[FIC} "Better the Devil You Know" - Yami no Matsuei - Hard R
"Better the Devil You Know"
Rated: Hard R
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei
Pairings: Mostly Muraki/Hisoka, Hisoka/Tsuzuki
Warnings: One non-graphic rape scene, assorted violence, trauma, and the usual.
Word Count: 9,500+
Summary: Muraki's dream experiments with Hisoka take a dangerous turn.
Notes: Semi-sequel to "The Warmth of the Darkness," (which was a remix of wordsofastory's Five Things That Never Happened to Hisoka), but should also stand alone. Not beta'd.




---


"Go back to sleep."

Hisoka blinks, half-lidded eyes hazy with confusion, and it seems for a moment that he might protest. He shouldn't be here, in a strange room, in a strange bed surrounded by humming machinery. He shouldn't be tolerating the touch of a murderer - his own murderer, no less .

But then the tension in his face eases, and Hisoka mumbles an assent before nestling his head back against the pillow. His breathing and heart rate begin to slow again, following the usual pattern.

"That's right." Muraki pulls the covers back to carefully reposition Hisoka's right arm, tightening the restraints. A hollow needle juts out from a vein in his bound wrist, connected to an IV drip at his bedside. "You're very tired. Don't try to fight it."

Muraki checks the equipment meticulously, piece by piece. He has to be careful with the flow of drugs being injected into Hisoka's bloodstream. They're designed to accelerate the onset of REM sleep and ensure abnormally long periods of dreaming, but too much could damage him permanently. Contrary to popular assumption, Muraki has found shinigami healing powers to be rather fickle and unreliable, and he doesn't want to take unnecessary risks.

Not when he's this close to winning.

Muraki waits a few more minutes, watching the data of vital signs and brain activity scroll across the monitor displays. When he's absolutely sure that his guest is asleep, he leans over and places his fingertips against the boy's temples.

"Now," he whispers. "Show me what you want."

---

It starts, as Muraki expected, with one of the usual nightmares.

They're in a darkened corridor of the Kurosaki estate, one of those shadowy, endless dream places that has no beginning and no end. Somewhere close by a woman is weeping, a soft yet unmistakable sound that seems to reverberate from all directions at once.

He isn't the only one who hears it. The young master of the house is with him, a particularly charming version of Hisoka Kurosaki, who can't be more than six years old at the moment. Barefoot, and clad only in a cotton nemaki, he should be safely tucked in bed at this hour of the night. But he knows the way, and Muraki readily follows him down the corridor, as it twists and turns, and turns again. At one point a shadow figure tries to block their way, but it vanishes suddenly before Muraki can get a very good look at it.

Finally Hisoka stops in front of a sliding screen, identical to a dozen that they've passed already. He hesitates for a moment, but then steps forward, and opens the screen just a crack.

The woman inside is beautiful in her sorrow. She's seated with her back to the screen, face hidden by her hands. Long, unbound hair trails over bent shoulders, accentuating the frailty of her figure. Her robes are in disarray, one white shoulder bared. She doesn't look up as Hisoka slips silently into the room.

Muraki watches the boy's somber expression become worried, then stricken. Slowly, he walks toward the crying woman with one small hand outstretched. It makes for a lovely picture, a little boy innocently trying to offer comfort, trying to soothe away the hurts that he can't possibly understand. What could be more natural for a child, or more endearing to a parent?

Hisoka's hand finds the edge of the woman's sleeve, then the curve of her bare shoulder. "Mother?" he whispers.

Muraki holds his breath in delightful anticipation.

The woman screams.

She recoils from the boy as though he had burned her. "Get away! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" Hisoka stumbles back as she rises from the chair, hands striking out blindly as if to swat away an offending insect. Her eyes are red-rimmed, bleary and unfocused.

"Mother, please!" Hisoka tries to retreat, tries to move out of her way, but he slips and tumbles to the floor in an ungainly sprawl. There's a look of helpless misery on his face. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

"How can I be your mother? You aren't my child! You can't be my child!" She looms over him, her lovely mouth is distorted by the hateful words. She shakes not with sobs now, but with rage. Hisoka places his hands over his ears as her voice rises in volume and pitch. "You're a monster!" she cries. "A demon! You never should have been born!"

Muraki knows what will happen next. Rui Kurosaki will continue to terrorize her son, becoming more and more hysterical with each passing moment. Sometimes Hisoka keeps trying to placate her as the room begins to shrink. Sometimes he manages to get up and run before the wood panels turn into cold iron bars. But every time, without fail, the door slams shut before he can reach it, trapping him in a familiar cage with a howling, shrieking thing that no longer looks like his mother.

But not this time, if all goes according to plan.

"I should have drowned you when I realized what you were! I should have strangled you in your crib!" The walls seem to tremble as the verbal assault continues. Hisoka is still on the floor, transfixed under the horrible gaze of the dream-woman. Muraki can feel the boy's terror growing, fueling the nightmare. As a child, he can't control his emotions, can't hide them behind a sharp tongue and a scornful gaze. He's completely vulnerable here. Defenseless.

Muraki grows tired of simply watching. He crosses the room slowly, purposefully, exerting just enough control over the dreamscape so that his footfalls are audible in spite of the screaming woman. There's a trick to it, of course. It's not that the sound of his steps is louder, but rather that they are loud enough so that their measured rhythm is able to break through the din, enough to be noticed.

Hisoka looks up, and he seems to see the doctor for the first time. His eyes widen in alarm. "Why are you here? Y-you're not supposed to be here!" He stands up on unsteady legs and backs away, breathing rapidly.

Muraki advances, a little faster. He redoubles his mental efforts, and the mother falls silent, body frozen in place. Her strength drains as Hisoka's attention is diverted, and she shrinks to little more than a pale wraith. Muraki pays her no mind, keeping pace with the frightened boy. "Tell me what you want," he demands softly.

