Hisoka woke up alone, slowly, discovering peculiarities one at a time. He was naked, which was weird enough by itself, although it took him several minutes to notice it, warm and buried under layers of sheets and blankets. Which were peculiar themselves, as well; the bed he was lying in was definitely not the futon in his bedroom, or even the one down in the basement room. It was high and Western-style, too soft, and much bigger, big enough that it seemed to stretch away from his eyes forever when he opened them. He didn't recognize the room, either, especially not when the shades were pulled and it was still drowned in semi-darkness. And there was a low ache inside him in a place that he was pretty sure it wasn't good to be aching.

There was no sign of the man. Muraki, he'd said his name was. And that was enough to make him remember, to make him realize that it hadn't all been a dream.

He started to sit up fast, in the adrenal rush and the burst of sudden alarm, but the act of shifting his hips and parting his legs -- at least doing it that quickly -- spiked the dull throbbing between his buttocks into a sick, nasty pang. He hissed and froze in place, and closed his eyes, breathing until it subsided again. ...All right. No sudden movements, then.

Hisoka sat up, gingerly, and peered around the room again. His yukata from the night before was now folded and hung over the arm of a chair at the far corner. He stared at it for a moment, and then eased his way over to the edge of the bed and got up -- still moving slowly, carefully, like an old man with a bad back. There were a few drops of blood on the bottom sheet where he'd been lying, and he winced and looked away from them quickly, instead heading over to pick up the yukata. There were some -- stiff places on the back of it, he saw as it shook out into his hands, and wrinkled his nose. He couldn't put that back on. Except... well, what was the alternative? Hide in the man's -- Muraki's -- bed until he came back? Wander around his apartment naked? Get a shirt out of his closet and wear that? All of his options seemed to keep coming out uncomfortably suggestive, and finally he sighed and put the yukata back around his shoulders, belting it around him. Well, at least they were dry.

He opened the bedroom door not knowing what he expected or even hoped to find, but in any case, it probably wasn't what he did. A plain, slightly bare, attractive flat, and empty except for him. Light was pouring in the windows in the kitchen that hooked off from the main room, and the clock on the wall said it was nearly noon. He blinked around him, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and his attention caught on the bookshelves next to a chair along one wall. The majority of the spines bore unmistakably medical titles, dry and professional and occasionally losing him among unfamiliar kanji, and he found himself frowning at them. Was this Muraki a doctor? But what kind of a doctor would...

No. He didn't want to think about that.

There was also a telephone in the kitchen nook, and Hisoka found himself staring at that for some time as well. He was alone in the apartment; Muraki had ostensibly gone off to take care of some business and left him here to his own devices. Trusting that his lack of any real clothing would keep him from running away? Well, maybe... or maybe he'd known something Hisoka didn't, or thought he had. And there was a telephone, and he was alone here, and the logical thing, the safe thing to do would be to pick it up and call the police. Say that he'd been kidnapped, that he didn't know where he was but he could find out, and some dispatcher with a kind, steadying voice would keep him on the line and keep him talking until policemen came and got him out and safe and home.

Home. That was the problem. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to think of home with any particular longing. And not just for the obvious reasons; it would be ridiculous, suicidally childish, to stay in the home of a... a dangerous stranger simply because he felt unloved at home. But what Muraki had done to him, what Hisoka had let him do... how was he supposed to face his father, with that knowledge following him? Hisoka wouldn't have to tell, but his father would know, somehow he would know; and there were ways of finding out, anyway. The brief vision he had of Hazama-sensei inspecting him and reporting the findings to his father made him sick with humiliation. He could say he'd been raped, but what kind of excuse was that, especially when it was hardly even true? He hadn't wanted it but he hadn't stopped it either, hadn't even fought, because Muraki had touched him, petted and held him, and he'd seemed gentle...

Hisoka squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. He wasn't going to call anyone. Never minding even how much the whole thing felt like a test; like Muraki might be watching, lurking just out of sight, to see what he would do with his freedom. Instead, he went back into the bedroom, and into the bathroom that branched off from there, shedding the yukata again too soon after he'd put it on. He wanted a shower. He felt foul.

He ended up staying there until the water ran cool, huddled on the floor of the shower well, the lights in the bathroom turned off. It hurt to sit down, and he bled a little more, although not much; just a couple pink drops in the running water.

