R - English - Angst/Romance - Reviews: 15 - Publish date: 10-25-02 - Updated: 10-28-02
storyid: 1030791
Author's Notes: Thank you -so- much to everyone who's reviewed! If anyone gets a chance, I'd really like to know two things particularly. The first is: is the writing okay? It seems choppy to me for some reason... A verdict (and/or suggestions to improve) are welcome. Also, this is my first time writing Muraki. Good? Bad? Freaking terrible? Let me know.
Uhm, warnings. The Hisoka torture commences. From here on out, we're looking at: blood. Violence. Implied nonconsensual. Muraki being a creepy bastard. Angst. Yaoi. I don't want to hear it if you skip this part and then can't handle it.
Still with me? You're welcome to it!
=============== The Rest of Forever =============== Chapter 2 ===============
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."
