Chapter Text
Illumi's brothers and sister were safe, and free, and that was enough. It had to be enough.
It had to be, because that's all he was left with: the knowledge that they made it out. The blackness and silence surrounding him offered little comfort otherwise, sending him to a dark, teetering brink. His psyche had been fractured long before the final battle that killed his parents, his captors, and freed his siblings of a life of bloody servitude. And now his mind sat, a cracked thing, inside his head. He couldn't count the minutes, hours, or days; he could barely count to ten before the words clogged his mind, incomprehensible.
A faint drip-drip-drip of some leaking pipe came from one far corner of the cell, filling the cold, rocky space with the scent of sewage. Most likely filling the cell with sewage—slowly. He wondered if it would eventually flood enough to kill him in black water, or if he'd die from starvation first.
He couldn't even kill himself. That, too, would offer comfort: the choice to end his suffering. But it was impossible inside these nen-suppressing chains. He was as weak as a normal, average man with no training in combat or nen. If only that had always been true. What would his life have been like if he'd been normal? Born to a normal family?
Would his brother have saved him? Like he saved the other Zoldyck kids?
Illumi was no kid . That's why Killua left him, after freeing the bonds on their other siblings—because Illumi wasn't one of them. He belonged with the bloated corpses of his parents and grandfather down here, in this lightless place.
If they had been a normal family, Killua wouldn't have had to make any sort of decision like that, Illumi reasoned. They would make choices like which kind of hot dog to buy at the grocery store—tofu and all beef, because Illumi didn't eat meat, and his parents certainly didn't eat shitty meat. If they had been a normal family, they would be seated at a picnic table, and Illumi would probably have a closely-cropped head of hair, a wife, and a job in sales. He'd wear suits and he'd buy Milluki tickets to the midnight release of the next big superhero movie and he'd make sure Alluka got to attend summer camps to make friends her age and he'd help teach Kalluto how to do fractions after school.
And Killua wouldn't have left him here, in an inescapable dungeon, where he was dying, slowly, over the course of many days.
Illumi was right that the sewage began to flood, and he was also right that it was very, very slow. He slumped against the wall he was chained to. The thirst and hunger had become part of him, connected to him like two bleeding limbs. For maybe the thousandth time, Illumi tried to bite off his own tongue, to choke on it, but the cloth gag tied around his head remained firmly in place, unmoving, and he couldn't get his teeth around it enough to bite through the flesh.
He truly could do nothing—nothing at all—but patiently wait to die.
He lost feeling at some point. Not just his legs or hands, but everywhere. He couldn't feel his bare, naked skin as the sewage water lapped up, rising slowly around his thighs. It wasn't safe to stay submerged in water like this long-term, but like with all his current problems: Illumi had no way to solve it.
The hunger would get him before trench foot. But maybe the drowning would beat them both.
He moaned very quietly, stretching down towards the water. If he could just bend enough to sink his head beneath it, he could fill his lungs and die.
But there was another chain around his shoulders, and it remained steadfast.
And the thing is, Illumi really thought those were the only two options available to him, down there, in the dungeon. Either Killua would change his mind, and return for him—or Illumi could somehow manage to kill himself, and end his suffering.
It never once crossed his mind that there was a third option available, because it never crossed Illumi's mind that someone outside the Zoldyck line would care if he went missing; if his phone was found abandoned outside an airport; if he didn't make it to the biweekly brunch he had attended for several years.
Illumi had forgotten he had sort of—kind of—made a friend. Because assassins didn't have friends.
The daylight was startling, but Illumi was so drained of energy, and hope, and life, that he didn't react when it flooded down from above as the hatch opened. He simply closed his eyes to the pain of it against his dried retinas. A shadow—a figure above—flashed through the streaming afternoon sun.
"Oh. Am I too late?"
Illumi didn't speak. He wasn't sure he could. He heard—eyes still closed, and now that he closed them, he couldn't pry them open again—the shk-shk of weapons cutting through the air. Cutting through the chains. One side, then the next, and suddenly Illumi was falling towards the water at his feet.
