Archive of Our Own

it’s another experiment. another cruel test to see how far this foreign power that had come into their home and shattered their fragile, tenuous peace could stretch, what it could do, and who it could do it to.

he studies her carefully, this strange child, sibling-not-sibling of his, with her ease of smiles, and her eyes bright like the sky is outside. he is tired, and aching in places he’d only been dimply aware of existing in his body. that his parents do not love him is as apparent as it has ever been, now that killua walks and talks and fights, now that he is shaping up into the perfect heir, with his unruly snow-white hair and a tendency to breathe death like air.

illumi wishes he hadn’t had to beat his brother’s resentment into his bones, the same way he wishes his father hadn’t taught him how by painful first hand example, and he knows that beneath his skin he will always carry the stain of the training, the price for his poise, and his grace, and his perfection.

alluka knows none of this, hopping up excited, twirling for him in her frilly little dress, running to embrace around his tender bruised middle.

 “niichan,” she says sweetly, the only one to call him this, now that milluki and killua have grown out of it, now that he’s done washing the word out of their mouths through a tablecloth.

 “alluka,” he allows, with a nod, does not smile, though he feels it, something small and private in him that blossoms in quiet pride.

 “lift me up, niichan!” she says. there is no one to play with her on this side of safe. he puts his arms on her waist, encircles the delicate ribcage. it would take him seconds to crush it, and end this experiment too.

 his own ribs are tender still, aligned and held together by pins and willpower, but he lifts her meagre weight anyway, and spins her round, before setting her down carefully.

“gimme a kiss, niichan!” she sing-songs. he leans down, and pecks one apple-smooth cheek, with the unfamiliar motions of half-remembered sicknights, his mother feeding him lemon slices dipped in sugar to ease his throat after the choking. alluka beams at him, untainted. 

“niichan, braid my hair. make it pretty,” she says at last, and plops down on the floor, in the middle of the soft plush carpet.

 he sits behind her, and runs his fingers through the smooth softness that is her hair, wondering if he should go for something simple, or play around, and do something elaborate, because it is a well deserved treat. she lets him work in companiable silence. or at least, he thinks it’s companiable. it’s a silence that demands nothing of him. he relishes it. he wonders what will be asked of her – the requests she had given today have been fairly simple.

he tends to ask for a kiss on the cheek, a hug. nothing too big. not healing, or magic, like milluki and the butlers, though easily, he knows, he could, and by the time anyone got into the room, it would be too late, and the wish would be in effect. 

“i’m all done,” he says quietly, and the pretty girl stands up, spins cheerily, and he faces nanika’s eerie smile, and the bottomless depths of its eyes. their eyes are alike, sometimes, when he looks in the mirror he finds himself wishing, and wishing, and wishing, and nothing ever happens. if wishes were fishes, he’d have a whole damn ocean.

he wishes for nothing except his family, safe and whole. he wishes for nothing except the biggest thing. maybe silva sees the thoughts flittering through the microexpressions he has no way of controlling, because he says, warningly, “illumi, don’t you dare, young man.”

 illumi dares anyhow. 

“nanika,” he says. it tilts its head to the side, and waits. he wants to say heal me. he wants to say fix this. make me better. make them better.

 he’s thought about it for months, formulating the wish in his head. he knows what he wants, what he’s always wanted, in his heart of hearts.

 “i wish for a love so great-“ he takes a deep breath. “that it will make all of this worth it some day.”

 nanika ponders him for a minute, and says “kaaaay,” and then folds in on itself. alluka faces him with a droopy face and drowsy eyes.

“niichan, i’m sleepy,” she manages to mumble. he catches her effortlessly, and lays her on the soft carpet, amid her fluffy toys, just as his father bursts into the room. the pain of the smack is instantaneous, and the crack echoes, as it sends him careening into the wall.

he isn’t sure exactly when he loses conscience.

he awakens to a place that is decidedly not the zoldyck mansion on kukoroo mountain. it’s the brightly lit, modern living room of a large city apartment, light coming in through large, floor to ceiling windows looking down at a busy street. if he had to guess, he’d say this is yorknew, and that he has no idea how he got there is setting all sorts of alarm bells in his mind. that he is unrestrained is only vaguely soothing.

he wonders if this is nanika’s doing – maybe she transported him across time and space right into the arms of a soulmate. even in his mind, he can’t help but scoff at the idea, and can’t help but hope all the same.

he walks around the room carefully, making no noise, like a ghost, which he’s always been adept at becoming, in a house, where even though he was the firstborn, he was also one son too many.

the sofa is large, curving at an angle over a beautiful padokean third dynasty rug. there’s a tall shelf of books and various knick-knacks. he spots an embrossed wooden box of 24 carat gold playing cards, that he knows were commissioned by the yakata family, with only four complete sets existing.  whoever lives here is a person of significant financial means. it’s not unlike the homes of some of his targets in that regard. the large flat screen tv is set into an ornate frame in the wall, so it looks like a painting. the room opens into a dining room, an oak table surrounded by eight chairs. someone’s left a black coat and scarf draped over the back of one of them. there’s a vase of freshly cut oleander in the middle.

he can see his own reflection in the polished wood – he looks just as he did this morning, pale, the bags under his eyes prominent, and betraying his exhaustion, his cheek showing the latest bruise of his father’s attention. 

he walks around it, towards the kitchen aisle. he doesn’t often go into the manor kitchen – unlike milluki, he rarely has the stomach to eat outside mealtimes, and even rarely gets away with it, even if he wanted to. it’s a spacious kitchen, done in chrome and marble, and he has no idea what half the appliances are, but he can appreciate that the people who live here – it’s impossible that there’s only one – cook, or at least appreciate food. everything about this apartment is so… nice. light, and airy, and tasteful… through the kitchen, he goes into the hallway, which too, is long, hardwood floor stretching to a front door that he knows someone lovingly opens to let someone else in. it’s those flights of fancy – that absolute silliness – that he’s always abhorred in himself, making up his little silly stories that he knows are unlikely and unnecessary, and pointless. 

across the hallway, he knows, must be the bedrooms. there is a presence he can sense, but it is still, unmoving and silent. someone having a peaceful lie in on a sunday morning. silly, silly illumi, making up his dumb, nonsense stories. it’s why he always gets smacked around.

he hears the lock turning in the door.

“are you up already, my love? i’ve brought gifts ~”

the door swings inwards. illumi has needles in his hands. he’s looking at a man, who is looking at him, golden eyes narrowed. his red hair is carefully gelled back, and his face is pale with makeup, a delicate teardrop, and matching in detail and attention star under each deep-set hooded eye. 

in any other circumstance, illumi might have found him handsome, except right now, when he’s considering the best way to go about ending his life and disposing of his body.

then the man breaks into a smile, baring teeth in obvious delight. 

“oh, illumi-chan,” he says, voice dripping with sugar. “is this for me?”

he sets the carton with store-prepared coffee and box by Dun-Dun Donuts on the table at the side of the door and shrugs of his coat. it’s long, black and soft cashmere, embrossed with little red hearts and diamonds.

