Note: This is experimental, stylistically. I am capable of writing complete and grammatically correct sentences, but this is not what I personally do. That is not my style.

That being said, this also deviates a bit from the actual plot. Think of it as scenes that were missing. Also, do note that coffee is mentioned frequently. This is very purposeful, as my challenge was to write a fanfiction containing coffee. I ran with it, as I am a BNF of coffee. At least, in my neck of the woods.

Anyway, without further ado:

this isn't so bad, he thinks.
(There are boxes all over the floor. It is hard to move about the tiny kitchen without stubbing his toes. And God, does this flat smell like ash and heat and the barest fingers of cold, ebbing in.)

and he thinks, this isn't too bad.
(He has a bed. He has windows. He has barebare walls. He has a bathroom. He has a refrigerator. He has a table and chairs. He has lampsandlightbulbsand---)

a door. i have that, too.
(And unmercifully, he has space and wide, wide whiteness with which he does not know what to do.)

and he thinks, this is different.
(And he's small and pale in the bathroom mirror when he washes his face. And he doesn't yet remember a thing, except for his name and his voice, the way he likes coffee, the crisp smell of hospital linens, and the strange, soft sadness that's always marred the green of his eyes.)

and he thinks, i have freedom.
(Shuffling about. The hallways are loud and his skin seems to almost glow in the flickering, florescent lights.)

and he thinks, i never had this, before.
(When he clambers into bed that night, disoriented and static. A summons on his nightstand. The sheets whitewhitewhite and the way the moon looks so damn bright, and behind his eyelids --- A bloody, bloody red.)

and he thinks, maybe i'll like this.
(Though his dreams paint him wild and choking on emotions and fears that the last occupants have left behind---A man with dark eyes. A woman. A son. And the bars that light painted on their firmly set jaws---Gunfire. War. The high, shrill whistling of alarms---)

and he thinks, the next morning: i'm just a monster, after all.
(Because he can feel another's disappointment in line with his own when there's no milk in the fridge. He can feel another's frustration timed with his when he discovers there is no sugar. And the sweet, sharp relief of a headache gone sour when Hisoka, desperate, takes his coffee black.)

II.

Meifu is loud and blaring and unutterably bright. (Emotions snag Hisoka like fishing line. Or perhaps, he snags them. He sees blues and greens and reds. He sees thoughts and dreams so rapid it makes his heart pound sympathetically in his head. He sees wisps of orange-gold sunlight. The bubbling thoughts. He sees---)

The man in front of him is named Tatsumi. And there's a definite elegance to his form. (Hisoka had never seen another person so closely before, who was not his doctor or nurses or, for a time---his parents. And God, he thinks, are his eyes so startlingly like the ocean. That huge body of water his nurses used to tell him about. So restless and deep and beautiful.)

And for a moment, Hisoka hopes that Tatsumi is his partner. His idle conversation is what Hisoka loves.

Machiavelli. Shakespeare. And even Diderot.

(And part of him longs for this. The way words seem to coil inside his ears. His mind a heated hum. He feels nervous each time he opens his mouth. Submits his opinions. He feels anxious each time he sees this man mull over sentences. His brow creasing and the shadows around them seeming to pulse.)

And it is mid-way through this odd tour, Tatsumi stops before a hidden door. (And unlocks it, grimacing)
"Here is your office. You will meet your partner on your first mission. I suspect you might have an interesting time of getting along." Hopefeardisappointment(both ends).

He's already seen a mad scientist. He's already discovered a bubbly girl, with a voice so sweet it made him want to cage his fingers and capture the sound. He's already encountered a crass, brutal man --- Who was so ill-tempered and deceptively gruff. (He saw his secretive glances. His sanguine eyes soft.)

However, this room is small and cramped and Tatsumi casually pushes stacks of paper off to one corner of the opposite desk.
"This is where Tsuzuki sits. As you can see, he has no sense of organization whatsoever."

(And he notes the way Tatsumi, for a moment, allows himself to wrinkle his nose in disgust. The cuff of his suit hits a small pile of sugar. Bits of paper are glued down by coffee and honey and otherwise. And he can hear him grumbling something about "ants," and "flies," and et cetera.)

