Chapter Text
Chapter Four
November 2015
6:06 a.m. – Zoldyck Mansion
Ghosts don’t sleep. Or, at least, Illumi doesn’t.
Instead, he lurks behind the hard plasters of the walls, lingers in the picture frames, the family photos and paintings hung on every corner of the hallways. He pretends that his ribs are made of literal bones, that his skin doesn’t seem transparent when he looks at his palms. He tells himself that he’s always been invisible, even back when he was still a human.
He doesn’t like staying in one place. There isn’t much to do in one place. He has to hop from one room to another in order to occupy himself. Sometimes, he lets every memory he’s remade vanish back into his skin, so that when he takes another look around the mansion, he’ll feel like he’s forgotten everything. But there are things he can’t seem to get rid of, things he can’t seem to swallow down his throat.
Illumi can still recall the way the cold touch of the underground chambers is a harsh nip at his skin. He can still remember the way the atmosphere feels heavy down there, as if every hand, every finger is awfully connected into one dire system. Illumi’s breath shallows in the bridges of his teeth as he thinks about it, feeling his hands make their way to his coat pockets like a way of protection.
He ventures from the dim recesses of the kitchen and climb up the stairs. Dust is piling up on every corner of the room, hiding in between the twirls of the staircase, dancing on the chandelier topping the parlor. As he continues to brush away the dust mopped on the handrails, Illumi’s thoughts run back to last week – to the night Hisoka stepped on the front porch of the Zoldyck Mansion for the first time in centuries.
Illumi hasn’t seen Hisoka in the flesh after what happened. He can only catch glimpses – the flare of his hair as if he’s already set himself on fire, the way his skin looks like the wildest star in the evening, how he always has the urge to scoff when someone makes a wrong deduction, and the way Hisoka holds Illumi’s face in his palms, his fingers vines on his neck, as if Hisoka, from the start, knows where to touch his weaknesses.
That night, Illumi asked Hisoka to visit him again – if he wanted to. He could sense the man hesitating, wondering if he should take the risk of going back into this place without knowing what could happen. But Illumi felt it – how Hisoka knew that his heart would be tugging back into this room out of unnatural desperation.
After all, Illumi still had it with him.
He walks towards the windows of the master’s bedroom. He pushes the curtains to the side to let in the soft glow of sunlight. The morning sun is blooming past the forest mossing the back of the mansion, hitting the height of his nose and cheeks as if the sun is eager to touch him. Illumi feels his hands prying open, reaching closer to the windows.
The sunlight is resting on his palms, as if he knows exactly how to catch every inch of its breath, as if the sun knows exactly how to burn him regardless.
~***~
6:30 a.m. – Hisoka residence
It’s rare for him to wake up to a nightmare.
Sweat is beading down his temples, drowning past his chin and neck and down the rumpled fabric of his shirt. His throat is parched to the bone, left only by a bitter residue of dry pills and a sandstorm that has brewed in his teeth. Hisoka tries to twist himself to the side to grab a glass of water, but his hands are taped to the sheets, his fingers latching on to the blanket as if it’s the only way he can breathe.
The heavy structure of his ribs is enough to make him shake. Hisoka isn’t sure whether he’s cold from the previous night air, or if the nightmare is strong enough to rattle him out of his senses. All he knows is that he can still hear the voices in his ears, the sirens blaring past his chest like a furious drumming. His heartbeat quickens as he closes his eyes and recalls the blinding course of light streaming through the windows.
He doesn’t want to be able to remember every detail – but it’s there. Every vivid second he’s placing himself back in his dream feels like pasting a clog in his throat where oxygen used to be. Hisoka swallows it down in an unstable breath, and then he finally begins to curl towards the drawer next to his bed. His hand catches the phone in slight relief. He slides open the lock and calls the first person on his speed dial list.
Hisoka places the phone next to his ears as it rings. One, two, three, four – five seconds pass before Hisoka can hear the soft wave of Chrollo’s voice wash over his cheek. His heart loosens up for a moment before it tightens back again, like it doesn’t want anything else to happen.
“Hello?” Chrollo murmurs against the phone, and a tiny grumble follows. “Hisoka? Why are you calling me so early?”
“I had a nightmare.”
“A nightmare?” Chrollo repeats. Hisoka can hear the gentle croak of the bed as Chrollo moves, sitting up against the headboard with his chest still buried beneath the pillows. The man slept at exactly 2:34 this morning, probably staying up to finish the book he’s been reading for the week.
“Hisoka,” Chrollo chides. “Stop thinking about what I did last night and focus.”
Hisoka feels himself laugh, a light ache passing over his ribs. “How did you know I was thinking about that?”
“Because I know you,” Chrollo answers, “and I know that you don’t have nightmares. Not after . . .”
A pause follows Chrollo’s unfinished sentence – and almost immediately, another flash plows across Hisoka’s vision, hushed and panicked voices wringing through his ears and head, the sudden pain striking him directly on the temples before Hisoka can think to stop it.
“Hisoka –?”
He feels his hand release the phone back unto the bed, the screen still lighting up with Chrollo’s name printed.
“Hisoka, what happened?”
