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How Did It Go Again?

Summary:

My, my, simple sir, this ain't gonna work

Mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy slurs

I can’t take this place, no, I can’t take this place

I just wanna go where I can get some space.

 

experimenting with Hisoka's character and traumatizing him in a specific way. includes a circus and dissociative amnesia. it is his birthday present

Notes:

have a terrible birthday, hisoka. you're 47 today.

(song in summary is gooey by glass animals. also, some lines are inspired by pools by glass animals)

an incomplete idea for a self-indulgent H×H fic focusing mainly around hisoka and illumi. When I write that story, it'll definitely be longer with a clearer adventure/fantasy plot. The plot won't be canon compliant, but it is important to me that everyone is in character

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Everyone knows of the boy in this story. Or perhaps they don't. Some may like to know him better.

Take a boy. Bless him with eyes of honeycomb and young, yellow stars--bright, with gooey, sweet potential. It's something of a menace if it is not dealt with properly. He'll get all his stickiness over your fingers. So fresh and prone to mistreatment. Now give him a few years of age. Just a few, now, don't overdo it. Pinch the little boy in between the thumb and pointer finger. Then pick him up and let him fall into the circus where they play the Devil's favorite games. Watch how he handles it.

Hah. We'll never really know him, now.

Maybe that's fortunate, in reality.

 

 

Think performers, but also think gypsies--moving, packing, setting up, tearing down, moving. Never rest, always pandemonium. Think prepping, with the danger of an oncoming act. Think camping, with spangles and cheering crowds. Breakdowns are dealt with persistent demands through gritted teeth. Everyone must toil for one goal, no matter if they're working together or apart, 'cause their livelihoods ride on whether they can make it in time for the next site's due show. No one ever considered rest. Everyone in the circus told Hisoka he must love it there. No little 11-year-old boy hates the circus, they said to him. Hisoka supposed they had a point. Watching his one-of-a-kind performance of heavy mist and glitter dust be poured into the big top and play out just right--hah, that delight was unparalleled!

That being said, Hisoka wasn't all for settling down in the circus forever. His lifestyle is one that is necessary, and he abhors that truth more than he does being tossed around like a ragdoll by the other performers. No, he wouldn't leave this hell until he could beat the damned place. He wanted--no, needed--to be able to face every next twist and turn in life as a man who cannot be bullied and manipulated. If the hits he took now would prepare him to face those unforgiving streets outside of the circus tent, then he would learn to live this brutal lifestyle with a smile.

These are the things Hisoka reminded himself of as he climbed into one of the railroad cars with its steel floor rattling and complaining. He pulled his platform sneakers off his tired feet. He was just about to sigh heavily through his nose when he caught himself and held back. If he breathed that way, one of the nosy performers would ask him about it. Any conversation with any performer was a little thing Hisoka would rather avoid. He knew these little things were much bigger than they seemed. Hisoka held one shoe with his right hand as his left shielded his mouth and silent exhale from onlookers. His eyes dragged over every colorful detail on the thick shoes. It was just maybe an attempt at concentrating on avoiding a wave of some overwhelming emotion.

His fingers and nails traced the path his eyes burned into the piece of his show costume. An orange stripe, then baby blue, then pink, then white. It was a shame no one was permitted to wear the circus clothes outside of shows. Hisoka did love his stage persona quite a bit.

Hisoka set his shoes in his worn duffle bag (a gift from the circus) and quickly slipped his shirt off. The goal after a show's end was to clean up neatly, quietly, and as quickly as physically possible. For Hisoka, reaching this goal was his best bet at keeping his dignity. There was no privacy in the circus. He could nearly feel danger nipping at him, growling so as to threaten him.

 

"Kiddo," called a performer in their stage voice. Hisoka guessed who they were by their voice and quickly went over his own stage voice in his head before looking up at them.

The performer was a tall, lanky acrobat only half-dressed in casual clothes--an ankle-length skirt and no shirt. Their name was D.Q. She went by all pronouns, which Hisoka found interesting enough to be appealing. That, however, was the singular positive thing he could say about D.Q. The rest of her was much too rotten to be appealing. Hisoka still smiled his pretty, liar smile. He smiled because everyone wanted him to. He smiled because he couldn't afford to be truthful.