And Hisoka reasons: "Well, perhaps their food choices reflect their personality?" (But, he pushes the thought aside, because Tatsumi is excusing himself and he is quiet and watchful for when he comes back.)

In the meantime, Hisoka acquaints himself with the office. His own desk.
(It is clean and unmarred. He can see where ink may have spilled at one point, and he touches his fingers to it.)

He can hear an argument. Tatsumi's voice? Or---Oh, another? He can see hurt and frustration ebbing into their features. Dark hair and dark eyes and a voice like the low howl of trees in the midst of a storm.

"I know! I know! I know I shouldn't have declined to remain his partner, but I just don't---"

And the knocking over of ink in time with the opening door makes Hisoka pull back as though stung. (And he can taste the bitterness in his mouth. Like copper and old wounds and cold.)

But somehow, Tatsumi seemed to know.
(For when he took a seat in the desk across from him, he gingerly passed him a cup of coffee, his eyes not on him.)

"I only request you are careful with your partner," And pause. Hisoka nods. His eyes trained on Tatsumi's hands. (They are pale and long-fingered. Like the statues in Rome. Marble-like.) "I'm relying on you, Kurosaki-san." (And unspoken: "Please, stay by him.")

(And unsure of what to say, Hisoka takes tentative taste of his coffee. Thanks him silently for it.)

He is relieved to find it is black.

(And Hisoka thinks that Jonathan Swift was right about coffee and man, because when Tatsumi finallyfinally looks up, takes a practiced sip of his coffee, his voice low and well-timed on his thoughts of Voltaire, he is most certainly is grave, philosophical, and severe.)

And a tiny part of him was glad for that.

III.

The first morning he spends with Tsuzuki, it over coffee in a cramped hotel room.

He had passed out the previous night, his partner reports. (Albeit a little too gleefully.) And Hisoka can tell he's hiding something behind the curious, darkening edge of his smile. Strained. (And his eyes, a foreign violet, are wide and dull and strange.)

And Hisoka thinks, I can't read him.
(Despite the gentle prying. The careful division of the gauze that hangs between his mind and his---It is like the Black Forest. Wild and foggy and---)

And he can feel Tsuzuki's fingers lingering over his arm.
(And Hisoka draws into himself quickly, much to Tsuzuki's alarm.)

Across the small table, he can see the oddity of pain without source. He can sense it. Taste it. And as he rolls it around with the unspoken words on his tongue, he watches as his partner (dark-haired and dark-eyed and eerily calm---Despite the initial stupidity, Hisoka adds---) idly stirs his coffee (long since cold, the sugar and cream had coagulated, leaving a disgusting slush in its wake) and turn his eyes away.

"I was just worried about you, you know."
(unsaid.)

But Hisoka answers, the still of the room almost deafening. The walls wide and off-white and gaudy with Western decoration. (Loudbrightforced.)

"I know."

(and it is a mercy)

IV.

On board the Queen Camilla, Hisoka downs another cup of coffee.
(He cannot think straight. His skin burns. And God, is he remembering over and over that night that night that---)

---"Beautiful doll." No warning. His body unresponsive. "Beautiful, beautiful doll." Cold cold. And the night air at his lungs. At his bare shoulders. At his bare---

And he recalls Tsuzuki's faint warning:
"That stuff makes you anxious, Hisoka. Maybe you should cut back"
(worryfearconcern.)

And all Hisoka could do in return was shake and shiver and feel utterly hopeless as the sea rocked those on board blessedly asleep.

(It is only later, in the hallway, that he sees Tsubaki. It is only later that she kisses him once, then twice, and he lets her because she tastes like sugar and sedatives and sunlight.)

And it is only later that he has the courage to touch her naked wrist, and feel all that is within her and around her and---

Somehow, he tastes like cinnamon and coffee, to her. She likes it. She likes him. And while Hisoka is still unsure, he thinks, he can at least grant her that.

V.

(for the next three months, he pulls the trigger again and again in his head.)

And in the end, not even a warm mug of coffee in his hand is a solace, because he must curve his fingers around the handle. He must echo that same grip. And he must try not to sleep. He must try not to fall asleep at the kitchen table, 'lest he dream of her death again.

(raven hair. brown eyes. and blood like blooms. and he thinks, perhaps, he should have taken a damn bottle of whiskey, so he could sooner forget.)

