The Long Home
Standard Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei © Matsuhita Youko, Central Park Media, et al.
Rating: G
Summary: Three days. Three years. Tsuzuki and Hisoka.
AN: Written September, 2004.
Thanks to my beta, the wonderful Nicolas V. Feedback is love. Enjoy.
The Long Home
By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)
Man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets.
-- Ecclesiastes 12:5
I suppose there were a thousand changes in the fourth year we worked together, but the one that stands out most clearly to me now was the first time Hisoka came to see me. It was a Sunday afternoon.
Of course, I didn't know the reason Hisoka stopped by, but to be honest I didn't think much about it. All I noticed was it had nothing to do with work, and that seemed like enough at the time. I can remember being pleased he sought me out at all, happy for the company, almost proud in a foolish way, as if I'd earned something from him.
At first he was quiet, sitting on the faded bench near the fence, his jean jacket tied around his waist. I just said whatever came to mind while he kept shifting his arms and legs as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. I was repotting some periwinkle seedlings, talking about how periwinkle meant 'things you can never leave behind' and how odd it was for flowers to have meanings and wondering who decided on them and why. I didn't think Hisoka was really paying attention, but I didn't mind. He had finally settled, his chin resting on one drawn-up knee, eyes intent but staring off into the middle distance. I pushed aside the periwinkles and started to sow some poppies, scattering the tiny black seeds.
So I was startled when all of a sudden he started talking about his father: "Once," he said, "he showed me my grave . . ."
This was Hisoka -- of course it seemed a bit odd, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had drawn up his other leg and wrapped his arms around them. His words were quick, buzzing with a sort of agitation at odds with the still way he held himself, and when he said how his father had pushed him down by the tombstone and left him I felt the old anger inside me tighten at the cruelty of that man, at the unfairness--
But I told myself my anger was really sadness and pushed it away. Hisoka had plenty of anger -- he didn't need mine.
Then, just as suddenly as he had started, he went silent. He wouldn't look at me and I was afraid he'd bolt, so I remember rambling on about seedlings and the meanings of flowers until his body unclenched, and he finally rolled his eyes when I told him how important it was not to get your colors mixed up: red poppies were for consolation, white for forgetfulness, but you couldn't tell which was which from the seeds.
-
At the time, I thought that was that. I wondered a bit why Hisoka had stopped by my house to talk about his childhood, but I didn't ask because I was pretty sure that was the best way to guarantee it'd never happen again. I didn't forget, but after a while the incident just didn't come to mind unless I happened to notice the old bench when I was out trimming and planting on a sunny afternoon. So when Hisoka showed up a year later, I didn't recognize the day as any sort of anniversary, only looking back . . .
Naturally, things weren't quite the same, even if it was the creeping sort of change that can't be seen clearly except at a distance. It wasn't so unusual for him stop by -- he still liked his quiet and his privacy -- but every so often he'd turn up, sometimes with whatever book he was reading, sometimes just himself.
In fact, the only things at all strange were that it was late -- almost midnight -- and raining hard, which in itself was usually enough to keep Hisoka indoors; the sort of night that made rooms seem small and disconnected from the rest of the world, like boxes of light stacked together and surrounded by darkness. I remember how the drops of water hung at the ends of his bangs as he stood in the doorway; how he was soaked, but didn't seem to care.
He didn't take off his coat, just drifted around the room, hands in his pockets. I went to heat up some tea, talking the whole time because I wasn't sure what to say. He didn't come into the kitchen, and when I peeked around the corner he was by the garden window, leaning against the casement, arms crossed and looking out into the storm.
Searching through the cupboards for a second clean cup, I almost didn't catch when he started speaking.
"Once," he said, quiet against the noise of the rain, "my father told me my kendo was above average . . ."
I stopped knocking around the tea things and waited by the kitchen doorway to listen. It seemed as though he was trying to gather together every little act of acknowledgment from his father he could remember. He hadn't turned -- he was still looking out into the darkness -- but his voice was calm, seeming to carry the quality of an echo, as if the words came from somewhere far away.
Without realizing it, he repeated the careless compliment on his kendo and I couldn't stop the surge of anger and pity. His stories circled in on one another and soon wound down to a silence that ran between us and filled up the room. I was still wondering if I should say anything when slowly he uncrossed one arm, reaching out as though he could touch something beyond the glass. To this day I don't know how, but I felt his focus shift to my reflection in the window and for one long unblinking moment I couldn't even hear the rain.
I think he looked away first, but I wonder sometimes if maybe it was me. In the end I found another teacup and fussed over his being cold and wet until he fell asleep. That was the first time he spent the night.
