At first, Hisoka had been willing to try. Despite the obvious inconveniences, it had seemed feasible. Difficult, yes. Time consuming, yes. But it was his job, and it was possible, provided that he put in enough effort.

That, of course, had been two weeks ago. And at the time, he hadn’t been sharing a cramped hotel room with the world’s laziest shinigami.

It was truly astounding, Hisoka had to admit; the sheer volume of stuff that had accumulated on the floor defied belief. Instant ramen cups and disposable chopsticks cluttered the ground, flanked on either side by ever-growing piles of paper napkins and empty bento boxes.

Those, however, were understandable. What the boy wasn’t as certain of were the other objects. Several little statues had found their way onto the bare table in the corner, and a peculiarly fat stuffed rabbit had taken up permanent residence on the room’s sole bed. Clothing, wrinkled beyond recognition, joined the empty food containers on the carpet, alongside pages of unfilled forms.

He had sworn on the second day that he wouldn’t pick up after his partner. It was a matter of principal, now… but Tsuzuki seemed perfectly at home in the little area of chaos that they retired to after the daily fruitless search. And in Hisoka’s mind, the mess had grown from mildly irritating to raking-its-proverbial-claws-down-his-last-reserves-of-tolerance.

For all the times the young shinigami had berated himself for wondering what it would be like to share his life with the person who had made it worthwhile, the reality was far from what he’d pictured. And Hisoka’s admittedly short temper was running out.

“Pick it up,” the boy snapped, green eyes flashing as he watched Tsuzuki stoop to settle an empty Pocky box to the floor by the foot of the bed. “If you want to eat in the room, go out and buy a trash can.”

His partner fixed him with a wounded look, half frightened and half-pleading.

“But Hisoka,” the man protested. “Tatsumi said we couldn’t have any extra expenses—-he’s scary when he’s mad!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t spend all of our money on snacks, then,” the young shinigami suggested icily.

Drooping pathetically, the violet-eyed man retrieved the box from its place on the floor, resting it in his lap. “Shouldn’t hotels come with trash cans?” he mumbled to himself, looking very uncertain as to where the empty container ought to go, now that the carpet was no longer an option.

Hisoka didn’t deign to answer. Currently, his efforts were focused on the paper that rested half-finished on the table in front of him. The print was small, and he’d been working on it for quite some time; he could feel a headache starting just behind his eyes, and the sulky disappointment that his partner was projecting didn’t help. But they ought to have been done with the assignment more than a week ago, and just because they were out of the office didn’t mean that the paperwork would stop building up. And gods knew that Tsuzuki would rather lose a limb than do his share, so the only option left was—-

“What’s wrong?”

Somehow, Hisoka had missed the sound of the man picking his way across the litter-strewn room to stand beside the desk; he actually yelped at the touch of Tsuzuki’s hand on his shoulder. Gentle fingers brought worry radiating into the young shinigami from the contact point, a mixture of warm caring and sick concern.

It was too strong an emotion to deal with at the moment.

“What?” Hisoka demanded shortly, sparing his partner a brief, irritated glare as he attempted to shrug away from the touch.

“Don’t be mad, Hisoka…” Even though the boy couldn’t see his partner’s face, the tone was wounded, reminiscent of a scolded puppy. “I just… Is something the matter?”

Making a small noise of annoyance, the young shinigami abruptly pushed himself away from the table, catching his jacket from the bed and moving for the door in a single motion.

Expressive violet eyes grew wide, more than a little distressed. “Where are you going?”

Thrusting his other arm into the sleeve of the denim jacket, Hisoka fixed his partner with a withering glare. “Work.”

“But we just got back two hours ago!” the older shinigami protested, expression absolutely horrified. “We’re done for today!”

“Without finding anything,” Hisoka pointed out. One pale hand had already closed on the doorknob, and he was pulling it open without a backward glance. “I’ll be back soon—- make sure you do some paperwork.” And then he was in the hallway, ignoring Tsuzuki’s half-finished protest as he hastened to leave the building behind.

* * *

Had Hisoka been honest with himself, he would have acknowledged the fact that he was being unfair. He’d been gone for well over five hours, now, and the chill air of early morning clutched at him with dewy fingers as he wandered aimlessly in darkness. The boy imagined that, back in the little hotel room, Tsuzuki was making himself sick with worry.

But the young shinigami didn’t want to return, no matter how the image of his violet-eyed companion growing ever-more desperate twisted at something within him.

Ostensibly, he was still searching for the so-called lost soul.

But the girl that they’d been assigned to find, one Kyoko Arai by name, might as well have not existed. Her information file showed no close family or friends available for questioning, and there was no police report to help determine the cause of death. The body had never been found. Official records listed a place of birth but not a current residence.

For all the young shinigami knew, they were searching in the wrong city.

By day, the partners had resorted to showing pictures of the girl, asking passers-by if they recalled having seen her. But in the dead time just before dawn, Hisoka was the only person that braved the empty walkways and alleys. Wandering in the sporadic glow of street lights, listening to the hollow sound of his own steps on the deserted streets, the boy realized that his chances of meeting one lonely ghost were remote.

Had Hisoka been honest with himself, he would have conceded that his wanderings had nothing to do with a search that he didn’t expect to resolve.

But the boy didn’t want to admit that he’d left for other reasons—- didn’t want to remember the nightmares that had been haunting him more avidly than usual or the influx of emotions from the rooms that bordered theirs. And most of all, he didn’t want another night sleeping in the same bed as his partner, terrified that he would become accustomed to the warmth, to the knowledge that if he awoke screaming, someone would be there.

And so Hisoka ignored the exhaustion tugging insistently at his eyelids, focusing instead on the streets and buildings as he passed.

The neighborhood was a bad one; that much was to be expected. Tatsumi had made the hotel reservations, after all, and a routine case, difficult as it was turning out to be, didn’t warrant special attention of any kind. The apartments that he passed were small, stacked in a row of empty windows that stretched toward the sky. One after another, the stores flowed by with them, the bright neon of their signs dimmed for the night, the clerks long returned home. In the dark of early morning, they all looked the same.

Except for one, Hisoka realized, slowing gradually to a stop as he turned wide eyes to stare up at the darkened windows.

They’d come here three days ago: a tastelessly bright bakery with its wares set alluringly in the window, crowded beyond belief during the daylight hours. Tsuzuki had begged until the boy agreed to go and look at the cakes with him, then used more of the office funds to buy the two of them a pastry to split.

Unexpected, how quiet it seemed without his idiot of a partner.

Taking a breath as he reached a decision, Hisoka crept forward, peering with narrowed eyes at the sign hanging on the glass of the large display window. Dawn couldn’t be far off; if the young shinigami waited until the bakery opened its doors, perhaps he could bring Tsuzuki one of the chocolate cupcakes that he’d—

“Hello, boy.”

Only two words to shatter the half-formed plans, drag icy tendrils down his spine. Two words to close his throat with familiar terror.

With nightmare slowness, Hisoka turned, eyes drawn to the cruel smile that had curved its way onto pale lips.

“I expected you sooner.”

Cold was the first sensation to seep in through the depths of oblivion. Lingering at first on the edge of the boy’s awareness, it gradually became more insistent, until finally the chill was impossible to ignore. When he shifted, it remained, taking a shape beneath him: smooth and flat and hard, stretched below him and pressed against him.

Drawing one arm in for warmth, Hisoka reached the other blindly to search for the covers, fingers groping. Somewhere in his sleep-fogged mind, the young shinigami made a note to talk to Tatsumi about getting the heater fixed. Even at the start of winter, it was ridiculous for his house to be so cold, and…

The thoughts faltered, trailing to a stop. Cautiously, the boy blinked his eyes open, wide green gaze still bleary with sleep as he searched for the covers. It was fully two seconds later that he registered the fact that not only were the blankets missing, but so was the house. And his clothing.

“You’re awake.” The pale of the man’s suit made him visible even in the darkness, though he seemed grey with shadow. Fully clothed, standing calmly in the midst of an empty room, Muraki gazed down at his doll.

“You.” It had been meant as a growl. Meant to sound angry. Instead, it called to mind a child’s pleas under a sakura tree, so many years ago. Panic jumbled the boy’s thoughts, dried his throat. “What do you want?”

In a single, fluid motion, the doctor was on one knee beside him, snaking a hand to fix one slender wrist in an unbreakable grip. Darkness flowed in through the contact, cruel and calmly loathing. “You think that he’ll come for you.” The tone was amused, proximity making his breath warm on the boy’s neck. “You hope that he will.”

“Bastard,” the young shinigami hissed in response, yanking away as far as the hold would allow. For the moment, anger surged into life, drowning out the paralyzing terror that had overcome him. “The only thing I hope is that he stays away from you.”

“Oh?” One pale hand traced cold fingers along the boy’s jawline, a mock of a caress. “You ought to be happy, then. Because this time, I’m going to wait for him.”

Dread swimming in his wide green eyes, Hisoka couldn’t help but flinch a little at the expression he discovered on the doctor’s face. And then the man leaned in, pressing his lips to the young shinigami’s with bruising force.

It was a cold contact, and harsh, far too much the nightmare of memory that still haunted Hisoka’s thoughts. The kiss was invasive, but more still were the emotions that came with it; dark and seething, they waited below the surface, promising things to come. Oh, gods, how the man wanted to hurt him. He could feel it-- a sick, thrumming certainty that washed icy horror in its wake.

“One broken little doll,” Muraki mused, voice low and frighteningly calm. When the doctor moved to touch him again, Hisoka could feel the smirk against his throat. “And he has the rest of forever to forget about you.”

* * *

The violet-eyed shinigami hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d been doing his valiant best to take care of some of the paperwork and, well, filling forms wasn’t exactly conducive to staying awake. Even so, Tsuzuki doubted that his partner would appreciate the effort—- especially considering that he’d only managed half a page.

The sight of his watch’s hands made the man cringe. How had it gotten so late? Hisoka was going to be so angry, especially after he’d spent the night doing extra work on the case…

Hiding a yawn as best he could behind one hand, the older shinigami turned to apologize to his doubtless-livid partner. And was left blinking confusedly at the empty room and still unslept-in bed.

It… didn’t make sense. His watch had insisted that noon was drawing near, and the boy should have been back hours ago. Half a day ago. What could possibly be taking this long? And where—-

It was the sound of footsteps that interrupted the thought halfway.