That was fine. He could drown himself in it with the chains gone.
But as soon as the cold damp waves hit his face, he found himself pulled—
Up, up, and out. A breeze of fresh air combed through him, and it was the most comfort Illumi had ever felt in his life. Clean air, in his lungs, across his skin. Maybe he had died, and this was heaven. The cloth gag was removed from his mouth but he could do nothing other than breathe.
"Are you dead?"
Illumi still couldn't open his eyes. Soon, he thought. He'd be dead soon.
"I killed Killua," said the voice. "He screamed so nicely as he died."
Illumi felt a discordant thrum light up his veins, tensing his muscles, flooding him with new, unexpected power. He opened his eyes to see the foxish, smiling face of Hisoka Morow.
For so long—days? A week?—his thoughts had been focused on his own end. The idea of killing someone else was new, unexpected. Welcome. He felt his fingers tense. He was still naked, with no weapons, but he could fight. He would fight. He felt his nails grow sharp, pointed. He would rip out Hisoka's heart.
"Just kidding," said Hisoka. "But that's good. You're awake."
Kidding, kidding, kidding , said Hisoka. Illumi felt the tension continue to buzz beneath his waterlogged skin.
"Can you talk?"
Illumi's lips parted and it hurt—the skin pulling apart, dry, and suddenly he tasted blood. "No," he croaked.
Hisoka laughed, scooped him up, and began to walk away, saving Illumi from the precipice of a dark fate. And he moved easily, casually, like he hadn't a shit-water-stained, naked, dying assassin trembling in his arms. Like Illumi wasn't six-one, nearly as tall as Hisoka himself. Like he wasn't a hero performing a rescue, but rather an opportunist playing with a discarded toy.
Illumi's consciousness blinked to black as he was placed into the back of a car.
He blinked in and out of awareness for the next few hours—well, it felt like hours. At one point, he was placed in an enormous, luxury, jetted bath tub of warm water, and Hisoka climbed in on top of him, and Illumi found himself utterly resigned to being taken advantage of at his weakest state. Maybe if Hisoka fucked him especially hard, he would finally die. He would barely feel it, at this point, having become so utterly disconnected with his physical self.
But Hisoka didn't fuck him. Hisoka actually wore a full set of clothing in the bath, sans shoes, seemingly unconcerned with how he got soaked as he bathed Illumi. He paid special attention to his fingers and toes, cleaning them of grime with a small cuticle-scraping tool made of pink plastic. Illumi squinted at Hisoka's own well-manicured nails and supposed he kept a painting kit on himself for maintenance.
And when the tub filled with dark, dirty, bloody water, Hisoka drained it, and filled it again, and continued on to wipe Illumi clean. He barely even touched Illumi's genitals or ass—a damp washcloth passing over them each with simple efficiency.
And when Hisoka drained the tub a second time, and gently pulled Illumi out of it, and into a prewarmed towel, Illumi felt himself falling back into the darkness of sleep. Because his body recognized, finally, at that point: Hisoka was not going to sexually assault him.
He was a pervert, but perhaps his tastes didn't quite align with a death-brink young man whose nails he'd cleaned of days-old shit.
Killua had chosen to let him die; Hisoka had chosen to let him remain sexually untouched. His final thought, before the dark lull of unconsciousness, was that he simultaneously held the title for most wanted and most un wanted man alive.
The next time he came to—an hour or so later, he supposed—Hisoka paced at the foot of the bed, on the phone. He spoke in a tone of voice Illumi recognized from their brunches. It was how he spoke to the wait staff. Friendly. Unintimidating.
Odd.
"Well," Hisoka hummed. "I got some soup and water in him—" he had? When? "—and we took a nice bath." Hisoka nodded as he listened to the reply. "No, no bleeding." Another pause. "Yes. Mmhmm. Well, he nearly starved to death, I think. Honestly, I thought he was a corpse when I opened the door and saw him down there. He wasn't moving; I couldn't detect him with nen. Like a ghost." Hisoka made a noise of agreement with the person on the other line. "Yes. He's sleeping." Another silence. Hisoka smiled. "See you soon, Doctor Weiss."