"Go away!" Hisoka's back hits the wall, and there's nowhere left to go. He raises his hands defensively, an act that only makes him look more exposed. But even so young and so small, there's a steely stubbornness behind those cherubic features. "Get out of my dream!"

Another step, and Muraki is close enough to reach out and touch him. "Only a dream, boy? You know as well as I do that this far more than a simple nightmare."

Confusion flits over Hisoka's face. "No, it's not. This isn't real. I never – "

"Of course it's real. All dreams are." Muraki drops to one knee, so that he's face to face with the boy. He takes care to speak slowly and clearly, offering a voice of reason. "The mind plays tricks with our perceptions, and the memories we have of childhood are rarely as complete or incontrovertible as we would like to believe. We forget in the waking world, but remember the truth in our sleep."

Hisoka shakes his head. "You're trying to trick me."

"I only want you to remember." And it's true, in a sense. Muraki wants the boy to remember every word he says. "Haven't you hidden from yourself long enough? Aren't you tired of being afraid?"

"I'm not afraid." Hisoka's tense posture says otherwise, though he seems to accept that Muraki isn't going to attack him. Slowly, he lowers his arms, hands uncurling.

What a trusting child, so easy to draw in and ensnare. Muraki finds it difficult to keep his thoughts from straying to more satisfying games he could play with such an innocent version of the brat, but he continues. "Don't you find it odd that there's so much that you can't recall from this time? Why there were so many things that didn't make sense to you? So many questions unanswered?" He leans in a little closer, making the conversation more intimate. "Why does it frighten you to see the truth?"

"But you weren't here... were you?" Hisoka is still doubtful, but he isn't dismissing the possibility yet. His brow furrows slightly, and Muraki knows the boy must be searching his memories, turning them over in his head to find the flaws.

Something moves in the corridor outside, and Muraki is sure he glimpses the fleeting shadow figure again. Possibly more than one of them this time. They're a lurking reminder that the dreams are simply too complicated for him to control every aspect and variation. He has to be careful. Satisfied that the spectral bystanders won't pose a threat, he turns his attention back to Hisoka.

"I was always here," Muraki says firmly. "I attended to your mother when she was ill, and I came when you cried out for help. Don't you remember me?" He allows his physical appearance to shift ever so subtly, the lines of his face growing softer, his pale hair growing slightly longer. Now he's twenty-five years old at the most, an anonymous young physician whose presence could have been easily forgotten.

"No. I don't remember." Hisoka looks at the floor, at his feet, anywhere but at the doctor.

It's a dangerous moment, but one Muraki has prepared for. "Your mother had been suffering a prolonged illness. I had come at your father's request when her usual physician was otherwise engaged. It was very late at night when I arrived, too late to see her. But I couldn't sleep, so I was in the courtyard getting some air, when I heard the screaming. Such a terrible sound."

"You did?" Hisoka looks up in surprise. "So then you came and found me and mother." He turns to look at the wraith woman, still a malevolent presence in the room. "And then – " His voice falters, shaking. "And then you – "

"This is your dream. I can't do anything until you tell me what you want." The doctor takes Hisoka's hand in his own, and squeezes it gently. "It's up to you, boy. Say the word and I'll disappear into your subconscious, and the story will end the way it always does. But I don't think you want that." Gently, he traces warm fingers down the curve of Hisoka's pale cheek. "And I don't want to leave you here with her."

Muraki is pleasantly surprised when the boy begins to cry, trying to hold back at first and then quickly dissolving into undignified tears. It's a lovely sight. "Help me," he sobs. "Help me!"

"It's all right now." He draws Hisoka into a strong embrace, and relishes the way the boy's scrawny arms tighten around his neck. The young body shudders with relief. "You're safe," Muraki murmurs, stroking his back. "You don't need to be afraid any more. I'll protect you."

The room begins to dim and fade as Muraki carries the boy back out into the darkened corridor. Hisoka's mother has disappeared, but the poor child doesn't even notice. His tearstained cheek is still pressed against the doctor's shoulder, hands clinging to his shirtfront like he's holding on for dear life.

Muraki smiles. The first battle has been won.

---

It's ironic, how much of this newfound power he owes to the boy.

Initially, the dream experiments were mainly to satisfy his own curiosity, a time-wasting diversion at best. But by learning how to affect the young shinigami's dreams through his empathy, Muraki discovered quickly enough how to manipulate and control them at will. When the risk of discovery became too great, he stopped his nightly visits with the boy, turning his attention to less satisfying, but more expendable subjects. It was only a matter of time before Muraki found he could apply the same techniques to the unconscious minds of others, could use their dreams to affect their waking lives. Eventually, he found it possible to invert his subjects' most deeply held beliefs, wrench out their most guarded secrets, and reorder their perceptions to suit his own purposes.

Of course there were unfortunate setbacks, as there always were in the development of such techniques. Some of the dreamers never woke up. Others went mad, regressed, or lost their memories. So it was a very long time before Muraki felt his new skills were properly honed to the extent that they could be safely used for more practical purposes.

Because he'd always planned on coming back for Hisoka Kurosaki.

For the next dreamscape, Muraki is very deliberate. For the setting, he chooses the family dojo where Hisoka was trained as a bushi in accordance with the traditions of his house. This is where the boy was rigorously schooled every day in archery, swordplay, and a variety of martial arts. It was a safe haven even after his parents found it necessary to confine their son to a barred cell in the depths of the Kurosaki estate, only allowing him out for a few limited hours each day under the strict supervision of his tutors and instructors.

It's late in the day, and all the lessons are over. Hisoka is practicing aikido forms in the training hall, fighting with a featureless dream figure who is visibly blurred around the edges. The boy is older now, about ten or eleven years old, and already showing signs of growing coldness and apathy. No doubt he understands that there are guards just outside the doors, ready to intervene if they sense even the slightest bit of rebellion from their charge. More shadows haunt the doorways – empty, featureless things.

