Work Text:
Hisoka was very strong.
So strong that he couldn’t be killed, he suspected. There was something in his magic--his nen--that pulsed on, even after his body died, and it restarted his heart once it stopped. Every time.
An eternally beating heart.
Hisoka always thought of himself as a romantic, and this nen-powered pulse was partially why. If his capacity for love was stored inside his heart, he would love until the end of time. He fell in and out of it easily.
One time, he loved a frail, beautiful woman with small wrists and curly hair and a crooked smile. Another time, there was a short, stout man with a nervous gait and gentle touch. Once, a ghost; a figment of humanity with an icy touch and a soft voice that pleaded for Hisoka to love them. He did. And dozens of others.
He loved often. Openly.
But the thing is, when life is eternal, and you outlast all of humanity, losing love is as common as finding it. As quickly as Hisoka loved these people, he would forget their existence.
Until.
He fell in love with Illumi the first time they met as teens. The same love he always had upon meeting a curiously powerful stranger. The only real difference, with Illumi, was that Hisoka never had him the way he had other beloved strangers. Because Illumi Zoldyck wasn’t someone to have. After all, the Zoldyck name meant he belonged to someone else. His family. His father. His mother.
Hisoka couldn’t place a hand upon Illumi, even if his fingers twitched in desire every time they met. So Hisoka loved Illumi from afar. The same way he loved dozens of others.
And then Illumi died.
It was such a pity, Hisoka thought, his heart mourning the loss the same way he mourned all the others. A passing moment of sadness. Grief was easy to conquer--he was full of love, after all--and he would find something new to adore soon enough.
But a day passed in hurt.
Then two.
And then a week.
And his heart still ached. It beat slowly inside his chest, like it was seized with something that dampened its capability.
Yes , he decided. He was quite stupid.
Years before Illumi’s death.
“What are you doing?” Illumi asked.
“You have a twig in your hair,” Hisoka lied, fingers combing through the silky black mass. It was softer than he ever imagined in his sensual, perverted fantasies. It looked thick, but it was actually quite fine, like silk. Hisoka shuddered.
They stood beneath a cherry blossom tree in a city called Torintsan. Illumi was unfamiliar with the Torintsan language, which meant navigating would have been difficult with a translator. Enter Hisoka--who spoke the language fluently. He always loved joining Illumi on his jobs, especially the assassinations. (They were usually assassinations.)
Illumi turned to face him, and because Illumi’s beautiful hair was so long, the strands were still wrapped around Hisoka’s palm as they stood face-to-face. Illumi didn’t appear angry but nonetheless Hisoka knew he walked a razor-thin line. “Stop,” Illumi said.
Hisoka did, dropping his hand. “My apologies. I just wanted to help a friend. That’s all.”
Illumi’s eyes narrowed marginally--so marginally, that Hisoka might’ve missed it, if they weren’t standing so close.
Hisoka smiled.
Illumi was an incredibly capable fighter. One of the strongest Hisoka knew, in fact, which was saying something--Hisoka made it a point to come into contact with those of extraordinary power. That being said, Illumi had a fairly simple, exploitable weakness.
He wasn’t very good at detecting lies.
Hisoka was an adept liar, which meant he could throw Illumi off easily. It was one of the few advantages he had.
“I got it,” Hisoka said. And then, ever the magician, he produced a twig between his fingers with a flourish. He held it before Illumi’s face.
He made sure to choose one of the twigs with a small grouping of flowers off the tree above them, so it was especially pretty. It almost looked like a doll-sized bouquet.
“Oh,” said Illumi. After a moment, he added, “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Hisoka waved the twig before Illumi. “Do you want it? It’s pretty.”
Illumi considered it for a moment before taking it from Hisoka. Hisoka made sure that their fingers touched. Illumi’s eyes snapped up, looking Hisoka in the face.
He loved that Illumi was his same height.
He loved Illumi’s big, blank, lightless eyes.
He loved the long pauses Illumi would take, as if he were trying to decipher Hisoka’s intentions.
He loved showing Illumi his intentions with a slow, lewd smile. “Would you like to have dinner?”
He loved how literally Illumi interpreted his requests. “Is this a sexual proposition or are you genuinely asking me to join you for food?”
“If you gave me the chance, my dearest Illumi, I would have sex with you every single day. But my question is legitimate. Are you hungry?”
Illumi let out a small sigh and Hisoka loved that, too. “Alright.”