They were light and steady on the thin carpet beyond the room, almost in answer to the questions that had been plaguing the man moments before. Tsuzuki was on his feet immediately, a childish joy glowing across his face as he slammed the door wide to greet his partner. But the sudden movement was met only by a startled pair of eyes, not emerald but brown, and the woman that they belonged to moved to the other side of the hall before continuing past.

Crestfallen, the violet-eyed shinigami stared after her for a long moment, distress creeping into the crease of his brow and the press of his lips. With a nearly inaudible sigh, he clicked the door closed once again, padding softly into the room and settling restlessly on the foot of the bed.

How long exactly, Tsuzuki wondered, was “be back soon”? And worse still, what if his partner had already been back? It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence—- Hisoka, tired of waiting or too busy to bother waking his partner, frequently left on his own.

If he was overreacting, the boy was likely to give him an earful both for sleeping in and for wasting time on false assumptions. His partner was an empath, after all-- and Tsuzuki had been quick to discover that worrying equated in Hisoka’s mind to an implication that the young shinigami couldn’t take care of himself. Which was, of course, Not Appreciated At All.

Imagining the boy’s glare, Tsuzuki hovered a moment, caught between concern and the dread of his partner’s wrath. It wasn’t as though the young shinigami was likely to get lost. And one ghost was a simple enough problem, provided they actually found her. He’d slept in too late, and was upset for nothing. That was what Hisoka would tell him, when he finally caught up with the boy.

With a fond little smile, the violet-eyed shinigami shook himself into action.

It was Hisoka. And the boy would call him an idiot, and pretend to be angry—- but it would be worth it, to see him blush.

* * *

It hurt.

The world had fallen away to tearing thrusts and delicate, searing knife-stokes. Agony raced up his nerves, burning its way through him again and again, the curse throbbing red in time with new wounds.

It hurt. Like nothing else ever could, and in ways the nightmares had never truly been able to mimic. Cold hands, rough and reaching; sharp, thin blades; a slow, burning ache between his legs. His face was hot from crying, sticky with the tears, but for some reason the boy couldn’t stop trembling with cold.

Hisoka had forgotten. Forgotten how much pain the man was capable of causing, the tide of darkness that rose up and threatened to drag him under. Forgotten the calm, convincing word whispered in his ear: “Mine”.

The boy had been safe for too long. Been cared for enough that he’d begun to accept it, tentative though the trust had been. But it had been a mistake. Perhaps the worst he’d ever made, because now the young shinigami was learning all over again.

Abruptly, there was a pain sharper than the others, deeper, and Hisoka was crying out without meaning to; it was a strangled half-scream, wrenched from between sobbing breaths. Distantly amused, Muraki reached pale fingers to caress the wounds lining his doll’s back, pulling away only when the tips were stained crimson.

And then, finally.

Finally, the weight was gone from above him, the flood of cruelty taken along with the contact. It was a relief so profound simply to be free of it that Hisoka didn’t notice the receding footsteps until he heard the squeak of hinges.

Shakily, the young shinigami managed to lift his head enough to make out Muraki’s form, silhouetted against a rectangle of light. And then the door was swinging shut, and Hisoka could do nothing but stare with desperate eyes as he heard the lock click heavily into place.

* * *

It wasn’t often that Tatsumi received callers after nine. Wasn’t often, in fact, that Tatsumi received callers.

And so when the knock came at his door near midnight, insistently erratic, the secretary knew immediately that something was the matter. When he was close enough to hear Tsuzuki’s half-called explanations—- “please, Tatsumi? I need your help, I can’t find him, open up, it’s important!” –he knew that the trouble was bad. And when he opened the door to an expression of frantic worry, it became fairly obvious what the problem involved.

The man that used to be his partner stared up at him, violet eyes shining with tears. “I can’t find Hisoka.”

The sky was grey, a paling shade of the night that had begun to retreat across the horizon. In the garden below the vast expanse of fading stars, all was quiet save the rhythmic clack of a bamboo fountain, filling with water before it connected with the rocks below.

It was peaceful, in a way. Serene, with a hypnotic insistency. After crowded streets and the bustle of the office, the stillness of the natural world was almost unexpected. And certainly unwelcome.

Step for step with Tatsumi’s relentless pace, the violet-eyed shinigami let off a mental litany of curses, each one more colorful. At the moment, the finely-cultivated little garden and its neatly trimmed walkways were a hindrance—- and to be honest, Tsuzuki only cared about what was at the path’s end.

As though the thought had been a prediction, the building sprang into view: elegantly raised roof, traditional sliding doors, and a paper lantern proclaiming its name to any passersby. “Kou Kaku Rou”.

Tsuzuki passed the secretary in two swift strides, closing the distance between himself and the goal at a pace just short of running. The sound of knuckles on wood was deafening in the early morning hours, a shock after the hush of pre-dawn. But the violet-eyed shinigami didn’t wince or shy from the noise; instead, he rapped again, louder the second time, and more demanding.

For a long time, there was silence—- the hotel and everything in the world around it seemed to have taken a collective breath, and forgotten to breath out again. The stillness was eerie in its tranquility.

And then, slowly, the door slid open.

A man stood before them, the tangled darkness of his hair falling in unruly waves over his shoulders and down the back of his robe. There was something wary in his face, but something curious as well, dark eyes searching as he trailed his gaze thoughtfully from one shinigami to the other.

“Help you?” Oriya offered, the phrase far more casual than the man’s stance suggested.

There was no time to waste. “Where’s Muraki?”

It was a sudden demand, the tone sharper than he’d meant it. Hope and anger struggled for dominance in Tsuzuki’s features and his heart, and without meaning to, the man took a step forward.

But the wariness in dark eyes became suspicion, the flat line of Oriya’s mouth pressed downward into a frown. “You’re the one they wanted to find, then,” he acknowledged at length, as though confirming something to himself.

Fighting down a wave of frustration that threatened him with tears, Tsuzuki resisted the urge to shake the man. “Do you know where he is?” he asked again, tone borderline desperate.

But the urgency in the shinigami’s tone failed to rouse a quick answer, and for a long moment Oriya stood motionless, staring out at the dead men and the grounds beyond. Finally, dark eyes met pleading violet ones, and the harsh expression softened almost imperceptibly.

“…he never came back.”

* * *

The boy had started looking for a way out as soon as his limbs stopped shaking enough to support his weight. Ignoring for a time the terror that still ate away at his heart, Hisoka focused instead on a way to make it stop.

The teleportation attempt had been a disaster.

As though sensing the effort, the crimson lines of the curse had flared to life, searing him until breathing was impossible through the pain. And then, just as suddenly, the sensation had stopped, leaving the young shinigami to cry softly, panting on the floor.

He didn’t try again.

Instead, the boy had settled for exploring his surroundings, much as the darkened room would allow. And the things that Hisoka found surprised him.

Writing lined the floor and lower walls, enfolding and overlapping, a jagged mirror of the runes carved into the boy’s flesh. The shadows of the room made them all but invisible, black lines against a floor so darkly grey that the contrast was hardly perceptible. But every symbol had been measured, had been carefully constructed, and occasionally one would glow with a faint light—- a sign that they served well the intended purpose.

The runes must be, Hisoka had concluded, the reason that he was unable to use his powers. Not a single power, but more than one. Because the boy been quick to discover that teleportation wasn’t the most important skill he’d lost.

He’d pretended, at first. Told himself that it was just taking longer than usual to heal. That the shock of Muraki’s treatment had staggered his powers, and that he would regain them in a few hours-- though truth be told, he had no reason to believe anything of the sort.

Time meant nothing in the dimness of the room, however, and the boy couldn’t begin to guess how long he’d been there already. Still, the burn of the curse was a dull ache through the length of his limbs, and the knife wounds screamed in agony, bleeding sluggishly. Nothing was healing.

But still, there had to be a way. Any way to escape the closed darkness of the room. And so he moved methodically, in spite of the pain.

Hisoka crawled slowly around the base of the small chamber, looking for a break in the writing that lined the walls and floor. Where sight failed him, the boy groped blindly, searching for any changes in the cold smoothness of the surface, and small imperfections in the prison.

There were none. The jagged, twisting markings flowed smoothly, flawless in their efficiency, and the room itself was utterly bare. One door, and no windows.

Telling himself firmly that he would ignore the sob building in the back of his throat, Hisoka pressed his forehead to his knees, arms wrapped around his legs for warmth. He would not wish that Tsuzuki was here. He would not. Nor would he think about the locked door, and another locked door that he had been so very familiar with, years ago. He would just… wait. But not for his partner. Just wait.

Because it was all he could do.

* * *

“What kind of asshole doesn’t tell his best friend that he’s alive?” Tsuzuki fumed for the fifth time, pacing steps bringing him back across the office at a surprising speed. Running a hand distractedly through the chocolate brown hair that fell across his face, the shinigami whirled to face the department’s secretary. “And where the hell could he have taken him?”

“Tsuzuki…” Behind the ever-present glasses, Tatsumi’s eyes were surprisingly soft. “We don’t know anything for sure, yet.”

“If you didn’t think that it was Muraki, we never would have gone there,” the violet-eyed shinigami accused, fixing his ex-partner with a level stare.

“I wanted to make sure that we had all of the possibilities covered,” Tatsumi disagreed. “Because of Kurosaki-kun’s… ah… history, I thought that it might be a good idea to check.”

“Then you don’t think Muraki took him?” Abruptly, Tsuzuki found himself a chair and collapsed into it, the constant motion apparently having taken its toll. Cocking his head to one side, he fixed the secretary with a pleading stare.

For the space of several heartbeats, Tatsumi watched him with a level gaze, unspeaking. And then, against his better judgment, honesty prevailed. “I think that we need to keep other possibilities open,” the man corrected. “But right now, I don’t see where else Kurosaki-kun could have gone.”

The older shinigami frowned, digesting the information. Worry and anger shone brightly in violet eyes, even as his words attempted to sort the swirling thoughts aloud. “Hisoka… wouldn’t have gone for this long,” he admitted quietly. “Not without telling me.”

Tatsumi merely nodded, glancing away as he schooled himself to refrain from adding more. Quite simply, had the boy come across the objective of their assignment, he shouldn’t have had trouble dealing with the girl. According to the record base, Arai-san was nothing out of the ordinary: just a spirit that seemed intent on evading death. And if it wasn’t the mission that had caused the problem, very few solutions came to mind—- aside from the idea that something had interfered purposefully. And interferences, as the past had seemed intent to prove, seemed to come from one source more than any other.

When the secretary looked up from his inner musings, he was alarmed to discover that the other man’s eyes were blinking back tears.