Eventually, he just stops drinking it.
(and though it hurts and hurts and hurts---)

It is Tsuzuki who gently wakes him up every morning. It is Tsuzuki's warm hand on his back. And it is Tsuzuki who keeps coaxing the sickeningly sweet substance into his hands, because he knows Hisoka cannot stay awake without it.

VI.

After Kyoto, it is no longer Tsuzuki who awakens him.
(Instead it is Hisoka who presses the flat of his palm against the curve of his partner's back and wills him quietly awake.)

And he can taste the alcohol that still lingers in his system. And he can taste fear. And he can taste the strange, stagnant hope that the child within him still holds, and the way Tsuzuki's fingers brush the back of his hand when he is later presented coffee (black, Tsuzuki appreciates it) to lull the edge of the hangover, away.

And he can taste longing, and it sticks to the back of Hisoka's throat like a fog when Tsuzuki lifts his eyes, indigo in this light, and looks his way.

(and hisoka thinks, he can see the latent worry. can see straight through him.)

he can, he thinks, he does.

(and it is just a matter a time before this game of avoidance, ends.)

VII.

Hisoka's temper, one evening, reaches its limits.

He hasn't slept in four days. His head is pounding. And the pain tastes bitter and brutal and bright.

(there is coffee dripping down the walls. there is coffee curling from his fingertips, and as he gesticulates, frustrated, he can see the color mar tsuzuki's tanned face. he can see the distortion of features. and in the back of his throat, the burnt taste of coffee still remains.)

God, he feels sick.
(and the kitchen seems far too small. and his thoughts are morphing. and he is, unconsciously, muttering from the stress and the ultimate strain and thinks, goddammit, tsuzuki. goddammit. i wish i was as human as you. i only wish i only wish i only---)

And his hands are fisting in his hair. (thin and feathery. not like tsuzuki's. not like he imagines it to be. thick and heavy and oddly soft)
And he can feel something warm curling near to his chin. And he lowers his head---

(and he can feel tsuzuki's calm piercing through his anger. he can feel it like the kick of a gun. he can feel his fingers touching his jaw. he can feel the curious warmth of his cheek resting against his own. his words in his ear:
"I'm sorry.")

And Hisoka knows it is not his fault, but he cannot say a thing. He knows he cannot help it. He knows Tsuzuki cannot help asking if he is a monster, like him.

He knows.

He knows.

But, Hisoka doesn't have the will to tell him. He doesn't have it. And when his fingers slowly loosen from his own hair, Hisoka finds it is only appropriate to knot them in his.

(and it is softer and thicker than he could have ever known.)

And for a long time, they stay like that. And for a long time, Tsuzuki does not pull away.

And for a long time, neither does Hisoka.

VIII.

Watari serves Hisoka coffee one afternoon, over discussion of the universe. The laws of gravity, and how they can defy it. And in the still of the laboratory, Watari pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and asks:

"How are things with Tsuzuki?"

And he doesn't look up. He can feel the flight feathers of 003 against his cheek as she perches on his shoulder. Curious. (As if she could read him. As if---)

And Hisoka lies, and tells truth, taking a sip of his coffee (no one can ever get his right),

"Fine, I guess."

And 003, confirming his suspicions, nips his ear for it.

IX.

There are boxes on his floor again.
(except this time, the flat is not so cold. it is in the middle of summer and hisoka bangs are plastered to his forehead.)

And when Tsuzuki comes in the kitchen (stubbing his toes a good three times in a row), he joins Hisoka at the table, his eyelashes matted and his hair damp with sweat.

And for a long while, they do not speak. Tsuzuki needn't say thank you, because Hisoka already knows it. And Hisoka needn't confess his relief when he asked to live with him, because it is already present in the relaxed curve of his posture. In the way his eyes close when he hears the first notes of sparrow song, and how the comforting hand on his forearm is not an intrusion, but something pleasant.

And when the silence is broken, his partner is smiling a bit. (Soft and lazy and oddly beautiful.)
"You probably want another coffee, don't you?"