Clean, he felt better, and he dug awkwardly through unfamiliar cabinets until he found spare towels, and dried himself off. Putting the yukata back on seemed even less appealing now that the rest of him was so much less filthy, but in the end he did, for the same reasons as before. He drifted back out into the main room, and was about twenty pages into one of the less dense medical textbooks by the time the door rattled and then opened, and Muraki came inside. He was balancing a plastic bag of what looked like groceries in one arm, and a paper one with less recognizable contents in the other, and nudged the door shut behind him with his knee so easily he almost made it seem graceful. When he saw Hisoka he smiled, and it didn't seemdangerous, at least.

"Hello," he said. Which also seemed less than dangerous. "I hope you've kept out of trouble."

There didn't seem to be much of a good response for that, and Muraki turned into the kitchen without waiting for one, setting down his bags on the counter. "I don't bother cooking for one very often, so I realize the cupboards here are a little bare. I apologize." Food -- well, that had been the last thing on Hisoka's mind. "I bought some groceries this afternoon, though, so you should be well supplied while I'm away during the day. You're a growing boy, after all." The smile he shot in Hisoka's direction made him uncomfortable, made him want to squirm, except that pride held him in place in the chair, his thumb clamped between the pages of the book. It wasn't threatening, still, but it was...

He knew there were names for what he was feeling. Muraki's collection wasn't the first set of scientific texts he'd ever gotten his greedy hands on, and he was familiar with Stockholm Syndrome. He'd always thought it was stupid when he was reading about it, though; why you would ever start to like someone who had you trapped, who was threatening your life, had been beyond him. But reading a book about it, it had been easy to just picture a faceless, anonymous man with a gun, with little sympathetic about him; even his overactive imagination had never supplied a warm, strangely affectionate smile, or a man who would embrace the Kurosaki freak in his arms as though Hisoka were anyone, as though he were something that could, in fact, be loved.

He swallowed, and slid out of the chair, leaving the book. "Thank you," he said, and it felt awkward and ridiculous coming out of his mouth. "So... you're going to keep me here?"

Something about that question made Muraki smile at him again, a warm, pleased smile that Hisoka ducked his eyes away from. "For a while, yes." He shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over his arm; leaning against the fridge, he shook out a cigarette, and then paused with a slight look of amusement before going to the kitchen window and opening it to let out the smoke. "I seldom live in one place for very long, so I'll have to make arrangements for your keep eventually."

Knowing it probably wasn't in his best interests to keep asking questions, and still... "Arrangements? What -- sort of arrangements?"

Muraki took a drag off his cigarette without taking his eyes off Hisoka; the smoke wreathed his head, catching the afternoon light like a halo. "A good friend of mine, who may be able to provide for your care better than I." He gave Hisoka a long, appraising look, and then with a slight smile said, "I'm pleased to see that you've resigned yourself to being in my possession."

And at that, ignoring what was in his best interests, ignoring that it felt like suicide, Hisoka bristled. Thirteen years of training to be the (albeit disappointing) head of the Kurosaki clan pushed his spine straight, made him forget that he was just a child in a stained yukata facing a source of unfathomable danger, not a warrior or even a man. Made him fight. "I won't run away," he said, hearing the pride in his own voice and somehow unable to regret it. "But that doesn't make me your possession." He didn't quite dare to look at Muraki yet, though, so he kept talking. "You can kill me, but anybody could. That doesn't mean you can take from me what I don't choose to give you."

He didn't know, either, what he had been expecting the response to this to be, but it certainly hadn't been for Muraki to be grinning broadly (and only slightly dangerously) at him, and it certainly hadn't been for the smile to look so pleased -- as though he had just passed another test that had been set for him without even knowing he was doing so. Though he tried, dizzily, Hisoka didn't think he could remember ever having won praise for talking back to someone before. "My apologies," Muraki said, in a soft, tender tone that sounded genuinely affectionate. "You're right, of course. I won't underestimate you again."