The doctor's entrance is leisurely, as before, and he takes the time to watch and appreciate the boy's efforts. If the intensity of his regimen is any indication, Hisoka Kurosaki's current preoccupation is with maintaining what little control over his life he still has. Muraki feels only the slightest remorse as he prepares to pull the boy's strings again.

"Wonderful," he praises, as Hisoka finishes the last repetition, and his opponent dissolves into nothingness.

To his credit, the boy quickly turns, and bows politely. "Good evening, doctor." His voice is neutral, but Muraki notes the slight unease in his posture. The fear and mistrust are still there, barely being held in check. Only Hisoka's uncertainty about the situation is keeping him civil for now.

"Good evening." Muraki returns the greeting. Mindful of etiquette, he stays at the edge of the practice floor, signifying that he's only here as an observer and does not intend to intrude. "You're looking much better since I saw you last month. I understand that you have something you wanted to discuss with me."

Of course Hisoka doesn't have any idea what he's talking about, and only stares at the doctor blankly. But there's a script to follow in this little play, and Muraki will not be dissuaded by an uncooperative actor. So, he simply puts the words into Hisoka's mouth for him.

"You told me once that you had studied the occult, and had some experience with cases like mine. I wanted to hear more about them." Hisoka looks as though he's on the verge of panic for a moment, when he can't control his own mouth and tongue. But once the lines are said, he can speak normally again, and adds, "But I'm – I'm sure I didn’t send for you."

"I came of my own accord, dear boy," Muraki responds smoothly. "I was concerned about you, especially in light of your parents' increased restrictions on your activities. The servants told me that you're no longer allowed to receive visitors. Is that true?"

"I'm afraid there's nothing you can do, unless you know of some way to cure me." Muraki's words again from Hisoka's lips. Though it's difficult to tell, the boy seems more accepting this time. After all, many strange things occur in dreams with no rational explanation.

"Cure you?" Muraki feigns surprise. "Is that really what you want?"

"Yes." Caught up in the momentum, Hisoka answers honestly, without prompting. "I wish I never had these powers. All they bring is pain and misfortune. They're a curse."

"That's your parents would say," the doctor counters. "Your empathic and spiritual abilities are a gift. They may seem burdensome now, but in time I think you'll find them very useful. Possibly even essential. You simply need time to develop them properly."

"You don't understand," the boy insists with surprising emotion. "I can't even control them. I feel everything, whether I want to or not. I hate being like this! It's horrible!" The frustration is clear in his voice. And the guilt.

How long had Hisoka bottled up those feelings, trying to hold back everything to retain some sense of self-control? Surely at this age, he had never been so forthcoming before. But then again, how many people in the wretched boy's life would have been in a position to understand his plight?

It's clear what Murski's role should be at this stage of the game.

"You can’t control your powers because you've never understood them. In spite of everything, you do want to understand them, don't you?" Muraki is deviating from his script, but he's curious to see if the boy will reach the right answers unaided. "Why don't you tell me what it is that you really asked me here for?"

Hisoka stiffens. "I didn't – "

"If you doubt my intentions, boy, you only have to confirm them for yourself," Muraki reminds him, holding one hand out toward Hisoka. "Your powers have hurt you, but have they ever deceived you?"

Hesitantly, Hisoka steps forward, and places his own hand over the doctor's. It's a risk, but Muraki has confidence in his degree of control over the dream. And it's another minor victory when he sees the boy wince at the pain of contact, and then smile faintly. "You want to help me. I don't know why, but you do."

"That's right." Muraki closes his hands over Hisoka's, concentrating a little harder, and is pleased when the boy doesn't withdraw. "And you’re old enough that you don't need a protector anymore. You want to fight your own battles, as you should." He pauses, considering. "Once we help you temper those powers of yours, I think you'll be quite formidable."

"You mean you'll teach me?" Hisoka's eyes brighten, his voice incredulous.

Muraki finds it satisfying to know that he's guessed correctly. "If you could stand me for a teacher."

"Yes!" It's like a light has been switched on, and all sign of the boy's dark suspicions vanish in an instant. "Oh yes, please!" Suddenly it's Hisoka who's clutching more tightly to Muraki's hand.

That's the lovely thing about dreams. They seldom hold to any sort of real-world logic, and yet the emotions felt by the dreamer are absolutely genuine, and are often stronger than anything they might feel when awake. Hisoka's excitement and hopefulness overpower any sort of rational consideration of the situation. No doubt he knows very well that Muraki is his enemy and cannot be trusted. But In a dream, sense and reason are relative things, fluid and ever-changing.

Here, the difference between friend and foe can be determined by the smallest action or inaction. It can be something as simple as giving the boy something he never knew he wanted.

"I'll teach you everything I know." Muraki steps out on to the dojo floor, crossing that invisible barrier. "I'm afraid my own knowledge about such things is limited, but I believe that even some basic mental training would be beneficial to you. And once I conduct a thorough examination of your physiology, I'll be able to do more – with your consent, of course." His fingers twitch at the thought of his scalpels, cutting red lines in such delicate flesh.

"Of course." Hisoka nods. "I don't know if I want to use my powers like you say, but I want to learn whatever I can about them. If I can't make them go away or hide them, then maybe I can show my parents that I can – " He stops short, expression darkening. Then he turns away without another word, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"What's the matter?" Muraki places a hand on his shoulder, making sure that the boy registers his concern through the touch.

Hisoka shakes his head. "My parents will never agree to this."

Muraki laughs softly. "Your parents, dear boy, will never have to know." He reaches over to smooth back Hisoka's tousled hair. The boy is still young enough that such a gesture is not yet inappropriate or untoward, and he relaxes at the doctor's touch. "I can come and go easily enough if you happen to develop some mysterious ailment that requires regular observation. Nothing contagious or debilitating, of course, but one where it would be safer for everyone if I made a weekly visit to ensure nothing was amiss. How does that sound?"