“Tatsumi,” the older shinigami whispered. “It can’t be Muraki, right? I mean, he hasn’t even tried to contact us.” There was a desperate, clinging quality to the tone. “If it was Muraki, he’d have wanted something in return already… right?”

But the question never got answered, because just then the door to the office banged open and in bustled a disheveled blonde scientist.

“Yo, Tatsumi,” he offered with a yawn and a lazy wave. “Getting an early start? You know, it isn’t good for you to-- Tsuzuki?!” Golden eyes huge, Watari peered over the brim of his glasses as though to ensure that, yes, it really was the office’s biggest slacker there at five in the morning. “What… what the…? I thought you and bon were still on assignment!”

A blanket of silence greeted the statement, thick and foreboding.

Blinking in confusion, the scientist stared back uncertainly at the death-glare Tatsumi had fixed on him. “What?” he asked, looking from the face of one co-worker to the other. “What happened? What’d I say?”

* * *

Half an hour later, the scientist was noticeably less perky. With an explanation, the usual smile had faded and golden eyes were dark with worry.

“We could just look,” Tsuzuki was saying, voice soft and a little scared. “But that’s all it would be—- looking. We don’t even know where to start.”

Beside him, Tatsumi set a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder, disheartened when the touch wasn’t even acknowledged. “Just because we haven’t received contact yet, doesn’t mean that it won’t happen,” the secretary pointed out. “Or perhaps we could start our search in the areas we’ve encountered Muraki before.”

Another silence descended on the room, awkward and a little hopeless—- until Watari decided that he was sick of the quiet, and stood with a flourish.

“Right!” he announced. “Well, we’re sure as hell not waiting for Muraki to come to us!”

Two questioning stares turned toward the suddenly-energetic blonde, taking in the determined manner and clenched fist—- a stance usually indicative of the exhibition of his latest experiment. Now, however, the enthusiastic shinigami’s sights were set on a different goal.

“There isn’t a person in Japan that you can’t research, if you get into the right computer system.” Brisk steps brought him past Tsuzuki, and the scientist reached down to ruffle the chocolate-brown mop of hair fondly. “Don’t worry—- give me until tonight, and I’ll be able to tell you how many times a day the good doctor brushes his teeth.”

With a wink and a confident grin, Watari slipped from the room, leaving his co-workers to stare after the closing door.

“Well,” came the correction some fourteen hours later, as Watari let himself back into the office. “It seems as though Muraki doesn’t keep very good dental records.”

Starting out of a near doze, Tsuzuki blinked at him from over the rim of a now-cold cup of coffee. “Eh?” The lack of sleep was beginning to wear on the man; he’d spent the day combing the streets near the hotel for his missing partner, returning only after sunset to wait and see what results another search had uncovered.

With a weak little laugh and a tired smile, the blonde scientist slumped into a chair, waving a stack of papers in the older shinigami’s face. “He’s got an apartment in Nagasaki in his name, and I found the address of that hospital in Tokyo. Bastard’s hard to track.”

“Aah!” Faster than Watari would have believed possible, the violet-eyed man had snatched the data sheets from his hand. “That’s fantastic!”

“Maybe.” But the scientist’s golden eyes were uncharacteristically serious, and he offered a rare warning. “No telling if we’ll find anything about bon, though—- even if he does have him.” Sighing, Watari stretched and rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks that come with a day hunched over a computer desk. “It’s a place to start, and that’s about it.”

“That’s all I need,” Tsuzuki told him, determination burning deep in violet eyes. Prepared to match actions to words, the man was on his feet and halfway to the door several seconds later-- but whatever he’d planned was cut short when said door swung inward, revealing Tatsumi in the hallway just beyond.

Weary and grim, the secretary turned a hard blue gaze from one of his co-workers to the other. “I have orders from above,” he said simply, tone not quite the business-like calm that they’d come to associate with the man. “Someone is to continue with the assignment.”

Tsuzuki watched his ex-partner uncertainly, frozen mid-step. “Assignment?” he hesitated. “Did you report Hisoka missing?”

“It’s not Kurosaki-kun that we’re to look for.” There was an edge to Tatsumi’s voice, the inflection making it clear that he was anything but pleased. “It’s Arai-san.”

Disbelief dawned in expressive violet eyes, shadowed quickly by anger. “My partner is missing,” the older shinigami declared hotly. “And if they think that I’ll ignore that because they need a case sol--”

The secretary calmed the outburst by placing a hand on Tsuzuki’s shoulder. “I’d hoped to go with you,” he confessed. “But it seems I’ll have to stay behind.”

Abruptly, the tirade was finished, replaced by the confusion obvious in the crease of the man’s brow. “Tatsumi?”

“Go find your partner,” the secretary commanded softly, sighing. “I’ll take care of the assignment.”

A host of emotions flitted across the face of the violet-eyed shinigami, shifting and uncertain, before gratitude finally welled up in the forefront. “Sankyuu, Tatsumi!” he beamed, making once more toward the doorway. “Wish me luck!”

Watching his ex-partner with a fond smile, Tatsumi waited until the man was safely out of hearing range. “Watari…” the secretary began then, reluctantly turning his gaze from the retreating man.

But the scientist was already grinning and nodding, surging to his feet to follow their friend from the room. “Don’t worry,” he insisted, waving one hand as though to ward off any misgivings. “I’ll take good care of him.”

Staring after the two departing men, Tatsumi frowned into the darkened hallway. It was fully ten minutes before he thought to open the case files.

* * *

Somehow, it had faded to a manageable level.

The pain was still there, and the cold, but they’d receded to something familiar; a distant burning was all he felt of the thin red strips of the knife wounds. They were frighteningly hot compared to the rest of his skin, but the last time Hisoka had pressed his hand to one, it had come away dry. So at least he wasn’t bleeding.

There was no light. The slim stream of it under the doorway had long ago disappeared, extinguished when Muraki had left him. There was no noise—- only the shaky little gasps of his breathing, and the tinny sound of rain on the roof, and a quiet drip of water somewhere in the empty room.

The boy dozed, sometimes-- snatches of unconsciousness that came and went with feverish irregularity, broken when the nightmares would force him sobbing back into reality. Then the blackness of the room would press in on him until he closed his eyes, trying to pretend that he’d be somewhere else when he opened them.

It was hard to believe, though-- and when at last the echo of footsteps broke through the endless stillness, the young shinigami couldn’t ignore the sound.

They drifted closer, faint at first, but steady and even until at last they trailed to a stop. Light followed, kindling a spark of hope in wide green eyes as they were drawn to the bright line below the door.

He wasn’t waiting for his partner. He didn’t need—- didn’t want-- the man to save him. But for all Hisoka’s logical side insisted that the idiot would just end up getting himself hurt, the boy couldn’t stop the crushing half-hope that heaved its way to the forefront.

Tsuzuki. The young shinigami mouthed the word, casting the plea to any god that might be listening. Let it be Tsuzuki. Please. Anything at all, but just please—

The door opened with the same maddening calm that had been obvious in the pace of the footsteps and a moment later, the boy got his answer.

The figure haloed in the bright electric glare was too shadowed for Hisoka to see the man’s face, but all he needed was the profile. Too many times, his mind had replayed the image of a silhouette stained red by the moon.

Curled against the far wall, Hisoka squeezed his eyes closed against the sight.

* * *

In the middle of a deserted hallway, Watari stood staring up at a door.

“Alright,” the scientist whispered conspiratorially, the volume of his voice scarcely different from his usual talking pitch. Just to be certain, he checked once more to see if the black plastic numbers matched the hastily scribbled ones on the paper clutched in both hands. “Here we are—- go for it.”

Startled violet eyes blinked at him. “Go for it?”

“Right.” The blonde smiled agreeably. “If Muraki shows up, I’ll be out here to give you heads up.”

“Oh.” Thinking it over, Tsuzuki nodded hesitantly. “Good idea.” And with that he faded from view, reappearing on the other side of the door seconds later.

The whole place had been peculiarly disarming. From the brightly lit halls and the nurses chatting behind the main desk, it had been every inch a normal hospital. And though Tsuzuki wasn’t sure exactly what to expect from Muraki’s office, it certainly wasn’t what he discovered.

There was a desk. Clean, neat, and with a pile of papers arranged by size in the out box. A file cabinet stood in the corner, topped off by a potted plant. No dolls. No blood. No strange instruments of torture. Just a doctor’s office, seeming very empty and quiet without the glaring overhead light.

For the space of several breaths, Tsuzuki was afraid he’d come to the wrong room by mistake. And then a voice in his mind that sounded oddly like his absent partner called him an idiot for jumping to conclusions. Of course it wasn’t some sort of dungeon, the violet-eyed shinigami told himself as he crept into the darkened office. It was a regular hospital—- and here, at least, the doctor had to maintain an appearance of normality.

Reassuring himself with that comforting logic, the man took a breath and reached for the desk.

The stack of papers was organized with a frightening degree of precision. Toward the bottom were recent publications of several medical journals, and further up were appointment notices and reminders penned in an immaculate hand.

Biting back a sigh of frustration, the shinigami turned his attention to the metal drawers of the file cabinet.

They were locked of course, but the simple metal keyholes were nothing in the face of Tsuzuki when he was determined to find his partner. They shattered with a sudden jolt of telekinetic force, fragmenting to land on the otherwise spotless floor. The violet-eyed man took some small pleasure from that fact as he wrenched the first drawer open.

Files. Row upon carefully-arranged row of patient files. Muraki’s patients, the diagnoses, and the prescribed treatments. On and on the labels went, carefully printed names, and Tsuzuki couldn’t help but wonder how many the man had manipulated. And through it all, no hint as to where Hisoka might be.

And so he read through the names, scanning for anything of use, breath caught as he prayed quietly to find some sort of hint. Minoru Sato, Akeno Takahashi, Kyoko Arai…

Pausing in his search, Tsuzuki pressed his lips together and leaned to peer more closely at the name. Kyoko Arai. It might have been coincidence… but with Muraki involved, it was more likely something much more carefully planned.

* * *

“How’d it go?”

Watari needn’t have asked the question; the look on his friend’s usually cheerful face was answer enough. A quiet shake of the head was his only response, but the scientist couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering to the folder clutched in the other shinigami’s hand.

“What’s that, then?” the blonde asked, frowning thoughtfully.

Preoccupied violet eyes lingered for a moment on the file clutched between slender fingers. “Something for Tatsumi,” the man murmured. “I think he could use it.”

“Oh?” Raising one eyebrow, the scientist waited for an explanation—- but none was forthcoming.

