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remixredux08Title: Climate Change (Counting Favors Remix)
Author: mushimimi
Summary: Thanks to ever-advancing technology (and Tatsumi’s cunning ways), the Count is now able to gain maximum satisfaction when it comes to his voyeuristic desires.
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei (anime)
Pairing: Tsuzuki/Hisoka
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Everyone belongs Matsushita-sensei.
Original story: Climate Change by inksheddings
Notes: Many thanks to qwerty (a.k.a. "instant karma" xsmoonshine) and Mikeneko for betaand wrist-slapping. Remaining shortcomings are still mine, though.
He watched the countless flames perching upon the wicks of countless candles which filled the Castle. Actually, they merely seemed countless to anyone but him, Keeper of the Castle of Candles. Some of the flames consumed the wax slowly and steadily. Some wavered furiously as they made their way swiftly down the tallow, as if anxious to discover what lay at the other end of the wicks.
The Count yawned. A languid gloved hand rose to a position approximating where the mouth would be. Then the hand turned a page in the Register, which the Count needed to consult in order to locate the precise coordinates of the next flame to go, and when.
The reckless, the cautious, the hungry go-getters, the reticent plodders – it made no difference how humans lived their brief lives. For the Count was the one who decided exactly which flame went out, and when.
In fact, this was what he did all day (at least officially). He did make a conscientious effort to minimize Tsuzuki-stalking during office hours, though.
Technically speaking, there were no such things such as office hours for the Count. Deaths, with even more certainty than taxes, fill every single second of the day. Yet to all eyes, even Watson’s, the Count’s was undoubtedly a leisurely existence, free from expected occupational hazards such as scalded thumbs and sooty gloves (or repetitive strain injuries for that matter). For this, the Count owed a lot to advances in the industrial automation (to be specific, pneumatic logics).
The Count decided exactly which flame went out, and when. And this was what he did every time he punched the keys on the control panel of the Preprogrammed Candle Snuffer (inventor: Watari Yutaka, patent pending).
It used to be Tsuzuki-watching until a few weeks ago, when the Secretary of the Judgment bureau made the Count an offer he could not refuse.
“L- live? N- not just stills?” the rattle of teacup against saucer betrayed the Count’s barely contained excitement.
“Absolutely,” Tatsumi’s eyes were expressionless. The Count could not decide if there was glee in the apparent stiff upper lip. “Watari has just completed a test run of Meifu’s new wireless network. This – project – would be a good gauge of network efficiency. However – ”
The Count knew what was coming. He could see it in the hardening glint. Those ruthless glints, the glints of a micromanaging control freak who had managed to keep Meifu’s accounts in the black all these years. Despite Tsuzuki (disaster magnet: inclined to blow up new buildings, owned oversized pets who ran amok at the slightest sign of threat to Tsuzuki’s person) and Watari (another disaster magnet, but on a somewhat smaller scale: exploding potions and various other laboratory-related accidents).
A sigh of resignation escaped invisible lips. “Well, how much, then?”
Was it too much of him to expect Tatsumi to at least half-bat an eyelid? The Count rested unseen chin on floating gloves and listened. Tatsumi, accountant that he was in both life and after-life, described how funds Enma-Daioh had originally awarded the Castle could be, with minimal pain and paperwork, diverted to various repair projects. Projects that the Judgment Bureau seemed to be eternally embroiled in, thanks to Tsuzuki and Watari.
The Count made his agreement known after a few moments of token haggling. It was a cheap, cheap price to pay for the privilege of watching Tsuzuki Asato in the privacy of Tsuzuki Asato’s home, any time the Count pleased. To show Tatsumi that he was just as capable of driving a hard bargain, the Count stipulated that the residence of one other employee of the Judgment Bureau should be fitted with webcams as well. It turned out that he would have reason to be thankful for this afterthought sooner than he thought.