“you absolutely shouldn’t have, sweetheart,” the man continues, “though of course, i am thrilled, that you did,” he continues talking as he toes out of his black high heeled boots, and steps down carefully, dancerly on the floor. even without the heels he is tall.

illumi is still trying to will himself to move, when he feels the second presence – no longer still- emanate behind him, a clear cut line of lethal intent.

“i shouldn’t have what? who is this?”  

he turns around and faces …

well. he’s read studies. if you were to encounter yourself in the street, you wouldn’t be able to recognize your face as your own. humans lack the depth of self-perception. and yet, he knows, by magic, maybe, in his heart of hearts, that he is looking at himself. older now, taller, but still him – lean and slender, the body he knows so well as his own, that he’s put through countless hours of exertion, coiled with deadly intent.

the other him stills also, and they stare at each other, unmoving.

“oh, my,” says the man. “and there i thought you wanted to treat me, but this is so much more exciting and confusing.

a single playing card appears between his manicured fingers. “who are you indeed, pretty thing?”

the other, older him, is emanating deadly energy in waves. his hair is now to his waist, splayed over his bare shoulders like a cape. he’s summoned needles in his hand too.

he has to say something now.

“i’m him,” he says, pointing at his older self. “or, he’s me. i made a wish to nanika and now i’m here.”

the older him narrows his eyes and takes a step closer. “why should i believe you?” he asks. his voice is lilting, with a carefull, elegant affect, self-assured and smooth, and nothing like what illumi knows he usually sounds like when he attempts to speak to people who don’t belong to his family.

“why don’t you ask him something?” the red-haired man suggests, absent-mindedly. he’s twirling the playing card between his fingers, and locking his lips. he looks like this entire situation is greatly amusing, and the older him isn’t reacting to his presence at all. and… he’d called illumi’s name. “something only the two of you – or. well. you… something only you would know?”

he leans his hip on the side table, pops the cardboard box of doughnuts open, and takes one out, seeming completely disinterested in the situation. neither illumi is fooled 

“get out, then,” they say, nearly at the same time.

the man affects a hurt expression, and then swiftly and gracefully disappears, doughnuts in hand.

“who is that?” illumi asks, but his older self merely gives him an unimpressed look. 

“i am not telling you anything, until we can be certain of your identity,” he snaps. “how old are you?” 

illumi narrows his eyes at the older. how about, what if the older is bullshitting. “guess,” he challenges.

so older illumi lunges forward, and delivers a full-strength, palm-up hit right to his sternum. illumi should have been able to avoid it, if he hadn’t been favouring his ribs. the older appears completely unfazed. he straightens out his silk black robe, and tilts his head to the side, considering.

“you’re about… sixteen, now? three weeks to our sixteenth birthday, isn’t it?”

illumi spits a fat glob of blood, and leans his back into the wall, breathing heavily. “uh-huh.”

“so you just came back from the Levin job? that one wasn’t easy.” he acknowledges. “if i am, indeed, to accept that you are a younger me, here by virtue of nanika’s power. which, mind you, i have not yet accepted. you have not yet proven yourself.”

illumi shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes. he grew up into a real asshole, didn’t he?

illumi – the older- still has his head cocked to the side, in thought. he looks bird-like, elegant and graceful. illumi wonders if that’s how he looks – will look – instead of the noisy, ugly creature he is these days. 

“what happened to the carpet of the third floor study?” 

“trick question. there is no third floor study. it was mother’s reading room.” illumi shoots back.

“was?”

 “grandmother is co-opting it into her apartments. you know that – they just started remodelling.”

 “so what happened to the carpet?”

“nothing’s happened to it.”

“oh?” the older takes a step forward, looming over him, his eyes impossibly dark. “don’t lie to me.”

illumi can’t help the flinch, even though he tries to disguise it. easily, almost distractedly, his older self reaches and backhands him. “and when will you learn? don’t flinch away,” he adds, voice cold and flat, the same voice he used to teach milluki and killua.

illumi doesn’t know why, but he feels the irrational desire to cry bubble up. “i spilled a bottle of mint oil on it,” he says, finally. “it didn’t stain. so nothing happened to it.”

“but?” illumi prompts.

“but it smells like mint now. the whole room.”

“and?” his older seems impatient now.

“and grandmother blamed mother, and mother got angry, and she blamed galen, and –“

“did we step forward, and admit it was us?” the older illumi seems to derive almost sadistic pleasure in questioning him, not that he’d know – he seems perfectly unruffled and impassive.

 “we didn’t. mother punished galen.”

 “don’t lie.”

“mother wanted us to punish galen. so we did.”

“yes,” the older illumi finally relaxes, some invisible tension draining out of his shoulders.

“is this what you wanted to hear,” illumi snaps at his own self. he really did grow up into a real piece of work, huh? “mother says “unsteady hands have no place in this house”, so we took them, didn’t we. are you happy now?”

“not even a little bit,” illumi informs him flatly. “hisoka. you can come in now. i know you’ve been listening anyway.”

the red-haired man – hisoka – walks back in, grinning. there’s no doughnuts with him. 

“did you eat the whole – “ older illumi begins, then just shakes his head, touching the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “nevermind.”

hisoka shrugs, still smiling, and completely unapologetic. “you left me outside waiting. barefoot.”

he turns and winks to the younger illumi. “hello, sweet little treat. my name is hisoka,” somehow, the way he speaks makes it sounds like he’s constantly surrounded by love hearts. he moves to the beat of an invisible spanish guitar, like in one of milluki’s shows. “and you and i end up married.” he turns to the older illumi, and puts an arm around his waist possessively.

illumi shrugs his – their – husband off, irritation visible in the line of his shoulders, and walks into the kitchen. “a decision, which, i assure you, i am questioning on the daily.”

hisoka trails after him, barely giving illumi a backwards glance. for want of anything to do, he retrieves the two cups of coffee hisoka had brought, and walks into the kitchen after them.

“at least take your shoes off, i know damn well we were raised better than this,” his older self scolds. he hadn’t even turned to face him. he just knew.well, illumi thinks, at least our senses are even sharper. the older is reaching into the cupboard for what looks like spices.

“aw, love. you’re so cruel before coffee,” hisoka teases.

illumi snatches one of the two still-warm cup from his own hands, and tips a little bottle of – cinnamon? no, that can’t be right – into the drink.

hisoka’s face – which had been smiling until now – creases with a frown. the older rests a hand on hisoka’s broad shoulder, and admonishes, “don’t.”

he tosses the bottle, and illumi catches it instinctively in his free hand.

“if today’s the day i think it is, then you haven’t had your five-a-day yet.” 

illumi looks down at the bottle. he recognizes the scent and color now that he’s looking at it up close. it’s the poison mix he takes to keep his tolerance up. he looks at the coffee that he’s sure hisoka brought for himself, but the older man just shrugs, and gives him an apologetic smile, so he takes it as the wordless go-ahead it is.

the three of them sit around the beautiful dining room table in an uneasy silence.