Anything Hisoka could think of to say to that seemed like pushing his luck, so in the end he settled for a small nod and subsided again. Still smiling, Muraki put out his cigarette in the sink and ambled over to where he had left the paper bag on the counter, rifling inside it and producing an armload of fabric. "At any rate, for the time being, I also found you some clothing." He snapped away tags absently as he spoke. "I wasn't certain of your size, so I guessed high. Hopefully these should fit well enough." He held out the small pile to Hisoka, again with his smile that looked so kind. "Go on and get dressed."

And Hisoka accepted them with a discomfited murmur of thanks, and had taken only a single step toward the bedroom before Muraki's voice said, "No." He turned back to look, frowning, and found the same slight, warm smile on Muraki's face. "Here," he said.

...Oh.

Well, he supposed he shouldn't have been any stranger to a slight delay in punishment.

He fixed his eyes on the floor, locking his throat against the way his stomach was sinking, and undid the belt of his yukata one-handed, letting himself hesitate only a few seconds before shrugging first one arm and then the other out of the fabric. Muraki made a low, warm sound, and he closed his eyes involuntarily. He took a deep breath and started fumbling with the pile of clothing he was clutching hard in his fingers -- and then he was interrupted by sudden warm in front of him and wrapping around him, a hand gliding silkily down the small of his back and behind his hip. He hissed, almost pulled away instinctively, but the hand held him fast, and looking up directly into Muraki's suddenly not very kind at all smile made him feel like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Does it hurt?" the man murmured, bent down so that his lips were almost at Hisoka's ear. "Does it hurt where I fucked you?"

Somebody older and with more (or any) experience of these things might have known how to answer that, but Hisoka wasn't and didn't, except with the truth: yes, it hurt, it had hurt all day, where the man had raped him -- had sex with him. ...Fucked him. He nodded, and Muraki smiled even more and nodded, and then stood back away, letting him go with only one more delicate brush of fingers along his side that left him goosebumped. "It'll get easier with time," was all he said, though it was enough to send a drop of cold dread through Hisoka's stomach.

He put on the fresh clothing in silence, with Muraki leaning against the refrigerator and watching him. The jeans were a little loose and a little long, but the shirt was fine.

"There," Muraki purred, finally, and brushed at the shoulders of his shirt; he flinched, but the touch was tender now, all apparently forgiven. "Now let me order dinner, and you'll feel better once you've eaten something. Do you like Italian?" Hisoka had no real opinion, but nodding seemed like the best thing to do, so he did it. "Good. It should be here soon."

As he picked up the book he'd been reading and retreated into the bedroom, Hisoka could hear the sounds of Muraki putting the groceries away.

Within the first five minutes of meeting him Oriya had already reached a decision about the boy. He led him into one of the inner rooms of the house anyway, told the maids in no uncertain terms they were not to be disturbed, and then they went inside and, at Oriya's indication, knelt on the tatami facing one another. He hadn't expected the boy to wilt under scrutiny, but it was still pleasing to see when he did not. For being little more than a child, he had a poised (albeit uneasy) self-possession that confirmed everything Muraki had said on the phone, and suggested more.

"I assume you know what this place is, and why you're here," Oriya said, after a long moment.

"Yes, sir," the boy said without hesitation, inclining his head, which was also its own sort of a relief. "Muraki-sensei said you would be looking after me in his place while he's traveling. I'm very grateful."

Are you, now? There didn't seem to be much point in disguising his sour look, and Oriya didn't try. "I see. Muraki's also told me a little bit about your situation, although not much." Particularly not how long he's had you, or anything about what he might have been doing with you in the interim. "I hope you won't be insulted if I ask you to corroborate your story with some evidence. A man in my position can't be too careful."

He actually didn't give much of a shit whether Muraki's new peculiarity was insulted or not, but the boy only nodded as if this were to be expected, and met his eyes. He looked steady, and though Oriya suspected this was mostly put on, he found that he admired it too. "Of course, sir. What do you need me to do?"

Good. Very good. Oriya surveyed him for a moment, and then folded his arms in front of his chest. As implacable as he could be, he said, "Read me."

The boy faltered for the first time at that, Oriya was interested to note; Hisoka's expression flickered, and though he didn't look surprised, exactly, and certainly didn't try to argue, there was an edge of anxiety on his features for a half-second that could really mean only one of two things, and Oriya thought he knew which one. He held his ground, though, and finally the boy nodded. He took a deep breath before speaking, although there was no sense that he was making any particular effort to concentrate.