The Count’s groan of frustration produced a questioning glance from Watson, who had just placed the evening’s chamomile tea next to the Count’s mousepad, which showcased various Tsuzuki prints. The desktop wallpaper gracing the Count’s new LCD monitor was a larger version of the collection.
Tonight there was nothing. No lights, no Tsuzuki. Nothing. Not even the junior shinigami who frequently haunted Tsuzuki’s place. Silence and darkness filled all of the windows on the desktop.
Then the Count recalled that there was an office outing for those under Konoe-kacho that evening. A gloved finger tapped at the mousepad, increasing in frequency and irritation as he realized that the party should have been long over by now. Then, thanks to a sudden inspiration, the Count closed all windows and pointed at the second most frequently clicked icon on the desktop. The double-click was followed by a happy cry as the object of the Count’s obsession appeared in one of the windows, this time connected to the webcams at Kurosaki Hisoka’s residence.
The Count was about to maximize the window featuring Tsuzuki, sleeping on a couch in the living room, when something in another window caught his eye.
“Hmm,” he muttered to the view from the webcam installed in Hisoka’s bedroom.
The half-mask twitched upwards – a sign that the Count was looking at something he found smirk-worthy. On the monitor, Hisoka’s hand had just disappeared under the waistband of his pants.
Well. The brat was, would always be sixteen after all. But, the Count mused as a gloved index finger rubbed invisible chin, is there someone specific on Kurosaki Hisoka’s mind?
Suddenly, the Count’s frown shifted the half-mask downwards. Hisoka had just taken his hand out of his pants. What was stopping the boy?
“Oh-ho,” the Count leered as Hisoka rolled over onto his belly. Does not like touching himself, does he? And the Count wondered if this had to do with the curse marks. Or with the silver-haired creature whose name did not appear on the Register, whose flame did not flicker anywhere under the Count’s watch, and who had put those marks on Hisoka in the first place. Or with Tsuzuki. Or with all of them.
Where was the brat going with the pillow? The Count hurriedly switched to the other window, the one showing the view from the living room. Is he going to start something with Tsuzuki? My poor, defenseless, sleeping Tsuzuki, about to be jumped on by a horny sixteen-year old! The Count was not sure whether the unfamiliar tingle in the vicinity of his ribcage was due to anticipation or, though he would never admit it, good old-fashioned jealousy.
He could live with the knowledge that he was a voyeur. After all, when you have supervised the deaths of countless humans, what is viewing a sexual act or two, played out between two humans who are already dead? Yes, he could live with that. But he could never, ever lived with the idea that he was capable of (or needed) the kind of exclusive love which demanded exactly the same thing in return.
He was not obsessed with Tsuzuki. This was just an acquired habit.
He liked, no, needed to watch over Tsuzuki, the way he had watched the flame that had been Tsuzuki’s life. It had been an interesting flame, writhing in a desperate dance for eight years, at times feeble with despair and self-hate, yet at others made strong by the determination to – it had taken the Count a while to figure out what Tsuzuki had wanted to do – break free from the wick that had linked it to its life-force. Moved by pity, the Count had been tempted to break the rules and give Tsuzuki what he had wanted before his time. It would have been so easy. A snuff, and then, bliss. But, as Tatsumi would have said (with that admonishing, waggling finger): “Rules are rules.”
How could so much pain and sadness be housed inside such a beautiful vessel? Even now? No one was more surprised than the Count to discover that Tsuzuki had chosen to become a shinigami, instead of the usual routes of oblivion or reincarnation.
The Count leaned back and heaved a contented sigh as Hisoka chastely placed the pillow under Tsuzuki’s head. He had long understood why, despite the less than smooth beginning, Hisoka was the perfect partner for Tsuzuki. Hisoka needed Tsuzuki to need him and was not afraid to let Tsuzuki know that. And then there was the shared experience that was Muraki.
After Hisoka left, the Count watched Tsuzuki sleep off the evening’s drunken binge for a while. Then he closed all windows, turned off the desktop, and headed off to the bedroom.