“so,” hisoka says.

illumi gets the feeling he is not a man used to keeping silences. “what did you wish for, exactly, to land himself in this … fascinating situation.”

illumi chances a glance at his older self. “does he know about – “

 “yes,” the older cuts him off. “and i want to know too.”

 illumi looks at the two of them, sitting on the opposite side of the table. they make a handsome pair, they’re well matched. hisoka’s golden eyes are soft where they land on the older, and illumi can recognize the lines of his body, languid in obvious comfort, the ease with which he leans his body towards the man at his side, the matching glint of gold when the bands ont heir fingers reflect the light from the window, and this beautiful warm apartment that they live in together –

 suddenly his throat feels as though it’s closing up, and he’s not sure he can say anything, even if he wanted to.

“i think you know what i asked for,” he says, with a meaningful look at hisoka.

“i don’t recall having ever made a wish of that magnitude,” his older self says, flatly. it makes sense. because this hadn’t happened yet. illumi hadn’t made the wish, so his older self had no memories of it. maybe he’d remember it… after whatever spell wore off, and he wound up back in his own day? he’s not sure. 

“but i think you know what you would have wished for. if you could.” heal me. fix me. fix all of this. my family, safe and whole.

the older’s face hardens, and his eyes lose that little bit of warmth and softness that had seeped into them. “yes,” he says tightly. “i know exactly what i would have wished for. and it never happened.”

 for one brief, terrifying moment, illumi wonders if he hasn’t been thrust forward in time. if he has – somehow – been put into another universe – not merely an older him, but a completely different person. is this why he lives in yorknew, instead of the family mansion? what happened in his universe, when he made his wish? 

“illumi,” hisoka says. “love,” he lays a hand on the older’s wrist, carefully.

“i know what i would have wished for,” illumi tears his hand away, and stands up quickly, sending his chair into the wall. “and it never happened. the bad things kept happening, all of them, all the time, and no one did anything, and nothing changed, and it never got better.”

he turns to himself, and there’s an expression of savage cruelty across his features that illumi can hardly recognize as his own, but knows well as his mother’s. “whatever you think you wished for, and whatever you think this means for you… things never got better.”

 he grabs the coat that’s been left on the chair, and storms out.

hisoka scratches the back of his head and sighs. “my, my… well, i do think being married to me might be a slight improvement…”

he lifts his broad shoulders in a shrug.

it feels overwhelming, to have his gaze devoted wholeheartedly to illumi, hungry and unashamed.

“my sweet love… he’s not had the easiest time of it lately. family drama is abound,” hisoka adds conspiratively. there’s something secretive and vulgar in the curve of his mouth, a suggestiveness, an implication a you know how it is coupled with the carelessness of his words.

“you recognized me, earlier,” illumi says slowly. “but i’ve never seen you before.”

hisoka tilts his head to the side, and illumi follows the line of his gaze into the sunlit living room. “recognize … not really, no. it’s your presence that tipped me off. and of course, well… me and love had a little talk last night,” he shrugs again. “i had been oh so eager to see what he might have been like when he was younger.”

“you called me a treat,” illumi says, flatly. he can only imagine what hisoka, with his hungry eyes and restless energy was planning on doing. there’s a word he can’t help but think of. consume. consummate.

“oh yes,” hisoka says, unabashed. his gaze is so open, so raw – illumi has never been looked at so honestly, he doesn’t think. he has never felt so seen. this is not the gaze of a man who assesses him and finds him lacking. he can feel want radiating off hisoka.

 “i was curious,” hisoka licks his lips. “to know if –“

 he pauses. illumi holds his breath in painful lungs. it’s hard to imagine this man married to him. living in this apartment, in the middle of yorkshin. they have plants. apparently, they eat donuts for breakfast. do they sit on the big sofa, and watch the television at night, like some couple on a show? does illumi greet hisoka at the door?

 illumi wants this with the same hunger he’s always known, a starvation etched into his bones long before his father trained him to withstand days of stomach acid burning through him, and running him on empty.

 “what did you want to know?” he asks near breathless, settles his eyes on hisoka’s elegant wrists and pale hands, those curving nails sharpened to a point. the air in the room feels heavy, thick. hisoka shakes his head, averts his gaze, denies himself, even when illumi can’t tear his eyes away from that poisonous mouth.

 he remembers that day. as he strides through yorknew, pulling the coat tightly around himself, and blending into the shadows, inexplicably furious – at hisoka, at the world, at himself, at this scared, wide-eyed child that he knows is him, illumi – present, all twenty five years of brutal experience behind him – remembers that day.

 the experiment within an experiment that he decided against. under his parents’ watchful gaze, when nanika turned big round eyes to him, and the words had turned to ash in his mouth. instead, he’d swallowed thickly and said heal me.

he’d felt his ribs knitting back together, his bruises fading, the aches easing away from his body, and he was more alert, more awake than he’d been in days, stepping back behind his father’s back, letting the adults assess the situation, his part in the experiment complete. it had healed him, but it hadn’t made him any better. nothing had.

this young illumi that has come now – he doesn’t know this child. refuses to know him anymore. it’s been ten years. he doesn’t remember those aches. he drinks forgetfulness out of hisoka’s mouth, and loses the memories in the crimson gouges his nails leave on his husband’s back. he never has to be that child again, and still the child had found him, unhealed, talking about a wish that he’d never made, a wish that had never come true anyway, because illumi remembers that day with the same clarity as he has in remembering all the other days that came after it. 

“a decision has been made,” his father says.

illumi stands in front of him, beneath the dark high arches of the study. his father is leaning on his desk with the same graceful care he has about moving, despite his bulk, and his mother is looking out the window and not looking at him, her arms full of baby. killua is standing beside her, one small white hand tugging carefully on the edge of her obi, for balance. his grandfathers – zeno and maha both, are sitting on one of the sofas facing the fireplace. grandmother is sitting on the other, and they too, are not looking at him. illumi as on the floor, on his knees, bowing, the way he always does when faced with his parents, and the adults of the household.

“a decision has been made,” his father continues. “regarding alluka… and nanika. they will be … removed … from this family.”

illumi’s heart stills. he chances a look at his mother, betrayed. she’d never allow it – not to one of her children, surely? but her shoulders are stiff, and she is unmoving. impassive. looking out the window.

“alluka will be… relegated. to her own part of the house,” his father says, and illumi lets himself breathe again. so that’s what they mean by removed. that’s why mother is calm. “she will no longer be permitted to talk to, or see – anyone.”

 yes. yes, alright. that is not so terrible after all. illumi understands. her powers are wild and unpredictable. locking her away for her own safety, and the safety of the household – it’s a hard choice to make, to be sure, but he will have to make similar choices, when he inherits this family, and he understands.

 “i understand, father,” he says, voice carefully neutral, and his father nods at him, approvingly, illumi likes to think. 

“there is another decision, that we have made,” zeno speaks up. illumi doesn’t turn around, but waits with bated breath. he will be sixteen soon, and as heir of the family, he knows his mother has been looking into arranging a marriage for him to step into. he is not all that fond of women, but for the purpose of producing at least one or two zoldyck children, he can’t see why it matters, and then he and his wife can go their separate ways about their lives, like maha and grandmother have. he wonders who it will be though. his mother had mentioned a red haired woman from the balsa islands, which illumi was quite apprehensive about – he did like red hair. besides, it would be interesting to see if the genes for it would manifest in their children. a red-haired zoldyck had never been seen before.