Tsuzuki shook his head distractedly, as though to clear it. “Come on,” he urged, seizing his friend by the sleeve of his lab coat and steering him toward the exit. “Where’s the address to that apartment?”

It was an upscale place; that much was obvious even from the hallway. Thickly carpeted, the corridor stretched past rows of heavy oaken doors, each graced with a bronze number. Little electric wall lanterns clung to the tasteful wallpaper at the right of each room. And leaned up against the wall beside one door in particular, a certain violet-eyed shinigami tried to keep himself from worry and boredom.

It was, he was discovering rapidly, a hopeless endeavor.

On the other side of the wall, Watari was busy searching for any information that could be used. But he’d been gone far too long already by Tsuzuki’s standards, and though the man trusted his friend, he would rather have taken the matter of his partner’s safety into his own hands.

Minutes stretched, much longer in seeming than in actuality, and the violet-eyed shinigami struggled to keep his thoughts focused on the task at hand. The cheerful blonde currently in the apartment would find everything that there was to find, after all; Watari was good at discovering things that needed answers.

And so Tsuzuki waited, a restless and uneasy lookout, telling himself that there was no need to worry. No need to worry, because they’d have his partner back soon, and everything would be fine.

Gods, the man prayed silently, just let him be all right.

Tsuzuki’s eyes slipped closed as the despair he’d been holding back welled up inside, and suddenly the weight of all the dread and unknowing anxiety was too much. Helplessly, the shinigami tipped his head back to rest against the wall, lost in the darkness of his own thoughts.

Of course it wouldn’t be fine. Nothing would be anything short of a disaster. He was with Muraki, and there was no telling what that bastard was doing to him. Hadn’t Hisoka suffered enough? His whole life had been nothing but pain and betrayal; didn’t he deserve peace after death? And more importantly—- why was it that he could never manage to protect the boy when he needed it most?

Unconsciously, the violet-eyed shinigami clenched slender fingers into a white-knuckled fist, trembling with the force of his emotions. It was unbearable to know that his partner was out of reach—- alone with the man that had murdered him, and the only help he’d managed to—

Footsteps that the man hadn’t even heard came to a stop in front of the door, the words that accompanied them shattering any thought.

“Tsuzuki-san,” said a familiar voice, calm and pleasantly surprised. “Have you come to pay me a visit?”

* * *

It was inexcusable.

In Tatsumi’s estimation, no business-related materials had any excuse to be anything but precisely kept-- but the sheaves of folded and poorly-arranged documents in the manila folder on his desk were a minor disaster.

Honestly, even if Tsuzuki had managed to get hold of the files, it would only stand to reason that his partner would have set them right. Kurosaki-kun could be relied on, after all; for all the boy’s prickly exterior, he had an affinity for organization that the JuOhCho’s secretary appreciated.

But thoughts of the young shinigami brought the same question wandering back into Tatsumi’s thoughts, where he’d banished it only moments before: where was the boy? And with the first question, of course, others flooded in demanding answers. Would Tsuzuki be safe looking for him? Could Watari manage to take on the self-professed role of guardian, or—- and this was the one that made the secretary shudder with dread—- would the overly-enthusiastic scientist doom them from the start?

With a quiet sigh he closed his eyes, trying to force his mind back into focus. He’d made the decision, after all; he’d chosen what he thought best for Tsuzuki. Or rather, what he thought the man wanted most. It was only fair, the secretary schooled himself, that he live up to the resolution and dedicate himself fully to the task. The case needed to be solved, after all. And two shinigamis ought to be able to take care of themselves, irresponsible though the pair was.

Opening tired eyes once more, Tatsumi turned back to the task at hand, adjusting his glasses so that he could peer more closely at the tiny writing.

There was startlingly little information on the subject, and even less of it of any use. The few infrequent address changes, a sheet that tracked Arai-san’s short and rather uneventful career, a medical history that consisted of the recommended once-a-year check-up…

Frowning, Tatsumi paused in the midst of his scan of the page, gaze catching on the date at the bottom of the last page of the medical records. Blue eyes narrowed, the man flipped the page to search for the rest of the data, suspicion flaring when he found only blank paper.

Expression thoughtful, the man reached for the rest of the information, straightening it into manageable piles before beginning to leaf through it. For the moment, worries about his co-workers had fled, leaving Tatsumi with another seemingly unanswerable question: what could have caused a seven-year gap in the records?

* * *

For a moment, the words staggered around in his mind without a person to place them to, alarmingly unexpected. And then the voice set off a glint of recognition, and Tsuzuki’s eyes snapped open, violet depths burning with anger.

“Muraki,” the shinigami growled, moving from his relaxed position against the wall in order to confront the man. “What did you do to him?”

“Him?” For a moment, the doctor feigned innocence, a slight smile playing across pale lips as he cocked his head consideringly to the side. “Oh—- do you mean the boy?”

Tsuzuki’s hands moved almost without conscious thought, reaching to grab fistfuls of white fabric. “Stop fucking around.” It was a savage command, and the man’s voice was trembling with rage. “Where’s Hisoka?”

A quiet chuckle greeted the words, low and amused. “Now, now, Tsuzuki-san… there’s no need to be rude.” Reaching forward to detach the insistent fists clutching at his collar, the doctor shook his head disapprovingly. “And you needn’t worry about the boy. He’s in a place where you won’t have think about him any longer.”

“Where I won’t have to think about him?” the violet-eyed shinigami hissed, lips pulled back in a snarl. “If you believe even for a second that I’m just going to give up and let you do whatever you want--”

“It seems to be working,” Muraki commented mildly, gently prying the fingers from his clothing. “You’re here to see me, after all… aren’t you?” Watching the other man sputter, the doctor smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his coat, peering disdainfully at a spot of red on his sleeve. “Why don’t we go inside?” he suggested. “I ought to tidy up—- I can never seem to stay clean when I get involved with my work.”

Tsuzuki swallowed convulsively against the horror bottoming out in his stomach, following the doctor’s unnaturally pale gaze to the blood staining the end of his sleeve. Mouth dry, he could only watch as Muraki reached for the door handle, only stare on in apprehension as he began to turn the brass knob.

Just in time, common sense kicked in. “Wait!”

The man turned to regard him with an expression that was vaguely amused, curiosity showing in the depths of one eye. “Was there something you wanted, Tsuzuki-san?”

Firmly ignoring the implications of that statement, the violet-eyed shinigami shook his head almost violently. “All I want from you is my partner back!” Raising his voice and hoping that the doctor would attribute it to mounting anger, Tsuzuki could only hope that the scientist behind the closed door could hear what he was saying. “Can’t you leave us alone? Haven’t you done enough?”

“It would seem that I hadn’t. After all, you turned from me no matter what I tried.” Tipping his head to one side, Muraki allowed a little smile to creep onto his face. “But always before, I was trying to kill the boy. So rest assured, Tsuzuki-san—- I’ll leave him well alive.”

“Bastard,” the shinigami growled, slamming the wall beside the man in a fit of real anger. “If you hurt him, I swear by all the gods, I’ll--”

“Ah,” the doctor interrupted, tone reasonable. “But don’t you see, this way you have nothing to worry about beyond what’s already happened. You’ll search, but I’m afraid that I’ve managed to block your messenger creatures.” Muraki’s hand was on the doorknob again, turning it and pushing it inward. “You can’t hold his loss against me, since he isn’t truly gone-- and as they say, ‘Time heals all wounds.’”

For a moment, Tsuzuki was too frozen with terror to react, staring as he was over the man’s shoulder and into the darkened room beyond.

“Tsuzuki-san?” The deep voice was politely inquiring. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”

Violet eyes trailed carefully across the room in one direction, and then back. Empty. Satisfied that Watari had managed to slip out in time, the shinigami fixed Muraki with a glare. “Go to hell.”

Jerking himself away from the frighteningly tender icy stare, Tsuzuki turned down the hallway. He had a partner to rescue.

The silence of the room was broken by the satisfying sound of a thick stack of paper hitting the desk; over the top of it, two men grinned triumphantly at one another.

“The good doctor’s never gonna live this down,” Watari announced, golden eyes alight with excitement. “Swiped his stuff while he was chatting it up in the hall.”

“What did you do, take everything paper?” Eying the impressive stack of documents, Tsuzuki reflected that, had it been case work, it would have been a terrifying load. But it was to find his partner. It was for Hisoka, and if that involved wading through every file in Meifu, then the violet-eyed shinigami would do it without complaint.

The scientist shrugged, considering his plunder with an appraising eye. “I had to grab a few handfuls and get out quick,” he admitted. “But I think I got everything that looked promising.” Watching as his friend settled down to work, Watari helped himself to the one folder that had come from the hospital. He jabbed a finger at it, gesturing to the door with a brief toss of his head. “I’ll bring this over to Tatsumi for you, and be back in a sec. Good luck!”

And with that, the cheerful blonde vacated the room, leaving Tsuzuki alone with his hopes and fears.

* * *

He had to have missed something.

Two days without sleep had left the violet-eyed shinigami ink-stained and weary, trying to keep his eyes open long enough to catch the one vital piece of information that he was sure he hadn’t seen. Because there had to be something. Somewhere in the stack of papers, there had to be some clue. If he just looked hard enough, then…

“Tsuzuki.” It was Tatsumi’s voice. The secretary’s tone was calm—- reassuring, even-- but as exhausted as he felt. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Don’t wanna,” the older shinigami mumbled. The way he was sitting, arm stretched out on the desk in front of him and mouth pressed against it, muffled the words considerably. “Have to find Hisoka.”

“You aren’t doing Kurosaki-kun any good like this.” Admirably, the secretary ignored the misery that his ex-partner’s expression radiated, pushing on to make his point under the stare of a wounded puppy gaze. “You can hardly keep your eyes open; how are you supposed to find anything new if you can’t concentrate?”

For a long time, Tsuzuki didn’t answer, eyes fixed instead on the rows of tiny print that he was beginning to learn by heart.

“Watari made up a bed for you in the infirmary,” Tatsumi persuaded. “That way, you can sleep a few doors down and come right back when you wake up.”

Exhausted violet eyes lifted reluctantly from the paper before them, turning instead to the secretary that stood just beside him. “Promise?”

Struck by how young the man seemed at just that moment—- rumpled hair and smudged face conspired to make him seem a child awake past its bedtime-- Tatsumi moved to help his friend stand. “Promise.”

* * *

The drip of water onto metal rang through the room, a slow and rhythmic constant. It might have been soothing, had the boy been able to focus on it-- but the sound was almost lost under the rasp of his own breathing, and the drumming of rain on the roof brought back too many memories.