He wants to answer, but he closes his eyes instead in an agonizing swallow, gritting his teeth as he curls himself into a ball. His hands are fisted against his temples, the other banging against his head to stop the dreams from exploding.
But as his mouth breaks open, he can only think of one name, forgetting everyone else but the ghost he’s been thinking of – as if Illumi is the only one who can erase his thoughts.
~***~
8:35 a.m. – Captain’s Café
Blog entry #74
November 2015
To Bedevil
We had taken the first step towards the mansion. Everyone knew what would happen if ever we were to disappear within the creaking gates, the placid corners of the front porch, and the spider webs tangling beneath our feet. I looked at Hisoka for confirmation, wondering if he was curious enough to ignore the howls we heard as soon as we opened the door. But I knew, without asking him, that he was more than willing to risk it.
Our eyes ventured from the light mahogany floors to the unsteady roll of the ceiling. We felt something, even back then. We couldn’t admit that it was a ghost, to be exact, but it was something different and oddly meticulous. The ghost was watching us, daring us to come forward. I was intrigued; I felt my heart bursting to my knees. Everything about the place was a warning: do not come closer, you will not find what you seek.
Still, we walked through the mansion doors and began our search.
I didn’t know what Hisoka had in mind – he was always interested in finding something he hadn’t thought of before, but I wanted caution. I wanted to know what to expect from the mansion before we decided to march farther. But Hisoka loved the unknown, the untouched treasures, the surprise that came with not knowing.
Did it scare me? Maybe a little.
But Hisoka’s presence kept me ground. He led us into the kitchen first, since it was the first connecting room we saw when we went into the living room. The furniture was covered in filth and rust; utensils were obviously ancient. This mansion had been the biggest in the city, during that century. But two hundred years is a long time. The house had gotten its own wrinkles and bygone.
Hisoka turned to me, his face contorted in confusion. I knew that look – it meant that something had caught his attention. It meant that the mansion had drawn him in, not immediately perhaps, but gradually, with strong ease.
But while he was awfully captivated by the eerie atmosphere, I felt my discomfort strengthen. Hisoka had amazing intuition, but when he’s incredibly absorbed, it’s near impossible to get his attention. So instead, I followed him, my uneasiness going stronger by the second.
It wasn’t until I felt him disappear from my side that my heart panicked, wondering where he could possibly go to when he had been right there – in that second.
I –
~***~
8:53 a.m. – Captain’s Café
“Sir, here’s your coffee.”
Chrollo’s eyes are still directed towards the screen of his laptop. His fingers have stopped moving, the cursor blinking at him in slight mockery. He purses his lips at the interruption, placing his palms on top of the keyboard like it’s about to explode. “I didn’t order any – ” His eyes widen in slight surprise when he sees Machi leaning over him, holding a coffee cup in one hand, and his wrist in the other. Her fingers are like loose strings over his skin, but it binds him like a promise.
God, Chrollo thinks to himself, resisting the urge to unclasp her fingers from his wrist, what am I even thinking?
“Your coffee mug is empty,” Machi says, pointing to the drying taste of the coffee lying on the rim. “You must not have noticed.”
“No,” Chrollo agrees. “I must not have. Thank you.”
He accepts Machi’s offer, taking the coffee she ordered from her palms and into his cold hands. He lets the steam burn through his skin, jittering through his muscles before he slowly takes a sip. It’s been already pampered with cream and sugar – just the right amount, the way he likes it. Chrollo watches Machi take a seat the opposite of his, her hair cascading down her shoulders, the ends spilling over the table like shells.
“It’s rude of you to stare.”
Chrollo clears his throat and places the mug next to his laptop, shutting it closed. “Your hair is longer now.”
Machi looks down at the strands curling over her breastbone. Chrollo clenches his fist, licking his lips as he tries not to lean over and tuck Machi’s hair behind her ear. But Machi does it for him, brushing the stray hair away from her face and tying it back into her head. Chrollo finds himself staring at her wrists, her fingers, her cheeks, before he finally forces himself to look away.
Dammit. He shouldn’t have closed his laptop. He should have just continued typing and let Machi leave.
“Should I cut it?” Machi asks. Shorter strands are dipping on her temples and down her face. She grabs the splits of her hair in between her fingers. “It’s getting harder to brush with this kind of length. Do you think I’ll look a little bit different?”
Chrollo tries to imagine it – short hair clipping over her jawline, bangs either split or gathered in the middle, the winter of her eyes teeming through the pink color. He – regrettably – feels his heartbeat quicken in his ribs, as if the simple thought of Machi is enough to make his entire body ungrounded.
“What do I think?” Chrollo says. He grips his coffee mug with both of his hands, ignoring the burn pushing through his skin. “I think you should just go, if this is our conversation.”
Machi looks up at him, her lips about to hang open to speak – but then, she diverts her gaze into the busy street of the city. “Yeah,” she says, her voice surprisingly soft. “You’re right. I’ll see you later, Chrollo.”
She doesn’t look back at him as she leaves, and Chrollo can’t push himself out of the booth to follow her out into the street. He expects his heartbeat to die down now that he’s away from Machi’s presence, but instead it only heightens, as if Chrollo is paralyzed now that she has left.