"Good." Muraki doesn't need empathic powers to feel the boy's elation.

"Then, let's not waste any time." He releases Hisoka's hands and walks toward the centerline of the dojo floor. "Shall we have our first lesson?"

"Yes." Hisoka follows him without hesitation.

---

Piece by piece, it's almost like putting the shattered porcelain face of a broken doll back together again. Oh, the cracks are still visible, and the finished product isn't going to be nearly as exquisite as the original, but it'll suit his purposes.

And to know that when he's finished, he'll have the supreme pleasure of breaking the pretty doll all over again, only makes the work more delightful. Even the most difficult fractures pose irresistible challenges.

He can't alter the events of the past, but the addition of his presence allows him to put certain unfortunate incidents in a more favorable context. It takes Muraki considerably more effort to force the boy's unconscious mind to accept the next dream. However, once the scenario takes hold, it's like sliding back into a familiar groove. After all, this is a nightmare Hisoka has had countless times before.

It's a strange, unnatural night. The moon is full, but the shadow of the lunar eclipse has colored it a lurid red. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, scattering fragrant petals over the cold ground.

Muraki's own memories of this have faded, but he's watched Hisoka's nightmares often enough to retain many of the fine details. The changes he makes this time are not subtle ones. It's not himself that he adds to this scene, but half a dozen other figures: servants, groundsmen, and most importantly Hisoka's stone-faced parents, Nagare and Rui. They stand in silent witness with lanterns and torches as two faceless men drag thirteen-year-old Hisoka toward the grove of flowering cherry trees.

The boy's distraught and struggling, but Muraki's control forces him to stay silent. It's only when Hisoka is shoved to the ground at the doctor's feet, that he's allowed to speak.

"What's going on? What are they doing here?" he asks, looking around in bewilderment at the crowd.

"You saw something you shouldn't have seen," Muraki recites slowly. He makes no move to help the boy, expression cold and impassive. "There should have been no eyewitnesses."

"But I remember this! There wasn't anyone else here!" Hisoka tries to get to his feet, and is promptly restrained. The men standing guard force him roughly to his knees and secure his arms behind his back. "It wasn't like this! I was walking outside by myself. And then I saw you - "

Muraki cuts him off. "Why would you be allowed outside alone, by yourself?"

Hisoka looks stunned for a moment. "I - I couldn't sleep."

The doctor doesn't blink. "And your parents so agreeably let you out of your cage to skulk about in the dark, simply because you couldn't sleep?" His tone is not harsh, but Hisoka flinches at the words.

"I don't know." The boy stares at the ground. He looks so helpless, so lost. "I don't remember."

It's easier than expected to undermine his self-assurance, but then Hisoka's memories of this night are hardly his strongest. Distorted by nightmare, and forcibly suppressed for years, it's a wonder he remembers as much as he does.

Muraki drops to a crouch beside the boy. "You don't remember because I was the one who got you out," he explains softly. "I gave you pills to make you sleep and carried you away with me after one of our lessons. And we would have readily made our escape, if that woman hadn't been there and forced my hand. "

"Forced your hand? You murdered her!" Hisoka accuses. "I saw you stab her, the way you smiled when you did it!"

"She deserved death." Muraki points into the darkness, and the light shifts, illuminating the corpse of a woman several meters away. Blood stains her clothes and the ground beneath her crumpled form. Hisoka gasps at the sight. "You never knew who she was, but I did."

"It doesn't matter who she was. It doesn't change anything," Hisoka insists stubbornly. But Muraki knows the doubt is there, that awful need to know more about the most, cruel, senseless night of his young life. Even the smallest, most twisted shards of the truth are irresistible. He wants the truth, so he'll pay close attention, whether he likes it or not.

Muraki lowers his voice to a whisper, more appropriate for speaking secrets. "That woman was your father's mistress, one of the most vile, hateful creatures who ever walked the earth. When your father tried to end their relationship, she retaliated by terrorizing his household. She poisoned two servants in the space of a week, and tried to do the same to your mother. But no dared to raise a hand against her." He pauses, noting that Hisoka is doing his best to make it look like he's not listening. "Your father had let her get much too close. By the time he realized the danger, she had enough information to destroy his reputation and ruin your family. She would have exposed everything the Kurosaki family had to hide, including you."

"But how could you know that?" Hisoka is staring up at him, his trepidation now turned to more familiar adolescent antagonism. "Even if it's true, you didn't need to kill her! There's no way you can justify it!"

Muraki grabs him by the shoulders, forcing the boy to look him in the eye. "Listen to me! That night she finally threatened your safety, so I acted when no one else would. I tried to get you out, but she found us. The only choice I had was between your life and hers. I will not regret choosing yours!"

Hisoka stares at him numbly, mouth half-open in shock. That clearly wasn't what he was expecting to hear. Muraki finds it amazing the effect that a few silly lies can have with appropriately impassioned delivery. Encouraged, he continues.

"Besides, that isn't what you should be angry with me for." Muraki releases the boy and turns to look at the crowd. He waits until Hisoka follows his gaze to Nagare and Rui Kurosaki. "It wasn't until after the murder that I truly betrayed you."

It's time for his other dolls to play their parts. Time to pull the strings and make them dance.

"He should be put to death!" Hisoka's mother shouts, her voice ringing in the night air. "He should be crushed underfoot like the worm he is! We've waited far too long already!" Around her, murmurs of agreement can be heard.

"He has the face of a murderer!" one of the servants hisses. "Drag him down and make sure he doesn't try to escape again!" More mutterings then, more voices rising in volume and emotion.

Hisoka gasps audibly, and then makes an awful, strangled sound of disbelief. For in the faces of his parents and all the onlookers around them are identical expressions of hatred, disgust and fear. But they're not directed at Muraki, the killer, the monster.

The mob is out for his blood. The devastated look on Hisoka's face makes him look unexpectedly endearing, almost as sweet as Muraki remembers.

