title: everblack
fandom: Hunter x Hunter
characters/pairings: Hisoka/Irumi
rating: G/Teen
warnings: Hisoka, aftersex
summary: Hisoka contemplates the afterglow.
notes: for trail_hunter

There are a packet of cigarettes on the bedside table, so he picks it up, and shakes one out. He's not much of a smoker, though. Are these Irumi's? He doesn't think the other man smokes, either. Maybe it's part of a disguise.

Steam from the shower wafts in gently. It is really a scummy hotel, which is just about perfect, all things considered. They broke the shitty chair that was in the room, and the mirror in the bathroom. Hisoka inhales deeply as he lights the cigarette. There is no door between the bedroom and the bathroom, and from behind the frosted glass door, he can see Irumi's body silhouetted. He slides down in the bed, exhaling a trail of smoke toward the ceiling. Long before the curls of insubstantial color can reach it, though, they spread out until they are nothingness, like the rest of the air.

Hisoka takes another long drag of the cigarette, and blows out smoke harder, but this is useless.

The water turns off with a snap, and the door opens. Irumi exits, his inky hair masking the blank expression Hisoka knows he's wearing. Something indistinct stirs in his bowels as he watches Irumi, shameless, drying off his body. He wonders if this is Irumi's real body, his real skin, or if it is part of the illusion. And then he has to wonder if there is a real Irumi, or if the illusion is all there is.

He would be honest, at least, then; more so than all the fools that claimed to believe in something.

Irumi is methodical about drying off, particularly when it comes to his hair. As he painstakingly squeezes each section with his towel-covered hands, Hisoka stares fixedly at his ass. He should have insisted on a third round. At that point, he would have had to nail Irumi down, literally, and the people below them had already banged on their ceiling, yelling up complaints. Hisoka neither believed in nor disbelieved in friendship, but many times, Irumi had been useful, and a useful tool was well-cared for by men who were not fools.

"Are you going to just stay in bed?" Irumi asks with uncommitted judgment.

"I have nothing better to do," Hisoka grins. Irumi doesn't particularly react, but he enters the bedroom, and starts to collect his clothing.

Hisoka licks his lips as Irumi bends over, and then he takes a long, slow drag. He isn't a smoker, but he could become one, except that pleasure was never his pursuit. Sex was like fighting for him; it got sweaty, it got messy, there was attacking, there was submission, the penetrating strike, the rush of ecstasy at the climax... He had no context for understanding how Irumi might feel if he ever finds out that Hisoka saw his little brother reflected in those frigid black eyes as Hisoka came. It's a secret.

"You're not going to stay and cuddle?" Hisoka jokes. Teases. He likes to tease. He likes to push the boundaries.

Irumi is immovable, though. "I have better things to do." His voice is cool and calm, and it's neither dismissive nor malicious, and yet it still manages to be cutting, despite the obvious parroting.

Irumi's priorities are misaligned, according to Hisoka's discernment. Irumi walks back into the bathroom and starts to brush out his hair. Long tentacles of shining blackness, due to the wetness. In his mind's eye, those tentacles wrap around Irumi's throat, and Hisoka tosses him down and abuses him as he suffocates.

He takes another drag from the cigarette. If he'd gotten a nice, buxom whore, he'd be washed in her blood right now. He actually dislikes this mellow sense of contentment that follows aggressive sex. His wrists hurt from where Irumi shoved the needles in, but he'd deserved it at the time.

One day, one of them would kill the other. At that moment, Hisoka hopes they would both be naked when it happened.

"I'm off, then," Irumi declares dispassionately.

"Survive the fight," Hisoka purrs, and Irumi turns to look at him, his eyes an unreadable depth of haunting nothingness.

"You, as well," he replies, too slowly to be casual, too methodical to be threatening, and yet it makes Hisoka laugh. Irumi cocks his head to the side. "Without your makeup on... you almost look human."

That, too, is funny, coming from a Zaoldyeck. "Some masks are made to conceal; some masks are made to reveal everything. I don't need to tell you that, though."

"And yet, you did," Irumi acknowledges, and it's probably projection that lends it an air of condescension. Irumi glides out of the room without another word, never looking back. He's left the cigarettes with Hisoka, if they were ever his.

Hisoka closes his eyes, and turns into the filthy area of the sheets, enjoying the feeling of being just as dirty.








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