“Alright to sex or food?”
Illumi’s blank stare remained blank. “Food.”
God, Hisoka loved Illumi.
The juxtaposition between Illumi’s adorable, doll-like face and his capacity for bloody violence was fascinating. Hisoka spent a great amount of effort on his own appearance, to make his bloodlust an intentional irony; colorful outfits and childlike makeup made his killings all the more fantastical and entertaining to those fortunate enough to witness them and survive.
But Illumi’s ironic appearance wasn’t intentional like Hisoka’s. His was a fortunate happenstance. A blessing from his genetics. His siblings all had similar contrasts--save, maybe, Killua. Killua was adorable, of course, but mostly because he was still a baby. An unripe fruit. One day, when he grew old enough, he would have a severe, threatening look, undoubtedly. Hisoka liked to think he was precognizant, and in his mind's-eye, he could see Killua grown. He would be both handsome and scary.
Illumi, all grown up? He was nonthreatening. Pretty. He could even be called stupid-looking, if Hisoka wanted to be mean. Like a bug before it gets squished; big eyes staring up at those that would destroy it.
But Illumi was no bug. Anyone that attempted to step on that big empty face would be dead before they hit the earth.
Hisoka watched as Illumi ripped the throat out of an anonymous henchman without spilling a drop of blood, and he was going to be honest with himself: he was half-hard from watching the carnage.
This was nothing he hadn’t witnessed a dozen times before. Helping Illumi with his jobs was a regular thing nowadays--Hisoka worked for cheap because he loved Illumi and Illumi was nothing if not efficient. Two capable killers were very efficient.
There was a difference, this time, though, as Illumi mowed through the last dregs of the enemy force. This time, one of them stabbed Illumi.
“Oh,” Illumi said, and then he removed the stranger’s head.
They were all dead, but the blood that was splattered across Illumi’s purple coat didn’t belong to them.
Illumi placed a hand against the slash on his stomach and pulled it back, cherry red.
“Are you alright?” Hisoka asked.
Illumi nodded. “The blade was poisoned,” he sniffed his hand. “I am immune.”
“Does it hurt?” Hisoka asked.
Illumi turned to face him and something Hisoka had never seen passed through his face. Confusion. Eventually, after a pregnant pause, Illumi said, “I am alright.”
The real difference between this fight and all the others came late that night. With Illumi injured--the first time that had ever happened--Hisoka suggested they enjoy room service in Illumi’s hotel suite, instead of going out for dinner.
“This isn’t a sexual proposition,” Hisoka clarified. He dropped his eyes down Illumi’s half-dressed body. He was wearing pants and then a clean bandage around his middle, exposing his firm chest and sloping collarbone. “Though I would have sex with you--”
“Every day, if I allowed. Yes, I know.” Illumi stepped back from his hotel room door to allow Hisoka entry. “Come in. We will order food.”
It was only because Hisoka had spent so much time observing Illumi that he knew Illumi was in pain. No one else would have been able to detect the subtle shift in the way he walked. The careful way he leaned over to dial the phone to order room service. The measured way he sat upon his bed.
Hisoka took a seat on the credenza that held the flat screen TV and tilted his head. “Would you like assistance with your bandages?”
“I do not require assistance.”
“They aren’t holding your waist properly,” Hisoka lied.
Illumi looked down at his torso.
“They are twisted at the back,” Hisoka continued to lie. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“I am alright,” Illumi said.
“That was not the question,” Hisoka said. “Does it hurt?”
Illumi got the same fragmented, confused look from earlier in the day. This time, however, he sighed, and Hisoka felt a little thrill chase down his spine at what was almost an admission.
“Let me,” Hisoka said, standing tall and approaching carefully. “My bandages are made from nen. It’ll promote healing.” How else would he bounce back from injuries so quickly, if not for his very versatile magic?
Illumi stood as well and simply held his arms out of the way.
Hisoka almost forgot to breathe as he pulled the bandages off and exposed Illumi’s beautiful lean body to the air. The stab wound was stitched. Hisoke ghosted a finger across it and asked, “You stitched it yourself?”
“Yes,” was all that Illumi said, looking away.
“It’s beautifully done,” Hisoka said, voice nearly a purr. “There will hardly be a scar.”
Illumi didn’t respond.
“I prefer to have other people stitch me up,” Hisoka said while he produced clean bandages out of midair. He began wrapping them around Illumi’s middle, keeping his touch very gentle and light. “Next time I’m hurt, I’ll come to you.”
