#cigarette teeth

They are supposed to be Killua and Illumi; inspired by the fic Cigarette Teeth and a painting of Ivan Grozny.

(Two years ago)

There’s something melancholy to waking up to an empty room, Hisoka knows, because when he flutters his eyes open, all he can see is a ghost.

The morning is still dim, the clock on his nightstand blinking 5 a.m. Cold air is uncomfortably clinging to his body like a second skin, making the hair on his arms rise up in unfamiliar greeting. Hisoka’s golden eyes are lazily catching the light strewing from the windows, balancing through the small sift of the curtains where the sun unevenly glows. Hisoka blocks the light streaming like needles on his face, ignoring the burn of the empty space beside him.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the soft fleece of the blanket wrap around his feet. But to his left, he feels nothing but the bare breath of where Machi used to sleep. His hand roams the spot where Machi’s body used to sink in in the evening before she left, his eyes unable to stray away from the ceiling as if every memory they made is there.

Okay, so I finally finished the fic, and I finally have the courage to post it. I know it seems like another hisomachi fic judging by the start of this sequel, but fret not, because it isn’t. 

This is the ending that should have happened, but I didn’t give. So, to thank you all for your support for this fic, for all the fanart, for the kudos, the comments, the hits, and the messages - every single show of support you have given to this (asshole) fic author, I dedicate this sequel to all of you. 

Epilogue

September 2014

There’s something melancholy about moving, Hisoka realizes, although he doesn’t think he’ll really miss anything.

Humidity hangs in the open windows of his apartment. The September sun is lingering on the windowsills, flooding the floorboards, draping itself across the ratty couch. Hisoka pulls a white cloth over the sofa, turning his face away when dust floats across the room. He wipes his nose with his sleeve before returning to the packages.

His things are fixed in boxes – his empty canvases are packed in a large container, his paint tools following the duct-taped wrappers. His clothes are neatly folded in one of his bags – courtesy of Machi, who knew that Hisoka would most likely ball his clothes together and push them all in. Now, his apartment lacks the belongings he’s grown used to. Now, as he looks around the room, he finds everything empty and numb, missing the ghosts who have grown in the peeks of his living room, the spaces of his bed.

Chapter Thirty-Five

December 2013

There is a deafening silence in the cemetery as Hisoka pushes open the gates. The metals squeak against the barrel of snow laid on the ground. His boots sink into the white texture, the pile rising to the lip of his shoes. He ignores the frost kissing the bones of his cheeks like a mountain summit. He paves his way through the cobbled aisle of the cemetery, his body leading up to the gravestone where Chrollo is buried.

Chapter Thirty-Four

December 2011

Hisoka’s name ripples on his shoulders like the tangent of smoke, a moon slope guiding its way back home.

Chrollo watches Hisoka’s back flex as he stretches his arms over his head. He memorizes the great span of it – the wings unfurling from the peak of his backbones unto the centerfold of his spine. Hisoka’s hair is glinting red under the sunlight. The muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, Chrollo can see the words tattooed on Hisoka’s skin: stay, stay, stay.

It spreads like he’s pillaging ink.