In some ways, it was a small stroke of luck. His throat had ached, raw from screaming, until at last his scattered thoughts managed to direct him to the little puddle formed by the leak. And though even breathing had begun to hurt, and Hisoka’s thoughts had strayed more than once to the possibility of a shinigami starving to death, the boy was spared at least from going four days without water.

Caught in a state of semi-consciousness, the boy’s mind wandered in an attempt to shut out the pain and hunger and biting, numbing chill. Again and again, however, the image that swam to the front of fevered recollections was a pair of laughing violet eyes, and Hisoka’s thoughts drifted to the warm touch of gentle hands.

For all the times his partner had done everything in his power to drag the boy out to eat, Hisoka never thought he’d find himself wishing for just that. Eyes half-lidded, the young shinigami stared blankly into the empty room as his mind tried to conjure the pleading tone that the older man would doubtless have used. It took longer than it should have, but the reward was well-worth it. If he could just manage to block out his own body and the world around him, it would be almost as though Tsuzuki had come to save him.

Lost in the misty half-images of memory, Hisoka let the darkness that hovered just beyond reach close slowly in.

* * *

In the gleaming white of the Ju-Oh-Cho’s infirmary, a blonde in a lab coat and a secretary in a suit stood staring down at the sleeping figure in the room’s only bed.

“How’d you get him to leave?” Watari whispered, tone cautiously aware of the fact that this particular nap was nothing short of a miracle.

Tatsumi’s voice was equally hushed. “I told him he wasn’t doing any good.” For a moment, the man hesitated, about to say something more. Instead, he settled for: “We should let him sleep.”

A careful nod greeted the suggestion, and a moment later, two sets of quiet footsteps found their way from the room. Only when the door had clicked softly closed behind them and the pair had moved a good distance from the room did Watari dare to break the newly formed silence.

“He didn’t mention going out again, did he?” Under the light tone of the words, there was worry that the blonde was clearly unused to disguising.

His co-worker took a long time to speak, considering the words carefully. “No,” the man said at last. “But I’m not sure that’s a good sign.”

Watari paused, digesting the response before he hazarded the next question.

“So… what happens when he gets his next assignment?” Long fingers twisted the hem of his lab coat nervously upward and then unrolled it once more.

There was no hesitation in the reply. “I’ll take it.”

Startled golden eyes widened fractionally, and though the scientist’s tone was casual, his expression was a mixture of worry and admiration. “You’ll get behind on your own work, you know,” he remarked, almost off-handed.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tatsumi’s voice was much sharper than he’d intended, hissed with the force of the words. In a rare, straightforward moment, the man said exactly what was on his mind. “They shouldn’t have gotten that case. If I’d just done some preliminary background work, then they never would have--”

“Hey,” the blonde shinigami interrupted. “Hey, calm down. Without a death date, you’d have been as clueless as the rest of us. Muraki works in a private hospital, after all—- those kind of records are hard to come by.”

“She’d been dead for seven years,” Tatsumi said, bluntly. “I would have been able to find something.”

Watari watched him for the space of several heartbeats, peering over the rim of his glasses to study the secretary’s expression closely. “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” was what he offered at last.

The troubled blue eyes didn’t even raise to acknowledge him.

Fighting down a sigh, the scientist clapped a friendly hand on the other man’s shoulder and offered the only advice that he thought would do good. “Go on and go back to work,” he suggested. “Getting behind won’t help anything, and I can keep an eye on Tsuzuki.”

The expression was one of mixed hesitancy and careful thought. “What about Kurosaki-kun?”

A slender hand waved back and forth, dismissing the objection. “I can keep looking for bon and teleport back every half-hour or so to make sure Tsuzuki’s still sleeping.”

The reluctance in the secretary’s words still dripped skepticism. “And if there’s trouble?”

“I’ll come right back here,” Watari informed him cheerfully.

For a time, there was silence as Tatsumi turned the new change of plans over in his mind, searching it for possible objections. “…fine,” he conceded at last.

“It’ll be alright,” the scientist told his co-worker confidently. “Trust me,” Blissfully unaware of the apprehension that particular statement evoked, he turned to leave without another word.

* * *

Somewhere, it was dark. Dim and fuzzy, as though it came from far away, but dark all the same.

Everything hurt if he thought about it too hard, and there was a constant ache of hunger, even when he didn’t.

He was cold, and lonely, and somewhere the rain was making a drip drip drip against metal. It was strange, that he hadn’t come yet. Stranger still that it bothered him—- though if he’d let himself listen to the little voice screaming for someone, anyone to help him, he would have understood exactly how weak he’d become.

/ohgodsohgodswhyhasn’thecomeyet/

That was the problem, after all. He’d gotten used to it—-become accustomed to food and warmth and kindness. Allowed someone to chip away at the walls around his heart, and now that he needed them, all he had left was the terrified voice of a child, whimpering over and over in his mind for someone to save it.

/pleasedon’tleavemehere/

He ignored it.

/pleaseIloveyoudon’tleavemeliketheydid/

Because it was when he listened to it that he couldn’t stop from crying…

Consciousness tore back into him with a cry and a gasp, and Tsuzuki found himself sitting sharp upright in a bed of Ju-Oh-Cho’s infirmary. His thoughts came to awareness more slowly; it was several minutes before he could force down the lingering residue of mental anguish.

“Gods,” the man whispered to himself. “What a nightmare.”

Worse, though, was the knowledge that it could be real. That, even now, Hisoka could be desperately in need of safety and a gentle touch. That Muraki could be doing whatever he wanted, that bastard.

Grinding his teeth, the violet-eyed shinigami threw back the covers abruptly and stood.

To hell with the promise that he’d made Tatsumi—- Muraki was getting whatever he wanted. Because anything he asked for would be worth it, to keep his partner safe.

“Muraki!” The sound of a fist pounding on wood accompanied the call. “Open the door!” It never occurred to Tsuzuki that the doctor would refuse, or that he wouldn’t be there; after all, it was his game, and he had to be present to see it played out.

True to form, Muraki cracked the door open after a few tense moments of waiting, peering outside to watch his prey with pale eyes. “Calm yourself, Tsuzuki-san,” he suggested coolly. “You’re disturbing the neighbors.”

The shinigami didn’t lower his voice in the slightest. “Take me!” he commanded, ignoring the fact that Muraki’s eyebrows shot up with the implication of that particular plea. “If I’m what you want, then you can have me—- just let him go.”

Slowly, the door creaked further open, and the doctor stepped aside to give him passage. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss this inside?”

“Not until you agree to let him go,” Tsuzuki responded, eyes flashing. “I’m not falling for one of your tricks, so if--”

Smiling an indulgent little smile, Muraki smoothly interrupted the rest of his sentence. “I was simply thinking that negotiations might not go as well in the hallway.” Inviting the other man in with a sweep of his hand, the doctor waited until he had accepted to close the door behind them. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“This isn’t a game,” the shinigami growled. “I want Hisoka back.”

“Oh?” Pale eyes took on an amused glint, and the man peered intently at his prey. A smile began to creep across his lips, politely interested and darkly anticipatory. “I’m sorry, Tsuzuki-san, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

Whatever response he’d been expecting, the prospect of this one hadn’t even occurred to him. He’d assumed that the man wouldn’t agree right away—- after all, Muraki seemed to like nothing better than toying with him. Outright refusal, however, hadn’t even been a possibility to Tsuzuki’s frantic mind, and wide violet eyes stared blankly as his thoughts scrambled to provide a backup plan.

“What do you want?” the shinigami demanded in desperation. “You can have me—- you can have anything! Just let him go!”

“It seems as though you’ve developed selective hearing, Tsuzuki-san,” the doctor chided gently. “I told you before-- I want you to forget the boy.” Fair, slender fingers reached to caress the side of the man’s face, tracing over the scowl that twisted his lips. “And somehow I doubt that returning him to you would speed the process.”

Tsuzuki stood motionless, pale and shaking with rage, reaching for words that would come close to the way he felt. “Bastard,” he managed at last, the word a hiss. “Where is he? If you don’t tell me, I swear by all the gods, I’ll--”

The interruption was smooth and formal. “I understand that you must be upset, but that’s no reason to be rude to your host.” Turning to disappear into the wooden-arched door of a room to the left of the entryway, Muraki called from just inside the kitchen. “You’re welcome to stay, though; I do so enjoy your company, Tsuzuki-san.” There was a brief pause, and then he added almost as an afterthought: “I will need to know your decision about the tea, however.”

The sound of the door slamming as Tsuzuki left was the only response he received.

* * *

Perched numbly on the edge of the stiff hotel mattress, Tsuzuki ignored the empty food containers on the floor to trace the patterns on the carpet with his eyes. Though he wasn’t officially on the case anymore, the payment for the room had never been stopped—- perhaps the greatest testament as to exactly how worried Tatsumi really was—- and he drifted back occasionally to look in on the place. Somehow, he half-expected the boy to be there waiting, emerald eyes narrowed and sharp tongue flying, berating him for worrying too much.

When they’d first checked in—- almost two weeks ago, the violet-eyed shinigami realized with a dull ache in his chest—- the look of disgust on Hisoka’s face had brought a smile to his own. Privately, he’d vowed to find a perfect match for the loud, gaudy rug that took up most of the floor and present it to Hisoka at the nearest possible opportunity. Just imagining the expression of disbelief on the boy’s face had entertained him for entirely too long, forcing his serious partner to berate him for slacking off.

Blinking back the burning sensation that was growing just behind his eyes, Tsuzuki pulled both knees to his chest, settling his chin in the cradle between his legs. Hisoka was gone, now. And there was a part of his mind that sounded suspiciously like the boy, calling him stupid for giving up so easily, but… what else could he do?

There were no clues. His messengers had been unable to aid him. His last resort, the one thing he’d been loathe to fall back upon, had failed. He’d never seen Tatsumi more insistent than when the secretary forced him to promise-- to swear on everything he held dear—- that he wouldn’t give in to Muraki’s demands. But the one person that he cherished above all else, the only person that made the effort of living worthwhile… was gone.

So he’d broken his promise. And nothing had changed.

Abandoning his seat on the edge of the bed, the shinigami flung himself flat on the mattress in a sudden outburst of grief, clutching onto a pillow with a desperate ferocity. Fighting down the bitter ache that was closing up his throat, the man pressed his face against cool white linen.

He could have followed the boy out of the room that night. He could have been with him, could have saved his partner from yet another nightmare experience in a long line of horrible cruelties.