Doctor Weiss must have moved with incredible speed, because Illumi blinked, and an old man—the doctor—hovered over him with a few medical instruments. "Good, good. So sorry to wake you. Just checking some vitals. No, you don't need to sit up—that's good. Just lay there for me, kid."
Illumi obeyed, but mostly because his muscles hurt so terribly that he would have struggled to sit upright.
"This might be a little difficult, but can you access any nen for me? Maybe just a simple ten."
Illumi reached for the aura that surrounded him at all times and found it gone. He took a slow breath, tried again, and there was nothing.
Weiss gestured. "Open your mouth, please." Illumi did so, Weiss peered in with a small light, and frowned. "How odd. You've no aura at the moment. None at all, not even around your heart."
"What does that mean?" came Hisoka's low, unexpected voice from the doorway.
Weiss breathed out in exasperation. "Nothing good, typically. All living things have aura. At least some of it. Even that fern you have growing in the corner of your apartment here—that has some. But Illumi here… Nothing."
"You say that like he's not actively living. He's alive in front of you." Hisoka crossed his arms, and Illumi noticed he was wearing a sleeveless muscle-T—oversized and soft-looking, like it was well-worn. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Hisoka in anything so casual in his life. It was almost more startling than his lack of nen.
"Well, his heart is beating. He's breathing." Weiss said, "This might be above my ability, Mr. Morow. But I've a colleague that specializes in nen-related injury. Let me give you her number." Illumi wanted to ask what he should do, but Weiss patted his shoulder and said, "Get some more sleep," and he was out again.
Illumi woke to darkness and for a moment, he thought he was still down there . In that cell, below ground, chained. The despair of it made him gasp, a sudden gut-punch of the ongoing torture he had to endure, but the chains turned to a soft quilt, and the darkness gave way to a warm orange glow from a night light plugged into the corner of the room, and Illumi realized he was fine.
He was in Hisoka's home. He'd never seen it before now, and through his tired eyes, in the quiet of the night, it seemed to suit Hisoka just right. Eclectic art hung from the walls in a tasteful variety of frames—gold ornate to clean chrome—and the furniture seemed an appropriate blend of bohemian and mid-century modern. Illumi had never liked "midmod" when he encountered it, much preferring the expensive, high-brow aesthetic of traditional or gothic styles, but Hisoka had somehow managed to make the wood accents and low-line furniture appear…cozy. The space was one large open room, warehouse-style, but was obviously renovated for comfortable living. Big windows looked out onto an enormous balcony, which was devoid of furniture, but held a number of fruiting plants. When Illumi focused, he could see the kitchen through the darkness, sitting clean and unused. Did Hisoka cook? Illumi supposed not. Whenever they went to brunch, Hisoka was always the one to pack up the leftovers to eat later.
Illumi reached a weak hand to wipe at his dry eyes, cleaning them of the crust that built on his eyelashes. He really must have been unwell for so much build up to have happened in the hour or two between meeting Doctor Weiss and awakening now.
Why did he awaken now?
Illumi listened for what woke him up, and heard it again—a ding from a phone. From his phone. Illumi rolled to one side of the bed and found his phone placed upon a nightstand, charging. The front was cracked.
It'd smashed into the pavement, fallen from his fingers as he was captured with a bag over his head and those fucking chains suffocating all his strength curled tightly around each wrist.
But the phone still worked, even if it was broken. Illumi knew he could ask for nothing more. He picked it up and checked his messages.
There were none. The ping had been a fully charged battery alert, recommending he unplug it from the outlet.
He checked his messages again, just to be sure. None had checked on him? Not even Milluki? He thought…
His heart filled his throat. He thought Milluki was his best friend. He thought Alluka worshipped his strength. He loved Kalluto, and Kalluto loved him.
He knew Killua didn't share any of those sentiments.
In his memory, Illumi watched Killua leave out the hatch, face twisted in fury from the choice he made to leave Illumi behind. At least it hadn't been an easy choice, Illumi thought, comforting himself with the idea that Killua suffered some kind of frustration—perhaps guilt—thinking he'd left his brother to die.