“you are no longer obligated to step into a marriage,” his father says, heavily. there’s a crucial importance behind these words, that illumi struggles to grasp. “bearing in mind that this family should always be your first and only priority, you, nevertheless, may exercise your own judgment in selecting a partner.”

illumi’s heart swells with pride. his family has judged him worthy of such a monumental decision. of course, after this conversation, he will go into mother’s sitting room, so they can talk at length about the candidates she has selected, but –

“what your father means to say,” zeno says, and illumi can read the annoyed twitch in his voice. “is that you are no longer the heir apparent of this family.”

illumi’s heart stops beating. his mother is still not looking at him. kill tugs on her obi with chubby, uncoordinated hands, and she lays the hand not holding the baby on his fluffy white hair.

is he… being disowned? did he do something? did he not do something? is it about the mint oil? did they find out he’d been spending time in the baby’s room, when he wasn’t supposed to? he just wanted to look at the baby – he wasn’t going to talk to it, or anything? is this about sneaking milluki sweets after his arsenic training? has he not been good enough?

he forces his breathing into evening out, and tries to listen beyond the sound of the blood rushing through his ears.

“we have considered this very carefully,” his father says, “and have estimated, that despite your skill and proficiency… killua simply has more potential than you.”

kill… 

“you are a manipulator,” zeno cuts in. “that is simply a disposition unfit of leading the family.”

mother’s hand curls into killua’s hair. she must not even be realizing she’s hurting him, but he says nothing, and she says nothing.

“and there is of course the other matter,” maha speaks up, for the first time in a very long time. illumi has almost never heard his oldest grandfather speak.

“yes,” zeno says. “the other matter.” 

illumi knows he is shaking, but he can’s stop it. his hair is in his eyes. “you enjoy it too much,” his grandfather says simply, and illumi is blind with rage.

“you have to understand,” his father says, voice heavy. “that this is for the good of the family. and the family must always come first. you are still my son- “

“are you just going to let them do this to me?” illumi snarls at his mother. he wants her to look at him. wants to hear her say it. because he looks like her, and has her same temper and nen-type, he’d always known that his grandparents didn’t want a meteor city slumchild at the helm, and now they had killua, who looked like a zoldyck, with an undecided nen type, and his mother was just letting this go without a fight?  

she turns towards him, at last, forcing kill to turn with her. he’s looking at illumi with cool impassive eyes. there’s no apology anywhere in his expression or stature, and in that moment, illumi hates him so much he feels dizzy with it. and then he just feels sick with himself, because he can’t hate killua. killua is – killua is his brother, and illumi loves all his brothers, loves them beyond death, because no one else does, and today has just proven it, and if illumi doesn’t love killua, than no one else will – not even mother.

he looks up at her face, which is his face. the right side of it is mottled with an angry purple bruise that matches the pattern on his kimono, her painted lips swollen, split. the fingers on the hand holding the baby are taped and splinted together. 

“illu,” she says in her lilting delicate voice, that meteor city round that never left her mouth. “listen to your father, my love.” 

“i am not your love,” he snaps, jumps up from his bow, and well away from the reach of a slap. “don’t ever call me that again. you don’t love me. look at what they’re doing to me – and you’re just standing there? this isn’t love.”

he is furious, his hands balled into fists, his knuckles white, and nails digging into his palms. he’d never understood the expression “frothing at the mouth” until know.

killua’s eyes are impossibly big.

“family comes before everything?” he spits out. “i am part of this family. alluka is part of this family. you’re locking her away, and tossing me out – “

“illumi!” his father barks. “apologize to your mother at once! this behaviour is highly unbecoming. and when this conversation is over, i hope you’ll have the good sense to consider it in the isolation room.”

 “i’m the only one who loves you,” illumi says, voice dripping venom. he can’t even recognize the sound of it – it sounds so ugly and twisted, the way he mocks his mother’s voice, the way he exaggerates her enunciation, makes it sound the way she’d always hated sounding – uneducated, poor, meteor city trash – “i’m the only one who’s on your side, i’m the only one who thinks of you- looks to me like you’re just a liar,” he pronounces the word like “leir” the way she says it sometimes, overcome with anger. “you are not on my side. no one in this house is on my side.”

because the last butler who’d tried ended up dead, mangled by his mother’s jealousy, like the one before that, and the one before that, because illumi was hers, was heir, was too important to be led away by strangers.

he knows all the yelling must be upsetting for killua, and the baby, unless mom has given the baby some of the sleepy milk. he crouches down, so he’s eye level with killua.

“this isn’t your fault,” he says levelly. “but i hope you know how unfair it is. to me.”

killua gives him a shrug in response. not sorry at all, and certainly, having no reason to be sorry. illumi will have to fill milluki in about this. he’d loved his brothers. he’d wanted brothers so bad. allies, someone on his side at last. but they were all just selfish and cruel, and alluka couldn’t even do one simple thing so she was useless too. 

“illumi,” silva snaps, taking a threatening step towards him. “isolation chamber. now!” 

illumi stands up, levels him a cold impassive stare. inside him, his heart is a cold, dead thing. “i’ve got a job,” he says flatly. “i’ll think about what you have done on the airship.” he wonders if he should risk the last bit of insolence, decides it doesn’t matter, decides if he isn’t a good enough example for killua, good enough to be the heir, then he can become a terrible warning, hopes killua takes the lesson from this – “because all i did – was just do everything i was told.”

his father backhands him. it hurts. it sends him sprawling across the room. dislocating his jaw has never felt like such a fucking victory before. he doesn’t need to talk to do his job. he leaves the study and doesn’t look back, walks right out. he takes his time with that job. drags it out a solid two weeks over what he’d normally need to complete it. by the time he comes back, the new order of the house is established, his jaw is healed, and he’s tasked with continuing killua’s training. no one mentions alluka.

she’d healed him, but he hadn’t gotten better.

he keeps walking, despite the shortness of his breath, and his vision clouding. he thought he’d forgotten. thought he’d unlearned those memories, as he did everything else that was of no use to him. that illumi – angry, hurt and vindictive – he’d have taken the child, and put a pillow over his head, and he thought they were done for. this illumi has no business coming into his house, talking about a useless, stupid wish.

illumi had no need of those wishes, anymore. had stopped thinking about them. wishes had consequences, so he just took what he was given, and dealt. no one was on his side. no one wanted the best for him. he’d adapted. loved his family despite it. was ready to go back, at a moment’s notice, when they called.

he’s reached his destination without realizing, and he shakes his head at his own thoughtless carelessness. he needs to focus. he needs to go back, and apologize for this little outburst, which is so unbecoming of him. though hisoka’s seen him in temper before –

 he pulls a needle out, and picks the look to the house. the yorknew suburbs are really, quite beautiful. he’d debated investing in a property on the city outskirts, but hisoka loved the centre, with its many colourful people, far too much, and illumi knew, rationally, that an eight bedroom manor was simply too large for two people alone, especially since they had no intention of hiring any staff.

the house is quiet around him. this isn’t a job, per say, though he’s done his research. the woman is in the kitchen, humming to herself and doing dishes. she doesn’t even feel it, when the needle embeds itself in the back of her neck. she gasps, breaks the melody for a moment, and then continues humming. the fall of her long dark hair hides the needle. when her husband comes in – he’s just finished mowing the lawn, illumi gets him from behind the door.

he’d taken those extra weeks that were afforded him, even though he could have done the job in days. the client wasn’t fussy about the timeline, just so long as the job got completed. and illumi would complete it, in his own time, but there was something he’d been itching to try with his needles. an experiment.  

the man turned around, saw him. he had brown eyes, and they crinkled in delight, and his face split into a smile. he was not an extraordinarily handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something homey in his face that nevertheless gave illumi a sense of security.