-
It wasn't until he showed up at my door the next year that I began to understand the day meant something. A sharp knock woke me up too early. I almost didn't bother to answer, except that Hisoka had a distinctive knock and usually went right on banging until I answered, especially if I was late for something important I'd forgotten.
By the time I opened the door he was already walking away, and that got my attention since, if it had only been work, Hisoka never would've just changed his mind. When I called him back, he turned and muttered something about not being sure I'd heard. His fingers picked at the edge of his cuff. It had been awhile since I'd seen him look so young and flustered and I couldn't help smiling which made him scowl. Once he would have stormed off in a huff, but he only shook his head as though irritated with himself, and the sixteen-year-old I'd first worked with disappeared when he calmly said there was something he wanted to show me and, without blushing, asked if I would come.
I didn't notice he was nicely dressed until we were already on Chijou. I never suspected Hisoka would want my company for anything really private, but when we started towards Kanagawa I guessed that this had something to do with his family. He was quiet, but more thoughtful than tense, and I just followed him, figuring he didn't want background chatter or questions and not able to come up with anything better. Truth be told I was watching him more than where we were going, so it didn't really sink in that we were walking up the gray slope of a cemetery until he stopped in front of a large family tomb decorated with yellow carnations and rose-colored chrysanthemums and a few primroses that looked as though they'd wilted long ago. All the stone said was 'Kurosaki.'
Hisoka didn't pray or make offerings, just stood in front of the grave and stared. His face was blank. Finally he said, "My father died three years ago. I've never come before." His mouth thinned and I watched him struggle with himself. "I still hate him."
Honestly I was a bit shocked he was speaking so openly, since Hisoka still kept those sorts of things locked inside himself -- but then I remembered those strange conversations out in the garden and during the storm.
Of course, I hadn't understood. And perhaps I still didn't, not really, because when I moved a little closer, I still expected him to flinch away.
I've never been sure what to say to Hisoka, not when it mattered; how to say something that wasn't empty or a lie however well meant -- but an idea came to me that felt right. I asked him if he'd mind me offering a prayer. He tensed, but just when I thought I'd really messed up I felt him relax as though a knot inside him had loosened a little.
To this day I can still remember how he stood off to the side, the distance between us, the weight and intensity of his gaze, how he silently mouthed the words he couldn't bring himself to say: 'May he be free from fear. May he be free from suffering. May he be happy.'
It wasn't just his father I was praying for.
We waited a few quiet minutes in front of the grave. Then together we walked back down the hill.
Rating: G
Summary: Three days. Three years. Tsuzuki and Hisoka.
AN: Written September, 2004.
Thanks to my beta, the wonderful Nicolas V. Feedback is love. Enjoy.
The Long Home
By Dorian Gray (hinikunokotsuzui@yahoo.com)
Man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets.
-- Ecclesiastes 12:5
I suppose there were a thousand changes in the fourth year we worked together, but the one that stands out most clearly to me now was the first time Hisoka came to see me. It was a Sunday afternoon.
Of course, I didn't know the reason Hisoka stopped by, but to be honest I didn't think much about it. All I noticed was it had nothing to do with work, and that seemed like enough at the time. I can remember being pleased he sought me out at all, happy for the company, almost proud in a foolish way, as if I'd earned something from him.
At first he was quiet, sitting on the faded bench near the fence, his jean jacket tied around his waist. I just said whatever came to mind while he kept shifting his arms and legs as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. I was repotting some periwinkle seedlings, talking about how periwinkle meant 'things you can never leave behind' and how odd it was for flowers to have meanings and wondering who decided on them and why. I didn't think Hisoka was really paying attention, but I didn't mind. He had finally settled, his chin resting on one drawn-up knee, eyes intent but staring off into the middle distance. I pushed aside the periwinkles and started to sow some poppies, scattering the tiny black seeds.
So I was startled when all of a sudden he started talking about his father: "Once," he said, "he showed me my grave . . ."
This was Hisoka -- of course it seemed a bit odd, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He had drawn up his other leg and wrapped his arms around them. His words were quick, buzzing with a sort of agitation at odds with the still way he held himself, and when he said how his father had pushed him down by the tombstone and left him I felt the old anger inside me tighten at the cruelty of that man, at the unfairness--
But I told myself my anger was really sadness and pushed it away. Hisoka had plenty of anger -- he didn't need mine.
Then, just as suddenly as he had started, he went silent. He wouldn't look at me and I was afraid he'd bolt, so I remember rambling on about seedlings and the meanings of flowers until his body unclenched, and he finally rolled his eyes when I told him how important it was not to get your colors mixed up: red poppies were for consolation, white for forgetfulness, but you couldn't tell which was which from the seeds.