Illumi finally looked down at where Hisoka was crouched.
Hisoka met his stare and couldn’t help the suggestive smile. “You know that you can come to me, too.” His hands drifted down Illumi’s sides, testing the firmness of his wrapping. “I love to help my friends.” His hands paused at Illumi’s waist and his fingers slowly cupped him at the narrowest part of his torso; massive hands. Tiny waist. He was half-hard again.
Illumi’s hands finally dropped on top of Hisoka’s, halting his movement--but, notably, not pulling him away. No, his hands were tense, holding Hisoka in place. “I do not need your help.”
“Yes, I noticed. You’re quite capable.” Hisoka leaned in. “So capable that sometimes I wonder why you bring me on missions. You didn’t need me today.”
“You maintained the perimeter,” Illumi said.
“Happy to help,” Hisoka said, the “p” sound popping between his lips. “Happy that you allow me to help you. Sometimes.” Hisoka thought, if he pushed Illumi in just the right way, he might get what he desired for so long. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes down Illumi’s face, past his soft mouth, his pale column of neck, the divot on his chest. Hisoka snapped his eyes back up. “I do wonder,” he didn’t, “Why is it that you let me help you?”
Hisoka was not asking for himself. He wanted Illumi to think about it. To come to a conclusion.
He loved Illumi so much in that moment, in that silence, as Illumi mulled it over, staring down at Hisoka. This was the closest they had ever been, barely five inches apart. This was the closest Hisoka had ever come to getting what he wanted.
Finally, Illumi answered, “It is because you smell good.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly what Hisoka expected. And he loved Illumi for it. He laughed, hands tightening, nails digging into the bandages, overcome with the feeling of joy, desire, lust, love.
Illumi’s hands slid to Hisoka’s forearms and squeezed.
Hisoka had to snatch the moment before it passed, through the laughter. “You choose me, sometimes, because I smell good?”
Illumi swayed forward, paused, and then leaned in. “You smell like candy and blood. I enjoy sweets. I like killing.”
The hopeless romantic in Hisoka wanted to confess all the feelings that rushed through his mind.
They were a perfect set. When combined they shared something special and stable and whole in a world of chaos; they lived at a frequency that only the other one could hear; he smelled like Illumi’s favorite things; Illumi smelled like Hisoka’s deepest desire; together they would want for nothing. They could have everything. Nothing could part them; nothing could stop them; they could disembowel the world and bathe in blood together as it fell to ruin. Or they could live simply, happily, holding hands while shopping for tea at a shop in Yorknew.
Instead, Hisoka kissed him, surging up to slot their lips together, and he felt like he would vibrate out of his skin when Illumi didn’t pull away. No, instead, Illumi tilted his head just so , and all of Hisoka’s love poured out of him.
Illumi tasted like toothpaste and smelled like soap and now Hisoka got to touch his hair with both hands, shuddering at how silken and perfect it was. Finally, the words fell from his mouth. “I want you,” he said, their lips brushing as he spoke.
Illumi simply replied, “I am aware.”
Hisoka couldn’t help but to laugh again. “I wasn’t sure that you were.”
“You tell me that you desire me sexually every time we see one another. You have said it, over and over again, for years.”
“You ignored it,” Hisoka said.
“No,” Illumi said, gripping Hisoka by the lapels of his cropped blouse. “I have thought of it. Frequently. For years.”
The implication had Hisoka hard in his pants. Illumi thought of him. Of his invitations. Of his desire.
Hisoka let himself be pulled down atop Illumi in bed and slid his tongue against Illumi’s as his thigh slid against the hard line of Illumi’s arousal. He moaned, overwhelmed with pleasure--not just from the touch, but from the satisfaction of knowing he did it--he won the game he played--
He had finally won.
And then there was a loud rap-rap-rap at the door.
“Room service,” said the bright, happy voice of the doorman.
Hisoka nearly killed the man--a card could slice through the wooden door and land deep inside his skull. But Illumi pushed Hisoka off before he could make his move.
Illumi let the man inside while his lips were bruised red and his hair was mussed. There was no denying what they had been doing--but the doorman didn’t acknowledge anything out of the ordinary. Truthfully, Hisoka thought, he probably encountered lovers daily.
Not that they were lovers--
Yet.