~***~
Everyone in the Troupe loves Machi’s cooking.
Well, everyone but Bonolenov, but only because he doesn’t exactly like sweets. Although, the person who loves her cooking the most, is Phinks. Probably because he has the biggest sweet tooth out of everyone else, and Machi is the only person in the Troupe who can actually cook something decent. Phinks can still remember the time he practically ravaged Machi’s salted caramel six-layer chocolate cake – and he ended up having to go the dentist four times a week, just to get rid of his cavities.
But of course, that doesn’t stop him from getting addicted again.
The Troupe is gathered around the living room like they’re having a picnic. They’re recycling the food they didn’t get to finish the week before, back when they were ghost hunting in the Zoldyck Mansion. Beers are opened at their side, the stench rising in the closed space of the room. Phinks ignores it and chugs the rest of his bottle like a tank, swallowing every drop down his throat.
He tips his head back until the sting of the alcohol sizzles.
Beside him, Feitan is holding a plate of blueberry cheesecake on his palm. A fork is bitten in between his teeth. “So,” he says, his voice slightly muffled, “what made you want to have a little picnic?”
Phinks blinks at him, and then he glances over at Machi, her head ducked with her fingernails digging into the carpet. He’s seen her every other day of the week. They occasionally watch the movies together; sometimes they even have dinner when they’re bored. But this is the first time in months that he’s seen her look so down. Something must have happened.
With Chrollo, no doubt.
Machi only shrugs in reply, picking at the loose thread of the carpet. “The food was getting molds, so I thought I’d just let you eat them.”
Feitan frowns at the cheesecake, inspecting it. “How reassuring.”
Machi shrugs again, tugging the thread out of the carpet and letting it stretch. The corners of her lips are dipped, her knuckles white from the pressure placed against the fabric of her shirt. She lets go of the thread and curls her legs underneath her thighs, and then she stands up from the carpet and walk into the kitchen without saying anything.
“Problems with Chrollo again?” Feitan asks, watching her leave. He glances at the cheesecake with furrowed eyebrows.
“Probably,” Phinks answers. He clasps his fingers over Feitan’s wrist and directs the fork towards his open lips. Slowly, he takes a bite, dragging the cake into the cavern of his mouth. “She’s always been admiring him from afar.”
Feitan’s eyes are gazing at his lips, and he uses the pad of his thumb to brush away the crumbs. Phinks feels himself freeze at the exact moment Feitan realizes what he’s done. He scowls at Phinks in great displeasure, as if Phinks is the one who’s made a mistake, pushing the fork into the man’s cheek.
“Well,” he says, turning away. “Who doesn’t?”
~***~
2:09 p.m. – Zoldyck Mansion
He doesn’t understand how he knows exactly which way he should go.
Hisoka has only been here once before, but he can remember every curve, every hallway, every direction. Still, his feet are softly making their way into the back garden. He steps out into the open, the sun sprinkling its light into the grass like beads. He lets the sun sink into his cheeks, the warm glow seeping into his skin until he has to block the light from his vision.
The back garden is springing with flowers – Amaranthus are hanging over patches of grass like garlands; Gladiolus are blooming past him, their colors as vibrant as the afternoon breath; Curly Willows are fragile, the tips of his fingers barely making contact; Pear Blossoms look like the color of Illumi’s skin when Hisoka first met him, like ivory, like real flesh.
“You’re here.”
Hisoka turns around to find Illumi Zoldyck staring at him, the previous color of his unlit eyes now different. The sun is hitting him directly on the skin, as if he’s absorbing every strike of heat until the sun has literally burned him. Hisoka almost wants to touch him, to feel his hands, his wrists, and his veins – just to check if he’s really there. Illumi draws closer, narrowing the distance between them in tiny angles.
“You seem surprised,” Hisoka breathes out. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”
“Who would have?” Illumi lets out an airy laugh. He looks around the garden, and Hisoka takes a brief glimpse of his bare throat, the smooth underside of Illumi’s jaw. The man – the ghost – turns back to him with curious eyes. “You haven’t run away. Why?”
“Should I?” Hisoka answers. This time, he’s the one who closes in the distance. They’re almost touching now; he can raise his arm and touch Illumi’s chest. He can almost feel his heartbeat, as if it still exists. “Do you want me to?”
Illumi’s lips threaten a tiny curve of a smile, like he’s not sure whether to give Hisoka the pleasure of a sight. Hisoka can feel his heart pounding in his ribs, making a noise right through his ears. His whole body is vibrating, like it wants to run away even though he can’t move a single muscle inside him.
“No,” Illumi finally says. “I don’t.”
Hisoka licks his lips, and he lifts his arm forward. Illumi stares at him before doing the same, their fingers nearly pulling towards each other like a magnet. Their fingers are inching forward, the tips dancing in between the distance. It feels like a game, now that Hisoka thinks about it.
“Okay,” Hisoka says, chest constricted. “Okay.”
No matter how small the distance is between them, no matter how close they are to touching, it feels like they can never come together entirely.