“hello,” the man said. “you should have told us you were coming! honey – look who’s here!”

the woman came out of the kitchen. “who’s here, dear?”

her eyes stopped on him. she did a look a bit like kikyou, though her hair was more on the wavy side, and she had lived her whole life well-fed.

“it’s me,” illumi said. his chest was tight, though his ribs were as unbroken as his heart had never been. “your son.” 

the woman smiled, oh-so-joyously. “of course! silly me! how could i forget – i have a son. you’re my son!”

she extends her arms, and he practically collapses against her. “oh darling,” she says. “we missed you do much while you were away.”

illumi puts his arms around her shoulders and squeezes, breathes in her cheap perfume. she’s wearing a bright, lemon-yellow dress and purple flip flops decorated with flowers.

“would you like a spot of breakfast, dearest?”

he nods, numbly. hisoka had gone, and eaten all the breakfast he’d brought, and illumi had only gotten to finish his coffee before leaving.

the needle-father claps him on the shoulder. “hey, did you watch the game last night?”

his needle-father had clapped him on the shoulder. 

“you are such a quiet boy, aren’t you, illumi?” he’d said, his voice approximating what illumi thinks pride sounds like. he nods. his jaw is still healing, and he doesn’t want to aggravate it.

he’s been at the house for what’s coming on to three weeks now. the needle mother, and the needle father take care of him. they eat breakfast together in the morning, and then the mother sits in the living room and knits. the father goes to his office to work. illumi had done his research after all – a novelist wouldn’t be missed at an office. illumi spend his mornings reading in bed. then he helped his needle-mother in the kitchen with lunch, set the table. the two of them would eat in companiable silence. she made delicious protein shakes so he could get his nutrients through a straw. needle-father took his lunch in his study, so he could keep writing. he was making a historical book about the great civil war, where he’d fought. he wanted people to stop going to war. illumi thought that was a very good idea. he communicated with them by writing on a pad, and they praised his neat handwriting. in the afternoon, he and mother watched television together. she liked dramatic shows about rich families living in grand mansions. illumi indulged her, because it made her smile. it looked a little grotesque, with the needles embedded in her face, twisting it. 

the needle father taught illumi how to smoke a pipe. it was a bit of work, convincing him that sixteen is old enough. they sat on chairs in the backyard porch, drinking beer – illumi’s through a straw, and smoking together. the father told him stories about the war. illumi listened.

after dinner, he helped mother clear the plates away, while father read out loud from the evening paper. mother always walked him to his bedroom, and helped him to bed, reminded him to take his pain medication, tucked him in. her lips were cold and chapped against his forehead.

i don’t need a mother, illumi had thought, vindictively. i have one. i can make myself a mother whenever i want.

the experiment had been a success.

 he sits in the sunlit kitchen of the suburban yorknew home. the needle mother serves him two fried eggs, sunny side up, and a strip of bacon shaped like a smile, while his father tells him about the game he missed on tv last night. illumi had seen it, actually – hisoka liked to have the tv on in the background while cooking – but he pretended he hadn’t, because he liked to hear how father described it. 

he had several families in and around the city, all of them childless middle-aged couples with beautiful homes. and when his heart was heavy, and he couldn’t bear the sight of the apartment, or the sticky weight of hisoka’s nen, when his mother’s voice was too loud in his ear on the phone – he went to them. in their memory, all they’d had was a peaceful day at home, doing what they always did, until he came back, tweaked the needle, and they suddenly remembered their son.

the first needle family he’d made, all that time ago – well. he’d had to kill them. the needles had disfigured them, and of course, he hadn’t mastered the technique fully, at the time. he’d brought them to him, and he’d relished in the feeling of being hugged- tenderly- by two parents who loved him, who were oh-so-terribly proud of him, who wanted him healthy and fed, and smiling, and didn’t mind his silences, or his long mournful stares, their arms so warm around him, a feeling of such profound safety he’d only ever felt when he buried himself six feet deep and breathed through the lava tasting dirt of kukoroo mountain.

the tears had come to him unbidden, in that moment. the wish that had never come true – how different would it be if those were his parents. and in that moment, the dream had broken something in him, and they’d woken up from their trance, panicked, and horrified, and screaming –

he’d silenced them. forever. it didn’t matter, really. he could make himself new ones. he would make himself new ones. he never had to rely on his own family again. because he no longer needed the zoldyck family. they needed him. and he’d never betray them. he would never turn his back on them the way they had turned their backs on him. he would forever respond when called, perform his duty, do his job.

no one had ever told him he wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. silencing the needle mother had been… enjoyable. he’d liked killing her, as much as he’d liked killing the needle father, bashing his head in with his typewriter, the complete manuscript now splattered with blood. his death would be sensational, which would boost sales for the novel. more people would read it, and maybe it would stop them from going to war. it was a good thing.

 no one had ever told him he wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. they’d taken and taken and taken – everything else he had. they’d taken, until there was nothing left from him, but this, and then they told him he hadn’t been meant to salvage scraps of pleasure in it. and it didn’t matter, because he knew now – he could always make himself another family, when he needed.

ten years later, the Sunday morning finds him eating breakfast at the table – picture perfect – a mother, a father, an adult son come for a visit on the week-end. he never had to feel alone. never had to be lost. there would always be someone on his side now. he’d make them. 

hisoka didn’t know about this. hisoka suspected, probably, but didn’t know, and didn’t pry, and that’s why hisoka was perfect. illumi hadn’t really needed his needle family in a very long time. come think of it, it had been -almost coming to two years now – since he’d visited them. since his engagement to hisoka, really. they knew all about hisoka, of course. in the absence of real parents to tell it to, he’d spoken to the needle family about the handsome magician who made him laugh. the mother had clapped her hands, delighted, smiling brightly at him, “my dear – i am so happy to see you – so loved!” 

it had eased all his doubts. of course it was good. someone loved him. he was loved. he breathed. 

hisoka was alone now, in the flat, with illumi’s younger self, and illumi knew it had been unfair to storm out like that, when whatever disastrous malfunction of nanika’s power had very clearly been no one’s fault.

“i’ve got to go now,” he cuts his father off.

his mother looks confused. “well – will you be back soon?”

 he takes a look around their perfect suburban home. he’d imagined growing up here, with a mother who wore purple flip flops and a father who – during the week – repaired old cars. he’d wanted it so much it had broken him. when kill took the hunter exam, and then just left – he’d come here. to be comforted, rather than blamed.

then hisoka had found him, and just, implicitly, without words, understood. and now hisoka was waiting for him.