 

"Hell-o, D.Q!" Hisoka drawled in his practiced stage voice. "What might have compelled you to pay me a visit, Sir, Miss?"

 

“Well, I happened to notice that we have yet to celebrate your birthday!”

 

Hisoka's blood ran cold as the acrobat’'s lips drew back in a wolfish grin. The one action that betrayed his feelings were the way his knuckles grew deathly white with the force in which he clutched onto his duffle bag. He glanced away from D.Q to find and snatch up his clean shirt from where he squatted at the compartment for storing costumes. His eyes flitted back to D.Q as Hisoka slipped his shirt over his head. It was humiliating--the manner in which he unintentionally displayed his alertness was so reminiscent of a circus animal trying to not get whipped.

 

"Say, Hisoka," a woman named Cereza rasped, strolling up next to D.Q while using her stage character's voice. As she peeled off her clown vest, she continued, "when is your birthday?"

 

Panic induced thoughts ran rampant just beneath the surface. When the number of eyes on him began to multiply, Hisoka subconsciously rose to his toes just to seem a bit taller. He wished--as he always did after a show--he could keep his platform shoes on. Fortunately for him, he could nail living as if he were on camera if he was desperate enough. Yes, Hisoka could perform with and without the shoes, the audience, and the coruscating stage lights. It was a necessity to him, just as crucial as food and water. So, he puffed out his chest, straightened his spine, and leveled his tone.

 

“My birthday?” Hisoka said thoughtfully, drawing out his vowels and curving his lips to imitate D.Q’s grin. “I wonder, would you laugh if you knew that I don't know my own birthday? Would you let me off the hook if I told you I don't have one?”

 

Hisoka already knew the answers to those questions. The circus burst into messy, immature laughter.

 

“Like Hell we will!” retorted a deep voice from behind Hisoka. Hisoka did not turn around to check who spoke. His eyes were fixed on the performers in front of him. When the owner of that voice cackled, however, chills ran down his spine. That was the voice of an animal trainer named Cicero. The games he played with Hisoka were never short of torment. Hisoka busied himself with putting on his regular shoes so the chills would leave. His everyday shoes were ripped up from being worn to death. Always a sore reminder of what little he had without the circus.

 

“I’ve got a brilliant idea!” Proclaimed Cereza, twirling her maroon hair around a gloved pinky finger. “Let’s celebrate your birthday today.”

 

Hisoka all but recoiled when danger pounced at those words and sunk its fangs into his abdomen.

During celebrations, the main event was playing games. They started out innocently enough. Or at least Hisoka was pretty sure they did. His memories flickered in and out, so he couldn’t always tell if he had all the information. He did recall there to be some card games here, some sport games there. When Hisoka first became the circus’ magician, the performers had treated him just fine. Sure, they could get too competitive, which led to aggression, which led to pain. But every performer agreed that pain was the most delightful aspect of playing games, so Hisoka wasn’t all that bothered by it. As long as they were enjoying themselves, they could do what they wanted.

That was what he said to himself. That was what he said to them. He believed that until they began to include his six-year-old self in the games. But who was he to complain, right? Clearly, he was simply missing the point of playing games and the circus just wanted to teach that to him. They would say to him, ‘without pain, what is the fun in anything?’ As Hisoka grew older, he tried harder and harder to understand that. Sometimes he’d get so frustrated about the fact he couldn’t feel the way the other performers did that he would look for someone or something to pick a fight with in an attempt to understand it.

Luckily, Hisoka found that relief from it all came with experiencing pain consistently. The games in the circus usually began as more or less mundane and swiftly succumbed to chaos. Hisoka used to utterly hate it when the performers took an innocent game too far. He hated it with every cell in his body. Why would anyone ruin a game by hurting someone? But the performers didn’t think of it like that. Good gods, they thought of hurt as a pathway to ecstacy. Oh, and Hisoka felt grateful for it! Now that the young boy had gotten so used to the destructive nature of the circus, he was beginning to understand the high that pain brings. The dread that the games brought was still devastating. The emotions that arose from getting hurt were so intense, he felt he couldn’t take it. But everytime he got up after getting the lights knocked out of him, he felt powerful.

He was so vividly aware of the trauma that was about to ensue on his so-called birthday as he soaked in the stares of pure excitement all around him. It rattled his bones and his brain and his empty stomach.