Illumi wasn't sure when he should return home. Should he return home? Killua left him to die. Would part of him be disappointed that Illumi hadn't?
Perhaps he should give Killua what he wanted. Doctor Weiss had said it: he had no aura anyway. His death wouldn't register, not really, and if he died, his stomach would stop cramping in this new, painful way. He would be free of how it hurt. He wasn't sure there was an afterlife—his father spoke of heaven, sometimes, but Illumi's pragmatism meant he struggled to accept that such a place existed. But if there was a heaven, he could join his parents there.
The unworthy go to hell. Perhaps he'd die and go there. Would it be worse than the cell filling with sewage?
Impossible.
He was free enough to walk now, and he could walk straight off Hisoka's balcony, and into the traffic below. He could hear the cars passing, but barely—he was high enough for such a fall to kill him, if he let it. He would let it. He had no nen to protect his body from impact, anyway.
He pushed out of the bed and his legs wobbled unsteadily, which was a new—terrible—experience. His body was a well-trained machine, even after injury. Even after torture. He'd been raised to survive, or even thrive, in situations such as this.
Which is why he managed to take a step. And another. And another. His muscles screamed from disuse. His stomach continued to cramp. And his vision blurred from pain, from confusion. He was trained for this.
He continued to walk. He could do it. He just had to make it outside. Then it would end.
As he approached the double doors to the balcony, the shiny glass panes twinkling with light off the neighboring buildings, he caught the reflection of Hisoka behind him.
He spun around, fast as ever, despite everything, and prepared to fight.
Hisoka grinned. "Oh? Want to kill me already? You've been awake for thirty seconds."
His body might be on the brink of failure, and his nen might be gone forever, but Illumi had years of practice for this, and the motions came to him unbidden and easily. He didn't need magic to kill a man. He didn't even need to feel well. He just had to do it. He moved with unnatural speed, hand slashing out to cut Hisoka's throat; to rip out his windpipe and shred his jugular and leave him mortally wounded and bleeding on the floor. If he could land the hit.
He couldn't.
Hisoka dodged, ducking below Illumi's hand, and Illumi brought up a knee to smash his nose up, into his brain. But Hisoka caught his knee with both hands and used the momentum to spin Illumi away from him. Illumi slashed out with his other hand. Hisoka dodged it as easily as the first time, and made a pleased little chuckle as he spun to Illumi's back.
He was faster and stronger than Illumi at the moment, and Illumi knew it, so when Hisoka's hands produced a queen of hearts card from midair, he prepared himself for it. The end. Finally.
Hisoka would cut his throat from behind, and Illumi would be the one to die bleeding on these beautifully renovated wood floors.
Instead, Hisoka flicked the card across the room. It hit the light switch—click—and the room was flooded with light from the industrial pendants above. Illumi winced at the assault on his eyes, and Hisoka wrapped a hand around his throat, from behind, and held him in place.
Illumi didn't understand why until his blood-lust vision cleared, and saw them standing before a mirror next to the balcony door. Hisoka's amber eyes glinted in the nighttime light, meeting Illumi's gaze in the mirror. "Thought so," he said.
Illumi was wearing an oversized t-shirt and socks—clearly Hisoka's own. The shirt was stretched out but buttery soft, faded pink, with a series of embroidered hearts losing threads around the high round collar. It didn't suit Illumi at all. He huffed, displeased, and met Hisoka's very focused gaze. "What."
"You'd like me to kill you, wouldn't you?"
"No," Illumi replied, automatic.
"Mm? You'd like me to cut you open and bask in your blood and watch as you go."
"No," Illumi replied, more quietly, this time.
"You don't want to die?" Hisoka's fingers, with those long, pointed nails, dug into Illumi's neck. He watched the white points of each finger bloom across his throat, and he couldn't look away. He also couldn't reply. He was about to walk off a balcony, after all, and saying otherwise would be a lie. He had attacked Hisoka so that he would be attacked in return. So that he could die.
