matrixrefugee: the word 'refugee' in electric green with a background of green matrix code (Yami no Matsuei)
[personal profile] matrixrefugee
Written for [ profile] comment_fic's "any but Supernatural, any, someone walked over my grave

As he often did, when things were slow at the Ministry -- times when he should have been doing his paperwork -- Tsuzuki had fallen asleep with his head on the desk. This time, he lay there so peacefully that Hisoka didn't have the heart to wake him up. Not just now, at least.

A few moments later, Tsuzuki twitched, then shuddered in his sleep. Hisoka glanced at him, wondering if his partner was having a nightmare (or perhaps a daymare, since it was day). He nearly reached over to awaken his partner, but he did not want to risk glimpsing the images passing through his partner's head. Usually they consisted of embarrassing things involving the Count. Or horrifying sights involving Muraki.

Tsuzuki jerked awake, sitting up sharply and looking around him, quivering, his eyes blinking nervously.

"Bad dreams?" Hisoka asked.

"Something like that," his partner replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Someone just walked over my grave."

"Literally?" Hisoka asked, with a dry snerk.

"Yeah, literally. It doesn't happen very often, so don't worry about me," Tsuzuki replied, trying to laugh it off, but the sound wasn't right.


...In the realm of the living, in the rear gardens of the Muraki mansion, the gardener and his sons had been hard at work clearing a corner that had lain untended since the 1960s, when Muraki's father Naritaka had closed down the private clinic in the north wing of the house. Their efforts had uncovered a small graveyard, the graves marked only with small corroded copper markers, each bearing a number. Muraki was inspecting the results of the labor, noting the numbers and their corresponding entries in a ledger which his grandfather kept.

One number in particular stood out, grave number 26-4, the site where the clinic workers had deposited the ashes of an unnamed patient who had taken his life on a winter night in 1926.

Muraki knelt, running his fingertips over the surface of the soil. Tsuzuki was not here, not in the spirit and barely in the flesh, but he could detect a faint imprint of the young man's peculiar spirit energy. He smirked to himself, wondering where that exquisite young man was at that moment and what he might be doing. Perhaps, he hoped, Tsuzuki was thinking of him...

April 2017


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