The next part isn't going to be difficult at all.

"I was a coward." Muraki tries to sound contrite. "When your father's men stumbled across the scene of the crime, they thought that you had killed the woman. I tried to take responsibility, but they wouldn't believe me. None of them would." It's not very good lie, and Muraki knows it. But nonetheless it's possible, even probable. Any child so subjugated and scorned could hardly expect better from his oldest, most familiar tormentors.

"We can’t kill him." Hisoka's father, Nagare, finally speaks and the crowd falls silent. Even Rui holds her tongue, deferring to her husband. "The boy will live, but he has to be taught the price of disobedience. He must be severely punished."

The crowd roars in agreement. The taunts and catcalls begin again, drowning out Nagare's words.

Hisoka goes ghostly pale. Even if he can't hear what his father's saying, he knows what's coming. Even if the events are different, this nightmare will only ever end one way.

Muraki doesn't waste the opportunity. "They blamed you for her death, but they didn't dare turn you over to the authorities. It was a family matter after all, and the Kurosaki clan was quite capable of meting out judgment to one of their own. I know I should have gone for help, but I didn't have the nerve." A pause, to allow the emotion in his voice to build. "I didn't want to leave you here alone with them, at their mercy. And in the end, you suffered for my weakness."

"They wouldn't do this to me, would they?" Desperation is creeping into Hisoka's eyes. "I always knew they hated me, but I never thought that they would…" He trails off, unable to voice the accusation aloud. Suddenly he starts struggling, twisting in his bonds to get free. "I won't accept it. This can't be real!"

"Perhaps it's not real, but I'm afraid it's true." The guards move to subdue their prisoner again, but Muraki waves them away. Hisoka manages to get to his feet, but any route of escape is quickly closed by the circle of onlookers. With nowhere to go, he staggers to the foot of the cherry tree, and leans up heavily against it, as though the slender branches might provide some meager protection.

Muraki follows. "I understand why you didn't want to remember their complicity!" he calls out to the boy. It's unthinkable. It's inhuman. But you must accept it!"

"This is only a dream. None of it ever happened." Hisoka's forehead is pressed to the bark of the tree, and his eyes are shut tight. If his hands were free, they'd be clapped over his ears.

And then the people in the crowd are silenced again, and their forms grow hazy and indistinct. Soon, they're winking out of existence one by one. Muraki manages to pull most of them back, but it's difficult to keep them stable. He realizes that the boy is unconsciously trying to return the dream to its original form, reversing the doctor's adjustments. On some level the willful brat is still fighting, even if he doesn't realize it.

Muraki can't let him win. "This is a dream, but it's your dream. Everything that happens here is a part of you, a part of your subconscious mind." It takes an effort not to sound strained as he struggles to keep the dream from fading. "You have to remember, boy. You have to remember and reconcile yourself to this part of your past, or you'll never be free of it."

The words have no effect. Muraki feels the ground tremble slightly beneath his feet, another sign of growing instability. It's clear that Hisoka is determined to shut him out, and can no longer be reasoned with. A different tactic is required.

"We've delayed long enough, doctor."

The boy opens his eyes to see his father walking over the damp grass, a grim expression on his face. The Nagare of Hisoka's memories is all sternness and disapproval, glowering with unvoiced contempt. In the face of such unassailable authority, the boy's resistance fails. Muraki can feel it slipping away as the crowd fills out again, the dark figures throwing long shadows over the ground. Hisoka glances back and forth between Nagare and Muraki, as though he's not sure which of them to be more afraid of.

"Please, don't," he pleads, on the verge of tears. "You can't let this happen – you can't – "

Nagare doesn't even look at his son. Instead, he gestures to the waiting guards. "Strip off his clothes, and hold him down." Then, without a shred of remorse or pity, he turns to Muraki. "As you've volunteered, doctor, I leave this distasteful task to you."

"No!" Hisoka shrieks, but the men are already on him, pulling him to the ground. "I didn't do anything! Father, stop them, please!"

But Nagare has turned his back, already distancing himself from the unpleasantness. Instead it's Muraki who approaches, adjusting the moonlight so that the bloodstains on his white coat are illuminated. In his hand, he carries a gleaming, sharpened knife. At the familiar image, Hisoka freezes, and the guards move to tear away the boy's thin summer yukata.

But that won't do at all. "Leave us," Muraki orders his puppets.

Obediently, the men fall back, leaving Hisoka at the foot of the tree. He's trembling badly, but still hasn't given in to fear. "Why are you doing this?" he demands. "You said you'd protect me. You said you wanted to help me!"

"I still do." Muraki insists. "You must know that if it weren't me, it would've been one of the guards or the servants, or worse yet, your own father. I thought at least it should be someone who had some regard for your well-being. Someone who cared for you."

"Cared for me? You?" Hisoka laughs harshly. "You're such a liar. We both know what happens, what always happens! You hurt me and you enjoy it. You enjoy every second, and you're trying to make me believe that you care about me?!"

"Oh, child." Muraki shakes his head. "Of course I hurt you." Before the boy can protest, Muraki's on him, shoving him down into the grass, the blade of the knife at his throat. Hisoka's mouth opens, ready to scream, but Muraki claps a hand tight over his face, jerking his head roughly to the side. And he bends low, to whisper into the boy's ear. "Are you really so innocent to believe it's ever any different? All real love is pain."

Hisoka refuses to submit. Twisting and writhing, he tries to break Muraki's grip, tries to squirm away. But he's only thirteen, and small for his age. Despite all his training, he's still only a boy who never had the power to protect himself. In seconds, Muraki has him neatly pinned down, the knife cutting away clothes and underclothes to reveal untouched flesh. He's the perfect victim. And soon enough, he'll be the perfect doll.

But still, Hisoka fights him. "I won't listen to you. You're a liar and a killer and I hate you! I hate you! I wish I'd never met you!" His rage and despair are bleeding out into the dreamscape. The moon reddens from pale rust to a garish crimson, and the air grows colder by the second.

