For We Are Broken
Hisoka is kind.
Hisoka's voice is often sharp with irritation (Tsuzuki eats too much, works too little, is never serious enough, is always too much of this, of that, of all the wrong things), but his cruelties are few and born of habit. Idiot, he says, often, exasperated, and the insult might sting but for the affection that lives in the soft line of Hisoka's jaw, the arch of fine eyebrows, the relaxed slope of his shoulders as he walks at Tsuzuki's side.
Hisoka is a clever boy. Hisoka is not wrong. Hisoka knows that Tsuzuki eats too much, works too little, is never serious enough, is always too much of this, of that, of all the wrong things. Still, Hisoka remains at Tsuzuki's side, and lets Tsuzuki stand at his.
Live for me, Hisoka said, screamed, cried into Tsuzuki's neck. And would not leave, would not unwind his arms from around Tsuzuki, would not rise until Tsuzuki rose with him. Hisoka's kindness is finite, and Touda's fire would have burned away any lie he might have thought to speak. Live for me, Hisoka said, and Tsuzuki can do nothing but believe.
Tsuzuki believes many things.
Tsuzuki believes that Hisoka needs him; believes that Hisoka believes that he needs Tsuzuki. He believes that Hisoka loves him with a younger brother's devotion, with an older brother's fond irritation, with a friend's caring, a lover's passion. Tsuzuki believes in Hisoka.
Tsuzuki believes in Hisoka, but he can not believe in himself.
Hisoka is kind, but Tsuzuki is. . . Tsuzuki, and he eats too much, works too little, is never serious enough, is always too much of this, of that, of all the wrong things. His life is Hisoka's--he will rise for him with the sun, smile for him, work for him, suffer for him--but Tsuzuki's life has grown to be a burden to all those who have offered to share it with him. Tsuzuki's life is a burden he is weary of, and Hisoka is good, and kind, and strong, but he is young yet, and the years stretch out before them.
This is what Tsuzuki believes:
Tsuzuki believes that the years to come will grow longer, and longer yet, and Hisoka will grow into himself, and beyond Tsuzuki. Time will wear at Hisoka's sharp edges, ease away his small cruelties. He will snap less, frown less, and Tsuzuki will be a habit he does not know how to break. There will be affection in his voice, but irritation will live in the line of his jaw, the curve of his eyebrows, in the roll of his shoulders when Tsuzuki steps to his side. Hisoka will be kind, and he will remember.
Hisoka will remember, and Tsuzuki will live for him--will rise with the sun for Hisoka, will smile, and work, and suffer, and will never stop, for Hisoka is kind.
Hisoka is kind.
Tsuzuki wishes he were not.