)

"I'm fine!" (And it is not nearly as indignant as he had hoped, because Tsuzuki fighting a smile and his scowling is not remedying the situation.) Instead, he shifts closer, defying death and otherwise, his hair a wild mess about his face and his eyes bright bright bright and more violet than he's ever remembered. (And if Tsuzuki smiles now, he just might have to---)

He can feel a light tap at his foot. The faint brush of fabric against his jeans and ideas --- thoughts. (He can see ocean. It flashes and flickers briefly behind his eyes and Tatsumi's voice is starting back up, though Hisoka can feel his eyes.)

It only takes another moment before Tsuzuki decides to lean against him. Barely touching, but just enough to feel the strong curve of his shoulder. And Hisoka finds that he cannot pull away, not when he's responding to Tatsumi's suggestions, Konoe nodding in faint agreement.

(Instead, he uses his hand. He places it firmly against Tsuzuki's warm side, and pushes. Demanding. And part of him thinks it might be tolerable if he wasn't flopping back against him.)

And Hisoka fights the urge to snap, because even after that, he is still pressed against his shoulder and has the extreme nerve to cross a leg over his.

(Blessedly, no one asked when Hisoka shot from his chair, budget meeting or no, and fled.)

II.

("...it isn't anything difficult." somewhere by his ear. he can feel fingers, warm and dry, shoving the hair from his eyes. blond on tan on the shadowy curve of a familiar smile. there is rain. it makes his voice sticky. it clings to the curves of his body. the hidden pools of darkness behind his clavicle. an opposition to white. he cannot feel the gravel at his back, this time. the way the fraying fingers of roots dug under his skin. the violent way hands pinned his. over his head.

instead, all he hears is the sea. the soft murmur of gulls and the startlingly softness in which this person fits their body against his own and kisses him.)

and in the wake of fragmented syllables, the name that bubbles up to his lips is frightening and practiced, and he knows it should not be as nearly disturbing as it is.

IIb.

(he showers and tries to think of the way the water circles counter-clockwise down the drain. tries to think of how dull his scars are in the orangey light of the bathroom. how his hair is getting too long.)

"I shouldn't be up." he sounds like a child. he hates it.

(he tries to think of anything else - like the water, the soft drumming on the window pane, the strange (sad) way he trembles as he sits on the floor of the bathtub and contemplates that this means.)

"I shouldn't be thinking about this."

III.

He cannot escape him.
(Somehow, after Kyoto, he cannot bring himself to escape Tsuzuki, either.)

He tolerates his breath against the curve of his neck when one day, he holds him. Quiet. And with an awkwardness he knew would emerge as Tsuzuki, tired and bed-raggled, stumbled into the office on a Monday, smelling of sleeplessness and regret.

And while they don't have much room here in their tiny, cave-like office, Hisoka allows himself to get as close to comfortable as he will get, murmuring nonsensical words against his hair, so lowly that Tsuzuki will never place what exactly he had said that morning.

(and he could almost taste his scent. musky and like a resting forest. strange, and dark and silent. and he could almost hear his thoughts. a pictograph. strange, flurried images. and words. godsowarmandhisokandpleasedon'tletgoiwant---)

And despite the clumsiness of their bodies. Despite the way Tsuzuki managed to elbow the only full cup of coffee on either desk. And despite the way Hisoka, at one point, felt the tip of Tsuzuki's cold nose against the curve of his neck and the sharp exhalation of the words: (his skin warming under his jacket where Hisoka laid his hands. his hair askew and softsoftsoft, and somehow---) thank you, pressed close and sweet against the sensitive flesh.

(and hisoka found, that once they parted, he had no words to grant.)

Belatedly, Hisoka imagined, it might have had something to do with the way the coffee had been sopped up by elbow of his shirt and the side of Tsuzuki's jacket.

IV.

When Tsuzuki announces he is moving into his flat, Hisoka finds he cannot summon the will to protest. (Out of necessity, Tsuzuki emphasizes. He rattles off his skills, all of which Hisoka questions or corrects. Cooking is a no. He doesn't want to burn down the only living quarters he has. Even though, he thinks, it would have been nice if he could bake worth a damn. Or at least make him a cup of coffee.)

V.

(the dreams get worse. or perhaps clearer. he's only a room away, hisoka's body stresses.just walk down the hall and---)

He rolls over for the third time in the past two minutes, finding it impossible to get comfortable. Impossible to close his eyes when the sheets are so white and so cold and so much like the snow banks he used to see in his youth, but could never---

(---you know he wouldn't mind. go ah---)

And for the sixth time this evening, Hisoka pulls the sheets up over his head and fights down the urge to just---(sob?)(god, he doesn't know anymore.)