"Hate me, if you must," Muraki whispers, struggling to keep his immediate impulses in check. "Hate will keep you alive, but don't give in to despair. It would hardly suit someone as lovely as you."

"Stop it!" Hisoka's eyes are shut tight, but the tears escape nonetheless. Muraki takes great pleasure in forcing them back open, affording him no escape. Such beautiful eyes.

"Don't look at your parents," he murmurs softly. "Don't look at the others. Focus on me. Live through this night and come take your revenge on me. Make me suffer as I've made you suffer, and purge the evil from both our souls."

Muraki's hardly aware of what he's saying, not sure if he's reciting from his own script or from the boy's memories. But in the gaps between, who can really tell the difference between the truth and the fantasy?

The anticipation is almost unbearable. Muraki drags the point of the knife over the hollow of the boy's throat, watching the first droplets of blood bead on the surface of white skin. "Someday you'll realize that I was the only one who ever really loved you. Someday, you'll understand, and you'll come to me willingly."

The rape is brutal, as it always is, a bloody, messy affair. Muraki enjoys himself thoroughly, giving full reign to his lust. But this time he draws it out, makes it last. The boy suffers beautifully, so sensitive to even the smallest hurts. It's very easy for Muraki to take what he wants, but the violation alone isn't enough. The lesson isn't done.

Pain and pleasure are fundamentally intertwined, more alike than they are different, and Muraki only needs to make the slightest adjustments to produce the desired results. The next flick of the knife elicits an aching moan instead of a scream. Of course the boy is horrified at his body's response, but it's only the beginning. Soon Muraki has him on hands and knees, leaning into every blow, anticipating every cut, and trying desperately not to beg for more. It's easily the most enjoyable part of the doctor's evening, conditioning the needful little whore to enjoy his own degradation. Hisoka's humiliation and self-loathing are almost as intoxicating as his despair.

Muraki never stops whispering, prodding and coaxing the boy to accept the dream as reality. And he can tell that Hisoka's listening now, taking the words to heart.

Because the lies are more convincing than the truth. Because his parents' continued injustice is easier to accept than a storybook villain appearing out of nowhere to inflict such senseless cruelty. Because a child would rather vilify a trusted friend and protector than admit that he welcomed his own violation.

Suppression and denial are the classic survival mechanisms. Better to hide away those confusing feelings than to admit the truth to himself. Better to push away the pain, even if it meant pushing away the pleasure as well.

By the time Muraki withdraws, Hisoka has grown quiet, staring up at the cherry blossoms and the tainted moon. He's in shock, the heat fading quickly from his skin, desire evaporating into nothingness as quickly as it descended. Muraki wraps him in his bloody coat, content to give the boy a few moments of peace.

There's little more to be done here. This time the boy won't only remember the corrected version of events, but he'll understand why he let himself forget in the first place. From now on, memories of this night will not only stir fear and anger in Hisoka Kurosaki, but guilt and remorse as well.

But just as Muraki is ready to let the dream end, the strangest sensation of dread creeps over him. Something's wrong here.

Something's changed.

Muraki looks over the crowd, mentally counting his puppets. It's possible that he didn't manage to pull all of them back after Hisoka's earlier outburst. His unease grows as he counts and recounts, unable to find anyone missing but still under the distinct impression that something is amiss. It's only when he looks beyond the far edge of the cherry grove that Muraki sees a lone figure standing apart from the others.

It's not that there are too few in the crowd, but one too many.

The stranger is dressed all in black, his face obscured in the darkness. He doesn't immediately appear to be out of place, only a silent voyeur like all the others, but Muraki is sure that the man was never a part of the landscape before. And Muraki certainly didn't put him there.

Of course, the moment the doctor tries to move in for a closer look, the interloper vanishes. Reluctantly, he turns his attention back to the boy, reminding himself firmly that things happen in dreams for no reason. He's exploited that truth often enough for his own ends.

And yet, he can't deny there was something familiar about the stranger's presence. It certainly wasn't one of the shinigami or any of Hisoka's other friends or allies. Muraki is well aware of their usual tactics.

No, it felt like an old memory resurfacing, a distorted fragment of something long forgotten.

Something very strong. And very old.

---

The night's journey is nearing its end, but there's time for one more dream, and one more lesson. .

As the new dreamscape coalesces and comes into focus, Muraki finds Hisoka is lying in a bed with metal railings quite similar to the one the doctor strapped him into earlier that evening. From his unhealthy pallor, it's clear that the boy is ill and has been afflicted for some time.

Muraki recognizes the vague whiteness around them as the hospital where Hisoka spent the greater part of three years, the precursor to the grave.

It's time for the final confession.

He draws the curtains to block out the harsh light of day, and then takes a seat next to the bed, overcome for a moment by nostalgia. Most of his time with the boy was spent like this, watching him slowly succumb to the inevitable. "I know it hurts, but it won't be much longer now," he promises.

"I don't want you here." Hisoka's voice is barely more than a rasp. "Go away."

"I know you're angry with me. You have every right to be after what I've done." Muraki moves the chair closer, so they're almost face to face. "After all, it's my spell that's killing you."

"Curse," Hisoka corrects him flatly.

"It is a curse, isn't it?" Muraki reaches out to touch the boy's arm, but Hisoka tenses and shies away. Nonetheless, their close proximity is enough to cause glowing red lines of spellwork to appear on Hisoka's skin, the proof of the dark magic slowly eating away his life. "Poor thing. I tried to suppress your powers, like you wanted me to when you were younger. I thought I'd finally found your cure for you, but didn't realize until far too late that it would do more harm than good."