And Hisoka rolls a shoulder. (Pretends he doesn't see Tsuzuki's absent fascination when he finds it bare. Skin he's never seen before. And---)

He feels bold. Among the hum of the fans and the curious bluewhite of his partner's longing. Dull and scratchy and---(The summer tastes sweet. It hurts, almost. And Hisoka lets it. He lets it.)

"I'm not glass, Tsuzuki."

(and in the bright, bright kitchen, tsuzuki hesitates for a moment)
And then, it is the calloused pads of Tsuzuki's fingers against his shoulder bone. It is Tsuzuki's fingertips tracing the small freckles that rest there. And it is Tsuzuki's mouth that touches the slim line of his trailing scars.

And it is Hisoka who shivers.

(and it is not like the movies. and it is not like the novels. it just is, and hisoka likes it.)

X.

The night that Hisoka stands before Tsuzuki's bed, is the night that he realizes there is no means of restoring what was once untouched, between them.

(and for a moment, he uncertain as to whether or not it is worth it, but the instant that tsuzuki queries his reason for visiting him so late, is the moment where hisoka murmurs:
"I figure if I have to share my house and coffee and work with you, I might as well share---")

And it is blessed relief when Tsuzuki laughs.
(and it is blessed relief when he finds himself curled inches from him only moments later. breath mingling and the odd, comforting scent of tsuzuki's skin invading him.)

And it is blessed relief that when he curls closer, Tsuzuki lets him.
(because, in the end, tsuzuki murmurs, it is nice just like this.)

And from now on, Hisoka's sleep as close dreamless as it will ever get.

XI.

Tatsumi has caught on, somehow.
(And for a long two weeks, he is uncertain as to how to treat Hisoka, until one morning, he comes into his office toting warm coffee and a book by Voltaire.)

And suddenly, it seems a much lighter burden to bear, because Tsuzuki is happy. And Hisoka is understanding. And that is the closest to achieving what he desires.

And he supposes, if anything at all, it is enough --- Because the foreign look in Hisoka's eyes says everything and anything, and nothing at all.

"Thank you, Kurosaki-san."

In the dim of the office, Hisoka hides the small quirk of his lips behind the lip of the coffee mug.

(and unspoken: you're welcome.)

XII.

It is a long, dark scar.

(and hisoka follows it. the coffee he had placed on the nightstand long since cold. his bangs in his eyes. and his lips pressed where steel once bit at flesh. shifted it and marred it. and he realizes, when tsuzuki's hand comes to rest against the back of his neck, that it is all he wanted, all along.)

And he says it, without knowing. He murmurs it. Hesitatingly and afraid against the warmth of his pulse. Against the uneven breathing next to his ear. Against Tsuzuki's soft, slow intonations. Unspoken words. Unspoken sentences. Nearly a century of waiting.

"Save your apology, Tsuzuki."

He can feel the rush of reeds against his skin. The lick of fire. And the hot, bubbling sob that builds up behind Tsuzuki's ribs.

(and churning, green relief is all there is.)

unsaid: there is no reason to repent, anymore.

XIII.

Boxes are piling up on his kitchen floor again.
(This time, the volume has doubled.)

But this time, it isn't just the kick of caffeine that is helping him.

(Instead, it is Tsuzuki. Tsuzuki sitting at the last, remaining chair. Tsuzuki, and his familiar, welcomed smile.)

And for moment, Hisoka thinks, he looks like almost like kid.
(Pale and vibrant and features smoothed by sun. Auburn and indigo and fingers curved around each other. A knot.)

And in that moment, Hisoka knows, that he has always loved him.
(and it does not come as a shock. it does not hit him hard. it does not occur like in fairytales. in any sort of blaze of passion.)

It just stretches, and warms him, and wakes up.

(he wakes up.)

XIV.

It is not unexpected or unwelcome when, one morning over coffee, Tsuzuki (whose skin was bleached by sunlight) bridged the short distance between them when feigning the search for toast.

(And, absently, Hisoka noted he tasted like everything he expected. Like summer and strange, distant forests. Like the dry rush of reeds. Like fire. Like the soft glow of fireflies. Like home.)

And this kiss, and the next one, and the one after that were not filled with revelation, but with content.

(And Hisoka, in the midst of boxes and second life and coffee now spilling over his morning newspaper, found he could get used to this.)

And somehow, Tsuzuki knew, and laughed.

(And that was that.)