Look, this is JuOhCho . . .
Watari is fast asleep. The strain of the night before has finally caught up with her, and the stresses on her body are presenting their bills in the form of demands for uninterrupted downtime. Blonde hair lies in smooth waves across the white pillow. She does not snore.
Tatsumi continues to work through the stack of accounts. From time to time, he glances thoughtfully at the sleeping scientist, and then checks his watch. All the shadows have drained away from the corners of the room to collect around his chair, as though they were pressing close to touch him.
Hisoka stares at a blank piece of paper. From time to time, he lowers a pen towards it, then draws it back again. It's hard to find words for the sort of violation that is written in every cell of his body. The page is as white as camellia petals. He shudders.
Tsuzuki is trying to add 2 and 2. Occasionally, he gets 4. Since this produces the sort of expenses that are going to give Tatsumi an epileptic fit, a stroke, and raging homicidal mania combined, he is doing his best to get 3 instead. Besides, this is better than thinking about Muraki. Anything's better than thinking about Muraki.
. . . and outside, the cherry trees are in flower . . .
---
Tsuzuki finally finished a set of artistic misarithmetic which would have caused Professor Moriarty to invent the Trinomial Theorem. He set down his pen with a virtuous sigh of accomplished work, then glanced across to Hisoka. Perhaps, he considered, he'd find it easier to think about things without me sitting here. "I'll take these along to Tatsumi," he said brightly. "Be right back."
Hisoka nodded vaguely, lost in recollections of a poker game. He would probably have done the same if Tsuzuki had suggested swimming naked in chocolate mousse.
With a vague feeling of having done a good deed in a naughty world, Tsuzuki set out for the hospital wing. Almost immediately he encountered Wakaba and Terazuma. Wakaba was relatively unhurt, but Terazuma appeared to have been in close combat with one or several assailants. There were wire marks around his neck, katana slashes in his trenchcoat, claw scratches on his shoulder, and a solitary crossbow bolt dangling where it had entangled itself in the skirts of his coat. He didn't look happy.
"They said they were very sorry," cajoled Wakaba, in what was clearly an ongoing discussion, after a brief wave in Tsuzuki's direction. "At least, two of them did."
Terazuma snorted. It sounded rather like a bull preparing to charge. "Oh, yes, after it was all over. And that didn't stop the tall sex maniac trying to flirt with you. Or the redhaired lunatic muttering die die die all the time." He ignored Tsuzuki.
"I'm sure they're very nice people really," Wakaba postulated hopefully.
"Kittens. Kittens. Kittens," Terazuma muttered, as the two vanished down the corridor together.
In the hospital wing, Tatsumi looked up with a pleasant smile as Tsuzuki nervously peered round the edge of the door. "Ah, Tsuzuki-san!" he greeted the younger shinigami. "How convenient of you to stop by."
This could mean an immediate investigation of his expenses. "Neat!" Tsuzuki cheered, while preparing to cower and make huge eyes if necessary. "How can I help?"
"Just stay here and watch Watari for a while. Be quiet, she's asleep." Tatsumi paused, and evidently misinterpreted the expression of joy on Tsuzuki's face. (Watching over a sleeping person was hardly going to be hard labor.) "I'll bring you some tea and a bun. You won't have to miss lunch."
A few minutes later, Tsuzuki was comfortably settled with a mug of heavily sugared tea and a sticky bun, having decided not to protest this unusual generosity on the secretary's part. He sipped his tea as Tatsumi left the room, smiling happily as the sugar rush hit.
And really, Watari's breathing was so peaceful, and the room was so quiet, that he could just close his eyes for a moment.
He'd hear anybody if they came in.
And Tatsumi would be back any second now.
He was so sleepy.
Just for a moment . . .
---
Hisoka looked up from the blank page which he was still contemplating, and frowned. He thought that he'd heard footsteps. And it was later than he'd realized - shadows were drawing in, thickening in the corners of the room, sealing over the window as he turned to look out at the cherry trees . . .
He managed to get halfway through the words for a warding incantation before the shadows wrapped themselves around him and threw him backwards against the wall. Pain flared in the back of his head, and his consciousness dipped, tilted . . .
I know who that is behind the shadows I've felt that coldness before but who who
. . . faded to black.
---
Tsuzuki walked down corridors which were curtained in amethyst silk and floored in ebony. He was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, but it seemed simpler to follow where the corridors took him. When he walked into the large central hall and saw Muraki standing there with a glass of wine, admiring the decor, it seemed almost natural -- something that he should have expected, rather than an unpleasant surprise.
"You," he spat. "What are you doing to us? Why did you attack Watari?"
