Disclaimers: I wish... 'nough said.

AN: Try me at AFF if you're 18 or older, Undine Sorena, I have 2 of 3 in a trillogy that many seem to enjoy.so yup.. please review.

The air was thick now. His stomach convulsed on itself, twitching and spasming. His throat clench on itself making him have to drag in long hard breaths. The feeling had become, not a custom exactly, but something he had come to expect. IT was something he had felt for so long, and for so long gone without knowing why, with no knowledge or reason for his suffering. And now, he had wished it had stayed that way.

He came for him, every so often, pulling his strings and dusting him off. In his eyes he had sat on the self, and like all good puppet masters he of course had to pull him down, check him for flaws in his masterpiece. If any had formed he's have to repair them, besides, what good would a doll be if no one was to play with him from time to time? So he called and pulled, leading his puppet unwillingly to his side to be pet and stroked and toyed with, and at his very whim, shattered and remade again, repaired to his specifications.

The tears that formed at the corner of his eyes and his body failed him, following none of his own orders but an invisible hand, guiding him through the streets seemed to go unnoticed by those he passed. He knew not his exact location, but well enough of an idea. Over the time he's called it had been to mostly hotels, always under a different name, never his real one. He was not stupid like that, he was not careless enough. Tsuzuki would know, he would be tracked and hunted. He wanted Tsuzuki, but all in due time, then he wanted his sweet little poppet and only him.

However, this time it was a house his possessed feet took him to, a grand house, one suiting a man of high stature in social ranking. the door opened to him and the silver hair angel of death himself stood at the door. He had been expecting him, he had known. A grin was on his thin lips, not a sadistic one, not one of evil, just a grin most would put off to amusement in the most normal and common of people. That is what scared him the most. Muraki seemed not in the least sadistic, though he was, he was calm, cool, collected, always...

"Please... Stop this..."

The tears that had been fought so hard not to fall, the ones that stung his eyes terribly since this had begun again now quivered on his long, thick black lashes and leaked two little rivulets down his cheeks. His body quivered, hardly under the spell but still too far under the spell of fear and truth to move now. It was far too late for pleading, far to late for fighting. He knew no one could help now, no one could hear his pleas, his sobs or his screams..

"My doll..." A single crystalline tear was caught on the very tip of his finger, brought to pale lips where it danced, hovering just out of reach for a moment before it was lapped up by a cool tongue. "Haven't I told you, you're tears... they add so to your beauty. They make your eyes sparkle and shine, so surreal, just like the doll you really are."

"Muraki...!" His voice was full of pleading, begging brokenly. But it was only answered with a finger to his forehead and a gasp, his own? His eyes turned blank, truly lifeless as he was placed under the trance again. It was an odd experience, one where you knew all that you were doing but unable to stop it, unable to provided an assistance to yourself or any other. Yet it weeded out all but just them, him and the angel in white that held him like a lover, so soft.

His hands were always so soft, like petals holding him on air, like he would break. He had always told him, the midst of their encounter, he was his masterpiece. He's always taken it as a means of Muraki to demean him, break him with his words. But maybe, just maybe, Hisoka meant as much to Muraki as he said, that his existence, even after death, was a tribute to his life. Tsuzuki may still be his goal, but Hisoka was what he had.. Something he had made and something that would remain his always and always young, always beautiful... till the day he died and beyond.

Now he understood, why Muraki had never actually gotten rid of him. Through all their encounters, through all the trances and calls. Hisoka was the one thing he could say in his life that would be constant. Muraki could be powerful, he could be strong and all but impossible to defeat or stop when he sets his mind to something, but even he could not delay death forever. He was growing older, his face was beginning to show the wear of the human nature. Though in excellent condition for his age, it was visible. Regardless of all his medical studies and all his magic he could not stop time and he wouldn't be able to stop death. but Hisoka... He had stopped him.