“i don’t think so,” illumi says, finally. when the door shut behind him, he released his nen.

he traced his steps back through the city, towards the skyscraper, and let himself in through the door, quietly, dropping his coat. he really had left the house in nothing but his robe, his coat, and some flip-flops, hadn’t he?

 their apartment is still, sunlit and beautiful. a home they’d built together. hisoka had become accustomed to a certain standard of living, in heaven’s arena. and illumi had no intention of giving up on his creature comfort. he could sleep in the dirt, but he didn’t want to.

 in the living room, he stops in the doorway. hisoka is sitting on the sofa, and illumi – the younger- is in his lap, enjoying one of those thorough, explorational kisses that illumi himself is very familiar with. his younger self is fumbling and unexperienced, arching his back and gasping sweetly. hisoka’s hands are on his narrow hips, steading him. when he breaks apart for air, illumi can catch his low voice, murmuring – “good boy, pretty boy, let me take care of you, sweetheart,” with the same familiar heated tenderness that never failed to get illumi breathless.

he shakes his head. hisoka is hisoka – the hedonist. he goes after what he wants. illumi had been planning to use his needles to make himself young again – he’d have done it as a treat for their anniversary, although the pain of the transformation would have rendered him stiff, and unable to enjoy the experience. well. this is a much less taxing way for everyone involved.

he clears his throat. “with my own younger self? have you no shame,” he says flatly. hisoka pulls away from laying marks on the pale column of illumi’s throat and laughs. his eyes are glinting, as bright and golden as the high noon sun.

his younger self, for his part, is blushing a delicate crimson. god – he’d been so young. illumi can definitely see why hisoka would enjoy that – he was a lot more responsive. after all, the illumi he’d met was already experienced enough not to be phased by almost anything, hardened, and cruel in a way that complimented hisoka’s prospensity for chaos. his wish had never come true. 

“is he being good to you?” illumi asks gently. his younger self nods, abashed, and hides his face in hisoka’s neck.

“you never told me you used to be shy,” hisoka says, delighted.

“i wasn’t,” illumi says flatly. “you’re just a pervert, you’re flustering him.”

“he came onto me!” hisoka defends, but he is laughing. illumi can, in fact, believe that. but he’s not about to betray his own self. he’s always been the only person on his side.

“i don’t believe you for a second.” he says, and walks into the room. he takes a seat on the sofa, beside them, pressing his side fully against hisoka. he reaches out, gently, to touch his own shoulder. he used to be so delicate, so slender – like a doll. he didn’t really bulk up until a few years later – and even then – he’s always been more lean than anything – his mother’s genetics affording him the physique that fit best with his graceful, dancerly combat style.

“you don’t have to believe me,” hisoka agrees, and turns his head to the side, asking for a kiss. the makeup has rubbed off around his mouth, revealing the tint of his real skin, a few shades darker than the foundation he prefers. illumi kisses him. sometimes he thinks he can lose himself in kissing hisoka. sometimes he thinks it won’t be such a bad thing.

hisoka’s arms had always been a safe place in the world.

his younger self watches the kiss carefully, like he’s trying to soak up all the secondhand affection he can. he doesn’t know yet, what will happen in his tomorrow. he doesn’t know how badly that day will scar. his wish, rendered meaningless.

hisoka had pried the story out of him, a few years into their acquaintance, which at that point illumi had been too cowardly still, too conscious of his own hypocrisy to call a friendship, right before they’d agreed to take the exam together, and help each other pass.

“if you are the eldest son, how come it’s killua, who’s the heir?”

illumi remembers turning to look at him stiffly, gittarackur’s smiling face like a badly made puppet. “i wasn’t good enough,” he’d says, incredulous that the answer wasn’t obvious, that hisoka even had to ask. 

his brows had knitted in a frown. illumi never liked to see hisoka frown, it just didn’t suit him. “that’s bullshit,” hisoka had said. “you’re ten times better than that jumped up little shit.”

 “i don’t have the right temperament,” illumi had said, levelly. 

“right,” hisoka had said, smiling brightly, “that ball of anger management issues and mommy trauma certainly does, though, right!”

illumi had decided not to point out that he too, in his own way, was a ball of anger-management issues and mommy trauma. hisoka knew that about him. hisoka still thought he was worth it. but no one was on illumi’s side. no one had ever been on illumi’s side. the adults in his life – grandparents, parents – his mother, and the butlers had all looked away. and he refused to hitch his heart on another lie. the only safety he had was what he could carve out with his needles. hisoka was older than him – by a few years- and he too would eventually – like everyone else – see the truth of illumi, and all the ways in which everyone else seemed to know that he was simply not enough.

and killua didn’t get to just walk away from the one thing illumi had killed himself trying to be deserving of. he had, in the end. but like every other time, illumi had done everything he was told, had gone above and beyond the mission, just to protect this family.

 and now hisoka sits beside him – in the home they had made together, in the heart of illumi’s favorite city in the world – though hisoka preferred the eastern capital of padokea, having grown used to it in his time at heaven’s arena – cradling his younger self – this ugly, pathetic worthless child, with his foolish stories, and his useless, pointless wishes – the child that everyone else had judged unworthy – like he’s the most precious thing in the world, a rare, fragile gem he wants to protect – forever, and looks at his own illumi, ten years older, and by all means – rougher, harder, and in every regard – better – in the same way. like illumi is someone worth loving. like he is someone worth taking care of, and protecting.

illumi sees himself reflected in those golden eyes, like a treasure, and as always, averts his gaze, because hisoka loves him in the fullest, most complete way in which he is capable, and there is nothing more unbearable in the world than being truly loved.

it hadn’t healed him. nothing had ever fixed him, but hisoka’s love – sticky, impossible to get rid of, had seeped into those secret, hurt parts of himself that he’d stapled together, had stretched impossibly big around his innumerable flaws, and drawn him close, and he hadn’t been able to get away. 

his younger self looks at him, the same quiet awe he’d once reserved for his father, and in those eyes – his own eyes – void-black, end-screen glitching – he sees how he has grown, recognizes the anchoring weight of his own impossible survivor, somehow miraculous – whole, unalone, still plagued with the same sickness of that wish – a sickness he’d long now suspected he would never fully recover from, but despite it – ever present.

in that moment, with one hand on hisoka’s shoulder, solid and warm, and the other on his own shoulder, taking hold of his own self, he feels so overcome with – something – unnameable and terrible, a feeling he hasn’t yet learned to recognize, a terrifying pit in his stomach.

he draws hisoka to himself again, because he doesn’t want to look anymore, and lets his eyes flutter close, for the kiss.

he is painfully aware of his younger self watching with a sort of naked hunger that never goes away. a cold, slender hand finds his own, squeezes it lightly.

he pulls away. hisoka tastes like the breakfast donuts.

his younger looks at him, expectant, sweet and awed. how did illumi ever survive being so young? how did he ever emerge from that savage spring of his life, monstrous? hisoka swims into his field of vision, returns to his previous task of kissing the younger fully and completely. hisoka kisses the same way he does everything else- like a man who has been starving too long in the streets, having now found himself, inexplicably, at a banquet.

in that handsome, powerful shell of savagery, he is forever a skinny child wish grubby hands, walking a tightrope towards a plate of mouldy bread, beneath the high top tents of a circus that wasn’t home, but still better than the streets that had raised him.

perhaps that is why he and illumi had recognized each other, always. illumi wondered – even before – if every time hisoka saw him, he also saw that bruised child, planting needles into the faces of kind-eyed women, so he could have a mother who loves him.

now the truth of him is there, trapped between them, as eager to be held and loved as he’d ever been. illumi wonders if he failed himself or if this future is the promise of a wish that had never come true. he doesn’t want to imagine the implications of  - or even consider the possibility that – this life – his life – was any sort of proof that maybe it had.

he’d said “heal me”, and he’d healed, but he hadn’t gotten better.

hisoka pulls away. his younger’s eyes are glazed, mouth parted sweetly. he’d drawing in quick, labored gasps.