“We also have a package delivery for you,” said the doorman as he removed the silver dome atop the steaming plates of food. “From S. Zoldyck.” He lifted the package off the bottom of the trolly. Illumi took it with a bow--Hisoka loved when he bowed; it was so cute--and then handed the man a small wad of cash.
The doorman left, a pep in his step.
Hisoka sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed and looked over the food they ordered. Illumi pulled open the box and retrieved a folder. He flipped through it before sliding it into the pocket of his baggage in the corner of the room.
Illumi sat beside Hisoka and started into his food without a word. The box sat across from them, open, with the name S. Zoldyck emblazoned in marker on the side.
Hisoka looked Illumi over, measuring the stiff way he moved, and his complete lack of expression. Hisoka reached out--only to have his hand snatched. Illumi didn’t look up from his plate. “No,” was all he said. He released Hisoka, never once meeting his eyes.
Hisoka’s disappointment was immeasurable.
They ate in silence.
During the next trip--Yorknew this time, old hat--everything was back to normal.
Except after the mission, as Hisoka passed Illumi to go to his room next door, Illumi said, “Do you want to come in?”
Hisoka’s, “Yes,” was absolutely pornographic; like he was bent over and getting fucked into the downy mattress of Hotel Touquet.
Illumi disappeared into the bathroom while Hisoka kicked off his heels and brushed out his hair. A half hour later, Illumi stepped out, hair damp, skin soft, a silk robe wrapped around his tall, thin frame.
Hisoka probably could have planned another careful maneuver to push Illumi into admitting desire, but he was tired, and Illumi was transcendent in white, so he simply stood up, walked over, and kissed him.
Illumi kissed back.
They hadn’t ordered room service this time. There would be no interruptions. Hisoka surged forward, pushing Illumi until he was flat against the floral wallpaper, and slotted their bodies together. And for the rest of his life, Hisoka will remember the accidental, pleading sound Illumi made, and he will replay it in his fantasies again and again.
Especially because he never got to hear more beyond that.
As soon as the sound left Illumi’s lips, he shoved Hisoka back, out of reach. He panted, his face flushed and his robe hanging erotically off one shoulder. Hisoka took a step forward and Illumi said, “No.”
Hisoka’s heart surged between his ribs, like it would break free of this vessel and go where it belonged; with Illumi, inside Illumi’s cold hands. He began to walk forward, to touch Illumi again, and Illumi repeated himself.
“I said no.” He pulled his robe on properly again, the flush fading from his face.
Hisoka straightened his clothes and moved over to his shoes, slipping into them again.
“Where are you going?” Illumi asked, as if he weren’t hard, as if he weren’t out of breath, as if he hadn’t demanded space.
“To my room,” Hisoka said, voice feather-light.
“Stay in here,” Illumi said.
Hisoka turned a curious look to Illumi.
“We will not have sex,” Illumi said. “But you can stay in the second bed. If you want.” He gestured from the unused spare bed to the television. “I was going to watch a film.”
It was strange to feel agonizing disappointment and immeasurable love simultaneously.
It happened two more times before Illumi stopped bothering to book a second hotel room. They stayed in one room from that point forward--with two beds, of course, because Hisoka wasn’t allowed to touch Illumi. Not outside of the times they kissed, anyway.
And they did continue to kiss. The dance went on for a full calendar year.
After several trials, Hisoka figured out a rhythm that would maximize the time they could embrace before Illumi’s well-trained instincts kicked in. Desire for anything other than something that would benefit the family was meant to be squashed; a lifetime of therapy wouldn’t rid Illumi of that rule.
Which is why Hisoka developed a rhythm. Their desire was so potent that the air was cloyingly thick around them, which meant when they were alone, they came together in a desperate crash of aura--
But Hisoka couldn’t lean into the feeling. Their desire was a candle that would burn out as quickly as it was lit, and before they could get too far, Hisoka would find himself sitting, half-dressed, burning with need, beside Illumi. Time and time again, they ate room service and played a crossword and nothing more.
(Unrelated: Hisoka found himself deeply in love while playing crosswords with Illumi; sex or not.)
If Hisoka held back just the right amount, Illumi would be the one asking for more, and more, and more. Every time they kissed, Hisoka got a little closer to what he wanted.
He wanted everything.
The last time they were together was the closest Hisoka got, and it was because of a simple clerical error that Hisoka had never even thought to employ. It felt obvious when it happened.