Tomorrow was going to be another long day.
Author: mushimimi
Summary: Thanks to ever-advancing technology (and Tatsumi’s cunning ways), the Count is now able to gain maximum satisfaction when it comes to his voyeuristic desires.
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei (anime)
Pairing: Tsuzuki/Hisoka
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Everyone belongs Matsushita-sensei.
Original story: Climate Change by inksheddings
Notes: Many thanks to qwerty (a.k.a. "instant karma" xsmoonshine) and Mikeneko for beta
He watched the countless flames perching upon the wicks of countless candles which filled the Castle. Actually, they merely seemed countless to anyone but him, Keeper of the Castle of Candles. Some of the flames consumed the wax slowly and steadily. Some wavered furiously as they made their way swiftly down the tallow, as if anxious to discover what lay at the other end of the wicks.
The Count yawned. A languid gloved hand rose to a position approximating where the mouth would be. Then the hand turned a page in the Register, which the Count needed to consult in order to locate the precise coordinates of the next flame to go, and when.
The reckless, the cautious, the hungry go-getters, the reticent plodders – it made no difference how humans lived their brief lives. For the Count was the one who decided exactly which flame went out, and when.
In fact, this was what he did all day (at least officially). He did make a conscientious effort to minimize Tsuzuki-stalking during office hours, though.
Technically speaking, there were no such things such as office hours for the Count. Deaths, with even more certainty than taxes, fill every single second of the day. Yet to all eyes, even Watson’s, the Count’s was undoubtedly a leisurely existence, free from expected occupational hazards such as scalded thumbs and sooty gloves (or repetitive strain injuries for that matter). For this, the Count owed a lot to advances in the industrial automation (to be specific, pneumatic logics).
The Count decided exactly which flame went out, and when. And this was what he did every time he punched the keys on the control panel of the Preprogrammed Candle Snuffer (inventor: Watari Yutaka, patent pending).
It used to be Tsuzuki-watching until a few weeks ago, when the Secretary of the Judgment bureau made the Count an offer he could not refuse.
“L- live? N- not just stills?” the rattle of teacup against saucer betrayed the Count’s barely contained excitement.
“Absolutely,” Tatsumi’s eyes were expressionless. The Count could not decide if there was glee in the apparent stiff upper lip. “Watari has just completed a test run of Meifu’s new wireless network. This – project – would be a good gauge of network efficiency. However – ”
The Count knew what was coming. He could see it in the hardening glint. Those ruthless glints, the glints of a micromanaging control freak who had managed to keep Meifu’s accounts in the black all these years. Despite Tsuzuki (disaster magnet: inclined to blow up new buildings, owned oversized pets who ran amok at the slightest sign of threat to Tsuzuki’s person) and Watari (another disaster magnet, but on a somewhat smaller scale: exploding potions and various other laboratory-related accidents).
A sigh of resignation escaped invisible lips. “Well, how much, then?”
Was it too much of him to expect Tatsumi to at least half-bat an eyelid? The Count rested unseen chin on floating gloves and listened. Tatsumi, accountant that he was in both life and after-life, described how funds Enma-Daioh had originally awarded the Castle could be, with minimal pain and paperwork, diverted to various repair projects. Projects that the Judgment Bureau seemed to be eternally embroiled in, thanks to Tsuzuki and Watari.
The Count made his agreement known after a few moments of token haggling. It was a cheap, cheap price to pay for the privilege of watching Tsuzuki Asato in the privacy of Tsuzuki Asato’s home, any time the Count pleased. To show Tatsumi that he was just as capable of driving a hard bargain, the Count stipulated that the residence of one other employee of the Judgment Bureau should be fitted with webcams as well. It turned out that he would have reason to be thankful for this afterthought sooner than he thought.
The Count’s groan of frustration produced a questioning glance from Watson, who had just placed the evening’s chamomile tea next to the Count’s mousepad, which showcased various Tsuzuki prints. The desktop wallpaper gracing the Count’s new LCD monitor was a larger version of the collection.