 

“My, oh, my,” Hisoka whispered, his eyes as wide as two gold doubloons and oh, so unready, “I can hardly wait, my dears!”

 

And so, the circus did not wait.

 

As the hours passed on that train, the performers grew impossibly unrelenting. Hisoka had been kicked and thrown and choked so vigorously that he couldn’t throw up anymore. He’d thought his stomach had been empty before, but now it was truly just a pit. His tongue and throat burned with the acidic taste. His breathing had gotten so ragged that he sounded like he was dying. Maybe he was dying. That thought didn’t scare him as much as it should’ve.

 

“I'm not having fun anymore,” Hisoka let up with a dry sob. He touched his bubblegum pink hair with a shaky hand and choked back a wail at how easy it was to tear out a small clump of it.

 

"If you want us to stop, why don't you beg, little mutt?"

 

Hisoka didn’t want to look up at Cicero. It made his neck ache.

 

"I… I will not beg. This isn't fun."

 

His voice sounded like it had fault lines.

 

"Sure, it is! You're not a big boy, so you're not too old to play!"

 

Hisoka's toes curled in disgust. He was trembling. He was unbearably small. His fingers were like drenched kindling, incapable of sparking up a flame, grasping at the steel he kneeled on. From his scalp down to his toes, his body tingled so intensely it mimicked the skittering of bugs on his sweat-soaked paper skin. There wasn't a nerve in his clenched teeth, dry tongue, or beneath his pointed nails that wasn't hyper aware of the people looming over him. They towered and circled around him--and oh, it so torturously brought his wild thoughts back to the days he wasted lost in concrete jungles. Back to the sensation of being starved so egregiously that dying might've even felt lively. Suffocated under the burden of predators looming near, waiting for the moment he was down on his knees so they could take advantage of him. Hisoka glared up at the grown people. They, like him, were fools. Some were literal clowns who demonstrated dramatic stories for the crowds. Others were acrobats, tightrope-walkers, trapeze artists, animal trainers, equestrians, and the list goes on. They held heftier ages than the young performer being subjected to their games. How could such people survive to experience so many, yet so little, years of life? Hisoka refused to secede. denying their assumptions that he'd die on his knees. If they were meat-eaters, then Hisoka would adapt into the pack. Survival first, and then comes the fun. If he could just live long enough, he could truly find the fun he wanted. Existing didn't have to be tedious. That was what Hisoka wanted.

 

"You--" Hisoka swallowed a raspy cough begging to be released. He blinked away the tears pricking his eyes. He had to find out what was so enticing about inflicting and receiving hurt. Or else he wouldn't have any fun. "You r-ready… For--for more?"

 

The crow people yelled at each other to quiet down. Hisoka watched, breathing, cutting in and out, unsteady. They were crows because they squawked and screeched. It was nearly making his ears bleed. Which crow would get to devour the young bird?

 

One woman, halfway through wiping off her makeup, hissed, "You sons of bitches, let me hear what the kid is saying!"

 

"HE ASKED IF WE ARE READY FOR MORE! Just go change out of that, already! You've barely gotten your face clean!"

 

Hisoka's throat ached, feeling like needles pricked the back of it. He agonized over keeping up with who was saying what. A good magician is always observant. As long as he was alert and aware, Hisoka was not weak.

 

“OH MY GOD," said someone. Who said that? Hisoka shuddered and raised the dirtied heel of his right palm to his temple. His fingers twitched with panic.

 

"Why are we even listening to the child!? HE DOESN'T WANT TO PLAY!"

 

"YEAH, HE'S A DAMN BORE!"

 

"HEY, WE'RE RAISING THE KID TOGETHER, AREN’T WE? You all need to shut the f--"

 

His brain muddled up the sounds his ears heard. Words wavered from unintelligible raving to coherent sentences to failed grammar beyond Hisoka's comprehension. Hisoka's nails scraped into his head. He couldn't differentiate everyone's voices…! Ha! What a joke. He felt down just because he was beaten black and blue. That would never do.

 

"OI, IF HE DOESN'T GET TO SPEAK, HOW DO WE KNOW IF HE'S HAD A CHANGE OF HEART OR NOT?"

 

Identifying that baritone voice should've been a brief reprieve. He should've taken a steady breath and refocused now that he wasn't utterly lost in the noises anymore (due to the stinging reminder he indented into his cheekbone with one sharpened nail). But he didn't feel good, because no voice in the circus was good.

