Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hisoka examines his fingernails as Satotz examines his face in the mirror. His lip curls in distaste as he notices a bit of dried blood under one of them, and he uses a finger to scrape it out.

"I should be the one scowling," Satotz points out calmly, looking at Hisoka's reflection in the mirror, "seeing as I am the one suffering damage." He pokes at the scratch marks on his cheek gingerly, and then at his split lip.

Hisoka only knows where Satotz's lips are because he's felt them, both when he punched Satotz in the mouth right now and whenever he pushes his tongue down the man's throat, which is often. He shrugs. "You could've dodged."

"Indeed," Satotz says, drily. "And what would have happened if I had?"

Hisoka smirks.

Satotz narrows his eyes. "I thought so." He takes his eyes off Hisoka's reflection and resumes poking at his skin.

"You're acting as if it will never go away," Hisoka says, examining his nails again. "We both know that it'll be gone in three days."

Satotz hums, then turns away from the mirror to face Hisoka. Hisoka looks up, takes in the length of him -- the immaculate suit, slightly blood-stained at the collar, the straight back, the expressive eyes and practically non-existent lips. He licks his lips, takes a step closer before stopping, eyes focusing on the blood stain. It was red before, but it's brownish now.

Satotz quirks an eyebrow. "Well then?"

Hisoka laughs and takes a step forward straight towards Satotz and puts his hands behind the man's head. He pulls it closer and leans forward, working his mouth across Satotz's torn skin and around his moustache until he reaches his mouth, tasting split lips and dried blood as he curls his blood stained fingers in Satotz's hair.

Satotz's moustache tickles Hisoka's cheek afterwards when he whispers in Hisoka's ear, "You could have done significantly more damage, Hisoka." And then he pulls back. "You are easier to read than you like to think," he says.

*

"Your makeup will run," Satotz says, running his fingers lightly across the tear painted on Hisoka's cheek. Hisoka's skin feels of powder and makeup, grainy and velvety both at once. There are so many layers of it that even though Hisoka hasn't shaved in a few days (Satotz shares a bed with him -- he knows the feeling of Hisoka's stubble intimately), the prickliness of his stubble is muted and almost invisible.

Hisoka grabs him by the wrists, holds them just a little tighter than is comfortable, and smiles at him. "You should have more faith in my abilities."

Satotz puts his other hand on Hisoka's and squeezes. "My faith in your ability to apply makeup is absolute. My faith in your makeup surviving the storm outside, however, is non-existent."

The storm he's referring to has been raging for over a day now: heavy rains and low clouds, a greyness in the air that washes out even Hisoka's colours. He doubts even Hisoka's makeup can survive it.

Hisoka's smile, when it appears, is predatory. Satotz's heart quickens and his fingers twitch against Hisoka's hand. "Would you bet on it?" Hisoka purrs rather than asks.

"Of course not," Satotz says.

Hisoka lets go of him, lingering his fingers against Satotz's tingling flesh. It's those little, unintentional touches that Satotz cherishes: a lingering touch or glance that turn him breathless. Hisoka's words are all honeyed barbs, and his displays of affection are very much calculated from start to finish. All except for the fleetingness of not wanting to let go of Satotz, of following him with his eyes, of seeking out his company. These, Hisoka either can't (or won't) control.

Satotz watches Hisoka saunter towards the door, and smiles to himself when Hisoka turns and sweeps a wide gesture at it with his arm. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," Satotz says and makes for his coat.

Hisoka stops him though, with a shake of his head. "Leave it."

"It's raining outside," Satotz points out.

"So?"

So, indeed. He leaves his coat where it hangs and follows Hisoka through the door, down the stairs, and into the street. It's empty save for a few unfortunates huddled under their wind-blown umbrellas and several cars threading slowly between puddles. He's soaked within moments, hair sticking to his scalp, moustache clinging to his face, and his shirt clinging to his skin unevenly. But it's not at all cold outside. Rather, it's almost warm.

"See?" Hisoka laughs. He turns his face up, closes his eyes, and hums in satisfaction. There's water dripping down his hair, his face, his nose and chin and ears. His hairdo comes apart bit by bit, first at the edges and then at the base, clinging to his head just as much as Satotz's hair, and then some. His clothes stick to his body much better than Satotz's, though: they show more of Hisoka's muscular physique than Satotz's lean one, and without all the clamps of cloth that make Satotz look like a drowned cat.