The doctor blinked. He was in his customary white suit and trenchcoat, pale hair falling loosely over his right eye. "I? Tsuzuki-san, I have been abstemious and left you alone for a full week or more. What are you doing seeking me out in dreams?" His lips curled in a frankly salacious smile. "Are you hoping for another game of poker?"
Tsuzuki's anger overcame his urge to blush and flinch. "Don't try and play games with me. I'm tired of it. Just tell me what's going on, Muraki-sensei, or we'll see if my shikigami can enter this dream of yours."
Muraki reached up and adjusted his glasses thoughtfully with his free hand. "I'm sure they can. But Tsuzuki-san, believe me - I don't know what you're talking about." His gaze was pure opalescent grey, quite guileless, and suddenly far too close as he stood directly in front of Tsuzuki. "And this dream is from both of us. Do you dream of me often?"
Tsuzuki didn't answer. He simply turned his back to the doctor, trying to think. He could be lying. He always lies. But he doesn't sound as if he's lying. And why go to all the trouble of leaving a rose there and then lie about it?
A pale hand settled on his shoulder, and he flinched.
"Why so nervous?" Muraki purred. "It's only a dream."
"Dreams with you in them are dangerous," Tsuzuki whispered. He could feel how close the other man was behind him, sense the heat of his body.
"Mm." A finger came round to brush lightly against his lips, a bare shadow of a movement, too quick and gentle for him to resist. "I dream of you all the time. But . . ." The warm voice, deep and golden as amber, hesitated. "There's something wrong with your sleep, Tsuzuki-san. Why are you so sluggish? You should be quivering under my touch."
Tsuzuki tried to pull himself together and ignore the odd lassitude which was echoing through his mind. "You seriously think I'm going to answer that?" he snapped.
The hand on his shoulder turned him to face Muraki. There was something unusual in the tall man's pale eyes. It looked almost like concern. "Something's very wrong, Tsuzuki-san. You've been drugged. You need to wake up. Come and find me in the waking world."
"Why are you concerned?" It was taking all his concentration to stay where he was, and not to recoil from Muraki. Anger helped, but anger would only go so far. And desire was something else again. Desire didn't help. Desire made him think of pale skin and imagine its softness, pale hair that would be like silk to his fingers, warm flesh which he could rest against, the firm control of those strong hands, a heated mouth . . .
"And besides," Muraki murmured, in tones that should only have been used after midnight and between lovers, "you wouldn't have found me here in dreams if you hadn't been looking for me. I shall remember that, Tsuzuki-san. I shall remember that."
He reached forward to take Tsuzuki in his arms. With a cry of sudden panic, the shinigami threw up his hands and
time moves
wake up
opened his eyes to find himself making a slow, langorous, half-asleep gesture that was a frail mimicry of his violent shove at Muraki.
The room was quiet.
Tatsumi was standing next to Watari's bed, silent, a pillow in his hands as he looked down at the sleeping scientist. There was something strange about his smile.
---
Hisoka was aware of darkness - not the earlier abyssal shadows, but simple lack of light. He was also painfully aware that he was naked, and that he was neatly trussed up like a chicken for market, with his arms fastened behind his back at elbows and wrists, and legs strapped together at knees and ankles. The kind soul who had tied him up had also gagged him and fastened his wrists to his ankles, or so a certain amount of painful squirming suggested. There was enough air to breathe if he was careful and didn't struggle.
He didn't know where he was. He could, however, deduce what he was in, from smell and relative size - a packing crate, and not a particularly large one at that. There was a splinter digging into his left middle finger. He found it quite unreasonably painful for its small size.
He attempted to use his powers. None of them seemed to work.
On the one hand, Hisoka thought, this is bad. On the other hand, this could be worse. I could be . . . He tried to think of situations that could be worse. His mind stubbornly refused to cooperate, apparently under the impression that not only was he probably going to meet a horrible fate, but that when the other shinigami found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it. That implies my survival. he thought hopefully. The back of his mind wasn't very convinced.
He settled down and tried to occupy himself by working out the number of ways that this was Tsuzuki's fault, and how to express this to his partner when next they met.
Sound, now, outside the crate - a blur of voices, then footsteps. The crate was lifted up, carried a short distance, then set down with a painful jolt. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed.
Then there was the noise of ripping tape, and glowing cracks appeared in the surrounding darkness. And then the lid of the crate came off in a burst of light. Hisoka blinked upwards, tilting his head painfully to try to see where he was.
Muraki was looking down at him. The doctor was in a grey yukata, hair loosely dangling over his right eye as always, a faint smile curving his lips. Hisoka could physically feel the older man's eyes moving over him, possessive, considering, promising pain.
"Well," Muraki murmured. "Apparently it's my birthday."
---