“I’m so sorry, sirs, but the room only has one bed,” said the clerk. “We’re booked up, but I can definitely see if one of our sister hotels has availability--”
“It’s quite alright,” Hisoka said. “We’re childhood friends. We can share a bed for the night.”
The clerk smiled. “Oh, perfect. Great. I appreciate you being so accommodating. I’ll definitely upgrade your amenities--a massage. On the house.”
“You’re too kind,” Hisoka said. He slid a sharp, yellow-eyed look over at Illumi.
Illumi didn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t say anything at all.
That night, inside their small one-bed hotel room, with the lights off, Hisoka followed the careful rhythm he learned.
He kissed the underside of Illumi’s jaw. He already had Illumi undressed--simple enough, as he wore only a shirt to bed most nights--and Hisoka had to be careful not to leer openly at his beautiful, statuesque form. Staring too long would break the rhythm. Instead, Hisoka focused on sucking a bruise onto Illumi’s jugular. As expected, it had Illumi shaking with need.
Hisoka moved his tongue down Illumi’s neck and moved his hands down Illumi’s sides, over the jut of his hip bones, dipping down, towards his thighs.
He parted them as he pressed a well-timed kiss against Illumi’s mouth, muffling the sounds that would often break Illumi from the moment.
Illumi’s legs lifted, finding space upon Hisoka’s back. They slotted together, body to body, erection to erection, and that’s when Hisoka pulled back. Illumi’s hands snatched at his shoulders and held him from getting too far.
They met eyes. Hisoka smiled. This was it; the moment Illumi could finally say yes.
His hands trembled as they slid from Hisoka’s broad shoulders up to his square jaw and sharp cheekbones, holding his face.
The confused look inside Illumi’s giant black eyes broke Hisoka’s heart.
Illumi didn’t know how to say yes. “I am sorry,” was what Illumi said instead.
Hisoka turned his head enough to kiss the inside of Illumi’s palm. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Illumi.” Hisoka’s eyes opened, pinning Illumi with an all-knowing stare. “Do you want to come?”
Illumi nodded.
“Will you let me help you?”
Illumi’s confusion pinched his face, like it hurt to think about. Finally, he shook his head no.
“You do it, then,” Hisoka said, voice purring. He opened his mouth and slid a tongue along Illumi’s palm, until it was slick. He grabbed Illumi’s wrist and pushed it down, between their bodies, until he took himself in hand. “It’s okay if you do it.”
It was dark in the room but nonetheless Illumi closed his eyes. His mouth fell open as he tightened a fist around himself.
Hisoka slid to the side, positioning behind Illumi. He breathed in the bergamot scent of Illumi’s damp clean hair and touched himself the same way he had for years now, thinking of Illumi’s kind-sounding voice and his razor-sharp nails. He wanted to wrap a hand around Illumi’s middle, to hug him close, but it was too far a risk--
Hisoka gasped when Illumi reached back and grabbed his arm, pulling it over himself, so that they were spooning, so that Hisoka's hard cock slotted against his ass. Illumi breathed in the smell at Hisoka’s wrist and shuddered as he came.
In turn, Hisoka’s seed spilled across Illumi’s back in a thick white stripe, and the bliss from it made the earth fall away from them for some time. They floated in a peaceful space, in perfect silence.
It wasn’t everything, but Hisoka never felt so good. Even then he didn’t realize that the love he felt for Illumi was different than the others.
Later on, clean and warm in their shared bed, Illumi ate a bite of chocolate and rested his head gently upon Hisoka’s shoulder.
“46 down is Eden ,” Illumi said, gesturing to the paper Hisoka held. “‘A place where apples grow.’”
Hisoka hummed as he wrote in the answer. “That was a terrible clue,” he said. “No mention of snakes?”
Illumi fell asleep and Hisoka finished the crossword alone.
Six weeks.
The longest they had been apart since Torintsan. Moreso, the longest Hisoka had gone without a response from Illumi. He decided to text him again.
Hisoka 15:41
Are you alright?
A few minutes passed before Hisoka’s phone lit up with a call from an unknown--and blocked--number.
“Hello,” Hisoka answered, expecting Illumi’s friendly voice.
“This is a courtesy that I was told to ignore, but I’m really tired of fielding these texts. Illumi died.”
Hisoka wasn’t often stunned silent. After a moment, he said, “Milluki, I presume.”
“Obviously,” said Milluki.
“If you don’t mind,” Hisoka said, “Could you tell me more?”