Hisoka turns his face away, as his limbs begin to quiver uncontrollably. The lines of the curse spell burn brighter, and the boy's fragile body convulses, white hands fisted in the sheets. "It hurts," he whispers raggedly. "It hurts so much…"

Muraki sighs, hanging his head in the perfect picture of remorse. "I truly thought I could help you, save you. Instead I only brought you pain, and every thing I did to try to fix things only made it worse. I failed in every possible sense."

Hisoka frowns up at the doctor, still struggling to stay in control of himself. "What do want me to say? Am I supposed to forgive you because you're sorry now and you had good intentions? Am I supposed to forget that you raped me and tortured me because it was justifiable from your point of view?"

"I don't want you to forget anything, and I never asked for forgiveness." Muraki sits down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the patient. He meets Hisoka's accusing gaze and doesn't look away. "But I do want you to admit to yourself that I was never really the villain you tried to make me. I'm only the convenient scapegoat. Though if that's what you want me to be, I certainly won't complain."

"Stop that!" Hisoka snaps, but he's more frightened than angry. "You keep trying to confuse me, but it won't work. I know you're just toying with me. You must think I'm some kind of – " He falls silent as Muraki shifts closer to him on the bed. His whole body tenses, as though fearing the worst.

But Muraki only kisses him gently, on the cheek and on the temple. He keeps his hands resting lightly on Hisoka's shoulders. It's perfectly non-threatening, purely affectionate. Muraki finds the gesture quite tepid and meaningless, but it elicits the desired response. Hisoka's shoulders relax and his expression lightens. As the throbbing agony of the curse recedes, he all but melts under the doctor's touch.

"I want it to stop," Hisoka pleads softly. "You said you'd help me if I told you what I wanted. I'm scared and it hurts and I don't know what I believe anymore. I want just it to stop, please."

"Shhhh." Muraki tucks Hisoka back into bed, willing him into a state of drowsy complacency. He wants the boy again, like this, warm and quiescent. His for the taking. His for now and for always. "It'll all be over soon," he promises. "Go back to sleep."

Muraki is not so naïve to think that only one round is going to accomplish all he wishes. He'll cycle through the dreams again a few more times tonight, making more adjustments as necessary. When the boy wakes up tomorrow, it will be determined how the treatment should continue. In any case, the revisions won't take more than a few days. Even his most strong-willed patients, subjected to the same technique, have been unable to discern their dreams from their actual memories after only two or three such sessions.

And once the groundwork is laid, Muraki can start imposing changes on more recent events, providing the necessary context to turn their latest encounters to his own advantage.

He lingers over the boy to savor the moment, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Hisoka Kurosaki will come to respect him, trust him, and possibly even love him.

And in due course, so will Asato Tsuzuki.

"It a wonderful scheme. Seems like you've thought of everything."

Startled, Muraki looks up at the intruder's voice, and suddenly he can't breathe.

It's the same man from the previous dream, the same shadow figure with his features no longer obscured. And now, out of nowhere, he's standing on the opposite side of Hisoka's sickbed. That arrogant sneer, and those feral eyes are unmistakable. He's older now, and more physically imposing, but his face is the same as always.

"Surprised to see me Kazutaka?" he asks.

It isn't possible. But there he stands, healthy and whole, and smiling like the devil he always was. "Saki Shidou," Muraki doesn't bother disguising the contempt in his voice. He gets up from the bed, circling around to confront the unwelcome phantom of his older brother. "Clearly I haven't managed to keep my own subconscious under control," he mutters under his breath.

"Oh, it's nothing like that." Saki waves his hand dismissively. "The amount of mental discipline you maintain would never let something like me slip through. No, I'm not here because of you. I was part of the kid's memories to begin with."

"What kind of trick is this? You can't have been at this hospital, and certainly not when the boy was here. You were dead." It doesn't make any sense, and Muraki is dangerously close to losing his composure.

Laughter rises from Saki's throat, harsh and unpleasant. "People come back to life all the time," he remarks flippantly. "It's a very common thing these days, especially with all the new medical technology and recent advances in black magic."

"I beheaded your corpse!" Muraki retorts.

"Well, it grew back." Saki shrugs. "Don’t dwell on it."

Several tense moments pass in silence. Finally, Muraki exhales, pushing more violent thoughts to the back of his mind. It can wait until after he has answers. "What are you doing here?"

"Personal business." Saki nods his head toward Hisoka, asleep in the bed. "You weren't the only one who had an interest in the kid, you know." He smiles suggestively.

Muraki bristles. "I didn't have an interest in him. We only met by – "

"Shhh." Saki holds a finger to his lips and turns toward the door, motioning Muraki to follow him. "Don't want him to hear you, do you? Ruin all that work?" He doesn't wait for an answer, striding out into the hazy brightness. The details of the hospital are indistinct, blurred by too-bright sunlight like an over-exposed photograph. Muraki hesitates, glancing back at the sleeping boy, but surely he has a few minutes to spare. And he has to know for sure if there's any truth to Saki's claims.

He walks out into the blinding whiteness, following his brother's dark figure, the only thing that really seems substantial here. Even the white-tiled floor beneath Muraki's feet is only a suggestion of intermittent lines and echoing footsteps. Saki keeps talking, his voice echoing back along the hospital corridor.

"Did Father ever tell you the truth about who my mother was? He lied so often, you probably wouldn't have recognized the truth if you heard it. For the longest time I wasn't even sure myself. It was almost like a game. Maybe my real mother was one of his patients. Maybe she was a common whore." He pauses, and looks back at Muraki with a grin on his face. "Or maybe she was that demon woman in the lake out behind the Kurosaki estate, hmmm?"

"Yatonokami?" Muraki's eyes narrow. "I don't believe that particular demon was female."

The grin widens. "I always liked you, Kazutaka. You were always clever enough appreciate my jokes." Saki glances back toward the doorway of Hisoka's room, now only a little rectangle of darkness in the distance. "But sometimes I wonder about you. I mean really – a savior, a tutor, and his own personal pedophile? That's what you think the kid needs?"