Tonight there was nothing. No lights, no Tsuzuki. Nothing. Not even the junior shinigami who frequently haunted Tsuzuki’s place. Silence and darkness filled all of the windows on the desktop.
Then the Count recalled that there was an office outing for those under Konoe-kacho that evening. A gloved finger tapped at the mousepad, increasing in frequency and irritation as he realized that the party should have been long over by now. Then, thanks to a sudden inspiration, the Count closed all windows and pointed at the second most frequently clicked icon on the desktop. The double-click was followed by a happy cry as the object of the Count’s obsession appeared in one of the windows, this time connected to the webcams at Kurosaki Hisoka’s residence.
The Count was about to maximize the window featuring Tsuzuki, sleeping on a couch in the living room, when something in another window caught his eye.
“Hmm,” he muttered to the view from the webcam installed in Hisoka’s bedroom.
The half-mask twitched upwards – a sign that the Count was looking at something he found smirk-worthy. On the monitor, Hisoka’s hand had just disappeared under the waistband of his pants.
Well. The brat was, would always be sixteen after all. But, the Count mused as a gloved index finger rubbed invisible chin, is there someone specific on Kurosaki Hisoka’s mind?
Suddenly, the Count’s frown shifted the half-mask downwards. Hisoka had just taken his hand out of his pants. What was stopping the boy?
“Oh-ho,” the Count leered as Hisoka rolled over onto his belly. Does not like touching himself, does he? And the Count wondered if this had to do with the curse marks. Or with the silver-haired creature whose name did not appear on the Register, whose flame did not flicker anywhere under the Count’s watch, and who had put those marks on Hisoka in the first place. Or with Tsuzuki. Or with all of them.
Where was the brat going with the pillow? The Count hurriedly switched to the other window, the one showing the view from the living room. Is he going to start something with Tsuzuki? My poor, defenseless, sleeping Tsuzuki, about to be jumped on by a horny sixteen-year old! The Count was not sure whether the unfamiliar tingle in the vicinity of his ribcage was due to anticipation or, though he would never admit it, good old-fashioned jealousy.
He could live with the knowledge that he was a voyeur. After all, when you have supervised the deaths of countless humans, what is viewing a sexual act or two, played out between two humans who are already dead? Yes, he could live with that. But he could never, ever lived with the idea that he was capable of (or needed) the kind of exclusive love which demanded exactly the same thing in return.
He was not obsessed with Tsuzuki. This was just an acquired habit.
He liked, no, needed to watch over Tsuzuki, the way he had watched the flame that had been Tsuzuki’s life. It had been an interesting flame, writhing in a desperate dance for eight years, at times feeble with despair and self-hate, yet at others made strong by the determination to – it had taken the Count a while to figure out what Tsuzuki had wanted to do – break free from the wick that had linked it to its life-force. Moved by pity, the Count had been tempted to break the rules and give Tsuzuki what he had wanted before his time. It would have been so easy. A snuff, and then, bliss. But, as Tatsumi would have said (with that admonishing, waggling finger): “Rules are rules.”
How could so much pain and sadness be housed inside such a beautiful vessel? Even now? No one was more surprised than the Count to discover that Tsuzuki had chosen to become a shinigami, instead of the usual routes of oblivion or reincarnation.
The Count leaned back and heaved a contented sigh as Hisoka chastely placed the pillow under Tsuzuki’s head. He had long understood why, despite the less than smooth beginning, Hisoka was the perfect partner for Tsuzuki. Hisoka needed Tsuzuki to need him and was not afraid to let Tsuzuki know that. And then there was the shared experience that was Muraki.
After Hisoka left, the Count watched Tsuzuki sleep off the evening’s drunken binge for a while. Then he closed all windows, turned off the desktop, and headed off to the bedroom.
Tomorrow was going to be another long day.