“I’m really not supposed to. My mom’s going to cut me up for saying this much.”
“Please,” Hisoka asked, his tone unaffected--as if he were asking for another cup of coffee, and not details about Illumi’s death.
“It happened about five weeks back. He got shot in the heart with a nen bullet. Another assassin. Dad was there--he got the guy, but it was too late for Illu-ni.”
It simply seemed impossible. Hisoka couldn’t imagine it, and he was, in his own way, clairvoyant. But nothing in him was able to picture Illumi falling dead. “Was there a funeral?” Hisoka asked.
“What? Of course there was,” Milluki said, sounding genuinely offended. “He’s in the family mausoleum.”
“I see.” Hisoka’s heart seemed to move at half-speed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me too,” said Milluki. “Stop texting.” He hung up.
He loved often. Openly.
Hisoka truly thought he would pass through the loss of Illumi easily. He lost many people in his life. It was his burden to bear--since he suspected he couldn’t die.
This loss stuck.
But Hisoka was nothing if not hard-working. He could fix his half-beating heart, he thought.
He tried, at first, with sex. He was a man with a voracious appetite, which meant, perhaps, this feeling was simply his sexual needs being terribly unfulfilled. As he sunk into the wet heat of a beautiful stranger, he shuddered and thought, “Yes, this is it.” What he wanted--what he missed--was when he would hold someone down and fuck them hard, until there were tears, until there was begging, until he hit the high of an orgasm far removed from--
Illumi.
Hisoka, panting, stared at the wood slats on the ceiling above. And the stranger stretched out, groaning, and said something about being sore tomorrow. And then they placed their head gingerly upon Hisoka’s shoulder.
Hisoka sat up, got out of bed, got dressed, and left without a word.
Maybe it was death. He was frenetic as he chased down the thief, his bloodlust pouring from him like a flash flood ripping through the street. Hisoka sliced a gash across their throat, and even with the blood splattered across his palms, Hisoka’s heart was agonizingly slow.
What was it?
What was it?
He tried drugs. He hadn’t gotten high in years; maybe he missed the detached pleasure of marijuana. The debauched feeling of resting flat upon his carpeted floor with a smoky haze in the air.
No, not that.
He tried drinking, though it cost a small fortune to get him drunk--
He woke up, threw up, and laid in bed with his slow-beating heart.
What was it?
And then he started the process again. He found someone to fuck--not a stranger, this time, but an old friend with a disposition not dissimilar to Illumi. Maybe it was sex with Illumi that was driving him to madness. Maybe if he could replicate something similar--
It didn’t work. Maybe the failure was because he had blond hair and not black. Perhaps because he smelled like peonies and not bergamot.
Death came next; this one a challenger in a ring. The screams of the crowd felt good--satisfying--but still the grief remained.
Drugs. Harder ones, this time. They did nothing--except to help Hisoka forget for one day. Forgetting was nice, but it wasn’t the goal.
Liquor again. Then sex. Then blood. Then drugs. Then gin and juice.
Sex, blood, drugs, wine.
Sex, bloo--
Ah, the pattern broke.
Hisoka had been trapped inside the vortex of his own making for a month when he tried to kill the wrong girl. She laughed as she stabbed him in the gut and Hisoka was so surprised (and pleased, truly; he hadn’t felt challenged in quite some time) he immediately stepped back.
“Calling it quits already?” she asked, licking her blade. Her cherry pink hair and bright red nails were charming and fun. Under different circumstances, if he had been in a different step of his grief, he probably would have loved her. She sighed, brows pinched. “You seemed like you would be more of a threat.”
“I will admit,” Hisoka said evenly, blood pouring from the gash at his waist, “That I am not performing at my best.”
The girl laughed.
Hisoka cut off her head with a trio of cards.
He went home--a small apartment he rented in Yorknew--and sat on his bed. And then the darkness began to pull in at the sides of his vision.
Hisoka blinked, as if he could will the fade to leave. Still, blackness closed in. He was confused until his stomach pulsed. Pain. He’d forgotten--he was hurt. No matter. He suspected he couldn’t die, anyway.
He placed a hand over the gash that ruined his clothes and found his will weakened to almost nothing. The pulse. His heart.
It wasn’t working.
A laugh fell from him before he could stop it. “Am I going to die?” he asked the empty air. “Oh.”
He should have known. It seemed obvious, at that moment, as the strength left his limbs. His heart was tied to his everlasting life. And his heart was broken. He was dying.