“are you jealous, my love?” hisoka asks, voice dripping honey. “don’t be. i can love you both.” his smile is a promise.

he’d wanted to. illumi remembers, after all, their conversation. it mirrored many they’d had along the years they had known each other. hisoka had come up behind him in the shower, slid his hands over his hips, wrapped his arms around his waist and nuzzled his neck.

illumi let him, and turned the hot water on, letting the spray warm up. he was willing to sacrifice this, if it meant keeping hisoka in there with him longer. hisoka had kissed his nape, then moved to trail light nips along his shoulder.

“sweetheart,” he’d murmured. he smelled like a fresh kill, and that’s when being with him was at its most dangerous. bloodlust made way for pure lust, though violence was often present in their love making.

illumi had craned his neck, let him have more room to mark. “yes?”

rolling question and consent in one.

“on your knees,” hisoka had whispered to him, voice gravelly low, order and request at once. so that’s the sort of game they would play tonight. illumi had usually let hisoka take charge – at first, because the older man was more experienced, and then simply because he liked it. to simply take direction, follow orders, and be praised for it – to see hisoka take pleasure in his obedience.

 he went down gracefully, lowering himself, his knees touching the tile of the shower cabin among the rolling clouds of steam. he looked up, and hisoka smiled at him, cupping his face gently, thumb brushing over his mouth. “good boy.” 

the force of illumi’s exhale rattled him. he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. hisoka pushed his thumb between illumi’s lips, a reward of the sweetest kind. illumi taste the blood under his fingernail.

hisoka must have torn into his victim with bare hands. he was hard. 

hisoka was hard too, and illumi wanted. he knew good boys got rewards. he just had to be a god, patient boy. hisoka was petting his hair with his other hand, gently, lovingly. he knew not to pull on it, knew not to do anything that hurt, because illumi didn’t like that. he was just petting, a steady rhythm, and letting illumi suck his fingers into his mouth. 

“hands on your thighs,” hisoka said. “i don’t want you touching yourself, sweetness.” 

illumi lays his hands, palms flat on his thighs, as instructed. he wouldn’t have touched himself without permission anyway, but he liked having the direction. liked knowing he was doing what he was told.

“you’re such a god boy for me, aren’t you?” hisoka murmured. illumi merely looked up at him, blinking slowly. he knew he was.

hisoka’s fingers left his mouth, and illumi whined a little.

“shh, gorgeous. i’ll give you something to suck on.” hisoka promised. he took himself in hand, stroked his length a few times. illumi couldn’t tear his eyes away. he parted his lips. taking hisoka’s cock in his mouth, on his knees in their warm shower – it was holy. he felt holy. absolved.

 hisoka’s hands on his head were gentle. guiding.

“do you like your treat, my doll?” 

illumi hummed around his length, knowing it pleased hisoka to feel it. “good boy,” his lover said. “you know what to do.”

illumi did. but he didn’t move, content to just kneel there, and feel the weight, and taste and texture of hisoka’s cock inside his mouth, and his hands in illumi’s hair, guiding him, his own desire inconsequential, even though he was painfully hard. he wanted to be told.

 “please me, sweetheart,” hisoka ordered. illumi moved then, swirling his tongue over the head, pressing it to the slit, experimentally. hisoka groaned, his nails scratching illumi’s scalp lightly. he started bobbing his head, setting a rhythm, and hisoka made the noises illumi knew meant he was doing a good job. 

when his hands left his hair, he let out another hum, an unhappy whine. was this admonition? was he not doing a good enough job? it was easy to take hisoka’s length into his throat, nose pressing to the smooth skin of hisoka’s groin. 

the touch returned, though cooler, this time. was hisoka – doing illumi’s hair for him? while illumi was sucking him? it was at once so tender and obscene, and he felt his throat closing up around hisoka, felt his eyes stinging, and knew the shower would wash it all away. he moved again, changed the rhythm, moved his tongue over the underside of that familiar length, a body he now knew as well as his own.

hisoka’s breathing was more and more erratic, and his nails scraped illumi’s scalp, losing some of the tenderness, the grip becoming more frenetic. illumi’s own nails dug into his thighs. he wanted to touch. himself, or hisoka, it didn’t matter, he wanted to -

“i’m close, my sweet dear,” hisoka’s voice has dropped to a whisper. “be good – swallow for me – “

he fists the length of illumi’s hair tightly, but doesn’t tug. illumi makes sure to swallow. “good boy – good boy – “ hisoka chants, breathless. illumi sees stars behind his lids.

he loses time, that’s for sure. he’s leaning into hisoka’s muscular thighs, his husband’s softening cock still in his mouth. he’s spent too. hisoka’s massaging his scalp gently

“oh, my sweet,” hisoka says, gently. “did you come just from sucking me? from being oh so good for me?”

illumi pulls away. even though his mouth is now empty, he’s not sure he can form words, so he nods. he feels boneless, and pleasantly warm.

“oh, my treasure,” hisoka croons.

he helps illumi up, and wraps his arms around illumi’s shoulders. he feels so broad around him. illumi had always enjoyed that hisoka was physically more imposing. he felt… small. safe.

they’d stepped out of the shower together, and hisoka had draped him lovingly in one of the soft towels, and sat him in bed. illumi always took a while to come back. he was content to sit, and be hisoka’s pretty doll. his good boy, while hisoka brought out his argan oil and his ornate hair brush, and started doing his hair gently, careful not to tug, not to hurt him, pressing a kiss to his shoulders here and there, until his beloved came back to himself. 

“you’re so eager for me. so sweet, so responsive,” he’d praised, while working his fingers through the silky length of illumi’s hair, heavy with water still. “i wonder… were you always like that? would you always have been so sweet for me? dearest, when i first had you, i thought for sure, no one had ever made love to you before. not properly, anyway. i so hoped i would have been your first. i really, truly did. and if i had been, beloved, you can trust me, i would have treated you so well. i would have made sure that you enjoyed every second. i would have made you cry with how much you loved it. like you do now, only more.”

he kisses his shoulder again, tenderly. “maybe it can be a game we play,” he says, offhandedly.  “when you’re in the mood for pain. with your needles. i can take you younger. take care of you. like i would have, if i’d known you when you were still… untouched. i wish i could go back in time, and undo everything that’s been done to you, you know that, don’t you, my love?” 

illumi did know that. had always known that. like him, hisoka was prone to pointless, silly wishes. except there they are now, and the illumi in hisoka’s lap is untouched. is the illumi hisoka had asked for – to treasure, as he did his older, scarred self.