He could lie, but Hisoka would know. I always know, said Hisoka after sipping a mimosa during a brunch one day. You have a very obvious tell.
Which is?
You smile with your teeth.
His lips moved of their own accord, corners lifting. But he stopped short of a smile; stopped sort of replying. His stomach cramped again. "Bathroom," he said, finally.
Hisoka released his throat, took his hand, and walked him to a door across the apartment. Illumi didn't ask why, though he didn't know, and was confused by the warmth of Hisoka's hand inside his own. Maybe Hisoka felt handsy, unsatisfied, having stopped himself from killing Illumi, and touching him helped sate the demon inside that lusted for death.
After using the bathroom, and rinsing beneath a cold spray of shower—he wasn't going to ask for Hisoka's aid in producing hot water—and eating a bowl of soup Hisoka pushed into his hands, Illumi slept again.
He awoke the next morning in more pain than before. That was a good sign for recovery. His body was mending itself after essentially giving up.
"You've got a little more color today," said Hisoka, holding out a cup of coffee for Illumi to take. He looked around Hisoka, to the living room, kitchen, and bathroom door, and frowned.
"Where are you sleeping?" Because the bed had always been empty when Illumi woke up.
"My couch is a delightful cloud," Hisoka said, and he paused to take a long sip of his hot coffee. When he lowered the mug, Illumi could see it was pitch black. His own mug, the one he'd just been handed, was beige and milky and—when he tasted it—sugary sweet.
Just like he liked to drink it. His shoulders relaxed, relieved at the feeling and taste and familiarity.
"Why are you helping me." Illumi forgot to ask it like a question. He stared at the coffee. If asked before now, would he have known Hisoka took his coffee black? Had he paid that much attention to brunch?
"I don't like playing with broken toys," Hisoka said. Illumi met his stare, in the cool morning light. His face was half in shadow, but his eyes glowed like embers nonetheless. "Are you broken? I thought you might be, when I found you."
"I am fine," Illumi said, and he offered a smile. "I appreciate your help."
Hisoka scoffed into his drink, and took another swallow.
"I should leave soon. It is unfair to burden you with what may be a very long recovery."
Hisoka shrugged. "It's only been a week. You can stay longer. I imagine I've got better access to care than that mountain your family calls home. Besides, a nen specialist is scheduled in three days."
Illumi paused mid sip. "Did you say a week?"
"It's actually been eight days since I fished you from the hole in the ground," Hisoka said. "It's Tuesday."
Illumi's mind grew distant as he counted the days. He was captured on a Tuesday. Killua escaped, with their siblings, on Wednesday. Illumi was alone in the pit—with the sewage, and the decaying bodies of his parents—until the next Monday?
"There were no flights out; I had to charter a blimp. It was the fastest way to get to where those men took you, but it still took me nearly six hours to find a pilot and blimp to commission. It was too far for a helicopter, unfortunately. So I didn't reach you until Monday afternoon."
"Why did you come for me at all?"
"You missed brunch. It would have been a pity if you missed the next one, too." Hisoka took a seat on the edge of the bed, next to Illumi, and he cringed at the pain in his back from the shifting pillows. Hisoka misunderstood and frowned. "You can go home if you want. I'm not going to hold you captive and insist you eat soup. Though the Chinese place downstairs has a pot of egg drop dedicated just to my orders, now."
"It is not you," Illumi said, firmly. He took another drink of the coffee. "I feel…" What was it? He settled on, "Gratitude. Towards you. I do not know how I may ever repay you for such a thing. My body is sore, and when you sat, it hurt my back. My state is weakened to the point that I am unable to mask my reactions as well as I usually do. I apologize; I will do better."
Hisoka watched him with wide eyes. Which then turned to mirth; and he laughed quietly, chuckling into his coffee mug. "You're sorry for showing weakness."
"Well, yes," said Illumi. "Wouldn't you be?"
"I would be tempted to kill you, if you saw me that way," Hisoka replied, staring off.
"See," Illumi said. "I agree."