VI.

The next morning, Tsuzuki tries to make coffee, and fails. (miserably.)

And Hisoka finds he cannot lift his head from this old, rickety table---even as Tsuzuki places a hand against back and leans over him.

(he must think he's sleeping.)

And the winter birds are twittering. And the coffee maker is hissing its displeasure. And the whole world is brightandbrightandbrighter. And---

He feels him hesitate. The sound of his body gone pale with fear and want and otherwise.

(and he imagines a lost seabird. a halcyon. looking and looking for the way that is---)

He feels his hair pressing against his cheek (warm and dark). He feels his own fingers twitch in response. And he feels Tsuzuki's mouth touch the pale skin of his temple, before gently pulling back (like the tides and a part of hisoka constricts, muddled and sticky and---god, it hurts and it coils somewhere behind his ribs.)

And he can hear soft sentences. Too quiet and too afraid for Hisoka to decipher, but he can make out the sharp sound of pots and pans and the nervous laughter that escapes Tsuzuki when he later lifts his head.

(---right.)

VII.

He has only seen Tsuzuki's temper flare once before, and it is as frightening now as it was back then. (It bursts through him like a raw quick and the pale insides of arrows. It reverberates. And across the kitchen table, Tsuzuki's hands are balled into tight fists, his eyes almost black and his mouth twisted almost attractively with a tangible rage.)

He forgets what the argument is about. For a moment, Hisoka doesn't care.
(He can barely hear Tsuzuki's words. They blend together like a waterspout, a roiling sea. A storm.)

And Hisoka's mind goes numb, because when Tsuzuki comes around the side of the table, the kitchen light flickering warningly, Hisoka doesn't know how to respond when Tsuzuki is somehow, suddenly quieted as he grabs Hisoka by the shoulders and pulls him close to him.

(and he can feel his pulse. in time with his own. the crown of his head tucked beneath tsuzuki's chin. and his whole body shivering from what he knows not to be anxiety.)

God. He can feel Tsuzuki's words stirring his hair. The mumbles of an apology. And he can feel the desperation for something swarming up inside him. (And Tsuzuki's worry, voiced and clear:
"Please don't avoid me, Hisoka. I just want to know what I did---")

Except, Hisoka has no answers for him. He only has his frustrations. He only has the way his hands are hooked so tightly against the front of Tsuzuki's shirt, as though it would explain all that's left between them, unsaid.

VIII.

(he's right down the hall.)

He bites his fist. The sheets feel impossibly warm. They're tangled around his legs. And he can feel his hair starting to stick to his forehead. (There is sweat at his temples. And his palms feel hot and redredred.) There is no moon, tonight.

(and it is all he can do to not get frustrated. to not feel the overwhelming urge to just---no, he doesn't cry anymore. it's become so useless. it has become so useless to deny his focus. it has become so useless to pretend he did not imagine a soft, murmured voice in his ear. the familiar nonsense patterns the dream would trace.)

It is all he can do to keep quiet. His intonations low and breathy. Odd, dark words half-formed and dying upon his lips. (his bottom lip is bleeding. he can feel his teeth digging into the sensitized flesh.)

And it is all he can do to finally (blessedly) tilt his head back (his breath is hitching and---his eyes rolls back. it feels like nothing and everything, and in conscious hours---it feels strangely more signif---), feeling dirty and ultimately disgusting, but finallyfinally content.

(he doesn't try to will himself to move again. instead, he resolves fuzzily to steal the shower in the morning before---)

tsuzuki.

(oh. god. he had uttered---)

IX.

There is no going back.

(It is three days and twenty-two hours after reality sunk in, and he sees Tsuzuki awaiting an answer at the foot of his bed.)

Hisoka wants to say it will not be a good idea. He wants to say a lot of things. He wants to say that he should go find a hotel to sleep in. He wants to say that I've been dreaming about you for the last year and you won't go away. He wants to say that---

But, Hisoka finds he says nothing as he turns down a corner of his sheets, his heart fluttering like a caged bluebird behind his ribs. (And he has to remind himself that this is Tsuzuki. He will not hurt him. He will not---)

And the shadows have smoothed the angles of Tsuzuki's face. He cannot the violet color of his eyes, but he can see an unusual darkness. A slim ring of indigo. He can see the way the scarce winter moon catches the auburn color of his hair and makes it almost shine --- (red?) But, Hisoka can see hesitation. He can feel his disbelief. The faint niggling of hope.

(And he can feel the way his body presses against his, gently at first, when he lies down beside him. He can feel the heat of his skin. The way his own is cold and pale against his. He can see the thick, matted blackness of his eyelashes. He can see the soft curl of breath, white and gray and---)

It mingles. Visibly.