Instead, he’d fallen asleep.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, the violet-eyed shinigami berated himself. Hisoka had been right all along; he didn’t pay enough attention to anything, didn’t take anything seriously enough. And now the boy would have to pay for it. With the startling force behind that thought, for the first time in the days that his partner had been missing, Tsuzuki began to cry.

* * *

Somewhere, there was noise. A drip drip drip sounded from far away, hollow and terribly final, and he couldn’t seem to make himself stop shaking. He was sure that there must be a reason; perhaps the water dripping—- was it water?—- or the cold, unyielding ground below him were at fault.

But it was better, he’d decided, not to think about the ground or the water, or the fact that every now and then the door would open and reveal a man that was nothing more than silhouette against the glare of outside light. Better to ignore the foreign snatches of feelings that flitted occasionally just outside his reach, not close enough to press in on him but certainly tangible enough to taunt him with their presence.

At this point, the boy might have welcomed them: not his, perhaps, but not all pain and cold and hunger. There was irony in that somewhere, he was sure. Whether he had the energy to pick it apart in his search was another matter entirely, however, and his thoughts drifted again when he found himself unable to anchor them.

It was no surprise that they came to rest on vivid purple eyes and a fond, gentle voice. The boy had discovered that when he was trying not to think of anything, his mind wandered most often to the warmth of his partner’s smile—- and in spite of the chill, he frequently took some small comfort from the memories.

In the endless black of the little room, however, the carefully hoarded recollections seemed less than adequate against more recent remembrances of a low, cruel voice whispering in his ear. “One broken little doll,” said the wisps of words in his mind. “And he has the rest of forever to forget about you.”

The boy couldn’t quite suppress a shudder at the memory, wide eyes squeezing instinctively closed as though to block out the voice. But it wasn’t so easily ignored; dark and promising, it had succeeded in forcing thoughts of the boy’s partner from his mind. Clenching slender fingers tightly into fists, he curled in on himself in an attempt both to preserve heat and to stop the persistent trembling that wracked his form.

“One broken little doll,” his memory began again, and in the darkness, Hisoka began to cry, cringing from the pale hands that he knew must be reaching for him.

“Tsuzuki!” It was a wail, terrified and desperate, the boy’s voice more than half-gone from screaming already. “Tsuzuki, please!” Harsh, ragged sobs broke the words apart, made them nearly incomprehensible; but there was no one in the darkened room to hear him, anyway.

* * *

Some people, Watari thought to himself, brushing absently at the permanent stains on his lab coat, didn’t know when to shut up.

True, had it been any other day, he would have been ecstatic to hear about the newest retail items at his local crafts store—- for some reason, they carried the beakers he went through so rapidly, and at prices much cheaper than other sources in the area—- but this was not just any other day. He was supposed to be looking for bon, above and beyond all else. And while he’d been hopeful when the girl he recognized as a weekends-only counter clerk seemed more than willing to offer information, the scientist had deflated considerably when he realized that very little of it was useful. It had been, he noted with an uncharacteristically sour expression, fully an hour and a half before he’d managed to pry himself from the conversation.

Running a frustrated hand through long blond hair, the scientist rapped quickly on the door to the infirmary, pushing it open without waiting for a response. “Yo, Tsuzu--” Framed in the doorway, golden eyes huge, Watari stared at the empty bed.

* * *

Somewhere in the shifting nightmares of darkness and rain, a voice was calling his name. “Tsuzuki!” it screamed, real enough that the dreamer could almost see wide emerald eyes filled with tears. “Tsuzuki, please!”

Frantic, he searched the emptiness around him, stricken strangely mute and blind, though the sob-broken words were clear enough to his ears. “Tsuzuki, I need you… Please… please don’t leave me…”

The waking world returned with a sudden, violent force, leaving him sprawled across the starchy blanket of the hotel’s bed, cheeks sticky with tears. Clutched to his chest was the now-rumpled pillow, and the man’s fingers still maintained a lose grip on the sheets.

The violet-eyed shinigami sat slowly, pressing a steadying hand to his temple as he stared blankly around the room. He’d wanted to stay because it was so easy to conjure thoughts of the boy here—- by the little table, sorting paperwork; perched on the edge of the bed, finally eating the ramen that his partner had been pressing on him all night.

Perversely, the little hotel room seemed empty now, quiet. Foreign in a strange way, as though he hadn’t lived here with Hisoka for a week.

Thoughts despondent but strangely detached, the man pulled himself to his feet. He needed some air, perhaps, and a change from the cluttered little room that he’d been so fond of. Tripping his way to the room’s only window, he pulled back the heavy, tasteless curtains, leaning out to watch the world beyond.

It was raining.

Still not fully awake, the violet-eyed shinigami turned from the grey of the sky, reaching for his coat and fumbling to get both arms into the sleeves. He was gone a moment later, not even sure where it was that he needed so urgently to be.

The streets seemed faded as he walked, tinged grey a little around the edges. He didn’t pay heed to the people crowding in storefronts and on the busy sidewalks; violet eyes, usually so attentive, were turned inward, lost in contemplation. And all around him the world flowed by, taking no notice of the man in its midst.

“Please don’t leave me…” said Hisoka’s voice in his memory. So quiet, and desperate, and nothing at all like the brusque, biting tone that he’d grown to associate with the boy. “Please…”

Frowning in concentration, the shinigami shook his head as though to clear it. Terrifying though the dream had been, unwelcome as it was-- so dark and tangible and too close to home—- he couldn’t force it from his mind. And so he carried it with him, listened to the plea as he walked unseeing through the streets.

It seemed foreign, somehow. The crowds and shops and bustle were different when he didn’t have to worry whether Hisoka’s empathy was bothering him. The rain was unfamiliar without asking his partner whether he was cold. It was strange, he knew; after all, the man had worked in Nagasaki years before he’d met the last in a long line of partners. Why, then, should the city seem any different without one boy?

There was an answer somewhere, lost among the memories of walking these streets with Hisoka, but it hurt too much to think about. Too many little remembrances hid in simple things.

Almost in response to the thoughts, he saw the building appear on the other side of the street, rising up over the curve in the road as his plodding pace brought him nearer. Bright white in a neighborhood of dingy brown buildings, trimmed with yellow and orange, it had beckoned to him nearly a week ago with the sign above the door proclaiming that it baked the best cakes in Nagasaki. He’d never found out whether it told the truth; his partner had berated him for wasting funds, and he’d settled on a pastry for the two of them. Only getting half of the tasty sweet had been worth seeing the embarrassed flush when he foiled Hisoka’s attempts to refuse by feeding him the first bite.

A sad smile crept unbidden onto his lips, wistful and more than a little pained. The boy was gone now; unless Muraki tired of this game, there was precious little that could be done.

But almost worse then the thought of Hisoka in pain was the knowledge just below it. So little could have changed so much; he might have prevented the whole situation by following the boy that night. He was to blame for the start of this nightmare of circumstance—- but then, when wasn’t he?

Closing his eyes against the rising sting of tears, Tsuzuki took a breath and let the rain wash over him. It was a long time before he moved forward.

* * *

It had taken all of five minutes.

The realization had taken a good thirty seconds all on its own. The hallway, even taken at a sprint, had been two full minutes—- for some reason, Watari could never remember to teleport when he needed it most. Another minute was sacrificed in attempting to regain his breath enough for a coherent telling, and the next was passed in the necessary rebuke for breaking his promise. Arriving at the apartment took less than a fraction of a second-- and thirty seconds later, the door opened in response to Tatsumi’s near-violent knock.

“Ah, Tsuzuki-san,” came the voice, infuriatingly calm. “It’s good to see that you’ve reconsi--”

The surprise on the doctor’s face might have been amusing in another situation. Might have. Had he not been so scary, and Tatsumi so pissed. Wisely, Watari refrained from comment.

In the doorway, Muraki stiffened, expression inching a shade toward freezing before his composure rushed in to cover the lapse. “Is there anything that I can help you gentlemen with?”

“Yes.” The ice in Tatsumi’s eyes belied the civil tone. “I believe that there is.”

“Oh?” Resting his head against the doorframe, the doctor cocked his head, training an eerie, pale gaze on first one man and then the other. “And what might that be?”

“We’re searching for a friend of ours,” the secretary informed him, tone somehow smooth and threatening all at once. “You might remember him—- long dark coat, violet eyes?”

A delicately raised eyebrow met the statement. “Is that so? Well, I’ll be certain to let you know if I run across him.”

The tension thrumming through the silence fell was electric in its intensity. And then, abruptly, Watari decided that he’d had enough of formalities. “Oh, come off it.”

Quashing the apprehension that rose when both men fixed their gazes on him, the scientist pressed his lips together in a firm line and pushed onward, determined. “Cut the crap, Muraki,” he ordered, matter-of-fact. “We’re here for Tsuzuki—- where have you got him?”

The impression that followed was a strange one—- like he’d stumbled into a game that he wasn’t aware was going on and inadvertently broken the rules. But seconds passed and no response was forthcoming, so he swallowed his hesitation and pushed onward. “Bon, too.” Golden eyes narrowed unpleasantly, Watari offered the doctor a strange, toothy smile that wasn’t anything like his usually sunny grins. “Might as well save a trip.”

* * *

Somehow, the air had caught fire-- not with smoke and flame, but with feeling. It had crept in gradually, tingling and humming just beyond understanding until the force of it left Tsuzuki standing dumbfounded in the center of the sidewalk as shoppers streamed around him, unheeding.

It was, the man realized with a slow, uncomfortable certainty, not an entirely new sensation. Since he’d awoken from his nap—- or perhaps before, a little voice in his mind insisted—- there had been something tugging at the back of his thoughts, pulling him forward. Now, though, he could sense it with every breath, feel it urging him on.

He should have been afraid. It should have disturbed him that some force, apparently unnoticed by those passing around him, was guiding his steps. Had, in fact, been guiding them all day. But for some reason, he couldn’t find it in himself to shy away from the influence, nor could he shake the idea that it felt familiar somehow.

When at last Tsuzuki roused himself from the startled stop that he’d fallen to, only a quiet, lingering doubt remained in one corner of his mind.

It was firmly ignored in the face of the sudden, devastating surge of hope.

* * *

The secretary of the land of the dead was a formidable man. Not only could he bend shadows to his will, but he was meticulous in his methods. If nothing else, it could be said that he knew what was going on around him, and that he planned for it.