"You don't trust me," he said. His tone was even and factual, devoid of drama. "I don't think... you don't think I'm lying, not really, but you're skeptical of whether it's possible in the first place. And you're annoyed that I'm here at all." He took another breath, making an apparent effort to center himself. "You're being cautious about it, but it seems like you approve of me so far. So much you're a little surprised, actually." He stopped, breathed again, stopped again, and shot Oriya an uncertain and apologetic look. It was a more vulnerable -- more childlike -- expression than he seemed accustomed to wearing. "...I know none of that's very deep. It -- varies with physical proximity. At this distance I can't get much more than someone could read from body language."

Out of sheer perversity Oriya didn't want to be impressed by the honesty, but he was anyway. "If I were to be closer to you, could you read more?"

The boy nodded. "It's easiest when I'm touching the person, actually."

Oriya nodded back, considered this, and then picked himself up and sat directly in front of Hisoka this time, taking the boy's wrist in his hand. It was thin but not frail. Hisoka frowned and looked down at his hands; he was concentrating this time, at least a little, if only for show.

"You're worried about Muraki-sensei, mostly," he said after a moment -- the pause of translating abstract emotions into words. "Or -- not about him, but about him related to me. What he's been doing with me while he's had me with him." And the blandness with which the boy said this told Oriya all he needed to know. "Not for my sake, either. You feel a little sorry for me, but you don't know me, and Muraki-sensei is -- " He cut off and took in a small breath, his eyes going wide, as his hand pulled back out of Oriya's grasp in an involuntary jerk. "...Oh."

Oriya refused to let his expression change. "Oh?"

The glance Hisoka cast at Oriya's face made him look young for the first time in this entire interview: flushed and embarrassed, a boy who's walked in on what he knows he shouldn't have seen. "I just... I didn't realize the two of you were... ah."

Oriya looked at him for long seconds, and then finally relaxed back into his kneeling position again with a small sigh. Not the way he would have chosen to start this dubious arrangement, but... "It's not something either of us chooses to publicize," he agreed. "Very well. I suppose I'm satisfied."

"You already were," Hisoka said unexpectedly, in a distant, musing voice, almost to himself. "You just wanted to see how deep I could get, so you'd have some warning in the future." Oriya didn't have any idea what his expression must have looked like, but whatever it was, the second Hisoka's eyes fell on it he blanched and recoiled, cutting himself off instantly. "I-I -- I'm sorry, I -- "

"It's all right," Oriya said, over him, stopping him. "Don't apologize. And don't do that again."

"Yes, sir," Hisoka said in almost a whisper, staring at the hands that he'd clenched tightly in his lap. He opened his mouth for something that almost certainly would have been another apology, remembered himself, and diverted instead to: "...I wasn't thinking."

Not that he approved particularly, but Oriya was beginning to have some idea of why the boy had been ostracized at home. Old families had secrets; a child like this must have seemed like a potential disaster of cataclysmic proportions. He gave Hisoka a moment or two to collect himself before speaking again. "Does that happen to you often? That you forget yourself like that?"

Looking unhappier all the time, Hisoka nodded. "I try not to, but... I can't not see it." The look he raised toward Oriya at last was almost pleading, even defiant.

"I'm not angry," Oriya said, mildly. "You can tell that's true, can't you?" A slight frown creased Hisoka's brow, but he nodded. "I want to make it clear right now that, as long as you may or may not come to stay with me, I will never be angry with you for speaking the truth as you see it, because that's at least as rare and admirable a talent as your other one is." He paused to let that sink in, before continuing. "However, I'll also expect you to learn the necessary discipline to determine the proper time and place for all things. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Hisoka said. And again Oriya found himself surprised and a little curious; instead of sounding chastened, as Oriya had imagined he might, the boy had an odd, wondering tone to his voice -- as though Oriya had offered him some tremendous kindness that he had hardly thought possible. Mostly it just made him uncomfortable.

He let a long silence fall between them, in which of course Hisoka did not fidget or show any sign of discomfort, and then leaned in again, just slightly. "Before I actually consent to your remaining here with me," he said, holding Hisoka's gaze, "I want to ask you one question, and I want you to answer it honestly. And I'll know if you don't; believe me, there are other ways than your particular talent to detect lies." He waited for Hisoka, who only nodded, and then Oriya continued. "Hisoka. Do you want to go home?"

