"Don't look. Don't look." Hisoka's words are curt, but the fear in his voice begs Watari to turn away. "Don't."
His fingers clench in cloth and hair. He knows the solid warmth against him is an illusion, memories of touch and scent, but Watari's closeness is a comfort he craves too badly to resist just yet. Is this what it would be like to--
"I'm fine. We have to go deeper," he whispers to Watari's neck. "Sorry."
The sensation is nothing akin to falling, but more that of sinking past resistance after resistance, until Hisoka or/and/maybe Watari feels as if he is breathing in viscous oil. There is a part of Watari that feels walled off, blocked by something metallic and terrible, and Hisoka or Watari flinches.
Watari or Hisoka shudders.
Tatsumi flits by their eyes and they run after the image-memory. There is something not quite right, though. The cluster of memories around the image feels different, as if from another lifetime in another country.
They realise, suddenly, that they are/were alive.
Hisoka mouths: Follow.
And they find themselves facing the cylindrical bars of a prison or a cage, matte black and cold to touch. A few of the bars were missing, as if broken away. Beyond the bars, colours and sounds flash through darkness.
Tsuzuki pauses in his pacing. A slight sound, little more than a breath. Watari has moved, suddenly tightening his grip on Hisoka’s hand, though his eyes are still shut, still elsewhere. As Tsuzuki watches, the scientist reaches out to Hisoka, who wraps thin arms around him as he leans forward from his precarious perch on the edge of his desk.
Tsuzuki darts over, catching Watari by the shoulder, Hisoka around the waist before they can hit the floor. They go statue again, and balancing them when they’re clutching each other is awkward. Carefully, Tsuzuki lowers the pair down onto the lab floor. They lie side by side, still clinging to each other. They don’t seem to be hurt. Tsuzuki kneels down beside them, wondering what they’ve found in there, hoping that this is a good sign.
Watari’s long golden hair has tangled around them both, and Tsuzuki gently brushes it back from the far paler than usual faces of his partner and his best friend. They’re beautiful, in that distant way that statues always are.
“I know you can do it, Hisoka,” he tells motionless bodies. “Come on, guys.”
The initial memory has gone, somewhere, blocked behind living metal again. Part of their double being is curious, wanting to see where it had come from. The other part knows that that memory should not have been there for them to see. Ignore it, Watari murmurs. Let it go.
It is dangerous, playing here. There are blocks that, twenty years old, will still draw unwanted attention if they are tampered with. You're not the first one, Bon. The tone of the thought is indecipherable, but no longer angry. Watari wants to get Hisoka out of here without involving him in any of Enma's games.
Watari focuses on the bars, wonders why he is perceiving the blocks this way. One possible explanation is quickly followed by an idea. If this is the influence of Hisoka's presence, if this place can be adjusted for understanding--
They-Watari reach out, running almost-fingers down two of the bars, a few apart, until the space between them blanks out into a single screen, text and diagrams and coding as bright as the flashes of color behind the bars.
Bon, can you pinpoint where things have changed? Feel for the bars, where they've broken there are already resumptions of the original coding.
A touch-keyboard forms beneath their hands; flat, translucent, hanging in nothingness. Hisoka directs them both, and the blocks are not difficult to circumvent, once they are found. But it is hard to move here, and their-Watari's fingers are sluggish. There is no way of marking time, except by their progress.
When all the changes have finally been coded, Hisoka finds he can channel his power through the keyboard, can sense things shifting around them as each fragment uploads.
He or Watari starts to shake, as memory after sensation after thought pass through them. Tatsumi's paperwork, the line of his back, the safety of shadow-darkness, the way he never puts the right amount of sugar into anyone else's coffee. Exasperation, wanting, anger, friendship, wordless--
Everything.
They are thrown backward. Upward. Into separation.
Hisoka opens his eyes and draws in a sharp breath, disoriented and momentarily panicky. Lights, the smell of Watari's laboratory, Tsuzuki's anxiety -- too much, too soon.
He forces his lips to form the words: "Did it work?"