When he arrived at Muraki’s door with the scatter-brained, rumpled scientist, it therefore came as somewhat of a surprise. As soon as the latter demanded to know where Tsuzuki was, the doctor had cause for a good deal of interest in their visit-- if not with them, after all, then the violet-eyed shinigami was irritatingly unaccounted for. And when he felt the first beginnings of the spell’s effects rushing through him, he abruptly knew precisely the place that his prey had stumbled upon.

Pressing his lips together in a gesture of unconscious impatience, the man stared out at them with pale eyes. “Well.” Muraki’s tone was even when he replied, considering. “I’d like to offer you assistance, but I’m afraid Tsuzuki-san has already been and gone.” Reaching for the brass of the doorknob, he made as though to close the two shinigami out into the hallway. “So if you’ll excuse me…”

The motion was brought up short when a pale hand closed around the thick, dark wood of the door. Unexpectedly, it belonged to Tatsumi.

“No.” Behind the glint of matching lens, blue eyes narrowed threateningly. “I want answers.”

* * *

There were footsteps somewhere in the darkness. They drifted in gradually at first, from beyond the little room, and Hisoka couldn’t stop a shiver that wasn’t entirely from cold. Wrapping thin arms around his chest as though to ward off what he knew was coming, the boy lowered his head and squeezed wide eyes tightly closed.

When the footsteps wavered in their usual, steady pace, the young shinigami didn’t dare to wonder what the change in routine could suggest. And then the first of a half-dozen blasts of sudden, jolting force shook rapidly through the room, and the boy cried out in alarm. Eyes snapping open at the unexpected show of energy, Hisoka found himself staring at the doorway: flooded with light from beyond, and attached to the door by only a twisted scrap of metal that used to be a hinge.

When the silhouette appeared, highlighted by the harsh electric glare, the boy couldn’t keep his gaze from the figure. Hisoka watched with dreamlike detachment as the man took a few cautious steps into the little room. He felt as though the world had settled into a strange, icy surreality that he could awaken from at any moment.

The figure faltered to a stop in the center of the little room, head inclined as though to stare down at the boy lying crumpled on the cold metal of the floor. “Hisoka…?” It was a quiet question, more than a little frightened, and the man didn’t wait for an answer.

Moments later, the empath found that his partner had closed the short distance between them and was pulling him into a tight embrace. He struggled for several short, terrified seconds—- when all he could feel was hands reaching for him, before the skin on skin contact brought emotions flooding in with it.

It hurt. The utter strength of the feelings cut through him like the blade of a knife straight between his eyes-- would have knocked him flat had Tsuzuki not been supporting him with both hands. The sheer desperation; sharp, naked joy; crushing relief; a hundred other things too subtle and overwhelming to understand.

Suddenly, in face of his partner’s emotions, Hisoka couldn’t find the strength to want to push him away. It was easier just to let the arms be warm around him. Easier to drown out the pain with someone else’s worry and happiness and love.

…and love?

Blinking carefully, wonderingly, Hisoka turned wide eyes to stare at his partner’s face. The man was crying, he realized with a strange, distant sort of understanding. For him.

The boy wanted to say something, wanted to tell Tsuzuki that he shouldn’t be worrying about something so stupid… but for some reason, words seemed too much trouble. The world was fading into an indistinct shade of grey, hazy and uncertain.

“Tsuzu… ki…” he managed. “Don’t…” But then blackness rose up around him, dragging him into the depths of unconsciousness.

Warm was tangled in the soft fabric that clung to him; pressed up against his side and rubbing his back in long, soothing strokes; lapping against him with gentle emotions that weren’t his own. The sensation was, the boy thought sleepily, perhaps the sweetest he’d ever known.

Opening wide emerald eyes with careful slowness, Hisoka had to fight down a shudder of relief as an overwhelming feeling of security wrapped him in a dizzying hold. Sitting propped comfortably beside him, the boy’s partner was absorbed in watching him, one hand absently rubbing the length of his back. He felt the change before he saw it; the moment the young shinigami awakened, worry that had been previously subdued surged to life with a frightening intensity.

A heartbeat later, Tsuzuki pulled him forward into a warm, enthusiastic embrace, violet eyes bright with unshed tears. “You’re awake!” he exclaimed.

The instinct was to push his partner away, and the boy nearly did just that. He flinched from the reaching hands and sudden contact, struggled to free himself from the encircling arms for several seconds. But the sheer force of the feelings filtering in through the places where skin met skin was overpowering, and the young shinigami froze, unable to resist the sudden sensory flood.

There was no fear, which was surprising. After a timeless stretch of vulnerability and darkness, it was strange not to feel the emotion that had become entirely too familiar. Stranger still was the pain that didn’t burn across his nerves with every indrawn breath, the absence of the biting chill to which he’d grown so accustomed. Tsuzuki’s sentiments were rich with relief and joy, a heady, delicious mixture that the empath couldn’t find it in himself to turn away. And so Hisoka decided not to try; fisting trembling fingers in the fabric of his partner’s shirt, he clung desperately as warm arms held him close.

It was utter bliss, after the horrors of the past several days, and the boy drank it in like a plant reaching for sunlight.

He wasn’t sure how long his partner held him any more than he was aware of the soothing words murmured into his ear. All Hisoka knew was the feel of a tender hand stroking his hair, the gentle embrace of someone who cared, and the simple pleasure of feeling that affection firsthand.

Had he taken the time to ponder the situation, the young shinigami might have been mortified to discover that he’d settled into the man’s lap, allowing himself to be cradled like a child woken in the night with bad dreams. But it was balm to the wounds inflicted on his soul, a moment of peace more profound than any he’d experienced in life or death—- a simple joy that Hisoka wasn’t ready to push away.

And then Tsuzuki was making the choice for him-- breaking them apart, lowering him gently to the bed, moving as if to stand.

After the warmth of the contact, its withdrawal was devastating. For a stunned moment, the boy wasn’t able to react; days of torture hadn’t prepared him for the wrenching sense of loss that assaulted him now.

Before Hisoka realized what he was doing, he found himself protesting. It was a noise at first, a wordless plea of a whimper, but when it was evident that the older shinigami hadn’t heard, the empath clutched his partner’s sleeve, emerald eyes imploring. “You’re going?”

The words were barely audible, and the boy didn’t recognize the voice as his own; it was still hoarse from screaming, the tone pathetically hopeful. A surge of surprise trickled in from his partner, the following compassion more evident as the man settled a gentle hand over his own.

“Gonna find some food for you,” he told the empath kindly. “Be right back—- I promise.”

It was a short-lived mental war; his body’s sudden clamor at the mention of food was quick to loosen the boy’s grip on Tsuzuki’s sleeve. There must have been a lingering vulnerability in his eyes, though, because the violet-eyed shinigami tried on his most winning smile and repeated himself.

“I promise,” came the words again, warm and comforting. “Just right down the hall.” And before any more protests could be forthcoming, he’d gone from the room, intent on a quick return.

It was a disconcerting sensation to be alone, after having shared so intimately in his partner’s feelings. Free from the strength of the man’s emotions, however, Hisoka was able to pay attention to things that ought to have been noticed when first he awakened.

He was alone in the room, tangled in the sheets of a simple western-style bed. The pale curtains of the infirmary framed the window nearby, and warm, mellow sunlight filtered into the room through wide panes of glass. Had he chose to look, Hisoka knew that pink petals would meet his gaze, drifting slowly to the ground against the background of a stunning blue sky.

The boy turned his attention instead to the other side of the room.

Beyond the open door, snatches of conversation drifted in-- but they were distant and hushed, regular business being conducted in offices a good distance down the hallway. Emotions flowed just beyond his reach as well, a comfortingly ordinary background hum; filled with mundane concerns over the accuracy of a report or a particularly tight budget, they were reassuring reminders that his world had preserved for him its dubious sense of normality. It seemed unreal: a strange dream of familiarity that he was likely to waken from at any moment.

Hisoka didn’t notice when warm tracts began to trace their way down his cheeks, didn’t pay attention to the fact that his breathing had begun to come in little gasps. For some reason, it was unbearable that a simple call would bring his co-workers to see what the matter was. Intolerable to think that help was nearby, should he need it—- and that he'd begged his partner not to go.

It was stupid to be afraid of loneliness, after all. He’d spent his entire life alone; surely, that was more normal than the strange sense of family he’d found after death.

With a shaky sigh of indrawn breath, the boy turned from the hall to gaze at last toward the view beyond the window.

The sakura were in bloom, as they would be for all eternity-- tiny pink blossoms against the flawless, cloudless sky. When the empath had first become a shinigami, he’d wondered whether he would find them beautiful, had he not hated them so much. It was a point he’d long ceased to ponder, and he watched them now with a distant sort of fascination.

“You’re crying.” The voice from behind him was sudden, accompanied by the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder.

With a startled half-cry, Hisoka twisted abruptly in the sheets to discover the source of the intrusion. It was his partner, of course; he could feel it now, in the concern that leaked in through the physical contact and the assurance drifting in the air. But for just a moment, he’d been afraid…

Worried violet eyes were staring back at him, more than a little sad. “You don’t have to cry,” the older shinigami told him softly. “I won’t let him hurt you anymore.” The man lifted a questioning hand toward Hisoka face, pausing with his fingertips not quite touching the boy’s cheek.

They remained like that for a long while, the wide green eyes that searched Tsuzuki’s face confused. And then, suddenly, the boy understood.

The nod he gave was a tentative thing, but it was all that his partner needed to close the distance between them. Now gentle fingers were tracing the side of his jaw, now a thumb was brushing away the warm tracts that had begun to make their way down his face. He really had been crying, Hisoka realized distantly. Strange—- the boy hadn’t known he’d started, nor was he entirely sure what now caused the quiet tears to take on the hitching breaths of full-out sobs.

A week ago, the empath would have pushed Tsuzuki away, would have sought solitude to hide his pain. But for whatever reason—- perhaps the same one that had caused the tears to begin with—- the thought of the distance he usually kept between them was enough to draw a desperate whimper between sobs.

Abruptly, Hisoka found himself reaching for the older shinigami, found himself fisting his hands around bunches of black fabric and burying his face against the warmth of Tsuzuki’s chest. The simple contact brought little shivers of pleasure racing through him; where skin met skin, the aching sorrow of understanding rushed in along with affection that threatened to drown him in waves of bliss.

The sensation of fingers running through his hair was both tender and encouraging, and when Tsuzuki wrapped the other arm around him, pulling him close, the boy was dizzied with the sudden rush of emotion. Never before had Hisoka had reason to consider the fact that someone might be able to care too much, but the utter strength of the warmth, the devotion-- the love-- was staggering.