And he's smiling.

He's facing the sky, the rain, and nature itself, and he's smiling.

*

Relationships, Hisoka's learnt, take work and compromises. Sometimes he wishes he'd never got into one, but most of the time it's worth it. Regular sex, meals he doesn't need to forage somewhere else, and a place he secretly, and only in his mind, calls home.

Other times, though. Other times, he questions the futility of the entire thing.

"You don't really think--" Hisoka says, but stops when he catches Satotz's determined glance. Hisoka shakes his head, sighs, and points at the tandem bicycle with very obvious disdain, he hopes.

"We can both run faster than this thing," he says. "Several times faster."

"That's true," Satotz agrees, walking over calmly to the bicycle. "But speed is not the point today."

"What is, then?"

"Spending time together," Satotz explains. "Working in tandem."

Hisoka purses his lips. "I thought we worked in tandem very well this morning."

Satotz's hand twitches at his side, almost rising to his hips where he has bruises the shape of Hisoka's hands. "There is always place for improvement," he says primly, but Hisoka notices the slight hitch in his voice and the bit of flush that rises up his neck. Hisoka grins, pleased; both he and Satotz know he's lost the argument and that he'll ride the bike (and also that he never minded it all that much in the first place), but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy himself in the meantime.

At Satotz's mark, he climbs the back of the bike. It wobbles a little as they try to find their balance, but they adjust themselves quickly enough to not shame themselves as Hunters.

Then they start pedalling.

Hisoka's never had trouble matching Satotz's pace, but he's never tried doing it pace for pace before. And Satotz has never had to match Hisoka's, ever. Hisoka suddenly realises that this is going to be much more difficult than he's imagined, and not just because he and Satotz need to match their pedalling, but also because what he can see ahead of himself is mostly Satotz's broad, straight back (a very nice back indeed) and very little of the road ahead.

It's not like Hisoka has no control over what's happening. He can jump off anytime he wants and leave Satotz to himself, after all. But the fact remains that he's choosing to stay here behind Satotz, unable to steer, turn, or brake, and to only lend his support to Satotz for the movement.

He rolls the thought in his head while he pedals, and slowly relaxes into his seat once Satotz proves himself capable of not riding in a way that would require Hisoka to jump off the bike. The wind's chilly on his bare arms, but the sun is bright and shining, giving Satotz's hair a silvery sheen that Hisoka rediscovers a liking for.

He'll never tell Satotz, but this might not have been such a bad idea after all.

*

Satotz opens the front door the way he does whenever he returns home after some time away: key in the keyhole, hand pushing the handle down, waiting until the door is sufficiently open until he walks through.

The inside of the small flat is the same as always, too: a comfortable, lived-in environment of old furniture, some knickknacks, more than a few framed artefacts from Satotz's various digs hanging on the walls, and the shock of Hisoka's red hair peeking from behind the armchair's back.

Satotz closes the door, leans his travel bag against the wall, hangs his coat, and reflexively straightens his travel-rumpled jacket. He takes in a deep breath. Lets it out.

Home.

"I didn't expect you until nighttime," Hisoka comments from the armchair.

"There was an earlier train I was able to take," Satotz replies and walks further into the room. He finds Hisoka exactly where he expects to see him, lounging in the armchair with his legs on a tall footstool in front of him, holding an open book in his lap.

What he doesn't expect to see, however, and which deviates from their usual pattern, is that Hisoka is wearing Satotz's shirt. White, buttoned, and ironed -- and not his own.

Satotz raises his eyebrows. "Have you run out of clean clothes?"

"Not really," Hisoka says. He takes his legs off the footstool, closes his book and places it there. He stretches languidly, and Satotz studies the curve of Hisoka's spine in his shirt. Hisoka climbs up to his feet and his smile is nothing more than an amused crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "You could say ... I was feeling a little cold."

"I see." Satotz looks him up and down, searching for signs of physical discomfort, and finds none. By the set of his shoulders, Hisoka seems to be relaxed and in a good mood. "And are you still?"

