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In the dark, chilly spaces of his house, it was possible to imagine something better. If he stared long enough at his shadowy reflection in the bathroom mirror, if he tilted his head and let his eyes go out of focus, he could imagine a different face gazing back at him. A leaner face, more mature than his own, narrower and more chiseled. A wider mouth, curling up at the corners in a smile that found its echo in expressive eyes that gazed at him tenderly.
He could focus on the illusion until it was nearly perfect, until the hair spilling down across the reflection's forehead seemed to be dark chocolate rather than dirty blond, until the eyes shifted in color from green to bottomless amethyst. Until the reflection's hand, when it came up to press palm to palm with his through the thin barrier of glass was tapered and elegant, the skin a shade or two darker than his, the shirtsleeve billowing open to reveal a watch strap fastened on the wrong wrist and dark lines that might have been scars.
Hisoka leaned forward, and saw the man in the mirror do the same. Their foreheads touched. He remembered the snow falling around them in the alley, soft flakes sticking to Tsuzuki's cheeks and melting into the flow of blood and tears that streamed down from his eye.
"Tsuzuki," Hisoka whispered. His voice sounded dry and scratchy in the silence, too harsh by far. But Tsuzuki understood. He moved when Hisoka did, leaning forward until their lips met in perfect symmetry. Tsuzuki's mouth was flat and cold, tasting faintly metallic, but if he concentrated he could imagine warmth and sweetness, an answering pressure. He let out a groan and a gust of hot breath spoiled the reflection.
He jerked away, staring at the fading patch of steam on the bathroom mirror. His reflection, which was now undeniably his own, stared at him with an expression of disbelief. He felt like he'd been caught doing something... well, not wrong, exactly, but certainly incredibly stupid. Not to mention unhygienic. He grabbed a towel and wiped the mirror, then his mouth as well for good measure.
"Idiot," he snarled at his reflection, which reassuringly snarled right back at him. It wasn't as if he wanted it that way with Tsuzuki. Did he? Was that why he went into the flames? "Idiot," he muttered again, and stalked from the bathroom, turning lights on as he went. Loud music helped for a while, drowning out the clamor of his thoughts. But in the quiet hours before dawn, he found himself back in the infirmary, sitting by Tsuzuki's bedside and watching, listening, as his chest rose and fell in a steady cadence of breaths.
Asleep, he looked almost peaceful. But then again, not quite. Hisoka sensed the current of his dreams, a faint whispering like the sound of water under thin ice, and he knew. Death and blood, the stench so powerful he could almost taste it. Perhaps that was why Tsuzuki ate so much. To get rid of that taste.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, into the silence. Tsuzuki didn't move.