It hadn't been a question the boy was expecting, but neither did he look especially surprised. He broke eye contact, his gaze turning inward and thoughtful as he considered the question. Not really long enough to cause any concern, though.

"No," he said, when he spoke again, and he looked into Oriya's eyes when he said it. "That isn't my home anymore. It ... actually might be that it never was." He hesitated. "I doubt they're even looking for me, either, if you're concerned about that. I think it's better for everyone if I never go back."

More long, long moments stretched out as they sat looking at one another. At last, Oriya nodded; and he couldn't help noticing that when he did, something taut and fearful seemed to relax behind Hisoka's eyes. Which, really, should have decided things for him even if nothing else had.

"All right, then." He stood, and Hisoka scrambled up to follow him a few seconds later. "I don't mind telling you you're an imposition in my home," Oriya continued, from the extra height advantage standing gave him. "Muraki's unloaded you on me, as usual with no regard for the inconvenience he's causing me, and I don't appreciate it. You can make yourself less of an imposition by taking on certain responsibilities associated with this establishment, or you can refuse, and I can ignore you to the best of my ability. It's all the same to me."

"Please, I'd be honored to help as much as I can," Hisoka said, almost before he could finish speaking. Sounding earnest, at least. "I appreciate what you're doing for me. Thank you very much."

Oriya eyed him for a moment, and then nodded. "All right. I'll train you in some of the managerial tasks that the restaurant requires, and you can assist me. I also deal with some clients with whom your abilities might be useful; we can discuss that as it becomes relevant." There might have been that edge of anxiety in Hisoka's eyes again for less than a second, but if so Oriya chose to ignore that as well. "I'll also expect you to behave yourself. I realize it's a little too early to be worried about this, but that means you don't bother the women, and also that you mind your manners, don't speak to guests unless they need anything, and keep out of the way as much as possible until you actually understand what's going on." He stopped, thinking, and then added, "I was also told that you'd had some early sword training, which I could continue if you'd like."

Hisoka blinked. "I... I would. Thank you. ...Very much."

For the first time, finally, Oriya allowed himself a thin smile. "You're welcome," he said. "I'll call for one of the maids, and she'll show you to your room."

And even failing all else, he couldn't have missed the smile crossing onto Hisoka's face, about as rare and at least as honest.

Muraki's disquiet about the boy was a long time in taking root, even longer in growing, but it seemed he could trace its inception back to one night when he arrived at the restaurant for one of his every-few-months-or-so visits, when Hisoka was nearly fifteen. The hour was late and Oriya otherwise occupied, so he simply let himself into the house and availed himself of the kitchens and the library, and at last slipped into the room that was always prepared for him -- to find the boy curled up drowsily on the futon, naked, apparently waiting for him.

He paused two steps in, and at his raised eyebrow Hisoka smiled at him, his eyes still slitted half-shut. The boy had almost never smiled when Muraki had first met him, but it seemed to be a trick he was learning apace. "I felt you as soon as you arrived," he said half into the pillow, sounding less sleepy than he looked. "I wanted to welcome you back."

Muraki smiled back, as he set his coat down; he'd learned that trick a long time ago. "How thoughtful of you." He worked his tie loose, coming to stand in front of the futon, and the boy rolled onto his side and up onto his elbow, letting the blanket fall away with no apparent concern.

"I missed you," Hisoka said, and when he did he almost sounded shy. There was nothing shy at all about the look in his eyes, though, nor about the way, when Muraki knelt on the futon, he shifted into an eager coil around the man's body and unfastened the fly of his suit-pants, and set to coaxing his stiffening cock all the way hard with his tongue. Nor about his own erection, which was ready from well before Muraki had entered the room, it seemed, and which he ground up against the fabric over Muraki's thigh with a small breathy moan when Muraki pinned him back to the bed instead, kissing him, testing him, seeing how much he would take before he lapsed into uncertainty and fear again.

He never did. Not that time, and, if Muraki were to be honest with himself, seldom ever again. And though at first he convinced himself his disquiet was sourceless, irrational, in time he came to reconsider; in time he would come to compare it to the alarm a rider would feel if without warning his horse were to pluck the reins neatly and effortlessly from his hands.