He fell against the bed as the blackness came.
“Do what you want, then,” said a sharp voice from across the room.
“It’s not what I want to do. It’s the right thing to do,” said a lower voice, closer. “What I want to do is leave and forget I saw anything.”
“Then do that.”
“No,” said the voice; stubborn, gruff. “Shut up. Come hold this.”
Hisoka opened his eyes to see Kurapika kneeling beside Leorio, both of them hunched over Hisoka’s unmoving form.
“This is so weird,” said Leorio, oblivious that he was being observed. “I never thought I’d see him passed out.”
“Me either,” Kurapika mumbled. “I didn’t think he could feel pain.”
There was a quiet snipping sound as Leorio finished off the stitches he worked on. “How did you know he was here?”
Kurapika didn’t answer. Leorio looked over to him and raised an eyebrow. Finally, Kurapika sighed, and leveled him with a big, blue-eyed stare. “What?”
“I asked how you knew this happened.”
“I didn’t,” Kurapika said. “I walked in and I thought, honestly, that he was dead. But I checked his pulse and he wasn’t. I knew you couldn’t have made it far. So here we are.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Leorio grumbled, his eyes narrowing beneath the small round frames perched upon his sloping nose. “You had me drop you off here. You were coming here to see him. Why?”
“We were working together on a project.”
“You were working with him? Willingly?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Kurapika hissed between grit teeth.
“The hell you don’t. This guy isn’t our friend. He’s a fucking serial killer.” Leorio paused. “Wait, you weren’t coming to see him because he’s a serial killer, were you?”
Kurapika scoffed. “Of course I wasn’t. If I need someone dead, I’ll do it myself.”
Leorio leaned in, so that he and Kurapika’s faces were barely an inch apart. “Then answer the fucking question, Kurapika. Why were you coming here to see Hisoka?”
Hisoka decided to take pity on Kurapika and said, his voice a sultry rasp, “I asked him for help a few weeks ago. Don’t worry, Leorio. He certainly wouldn’t associate with me willingly.”
There was something gratifying about the way Leorio jumped at least three feet into the air. Ever the doctor, though--he immediately jolted to Hisoka’s side and measured his pulse. “How do you feel?”
He was alive, which was a surprise. He felt--unexpectedly alive. “Much better now that you’re here,” he purred. “You must let me thank you.”
Leorio took a long step backward, away from the bed, and shook his head. “Not necessary. No. We’re good. We’re basically even, now, right? No thanks necessary.”
Hisoka sat up and turned to Kurapika, who remained crouched at the end of the bed.
Truly, in his last moments, Hisoka thought he would die alone.
He smiled as he realized that his ever-beating heart wasn’t what saved him this time.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Kurapika snapped, as if he could see into Hisoka’s mind. “We aren’t friends.”
They were, though, and somehow the word friend created a clarity inside Hisoka that he hadn’t known for quite some time.
He was an idiot. Hisoka loved often and openly. He loved Kurapika like he loved many others. Leorio too, really. But that love was not Love. That was Friendship.
And it saved his life.
Kurapika stood up. “We’ll go now.”
“Is that a good idea?” Leorio said. He turned to face Hisoka. “You lost a lot of blood. You should probably have someone stay with you for a bit--”
“You can go,” Hisoka said, heart warmed at Leorio’s gentle-but-pushy concern. “I have someone.”
Leorio’s single raised eyebrow said it all. “Okay.”
Hisoka loved often and openly. But he Loved only once.
Breaking into the Zoldyck mausoleum wasn’t as much of a challenge as Hisoka expected. He would be disappointed if it weren’t for--
“Get out,” Killua said, his haunches raised, his fingers crackling with fury.
Hisoka had been completely undetected except by the small white-haired progeny of the Zoldyck line, who stopped him right inside the cold white stone entrance of the mausoleum. “You’re quite special, aren’t you?” he said, almost in wonder. Oh, and how he wanted to fight. Killua’s strength, even at his young age, was formidable. Hisoka’s mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of tearing him down--
But no. He was still just a kid. A baby, even. His fists, held at his sides, were so small.
“I’m here to see your brother.”
Killua’s cat-like eyes went round. “What? Why?”
Hisoka tilted his head. “Did you think I came here for treasure?”
“That’s what everyone else comes for,” he said, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Not me,” Hisoka said. “I won’t do any harm. I promise.”