(He can see the curve of Tsuzuki's shy smile. And he can see---)

But, in the end, he only thanks him before he shuts his eyes and lets the whole world fall away. Lets Hisoka, eventually, drift off to sleep

(and the next morning, hisoka decides, he had never slept better.)

X.

At the office, he notices how his clothing is beginning to smell likehim.

(And throughout the course of the day, and though he would never admit, he rested his chin against the curve of his palm for the sole purpose of inhaling the scent, lingering on the cuff of his sleeve, feeling that he was there and here and---)

At least, he kept up with the practice until Watari called him out on it.
(And that was over the coffee maker on a Tuesday, while Hisoka suppressed his blush reflex and told him that the assumption was absolutely ridiculous.)

Watari and Hisoka both knew, logically, that it wasn't.

(Hisoka stopped doing so immediately after that. Well, at least on the main part. He might have done so last Saturday while he was at dinner with Tsuzuki. Hisoka liked to think he wasn't perceptive enough to notice.)

He was wrong.

XI.

Tsuzuki hadn't used his own bed in over a month.
(And when Hisoka brings it up one night in bed, Tsuzuki shrugs his shoulders and doesn't give him a complete response.)

"Like it better, here." (And there were so many words behind those. So many. And from only inches away, Hisoka wishes he could unlock them all, and finally know what it is that Tsuzuki has to truly say.)

because it is all he can do to just imagine. it is all he can do to settle down closer beside him. encourage an arm around his waist. encourage tsuzuki's warm breath skimming his hair. encourage---

Hisoka sleeps uneasily for the rest of the night.

XII.

(it was bound to happen sooner or later)
It was foolish to begin with, he knows. It was foolish to think that all these dreams would have ceased as soon as Tsuzuki decided to sleep with him. Stay with him.

It was---

(because, tsuzuki realizes only moments after he had awakened him, that hisoka was not dreaming about muraki. he was not sobbing in his sleep. his warm, catching breath was not reserved for terror, but---)

And Hisoka can feel the sweat clinging to his temples. He can feel the sudden silence of Tsuzuki's emotions. The strange knot he had detected so many years ago, loosening. He can---

(Tsuzuki's fingers are pushing Hisoka's hair back, his expression unreadable. And for a moment, Hisoka thinks he must be---)

Instead, he leans over him. (And his eyes are slightly widened, and there is only a sliver of violet left against the blackness of his pupils. His body is warming. And Hisoka can feel Tsuzuki trembling when he reaches up, fists his hand in Tsuzuki's dark hair, and pulls him down to meet him.)

and words. against his lips. (tsuzuki tastes like rain. like the dry rush of reeds. like ash.)

"Want this," pause. his mouth moving down to his jaw. "---Could I...?" to his throat. and open mouthed. tsuzuki exhales heavy through his nose. awkwardly, hisoka can only anchor his other hand against tsuzuki's arm. his legs are shifting. and everything feels so warm.
everything---and hisoka is nodding. and he is speaking.

"yesyesyes."

XIII.

(somehow, hisoka decides the next morning, that tsuzuki with bed head is possibly one of the most endearing things on the planet, though he would never admit that out loud.)

instead, tsuzuki murmurs for him (and everything is still warm. and his limbs are waking up. and he smells like sleep and salt and sweat):
"you never told me you had wavy hair."

and hisoka hides something that feels like a grin. (almost, because tsuzuki catches it and returns it before it is gone. across the pale expanse of sheets, skewed and somehow tamed.)

and hisoka exhales. his answer like waves.
"s'called bedhead."

(and he reaches to push down the impossible angle of tsuzuki's bangs. as if to say: you've got it, too.)

XIV.

And it isn't surprising some days later, at work, Tatsumi catches him in the rec room mulling over papers, and says:
"You've changed, Kurosaki."

And Hisoka only shrugs a shoulder. Pushing the indecipherable mess of Tsuzuki's reports and kanji aside. Looking up. (Tatsumi's blue eyes are searching. He answers, in his own way.)

"A lack of personal space will do that."

(and he needn't specify, because tatsumi's mouth is quirking to something reminiscent of a grin.)

And as he walks out, he calls over his shoulder, absent,
"Oh, Tsuzuki's looking for you, by the way."

And for once, Hisoka does not feel the need to play hide and seek with him. (He only gathers his mess. Throws away the empty coffee cup. And walks back to his office, because he knows where to find him.)

He always has.

XV.

(now when hisoka dreams, he isn't afraid. he isn't concerned. he isn't disgusted. instead, he dreams of oceans and the way each and every exhale that leaves tsuzuki's lips sounds like tides, the pull of bleached sand, and the waves.)

and for now, he is happy with that.