“do you want it, dearest?” hisoka is asking, his voice low, conspiratory. his younger’s eyes are impossibly wide as he nods, eager. as responsive as hisoka predicted.

then he looks at his older self, blushing deeply with shame. illumi smiles at him, approximates kindness in his face.

“he’s rather persuasive, isn’t he?” he asks fondly, trailing his gaze over hisoka’s handsome painted face. warmly, he adds, “demon.”

 hisoka grins, baring teeth. “yours,” he agrees easily enough.

“perhaps we should move this to bed then,” illumi suggests. his younger nods, dazed, and slides off hisoka’s lap. he doesn’t quite manage to hide the wince though, not as well as illumi of now would have. hisoka, fast and graceful as ever, catches him with an arm around his waist. the boy’s face is a white mask of pain.

he’d made a different wish. so he isn’t healed.

“perhaps, when we move to bed, it should be to rest,” hisoka says, keeps his voice light, smiling still.

“let’s,” illumi agrees, even when his younger self shoots him a betrayed look.

the balcony window in the master bedroom is open wide, letting the light summer breeze in. the bed is a mess of all the pillows and blankets illumi likes to nest in, and he shoves them away to make space for the younger, propping him generously up with a few large down-stuffed cushions, so he can breathe more easily.

hisoka joins in, climbing on the other side of the bed, ever so careful not to jostle. he must be so supremely happy now, surrounded by two perfect versions of the one person he claims to love more than anything in the world. illumi hopes he is. hisoka has always been a magic trick of a man, impossible to read.

hisoka’s hand finds his, and he laces their fingers together, silent and content. the younger is looking at them, wonder etched in every crevice of his face.

“you should rest, tender, sweet thing,” hisoka says, warmly, eyes crinkling. “close your eyes. neither of us is going anywhere, isn’t that right, my beloved?”

illumi slants a glance at him, out of the corner of his eye. he’s too comfortable now, among the blankets, to turn, but he gives the slightest nod. safe. the strangest word to associate with any room that contains hisoka in it, and yet, perhaps, the only word to describe it as well. safe, here, with his husband, where he is loved.

hisoka is smiling, and drumming the fingers of his free hand lightly over his middle, his eyes heavy-lidded, gaze soft. illumi lets his own eyes flutter shut, sinking into the pillows. he won’t sleep – he’d slept so much already, but he will let himself get lost in the feeling of the familiar serenity that surrounds him in the home he built with the one who loves him most. 

the younger’s breathing, raspy and hard, evens out, heavy-still. and then the sound disappears altogether.

it’s the startling silence of it that has illumi open his eyes, scramble to sit up. hisoka has moved too. they’re looking at the spot on the bed. illumi touches it – it’s still warm. but his younger is gone. 

maybe nanika’s power could only keep him in this present for so long. illumi shuts his eyes and exhales. he hopes it was enough.

illumi opens his eyes, and draws a sharp startled breath. he’s in his own room in the manor on kukoroo mountain. one of the butlers must have carried him up, after father’s slap knocked him out. he puts a hand to his mouth, and traces his lips. there is a warmth in his chest, unfamiliar, but sweet, like a memory from a dream, like an impossible wish come true.

that night finds him and hisoka on the terrace, looking down at busy yorknew. illumi is not prone to melancholy, despite what hisoka says, and yet his heart is strangely heavy with the memory.

his husband steps out, balancing to full flutes of sweet sparkling wine, and offers him one. “a toast,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn, “to the delicate youth of yesterday, who gave me the love of my life today.”

he touches his glass to illumi’s delicately. his smile is an earnest, open thing.

illumi takes a sip. pauses, as he feels the bubbles travel down his throat. his tongue is lead-heavy in his mouth. he’s not sure how best to make the words work for him.

“you – “ another pause. hisoka is looking at him, ever patient. “you know that i love you,” he says at last. “right?”

he doesn’t have hisoka’s charming ease of expression, doesn’t say it as often, or as readily. and still.

“of course,” hisoka says. he puts a hand on illumi’s waist, and his touch is solid and warm. “i know you do. i just wish – “ here, he lowers his eyes, shakes his head, still smiling. “i just wish you’d tell me. what is the wish you made? the one that brought you here – the other you, i mean.”

 illumi closes his eyes. it was strange having the memory of the day, from two different perspectives, carrying the awe of his younger self, along the impotent rage he’d felt upon seeing him. if he tells hisoka  the truth, he can’t ever go back from admitting it. 

“i asked nanika to give me a love so big, it would make everything else in my life worth it.”

whatever hisoka had meant to say in response, he freezes, his mouth open. his eyes are wide, looking at illumi as though he is seeing him for the first time.

he had healed. and for the longest time he’d thought that he hadn’t gotten better. doing quick and dirty temporary patch jobs with his needle families, always and forever at the beck and call of a family that waited forever, for a more talented brother, breaking his own heart at his mother’s feet, biting his cheek to recall the sting of his father’s backhand. this life  - his life – the one he’d built in yorknew, with a man who looked at him miraculous - had been a fairy-tale. the daydream he held himself into, while waiting for a future in that same mountain that had swallowed his childhood whole. a placeholder, more real and tangible than his needle family, but a placeholder nonetheless. he knew that’s what hisoka looked at, when he was looking at him now, as though seeing a stranger. a life that illumi was content to occupy while he waited for the next job, and the next mission, and the next call, because accepting it as the fairy-tale transmuted into real life would mean admitting the one truth he’d held like a needle to his own heart this whole time.

 that the love he’d wished for – that one thing, that would undo his damage, and justify everything else – would never, and could never come from kukoroo mountain. that maybe volcano dirt could grow any type of flower, but it couldn’t grow him the family he wanted. that this was it for him, the same way it was, for hisoka.

he wasn’t a child, anymore. he hadn’t been a child for the longest time. not even when he made the wish. heal me.

hisoka drops his glass, and draws illumi into his arms, so tight he could choke. his whole, powerful body is shuddering. he holds illumi miraculous again, like a magic trick.

the way he always had, even all those years ago, when they met on a job in the slums of the eastern capital, younger than they were now. it was raining, and illumi’s hair was dripping with blood. a magician with wild golden eyes, lean with a carved, starved look about him, had dropped from the building on the other side of the street, and walked towards him through the carnage. a needle man stood in front of him, and the magician sliced him neatly into bits with a playing card.

“that was my prey,” the predator spoke. illumi couldn’t tear his eyes off his hungry face, the pale pink tongue licking over sharp incisors, the rain washing away the facepaint, and revealing perfect skin beneath.

they’d stood at a stalemate of power. and illumi had licked his own lips. “i have the strangest feeling,” he’d said. “like i’ve met you before. in a dream. or a wish.”

the magician tilted his head to the side, studied him closely, his smile wide, inviting. “you’re a wonderful strange little thing,” he’d said.

now his arms are tight around illumi, “oh,” he whispers into his neck, his voice heavy, choked up. “you wonderful, impossible thing.”