The corner of Hisoka's mouth tilted in a grin. "We're lucky that we're strong enough to survive the other one suffering humiliation."
Illumi wouldn't use the word lucky for any facet of his current situation. He chose not to say as much, though, and drank his coffee in silence.
Hisoka eventually asked, "Do you want to return home?"
Illumi fished for a reply that would be less humiliating. "I do not think I will be welcome there." When Hisoka raised one eyebrow, skeptical, Illumi said, "Killua left me behind when he rescued our siblings. On purpose. He wanted me to die."
Hisoka tilted his head as he watched Illumi explain. "Do you know what you're saying?"
"What? Yes."
"You say that Killua, your sweetest baby brother—"
"Second sweetest," Illumi said. Kalluto was the one with the soft hands, who liked it when he got the chance to hug Illumi, who held his hand as they walked through the castle grounds.
"One of your sweetest baby brothers," Hisoka amended. "He left you to die slowly, by starvation, in a bunker connected to a septic tank."
Illumi remembered his face, the way it twisted in hatred, and fury, and nodded. "I am not lying to you."
"I didn't say it was a lie." Hisoka said, "Why would he have done such a thing?"
Illumi's coffee spilled from the mug. He hissed as the liquid burned against his fingers, and tried to move his hand so that the spill hit the floor instead of Hisoka's comforter. "Shit."
"It's okay," said Hisoka, jumping to his feet, grabbing the mug from Illumi. "Did it burn you? Hold on."
Hisoka placed the mug on the nightstand and made it across the apartment, to the kitchen, near-instantly. He returned a moment later with a cold, damp rag, and an ice pack. He wiped Illumi's hands and had him hold the ice pack while he dabbed at the brown stain on the patchwork quilt.
"I am very sorry," Illumi whispered. He accidentally dropped the ice pack, and then stared at his hands in confusion—how could he possibly have dropped his coffee, and now the ice, just like that?
And that's when he realized he was shaking. Trembling.
Hisoka kneeled in front of him, looking up into Illumi's face. His stare was calculating.
"I apologize," Illumi managed to whisper. "I do not know why…"
"It's because I asked: why would Killua have left you down there?"
Illumi's shaking grew more intense. He sucked in a breath of air, and felt it grow tight in his lungs. He couldn't breathe, not really. "He hates me," he said. "He hates me. My brother hates me, and he wanted me to die, because I hurt him. I kept hurting him. I would keep hurting him. I cannot go home," Illumi said. Still your heart , he thought.
You're an assassin.
You're stronger than this.
All his edges had been worn away down there, as he died. As he lost his nen, he lost other things too—his resilience, and patience, and strength. Hisoka didn't like broken toys, and Illumi had been utterly shattered. Just like in the pit, Illumi now teetered on a dangerous brink. He could bite his tongue off here.
One step in the wrong direction, and he'd lose his mind. And he'd lose Hisoka, too.
Illumi closed his eyes, the mask of composure sliding onto him like a familiar coat. "I cannot go home. I will not be welcome there, because my brother wanted me dead."
"That's okay," said Hisoka, reaching out to place a hand on Illumi's bare, bruised knee. "You can stay here."
Illumi felt a muffling, comforting numbness settle within. Yes, he could survive this. He was trained to survive anything. And Hisoka presented him with the ideal opportunity. Illumi would use him, gain his strength back, and leave with Hisoka's heart in his hand. That's what Illumi was familiar with: using the weapons presented and discarding them before he could get caught.
He smiled as he said, "Thank you, Hisoka. Could you help me to the bath again?"
He'd lost an absurd amount of muscle in the last few weeks. Illumi stared at himself in the mirror of Hisoka's bathroom, at the bones that jutted from beneath his skin. He was so pale, now—his skin seemed like that of a translucent fish.
That made his current task a little more difficult, but only a little. Hisoka liked him. Had always liked him. Hisoka was the one who wanted to be friends, after all. Hisoka was the one who flirted, incessantly. Hisoka was the one letting Illumi take up his bed, and his time, and his money. He chartered a blimp for Illumi's rescue.