His body would forever be 16, never changing. It was a constant in a world of change, and it was that to which Muraki was anchored too. Everyone needs a constant, otherwise they loose footing and get swept up and away in reality, in everything that is, was or will ever be. It's a confusing thing, the world, always changing, never even in the same place of the universe, constantly spinning and changing, like the people that come and go. How many people had come and gone in Muraki's life? How many had he seen wither away right below his hands, lives snuffed out at all ages and of all causes? Truly his life was pitiful in that he had no constant to live by.

He awoke from his trance to the feeling of those soft hands. He could not understand how the hands of a killer could still be so soft, after years of holding the knife.. He was warm, yet cool, wrapped and caught between a warm body, bigger than his own, his head cradled under the chin of the larger form and silky cool satin sheets. The hands caressed him, stroking him gently. The sensation of skin against skin sent electric flairs up and down his nerves. It was an odd sensation, one he never would be able to fully get used to, one that will never be so casual to him as to be passed by so unnoticed. It had come by so rarely in his life, that it would seem, like you can not teach an old dog new tricks, that he could never learn to know these touches to be "normal" or "common" ad most people would find them. But still, he found strange curiosity in them and wanted them.

"My doll.. my beautiful doll.." Muraki murmured in his ear, stroking him and petting his hair. Sobs racked his frame as this continued. Muraki's hands found themselves into the most intimate of places, the most private that none saw or should have seen. There was no pain meant in his ways this night though, every touch was soft as a lovers and each time it would make him arch, make him moan and writhe under him. His cheeks were flushed crimson red from the rushing blood vessel pushed to the surface. His eyes became glazed, hazed and unnatural, primitive perhaps, lost in desire but not shamefully so, more like the innocence of a child learning new the joys of life. The tears, however, that leaked from the corners, it showed.. his favorite toy.. was breaking, like small fractures caused by age and too much wear on a porcelain doll. His doll was breaking and so was he.. it was only a matter of time, he could feel it. Death would not be halted, and no one could live forever, regardless of him trying. He then, made a deal with himself, tonight would be the last.. Call on a toy too much and it stresses and breaks, he would not have him break, but preserved forever as his masterpiece and one complete accomplishment if nothing else. He had given the fountain of eternal youth, if only to one, if only once, he had done it.

It was at that same moment, that his, without his knowing, cracked and shattered. The reality of realizing Muraki's own motives had come crashing to the ground. It is for the constant that one lives, something they want, know and have reason for being, this one thing, is unwavering, never faltering, cause though many things change, it is the past of the constant, the one element that is forever present in a life that makes the will of one to keep going. That element can be a person, a thing, an emotion or dream. Once the constant is fulfilled, once it is extinguished from it fevering and sometimes short lived candle flame, that person spirit is, with it exhausted and taken out. it is those that have yet to miss this constant that refuse their death when it comes too early, it was these souls that they had to reap from the world of the living...

And this, led to himself. Through his life, the only constant he found was trying to find that one thing, the one night he knew in the back of his mind to have happened. The one night he had met Muraki. Then, as shinigami, he was devoted to the revenge of his death, which in turn changed to protecting Tsuzuki from him. Muraki was not constant, though he was Hisoka's only constant. Tsuzuki.. he was not a constant, he had no reason to stay with Tsuzuki, if Muraki was to die, there'd be no reason to protect him, and though deny as he would, him and Tsuzuki would drift further and further apart, till they were barely anything at all other than acquaintances. Muraki was not constant but his constant, Muraki would die, and he would have no reason to still be a shinigami at all. He would have no purpose, no constant and his life would be just as miserable and pitiful as Muraki's. Part of him died there.

The puppet master was cutting the strings on his puppet. Ironically enough it was only to ensure that there'd be no other master, only out of the sheer love put into his crafting, into his making. The strings were unattached one by one and his limbs feel lifeless about him like a marionette abandoned, but no one could now pick up the pieces and fix him cause the string had broken, and now, the puppet longed for a puppet master, for his strings he had spent so long trying to free himself from, if only to have life, to have purpose..

Reveiw? please? nice reviews more more stories fast...