Ignoring Tsuzuki's comforting voice, he reaches out through the still-present bond between himself and Watari. There. Right there. A chaotic rush of images and emotions, memories newly-vibrant, waiting only for time to help sort out the disorder.
Hisoka pulls away from Watari's mind, as gently as he can, furling his empathy back into himself. He presses a hand to his forehead, feeling a dull ache there.
Watari can hear both Hisoka and Tsuzuki, talking at cross-purposes. He tries to push himself up, only to find he's lying on his hair, and his glasses are crooked. There is too much chaos in his head to try to analyse right now.
His fingers clench in cloth and hair. He knows the solid warmth against him is an illusion, memories of touch and scent, but Watari's closeness is a comfort he craves too badly to resist just yet. Is this what it would be like to--
"I'm fine. We have to go deeper," he whispers to Watari's neck. "Sorry."
The sensation is nothing akin to falling, but more that of sinking past resistance after resistance, until Hisoka or/and/maybe Watari feels as if he is breathing in viscous oil. There is a part of Watari that feels walled off, blocked by something metallic and terrible, and Hisoka or Watari flinches.
Watari or Hisoka shudders.
Tatsumi flits by their eyes and they run after the image-memory. There is something not quite right, though. The cluster of memories around the image feels different, as if from another lifetime in another country.
They realise, suddenly, that they are/were alive.
Hisoka mouths: Follow.
And they find themselves facing the cylindrical bars of a prison or a cage, matte black and cold to touch. A few of the bars were missing, as if broken away. Beyond the bars, colours and sounds flash through darkness.
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Tsuzuki darts over, catching Watari by the shoulder, Hisoka around the waist before they can hit the floor. They go statue again, and balancing them when they’re clutching each other is awkward. Carefully, Tsuzuki lowers the pair down onto the lab floor. They lie side by side, still clinging to each other. They don’t seem to be hurt. Tsuzuki kneels down beside them, wondering what they’ve found in there, hoping that this is a good sign.
Watari’s long golden hair has tangled around them both, and Tsuzuki gently brushes it back from the far paler than usual faces of his partner and his best friend. They’re beautiful, in that distant way that statues always are.
“I know you can do it, Hisoka,” he tells motionless bodies. “Come on, guys.”
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It is dangerous, playing here. There are blocks that, twenty years old, will still draw unwanted attention if they are tampered with. You're not the first one, Bon. The tone of the thought is indecipherable, but no longer angry. Watari wants to get Hisoka out of here without involving him in any of Enma's games.
Watari focuses on the bars, wonders why he is perceiving the blocks this way. One possible explanation is quickly followed by an idea. If this is the influence of Hisoka's presence, if this place can be adjusted for understanding--
They-Watari reach out, running almost-fingers down two of the bars, a few apart, until the space between them blanks out into a single screen, text and diagrams and coding as bright as the flashes of color behind the bars.
Bon, can you pinpoint where things have changed? Feel for the bars, where they've broken there are already resumptions of the original coding.
A touch-keyboard forms beneath their hands; flat, translucent, hanging in nothingness. Hisoka directs them both, and the blocks are not difficult to circumvent, once they are found. But it is hard to move here, and their-Watari's fingers are sluggish. There is no way of marking time, except by their progress.
When all the changes have finally been coded, Hisoka finds he can channel his power through the keyboard, can sense things shifting around them as each fragment uploads.
He or Watari starts to shake, as memory after sensation after thought pass through them. Tatsumi's paperwork, the line of his back, the safety of shadow-darkness, the way he never puts the right amount of sugar into anyone else's coffee. Exasperation, wanting, anger, friendship, wordless--
Everything.
They are thrown backward. Upward. Into separation.
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He forces his lips to form the words: "Did it work?"
Ignoring Tsuzuki's comforting voice, he reaches out through the still-present bond between himself and Watari. There. Right there. A chaotic rush of images and emotions, memories newly-vibrant, waiting only for time to help sort out the disorder.
Hisoka pulls away from Watari's mind, as gently as he can, furling his empathy back into himself. He presses a hand to his forehead, feeling a dull ache there.
"Yes, it worked."
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