“I won’t let him hurt you anymore,” the man had said—- and he’d meant it, with every ounce of his being. For several long minutes, the depth of his conviction filled Hisoka with a profound sense of safety, left him trembling in the protection of his partner’s arms.

A silence filled with understanding stretched between them, broken only by the shaky breaths of the young shinigami and sporadic, muffled sobs. Words would have been weak next to the intimacy of the embrace, and for a time they forgot the world and reveled in the simple pleasure of it.

Minutes might have passed, or hours; lost as he was in the warmth of his partner’s emotions, Hisoka was aware only of the ache of disappointment when gentle hands pulled him away.

“Almost forgot,” Tsuzuki explained, offering a gentle, worried smile. Slender fingers reached to pluck a container from the bedside table while the other hand urged the boy to lean back against him. Hisoka didn’t need much encouragement; a part of his mind that he’d long ignored craved contact, and the empath couldn’t find it in himself to refuse the offer.

“Comfy?” his partner prompted, peering with a grin at the boy resting against his chest. And when a hesitant nod met the inquiry, the older shinigami scooped up the disposable chopsticks that had lain beside the container.

Moments later, Hisoka was staring with startled green eyes at a fairly large scoop of noodles about two inches from his mouth. “What?” he started to say—- but Tsuzuki took the opportunity as a chance to make sure the food found its way to its intended target, and most of the word was lost around the mouthful.

“It’s instant,” the older shinigami admitted, apologetic. “And probably not that hot anymore.” Reaching into the ramen cup balanced on his knee, the man offered the next bite. “I stole it out of the break room,” he added as an afterthought, as though by way of explanation.

Carefully, Hisoka placed a pale hand between the chopsticks and his lips to prevent a recurrence of his last attempt at speech. The boy was hungry, yes—- desperately so. But some things crossed whatever shaky lines that still remained after the events of the past week. “I can feed myself,” he told the man firmly, ignoring the fact that his voice quavered on the last word.

“I know you can!” the violet-eyed shinigami protested in an injured tone. “But I want to—- please, Hisoka? Let me?” An insistent hand tugged on the arm that stood between the chopsticks and their objective, struggling to weaken the resistance.

The boy didn’t respond this time, eyes fixed firmly away from the pleading expression that his partner wore. It didn’t help that he could feel Tsuzuki’s enthusiasm, the straightforward desire to help in whatever way he was able.

“Please, Hisoka?” the man tried again. “Isn’t it good?”

It was. Better than instant ramen had any right to be—- better than anything the boy could recall having eaten in a long time. And, despite himself, Hisoka let the obstructing fingers fall away, curled into a lose fist by his side. His partner didn’t mean any harm, after all-- and the sudden swell of joy that surged in response made the acceptance more than worth giving.

Face an interesting shade of scarlet, Hisoka lay back against his partner’s chest, accepting bite after bite from the little noodle cup. Awkward at first, eager and a little desperate, the boy was quick to accept the meal once his protests had died away. Gradually, though, hunger gave way to sleepy contentment, and the initial embarrassment faded as the empath ate.

It was Tsuzuki; the man had seen him cry, rescued him when he was at his lowest. If the affection that was still so obvious could survive even through that, the empath highly doubted that the man would consider him weak for allowing himself to be fed.

When he’d finished, his partner tipped the cup to his mouth, intent that he finish the last of the broth. A glass followed shortly thereafter, cool against his lips; the water it contained was blessedly soothing to a throat still raw from screaming, and the boy gulped several deep swallows before he subsided, trembling.

Silence wrapped the room again, peaceful this time, and Hisoka found himself inexplicably fighting the urge to cry. Whether the pleasure he felt was his own or a reflection of Tsuzuki’s satisfaction, the sensation was intoxicating. Warm, safe, fed, loved—- it was too much, too quickly. Before he realized what he was doing, the boy snuggled closer to his partner, twisting to bury his face against the older shinigami’s chest.

The emotions were sweet, deep, borderline-bliss, and as overwhelming as they were, the empath couldn’t think of anything in life or death that could have parted him from Tsuzuki at that moment.

“Tsuzuki!” The astounded joy in the voice was reinforced with the wave of a matching emotion that followed just behind. “Bon! You—- you’re here! You’re safe!” With remarkably poor timing, Watari rushed forward in a frantic scramble of white coat and frizzed hair. “Thank gods!” the scientist beamed. “Thank gods!”

Hisoka peered cautiously at the enthusiastic blonde, a blush creeping back to his face as he realized how compromising the position had to appear. But his partner was comfortably close—- and pulling himself from the circle of gentle arms was the last thing he wanted. When Tsuzuki confirmed similar convictions by placing a warm hand over the boy’s own, the empath decided that Watari could say whatever he wanted—- as long as it didn’t involve either of them moving from the bed.

“Are you hurt?” the man was demanding, leaning forward to peer at him from behind very round lenses. Ignoring the quiet response meant to affirm the empath’s state of health, he tipped Hisoka’s head back, and jabbed a single finger skyward. “Follow it for me,” Watari instructed, watching as the boy’s eyes tracked the digit from side to side, then up and down. “Tsuzuki didn’t tell us he found you,” the scientist confided. “We were worried half to—- oh, wait, already dead. Pretty worried, in any case.”

“He was sleeping,” the violet-eyed shinigami insisted in his own defense, emotions swelling with a rush of protective affection. “I couldn’t leave him.”

Something about the way his partner spoke those words sparked a little flare of warmth inside the boy, and despite everything that had occurred, the corners of his lips crept into the beginnings of a smile. Eyes wide and wet with tears, Hisoka turned his face up to watch the man that held him still.

“Tsuzuki!” The call was a reprimand, sharp and insistent-- but a moment later the harshness of the tone skittered to a stop as surprise chased it away. “Kurosaki-kun?”

“I found him!” Tsuzuki declared, hugging his partner close. Seemingly oblivious to the peculiar shade of red that this caused the boy to turn, the older shinigami beamed up at the new arrival from his place on the bed.

Carefully, Tatsumi covered the length of the room until he stood by Watari, above the bed, and for a long moment, the only response he offered was a silence filled with immense relief. The fact that Hisoka could sense anything at all from the man was a testament to the depth of the feeling, and when the secretary spoke, his tone was surprisingly gentle. “Kurosaki-kun,” he began, hesitating just slightly. “I trust you’ll ask if you need anything?”

“I’m…” The boy searched for the words, trying to find something that was true. “…better, now,” he decided at last, though the statement didn’t come close to expressing the elation that had settled about him with Tsuzuki’s arms.

“That’s all well and good,” Watari scolded, wagging a finger absently, “But I’m gonna have to look you over just the same. Can’t be too safe, you know.” Golden eyes trailed from Tsuzuki to Hisoka, wondering momentarily what caused the twin flickers of regret.

“Oh! Not now,” he amended hastily. “Just when you’re done cuddling.”

Somehow, the sunny grin eased the sting that Hisoka would have expected to accompany those words.

“I suspect,” Tatsumi ventured, when the silence had grown too long, “That it will be some time before Muraki troubles you again.”

Logically, Hisoka knew that he was safe. He understood, on a purely mental level, that the doctor couldn’t reach him here—- but that didn’t stop the reflexive flinch at the sound of the man’s name.

“Tatsumi kicked his ass,” Watari crowed, plowing ahead without stopping to take notice. “Sent him running off, tail between his legs.” Clenching one fist closed in a gesture of pure zeal, the man flashed Muraki’s most recent target an encouraging grin. “And unless he’s good enough to sew himself up, that bastard’s gonna be a bit busy for awhile.”

Narrowed behind the frames of his glasses, Tatsumi’s eyes were fixed on the mildly shocked expression that had settled onto his youngest co-worker’s face. Carefully, he placed a hand on Watari’s shoulder. “Watari,” he interjected, just before the scientist could really get started. “Perhaps we should allow them some privacy.”

“Some…?” Curious eyes turned to meet the secretary’s gaze, puzzled, before the words fully sank in. “Oh,” he laughed. Reaching down to casually ruffle Hisoka’s hair, the scientist turned for the door in a whirl of flying lab coat. “Be good, you two.”

He might have said more, but the hand that Tatsumi had placed on his shoulder also served to steer him toward the door. With a brief nod from the secretary and an animated wave from the blonde, they were gone from the room.

Alone with his partner again, Hisoka was left oddly speechless. The intrusion had broken the feeling of peace that had settled on him, and his thoughts now were tumbling with the implications of Watari’s revelation. Muraki wouldn’t be bothering him—- certainly not now, and most probably not anytime in the near future. If Tatsumi had fought the man—- seriously fought him—- then the empath had little doubt that the damage was serious.

Which left him, quite simply, with no reason for Tsuzuki to stay. The hush that blanketed the room grew longer, and more awkward; suddenly, the fear that had seemed justified was nothing more than a child’s nightmare, a weakness of the sort that he so hated to show. With more reluctance than he’d have cared to admit, Hisoka sat forward, intending to leave.

“I don’t want to go.”

For a moment, the boy was horrified by the thought that he had spoken his feelings aloud—- but the spike of disappointment at his own lack of control faded with the realization that the words had belonged to someone else. Very slowly, the empath turned his gaze to meet Tsuzuki’s.

“And I don’t want you to go.” The man tightened his hold as though to prove the point. “I was so afraid… And… And I missed you.”

An ache of longing pulsed through Hisoka, stronger in the places where skin met skin, and the boy shuddered with realization. All the endless hours he’d spent in the darkness, wanting only his partner, trying not to hope too hard that the man would come for him… it was the same feeling. “I missed you,” Tsuzuki had said.

Wondering green eyes sought out a violet gaze bright with tears. “I missed you, too,” Hisoka whispered, voice barely audible. “I…” But his throat closed around the rest of the words, and the boy was forced instead to wrap Tsuzuki in an impulsive embrace.

Surprise rose up in response, bright at first, and startled, but after a moment, a warmth that was achingly tender settled to take its place. Reaching out with gentle hands, Tsuzuki smoothed his partner’s hair. “You ought to sleep,” he said at last. “You need it.”

A long pause greeted the suggestion as Hisoka struggled with himself. “…you’ll stay?” the boy ventured, cautiously.

“Always,” his partner told him, leaning down to whisper the word in his ear.

Cradled in the rumpled, too-white sheets of the infirmary, beside an empty ramen cup, Hisoka began eternity with the only person he wanted to spend it with.

go back