He was the perfect mark. Illumi combed his hair. It'd thinned in the last few weeks, too, falling out from a lack of nutrients, but it was still an impressive head of hair for any man (and even some women). He pulled it around his shoulders, framing his chest—pink nipples he pinched to hardness, that remained pebbled as his naked body was exposed to cold air.
Illumi squared his shoulders and walked out of the bathroom in a confident stride. A stride interrupted, almost instantly, by a cramp in his leg. Illumi winced as he fell to his knee, the thunk of his fall like a crashing of cymbals to his ears.
Hisoka appeared at his side, and helped him to stand. Illumi ground his teeth together, suppressing his shame, and said, "Thank you."
"No, thank you," said Hisoka, voice a purr, as his eyes dropped to Illumi's exposed legs.
Oh, good. It had worked anyway, his plan of seduction. Illumi peered at him through messy strands of his fallen hair. "I have nothing to wear."
"There are robes in there," said Hisoka, eyes flitting across Illumi's chest.
"They are too big for me. Everything that is yours is too big for me," Illumi said. He let his gaze drop to Hisoka's body.
Hisoka's responding grin was exactly as Illumi expected. But the next words out of his mouth weren't expected at all. "Are you trying to get me to fuck you, Illumi?" He thought it would take more finesse than this. He paused before he nodded once, feigning shyness, and suddenly Hisoka was pressed up to his front, very close, and their noses nearly touched. "Why?"
Another thing Illumi had not planned to respond to. He didn't know the best thing to say; how best to lie to someone that would know he was lying. Because he couldn't say, "I'm going to use you, so that I may protect myself as I heal." Instead, Illumi closed the gap between their mouths, and kissed Hisoka with soft lips and a wanting sigh.
He'd been told, more than once, that he was a terrible kisser. Which made sense. He didn't particularly enjoy it—it was a means to get to the fucking, usually.
Hisoka pulled back and said, "No."
Illumi leaned in again, despite the warning, and Hisoka placed a hand upon his neck, around his throat. Illumi hadn't lied before: Hisoka was bigger than him. And the way his fingers encompassed the entirety of his throat, holding him in place with one single grasp, made it incredibly apparent. They were almost the same height, but Hisoka was bigger in every way. Well, probably every way. Illumi would find out soon enough. He'd had his suspicions, for some time, that Hisoka had a sizable cock.
Not that he spent any time thinking about Hisoka's cock. No.
"No," Hisoka repeated himself. "If you want to do this, you should know how to do it better," he said.
"I do not understand."
"Put out your tongue."
Illumi looked into Hisoka's eyes. Was he winning? Was this another step in his plan? He had only one way to find out. He opened his mouth, and rolled out his tongue.
Hisoka said, "Mmhmm," and the breath of his response coated Illumi's damp tongue. "Like that." Illumi could taste him, even though their mouths didn't touch. "Close your eyes."
Illumi did so. The hand on his throat tilted his head back, and then Hisoka's hot, wet tongue met Illumi's. A slow, methodic slide, so intense that Illumi's skin shivered and pebbled beneath Hisoka's touch.
Hisoka's mouth covered Illumi's, and they were kissing again, tongues sliding together with a more practiced familiarity, and suddenly Illumi couldn't breathe. His lips moved slowly against Hisoka. His mind buzzed, and his hands, limp at his sides, grew tense with the need to touch.
Hisoka pulled back to kiss the corner of Illumi's mouth, allowing him to suck in air again. He kissed his cheek, cheekbone, ear, and down his neck, and Illumi was losing the thread of his task at hand.
He nearly told Hisoka to stop, but this is what he wanted, right? He was seducing Hisoka, to use him for his own protection. But why did it feel like the task had been reversed? Hisoka's hands roamed from Illumi's back to his waist and then down his bare legs, which began to shake.
Illumi was hard, and there was no hiding it, because he was naked in the middle of Hisoka's living room. But he hadn't the chance to balance the scales, not before Hisoka fell to his knees, and sucked a kiss to the inside of Illumi's thigh.