Hisoka's smile comes down to his lips. "Would you care to check?"

Satotz closes the space between them and puts his palm against Hisoka's cheek. It's bare of paint, and the ends of his hair -- unstyled, evidence that Hisoka's stayed in today -- tickle the back of his hand.

"Hello," Hisoka says lowly, and turns his face so his lips touch Satotz's skin.

Satotz turns Hisoka's face back to his before moving his hand to Hisoka's hip, and leans into a kiss. The start of it is sweet and chaste, but before long, Hisoka opens his mouth in invitation.

Satotz would've accepted it, if he hadn't been dusty and tired from the road and in need of a shower and sleep. That Hisoka hasn't mentioned his state until now said quite a bit about himself.

Somewhat reluctantly, Satotz pulls away. He keeps his hand on Hisoka's hip, and rubs his thumb against the material of his own shirt. Hisoka's looking at him through half-lidded eyes, and that small, lazy smile of his blooms on his reddening lips. "Later then," he says before going to pick Satotz's bag up and carrying it to the bedroom.

Satotz follows him, marvelling at the way his dress-shirt fits Hisoka. While Hisoka isn't much taller than him, he's noticeably more muscular than Satotz and wider at the shoulders, so the shirt clings to him in ways it doesn't to Satotz, emphasising the way his muscles move under his skin.

Hisoka puts the bag on the bed and steps aside to lean against the wall, gazing at Satotz steadily as he unpacks his dirty clothes, toiletries, and one other thing which he places in Hisoka's hand.

"I missed you as well," he says, and tightens Hisoka's fingers around one of his own arm cuffs.

*

Hisoka looks at the server. The young man starts trembling under his gaze, but for some reason he keeps muttering that all of the private booths are occupied. He keeps on babbling while Hisoka remains quiet, until he finally wilts under Hisoka's stare and mumbles that he'll have one ready for him soon and scurries off.

Hisoka leans against the counter while he waits, flicking a card between his thumb and first two fingers, turning it again and again until his fingertips become desensitised to the feel of it.

It doesn't take long until the server ushers a confused, complaining customer outside of a booth and explaining to her that there's a malfunction that must be fixed immediately, and he's very sorry but could she please use one of the public booths until another one of the private booths frees up, for a very generous discount?

Hisoka puts the card back in its place and straightens his back when he reappears.

"I'll prepare the booth for you now, sir, if you'll just wait a moment ..."

"That won't be necessary," Hisoka says with a smile and taps sharply on the floor with his heel. The man jumps, gulps, nods -- and leads Hisoka to the recently evacuated private booth. It reeks of perfume, there are several snack bags scattered about the desk and the floor around the bin, and the browser, when Hisoka checks it, is open on an extremely embarrassing page that he absently scrolls through in interest while the waiter rushes through an explanation of the equipment.

Honestly, though, Hisoka only cares about five things: that there's a computer capable of running his program of choice, a monitor to see what he's doing on, speakers, web camera and a microphone. Anything else is superfluous.

"Payment is upfront," the server attempts to say, but his voice is more of as a squeak. "Two hundred jennies for an hour."

Hisoka saw the pricing board outside and knows he's being ripped off, but he reaches into his pocket and removes an exact bill. He gives it to the young man with a flourish, and watches him with amusement as he flees out of the booth and forgets to close the door behind him.

Hisoka does it for him, shaking his head, and settles in front of the computer. The video chat program is already installed, so all he has left to do is run it, enter his own username and Satotz's, and click Call.

One second, two, three -- and Satotz's pixelated face fills the monitor. Something unclenches in Hisoka at the sight of him, allows him to lean back in his chair and spread his legs more comfortably. He smiles. "That was awfully quick of you," he says. "Almost makes me think you were waiting for me to call."

"I was," Satotz replies.

-- and sometimes, Hisoka thinks, you end up finding the exact person you need. Satotz's honesty to Hisoka's tricks, Satotz's steadiness to Hisoka's quicksilver. Stability where Hisoka used to have none, a place he's never had to carve out for himself.

You are easier to read than you like to think, Satotz had said, and sometimes that frightens Hisoka a little, enough that he needs to leave for a while to be able to find his own centre again.

But most of the time, it's worth it.