 

"HE'S NO FUCK-UP LIKE THE LOT OF YOU ARE, SO GIVE HIM A MOMENT!"

 

The murder of crows quieted. Hisoka's mouth quirked in a lopsided grin at the warm blood trickling down his chin. Life is meant to be fun… That's why he stayed in this circus, wasn't it? Challenges build character through pain and distress. If he wanted to live, he needed to be resilient. He needed to conquer himself. Pain could be fun, couldn't it?

 

"As long as we're have--having fun, there's no need for survival…!" Hisoka giggled hoarsely. “Shake my little soul… Shake out everything I’ve got in me.”

 

“AND WHAT HAVE YOU GOT IN YOU, MY BOY?”

 

Not your boy. Never yours.

“Many tricks,” Hisoka gasped, his bloody grin splitting his face in half, “and tools, and j-joy!”

 

His heart was teetering on the roof of the circus train rushing to arrive at the next site, pounding on the train forlornly with the hope that it'd be let into the driver's seat. But it wasn't powerful enough, and only power can grant control. Control of others, control of himself, control of his course in life. Hisoka's mind sporadically chucked out memories at random like an ignorant novice would when playing cards. When under too much stress, the boy would lose his mind bit by bit. His memory was the furthest from settling down as he settled up into this world of noise.

 

The performers roared and cheered. Thunderstorms had nothing on the absolute disaster that was the circus. Why were they jumping for joy? Hisoka wished he could rattle his brain like he would a piggy bank if needed some coins. What was it that he said a moment ago? Had he said anything? Perhaps the circus was simply enjoying a sudden burst of insanity and wanted him to join in. Oh, but that couldn't be it. They were yelling like they'd just triumphed. Was he biting the inside of his cheek? He couldn't tell. Everything ached and his stomach groaned and his eyes--oh, dear, his eyes were leaking. But he was smiling, all the while. Smiling because he wanted to. What a day it’d been.

 

 

Think freedom, endless experiences. Think opportunities that only the boldest fools are granted. Think agony, torment, trauma. All the challenges of a lifetime kicked and shoved into Hisoka's young existence. Yet it was liberating, it was something to be proud of because--when the applause roared in his ears, booming like the clattering crash of thousands of jewels, gold, and riches much too big for the small hands of a child all falling around him--he knows the crowds are catching his blinding light, only seeing a dream, a polished style meticulously crafted for being witnessed. They see magic for the sake of magic, no matter the age. He knows they'll never see him as simply a small boy. When he's in front of the audience, he's more than a man. It makes him proud, because while he casts his magic, even the magician is spellbound by the spectacle.

Once that spell is broken, all that's left is a boy.

But the spectators will forever see magic and nothing less.

He’s a man of many tricks, and tools, and joy.

 

 

Take a boy. Grant him something to help him cope with the trauma. Strip him of his bad memories. Ah, dears, that doesn't mean he won't keep the scars of his experiences. It just means that he won't know how they were conceived. Surely, that's better than nothing? The past means nothing to someone who remembers close to nothing.

Or does it?

The circus is now masquerading as his mind--meaning that the way the circus worked has become how he works. He couldn't stand that place as a kid, but he's grown into the shoes of a man who can stand it. Without saying anything, he'll tell everyone he thrives off murder because murder is a synonym for fun. Death is a synonym for love. Loneliness is a synonym for freedom.

Mind those wicked words because his shoes are of a man who seeks and gives rise to the chaos that once destroyed him. They were tailor-made to fit him.

That's what he believes.

Is he right? Does the chaos really not affect him any longer?

Oh, and now that he has but a sliver of a memory, no one will ever know him. Not even himself.

Take a man. Have him feel like time skipped. Have him forget the horrific birthday. Give him a reprieve from the life he's lived by letting him forget he lived it.

What will happen to him next?

Who might ruin him next?

Notes:

I'm actually quite happy with what I've come up with for his past. I would love to hear your opinions on it. How well do you think my ideas suit him? Was it any fun to read? Am I just boring? this was fun to write heh.

the beginning and end paragraphs were inspired by "Through the Thick And Thin He Will Wait," a Tadashi/Ainosuke fic by thereweregiants.