-
At the time, I thought that was that. I wondered a bit why Hisoka had stopped by my house to talk about his childhood, but I didn't ask because I was pretty sure that was the best way to guarantee it'd never happen again. I didn't forget, but after a while the incident just didn't come to mind unless I happened to notice the old bench when I was out trimming and planting on a sunny afternoon. So when Hisoka showed up a year later, I didn't recognize the day as any sort of anniversary, only looking back . . .
Naturally, things weren't quite the same, even if it was the creeping sort of change that can't be seen clearly except at a distance. It wasn't so unusual for him stop by -- he still liked his quiet and his privacy -- but every so often he'd turn up, sometimes with whatever book he was reading, sometimes just himself.
In fact, the only things at all strange were that it was late -- almost midnight -- and raining hard, which in itself was usually enough to keep Hisoka indoors; the sort of night that made rooms seem small and disconnected from the rest of the world, like boxes of light stacked together and surrounded by darkness. I remember how the drops of water hung at the ends of his bangs as he stood in the doorway; how he was soaked, but didn't seem to care.
He didn't take off his coat, just drifted around the room, hands in his pockets. I went to heat up some tea, talking the whole time because I wasn't sure what to say. He didn't come into the kitchen, and when I peeked around the corner he was by the garden window, leaning against the casement, arms crossed and looking out into the storm.
Searching through the cupboards for a second clean cup, I almost didn't catch when he started speaking.
"Once," he said, quiet against the noise of the rain, "my father told me my kendo was above average . . ."
I stopped knocking around the tea things and waited by the kitchen doorway to listen. It seemed as though he was trying to gather together every little act of acknowledgment from his father he could remember. He hadn't turned -- he was still looking out into the darkness -- but his voice was calm, seeming to carry the quality of an echo, as if the words came from somewhere far away.
Without realizing it, he repeated the careless compliment on his kendo and I couldn't stop the surge of anger and pity. His stories circled in on one another and soon wound down to a silence that ran between us and filled up the room. I was still wondering if I should say anything when slowly he uncrossed one arm, reaching out as though he could touch something beyond the glass. To this day I don't know how, but I felt his focus shift to my reflection in the window and for one long unblinking moment I couldn't even hear the rain.
I think he looked away first, but I wonder sometimes if maybe it was me. In the end I found another teacup and fussed over his being cold and wet until he fell asleep. That was the first time he spent the night.
-
It wasn't until he showed up at my door the next year that I began to understand the day meant something. A sharp knock woke me up too early. I almost didn't bother to answer, except that Hisoka had a distinctive knock and usually went right on banging until I answered, especially if I was late for something important I'd forgotten.
By the time I opened the door he was already walking away, and that got my attention since, if it had only been work, Hisoka never would've just changed his mind. When I called him back, he turned and muttered something about not being sure I'd heard. His fingers picked at the edge of his cuff. It had been awhile since I'd seen him look so young and flustered and I couldn't help smiling which made him scowl. Once he would have stormed off in a huff, but he only shook his head as though irritated with himself, and the sixteen-year-old I'd first worked with disappeared when he calmly said there was something he wanted to show me and, without blushing, asked if I would come.
I didn't notice he was nicely dressed until we were already on Chijou. I never suspected Hisoka would want my company for anything really private, but when we started towards Kanagawa I guessed that this had something to do with his family. He was quiet, but more thoughtful than tense, and I just followed him, figuring he didn't want background chatter or questions and not able to come up with anything better. Truth be told I was watching him more than where we were going, so it didn't really sink in that we were walking up the gray slope of a cemetery until he stopped in front of a large family tomb decorated with yellow carnations and rose-colored chrysanthemums and a few primroses that looked as though they'd wilted long ago. All the stone said was 'Kurosaki.'
Hisoka didn't pray or make offerings, just stood in front of the grave and stared. His face was blank. Finally he said, "My father died three years ago. I've never come before." His mouth thinned and I watched him struggle with himself. "I still hate him."
Honestly I was a bit shocked he was speaking so openly, since Hisoka still kept those sorts of things locked inside himself -- but then I remembered those strange conversations out in the garden and during the storm.
Of course, I hadn't understood. And perhaps I still didn't, not really, because when I moved a little closer, I still expected him to flinch away.
I've never been sure what to say to Hisoka, not when it mattered; how to say something that wasn't empty or a lie however well meant -- but an idea came to me that felt right. I asked him if he'd mind me offering a prayer. He tensed, but just when I thought I'd really messed up I felt him relax as though a knot inside him had loosened a little.
To this day I can still remember how he stood off to the side, the distance between us, the weight and intensity of his gaze, how he silently mouthed the words he couldn't bring himself to say: 'May he be free from fear. May he be free from suffering. May he be happy.'
It wasn't just his father I was praying for.
We waited a few quiet minutes in front of the grave. Then together we walked back down the hill.