𝖍𝖝𝖍 𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

Roses Are Red

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Summary: Why won't Illumi stop stealing Hisoka's t-shirts?

Why doesn't he just buy his own?

And why does he look so darned cute in what he's wearing to bed?!!!

Hisoka remembers their first time.

Author: mrapplegate (on ao3)

⭐👁👄👁 💧     ⚫👄⚫

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llumi has finished his weekly work assignment a day early, and, therefore, does not have to be anywhere in the morning. He has turned off the wake-up feature in his lucid brain space and is curled up in bed, peacefully sleeping. He will arise in accordance with his physical satiation.

Hisoka doesn't have anything on his schedule this morning, either, but—to his annoyance—he woke up at the crack of dawn and found that he couldn't get back to sleep. A cup of herbal tea, a snack, a few pages of a particularly boring book—all proved no luck in dragging him back to dreamland.

Sighing in resignation, Hisoka decides he might as well get his day started, but lingers a moment, staring at his bed partner. Illumi's highly efficient mind control ensures he will never wake up until he is fully rested, so long as he's punched the proper code into his brainwaves.

Little machine, thinks Hisoka, half scornfully, half in envy. His gaze softens a bit, passing over the assassin's gracefully curled frame.

Illumi's hair is coiled neatly on the pillow. He is wearing yet another one of Hisoka's t-shirts. Hisoka can never find a clean t-shirt when he wants one; Illumi is constantly stealing them at bedtime.

"Why don't you wear your own t-shirts?" Illumi has drawers full of t-shirts. He's always buying new ones. He has a goddamn compulsion about buying new ones.

"Yours are better for sleeping in." No further explanation.

Hisoka's best guess at interpreting this maddening practice is that he wears a size bigger than Illumi, making his shirts comfier and looser. So then why doesn't he just fucking order a few like that the next umpteenth time he buys them? Hisoka asks himself this exasperating question on a near-weekly basis.

He considered buying some himself to put in Illumi's drawer—but knowing Illumi, he would likely brick-wall such a gesture, again without explanation. Like a wild animal that sniffs its offspring and rejects them sensing they have been touched by foreign hands, Illumi will mysteriously be able to discern between the bought-by-Hisoka shirts and the real-thing-Hisoka shirts, spurning the former for the latter.

At any rate, the shirt is the least of the show. The shorts, as always, catch Hisoka's amused eye.

Illumi's underwear is boring, all black and strictly functional. Hisoka, on a whim one day, bought him a pair of ridiculous boxers for a joke gift—emblazoned all over with the phrase HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN.

Illumi had rolled his eyes and promptly tried to throw them out, more than once, but Hisoka somehow managed to intercept them every single time. He'd fish them out of the trash, then fold them up neatly and place them prominently on top of the basic underwear.

The joke got old quickly for Illumi, but remained a source of endless humor for Hisoka. Finally, realizing that the damn shorts were doomed to be a permanent household fixture, Illumi resigned himself and assigned them as sleepwear.

He's wearing them now; they're too big for him, and the fly is gapping open disconcertingly, offering a little peek at the sweet shop. HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN. All of this floppy ridiculousness is contrasted by Illumi's long, elegant legs and the serene, serious expression on his face.