“I don’t trust you,” Killua said. “You’re here for Illumi? ”
Hisoka took a step forward and crouched down so that he was Killua’s height, and he could look him in the eyes. “He was very precious to me.”
There was something in the way Killua’s face pinched in confusion that made him look terribly, heart-wrenchingly like Illumi. “Illumi didn’t have any friends. Just family.”
“We weren’t friends, no,” Hisoka said.
“Then--”
“I loved him.”
The emotions that passed through Killua were easy enough to measure--he hadn’t mastered the blank stare of his brothers. First, disbelief. Then, sadness. And finally, fear. The fear welled tears in his bright blue eyes, making them nearly glow. “What--” Killua choked on his words. “What does that mean? You couldn’t love him. You’re both--” His voice caught again and his fear turned to panic. His hands began to shake and crackle with power. “You couldn’t love him. That’s not allowed.”
“I do many things that aren’t allowed,” Hisoka said, and he smiled calmly. The precognition told him, yet again, that this conversation would carry great weight into Killua’s future. “I’d like to see him again. If it were you--and it were him--” Hisoka gestured with one finger, outside the mausoleum, across the world, because he didn’t mean Illumi , “Wouldn’t you want to see him one last time?”
“Shut up,” Killua said. But he stepped to one side, the tears brimming in his eyes. “Just go. If you’re lying, I’ll kill you. I’ll make it hurt.”
Hisoka stood up and patted Killua at the top of his head the way he’d seen Illumi do. He pretended not to see the tears roll down Killua’s face and descended the stone steps that led deep underground.
The nen was heavy here. A tomb of so many powerful magic-users was no place for normal men. Fortunately Hisoka was no normal man (in any sense). His heels click-click-clicked as he walked through a dimly lit hall. There were whispers upon the air--noise from wind as it sifted between the stones that made up the walls.
His heart began to beat harder as he approached the only fresh tomb. It was a marble casket mounted upon the wall, with an intricate carving at the top. An eye and a needle were surrounded by swirling patterns that wove in and out of the stone like they were always there. Hisoka placed his hand on the icy cold exterior and his chest thumped.
The nen surrounding the tomb was more dense than any of the others. Hisoka recognized this type of magic from touch--it was something he had seen a few times before. An ageless preservation. He didn’t interfere with the magic as he pushed the top off the casket, sliding it to one side until it gave way and landed upon the stone floor with a great, deafening thud.
Sometimes people likened death to sleep. But in all the times Hisoka had seen someone dead, they never looked asleep.
Illumi looked dead.
There was a stillness in it that was undeniable. Hisoka’s heart struck against the walls of his chest so hard that he lost his breath, for a moment, and he had to hold the side of the tomb to stay upright. He felt some kind of joy that Illumi’s presence held so much strength after this long, but mostly Hisoka was filled with hurt.
It was all-encompassing. It wasn’t like a storm, like water. Or a house gone ablaze, like fire. There was nothing like this feeling on earth, because it wasn’t on earth. It was within Hisoka. It was agonizing. It was grief.
It was love. Tears blurred his vision. He didn’t acknowledge them.
His hands shook as he reached out and held Illumi’s porcelain face.
What good was love if it had no power after all, he thought. What good has it been to chase strength, to learn nen, to sit at Illumi’s side for years?
He loved Illumi and his love would continue on incessantly. Forever. It was time for him to do something he always wondered if he could do. He had ended a thousand lives. Could he bring one back?
This was his power.
Hisoka's candy-scented nen pooled into his hands. Ba-dum. The sound of Illumi’s beating heart rang between Hisoka’s ears.
Again, Hisoka thought. His nen would pulse on. Forever. He would love. Forever.
This was his power.
A great gasp of air pulled into Illumi’s lungs as his pulse caught on. And his eyes, his enormous black eyes, opened again.
They rolled back, sensations undoubtedly overwhelming all of him inside his forever resting place. He’d been dead for some time, after all. But Hisoka held him steady, hands on either side of his face, fingers pressed into the silk of his hair.
Eventually, Illumi found bearings, and he blinked. Hisoka took a step back, to allow Illumi to sit up. He did so and looked around, lost at first, and then quickly understood where he awoke. “I was killed,” he said.
It wasn’t much of a question, but Hisoka answered it anyway. “Indeed.”
Illumi looked down at his hands. “How am I here?”
This one was a question, and Hisoka answered it openly. “I’m very strong,” he said, “And I love you.”