It never ceases to amaze Muraki how easily his half-brother can insinuate the most insulting things in such a causal, almost playful manner. "It's not what he needs. It's what he wants."

"Oh, no it isn't. It's what you want." Saki circles him, prodding him in the shoulder with his index finger to punctuate the remark. It's such a childish, silly gesture, but the rage it provokes is overwhelming. Muraki has to fight to keep himself from doing something he'll regret. "You want to be respected and admired and looked up to," Saki continues, still smiling like a fool. "You want your methods to be validated. And you want to punish the little freak because he actually stood up to you. And if you could trick him into putting out, all the better."

"That's enough." Muraki takes several steps back to put some distance between them, and is startled to discover that Saki's clothing - the dark trench coat, shirt, trousers, and even his shoes, are identical to Muraki's own. Only the colors are reversed, creating an almost perfect negative image.

Saki frowns at his retreat. "Or maybe you actually sympathized with him. Maybe you saw your own miserable childhood being played out all over again, and you decided to give him what you never had. Someone to protect you from the abusive mother and fill in for the distant father. Someone to give you a good fucking when you needed it. Really, I'm a little disappointed that you never came to me, Kazutaka."

"Shut up!" Muraki stumbles away, back down the corridor. The light around him is pulsing, almost like a living thing. He tries to block it out, tries to manipulate the dreamscape to get rid of it, but nothing has any effect. The whiteness is disorienting, and his mind can't seem to focus. It must be the boy. He has to get back to the boy, to strengthen their connection and reassert his control.

"Kazutaka!" Saki shouts, his voice mocking as always. "Kazutaka, we're not finished yet!"

Muraki ignores him, breaking into a run. His footfalls on the white tiles echo madly, a thousand reverberations crashing against each other until they're almost deafening. Hisoka's room and the comforting darkness lie just ahead.

Only a few steps more.

But when he passes through the doorway, he blinks for a split second, and finds himself somewhere else completely. It takes a few moments for Muraki to recognize that it's his own room in his parents' house, looking exactly the same as it did when he was a child. The windows are open, and a light breeze is blowing, disturbing the pages of the open book on his desk. It's a beautiful day outside.

And the smell of blood is heavy in the air.

"Oh yes, and there was something else you wanted, wasn't there?" Muraki turns around to see Saki step through the doorway, much younger now to fit in with the surroundings. He has an unsheathed katana in his hands, the blade sharpened and ready for carnage. Demonic bloodlust is shining in his eyes, and all the memories of murder and madness come flooding back.

"You killed them," he whispers.

"That's right." Saki nods encouragingly. "And then you wanted to kill me. You wanted it so badly, even the fact that I was dead didn't stop you. Well I'm right here, little brother. Why don't you go ahead and kill me now?"

Saki holds out the sword, offering the hilt to him. But it has to be a trick. He wouldn't just –

"Go ahead." Saki urges, strangely enthusiastic. "There are no servants to interfere this time. You can cut me down properly, as honor demands. Avenge your parents. And yourself."

It's only a dream. But whether it's Muraki's dream or the boy's or someone else's, he doesn't know and no longer cares. Muraki takes the katana in hand, and suddenly he's sixteen years old again. His parents are dead, and the monster who killed them must be slain. There can be no mercy for such senseless depravity. A wonderful feeling of rightness, of vindication envelops him. Muraki raises the sword, and Saki throws his head back, throat bared. He's still smiling.

As the blade descends, Muraki catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished steel, the fleeting image of a lanky, pale, adolescent boy with terribly bright eyes.

Too late, he realizes those eyes are green.

The blade slides in so easily, Muraki doesn't even feel the cut at first, only the heaviness of the steel penetrating his flesh. Then the blood comes. It's only a trickle at first, and then a gush, and then it's everywhere – soaking his clothes, pooling on the floorboards, and spattering the hands of boy gripping the hilt of the katana.

Dreams are built from perceptions of identity and self, ever shifting, ever changing. Somehow the boy got into his head and pulled his strings. All the strings, all at once, and twisted.

Muraki sinks to his knees, clutching at his chest as his strength drains out of him with the blood. It's too late for spells and curses now, and his hold on the dream is gone. He should be angry. He should be furious at the little charlatan for playing such an obvious trick, and disgusted with himself for taking the bait.

But it's his own frightened face staring back at him, his own quivering fingers that let the katana fall to the floor with a clatter. How can he be angry when the final blow was struck with his own hand?

"I knew you had it in you," he tells the boy, feeling a perverse sort of pride.

It's hard to make his lips and move. His tongue is a dead weight in his mouth, and he hardly has the breath to speak. His vision is failing too, but that makes it easier to pretend he's only talking to himself.

And it's only the echoes of his own voice that damn him to oblivion.

---

In the basement laboratory the door bursts open, sending splinters and shards of spellwork flying in all directions. Tsuzuki is the first one through, with the Gushoushin brothers close behind. "Hisoka!"

"Hey." The boy looks up and smiles, a little crookedly in the dim light. He's sitting up against the headboard, the sheets still tucked neatly around him. "What took you so long?"

"Oh, thank god." Tsuzuki wastes no time rushing to his partner's side, but comes to a dead halt once he realizes that Muraki's prone form is sprawled inelegantly across the bed. He looks at the doctor, eyes widening, then at Hisoka, still tied to the bed. "How - ?"

"It's okay. He's only asleep." In Hisoka's voice is a mixture of revulsion and pity. "But I don't think he's going to wake up any time soon."

Tsuzuki nods and tries to look happy, and then promptly bursts into tears. He babbles something about other victims and broken dolls, and it's clear what he means to say, even if he's nearly incoherent. The Gushoshin are busy with the restraints, and the moment Hisoka's free, his arms go around Tsuzuki, and he's the one who whispers gentle reassurances into his partner's ear, and promises that everything's going to be all right.

The long night is over, and he's finally holding on to something real.

---

The End