He fell back, against a tall piece of storage furniture. He gripped the smooth wood veneer surface, and gasped as Hisoka kissed his cock, and then took it into his hand, and stroked him.
Illumi nearly said wait. He'd meant to do it the other way—to have Hisoka within his hand, to stroke him to completion, to emphasize the obvious want he'd harbored for Illumi in all the years they'd known each other. But Illumi couldn't explain any of that. He could barely think it, because Hisoka swallowed his throbbing cock, and the tight wet heat of his throat made Illumi cry out in shock.
Hisoka pulled off, and he and Illumi met eyes. "Like this, Illumi," Hisoka said, opening his mouth, and pulling out his tongue like he had when they kissed. He held Illumi's cock in one hand, and pressed the head of it against the smooth, wet surface of his tongue, and he rubbed it. Small, shifting movements that made Illumi see stars. "I can taste you like this."
A bead of precum pooled at the slit on the tip of his cock, and Hisoka leaned in to lap it up, onto his tongue, and he hummed in pleasure. Like it tasted of anything other than semen.
"Manipulator cum tastes herbal," Hisoka said. "Have you tried it before?"
Illumi had never let anyone finish in his mouth. But he was meant to be seducing Hisoka—his mind reeled with the task of it, how far he'd come off the plan he laid out. He need Hisoka to think he was hot. That he wanted this. That Illumi wanted him. So he nodded.
Hisoka kissed his thigh before lifting it over his shoulder. "I'm gonna make you come now."
Illumi could do nothing but hold the furniture more tightly beneath his fingers as Hisoka took his cock into his mouth again, and sucked. Illumi released a groan from deep within his chest, close already. His toes curled as the hot feeling of Hisoka's mouth pulled on him. In and out of Hisoka's throat—head bobbing like he wanted Illumi to fuck into him. But he couldn't move, not with this knee hooked onto Hisoka's shoulder like this. Illumi did nothing except feel, and gasp, and moan, and finally—
"Stop, or I'll come," he exhaled, words soft despite all the intensity.
Hisoka's hands moved from Illumi's thighs to the soft swell of his ass, and they encouraged him to jerk with what little movement he had available. Deeper into Hisoka's throat.
Illumi came with a gasp, head thrown back, hands nearly slipping off the furniture with the build up of sweat. Hisoka swallowed his spend, every drop of it, humming as he did so. And when it was all done, he pulled off, and peppered the soft smooth texture of Illumi's pubic hair with kisses. And then did the same along his raised thigh, paying special attention to the bruise forming there.
Illumi began to shake again. He wasn't done. The mask he'd donned felt like it'd slipped off, somewhere, and he had to find it soon. He had to return the favor to Hisoka, and now. He said, "Okay. You now."
"No," said Hisoka, shifting out from beneath Illumi, and rising to his full height. He smiled, eyes falling shut, as he said, "I'm fine."
Illumi took a step forward, and fell to one knee—well, nearly did. Hisoka caught him, and lifted him bridal style with an amused laugh. He marched toward the bed and Illumi exhaled. Now. They'd fuck now. He hadn't lost the plot. Not yet.
But when Hisoka deposited him on the bed, he turned away without looking at Illumi's naked body, and began to fish a fresh quilt from a trunk he kept nearby. Illumi, confused, watched him in silence. Hisoka unfolded the quilt and deposited it on the bed. "The other one's in the wash downstairs."
Illumi, still nude, still seated atop the bedding, laid back. He knew he painted a picture that way. Exposed, damp from his orgasm, face flush. Nipples still hard in the cool air. "Lay with me," he said.
Hisoka stepped forward, and Illumi's stomach did a swoop of victory. But instead of climbing onto the bed, Hisoka reached over to turn off the lamp, sending the evening into darkness. "Hmm. No. I like my couch. It's a very nice couch."
Illumi remained stunned atop the covers for quite some time—long enough that he unintentionally fell asleep. When he woke up a few hours later with the need to pee, he noticed he'd been covered by that fresh quilt, and had his hair combed back off his face.