[FIC] between and beyond
Rating : Gen
Fandom : Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn!
Pairing/Characters : Mukuro x Fon, slight I-Pin x Chrome, mentions of Reborn and Tsuna and Hibari
Prompt : khrfest Round 3. IV. 66. Fon/Mukuro - coincidence
Warnings : general weirdness and possible OOC-ness, and uh. Not much else. Shounen-ai? Shoujo-ai? Kind of fluffy, I guess. No darker undertones whatsoever. I think. Sort of. Maybe.
Summary : It has always been through Chrome's eyes, her mouth and ears and through I-Pin's letters, her words and mannerisms. They have never actually met, but the world between them is enough, and then, when they do meet, there is what is beyond.
Author's Notes: I sometimes wonder why I even bother claiming prompts since I never meet deadlines and if I do manage them, I end up cramming and butchering it. .___.; Or I just suck, really. Or make no sense whatsoever. I fail at describing things. :|b
Not exactly my best work, hardly a good work, but I hope you like it. ^.^
01: the roots clinging to mud
Although many others may suggest otherwise, truthfully, they have never actually met. It has always been through Chrome’s eyes, her mouth and ears and through I-Pin’s letters, words and mannerisms. They have never met, but somehow, the world between them is enough.
It isn't something to be questioned -- but Mukuro thinks, and he ponders, intrigued and curious. It isn't really about I-Pin; Mukuro couldn't care less about I-Pin, but something about her... enthralls him. Beyond the cheerful squeals and the childish demeanor, there is something deeper that he cannot fully scrape within his vessel's new companion. It is strange, not entirely significant that would warrant his interest, but it does keep him amused.
It may have something to do with the way I-Pin speaks. Her Japanese is broken and her Italian even worse, but her words have meaning, hold a wisdom that he doubts she truly comprehends. She says kind things, sweet things befitting that of a child raised in a world of philosophical ideals, but they are strangely fitting, so awfully congruent with reality. Their reality.
She says simple things, innocent things with artless eloquence and brutal sincerity. If anything, the Chinese child doesn't speak with Chrome with an air of experience; how could she? She's a child, hardly knowing any better, but instead, gleefully, she talks with something like a hero-worship, a reverence for a master whom she does not divulge. A faceless phantom whose secrets she doesn't reveal. It doesn't make her any less convincing.
It could also be the way she moves -- how a gesture follows a thought, how her small body exudes such trained grace and nimble elegance. She is not as sensual as how she could be, not as lovely or alluring as what to be expected from the best, but sometimes, when Mukuro isn't even looking for it, it is as if her movements are not her own. When it's too mundane to even be noticed: the way she reaches out to touch, how she leaps and when she runs, she does them so fluidly, so sensually and gracefully. Like the ripples of the water, like the flow of the wind. It's something ethereal and elegant and not her. Not really.
Or it could just be I-Pin, herself. Her comforting smiles, the adorable pink tinge on her cheeks, her high-pitched voice, her small, calloused hands and the warmth of her embrace. She is good to Chrome, Mukuro concludes, and perhaps good for him. Or, at least, it entertains him to see the twitches of a half-smile, the sharply cutting blows of small fists and the slant of dark, onyx eyes. From her persona exudes the serenity of the evening breeze, the beginning of the harshest gales, the knife-like thrust of a whirlwind. Red, paradoxical and beautiful.
It's remarkable, really, how well he can see beyond her, and when Chrome asks, he only chuckles and bids her to do as she pleases. He doesn't wish to meet the friend she has found in the little girl. Not really. Rather, he desires to see the person beyond her, whose presence lingers in her form. He wants to meet the master whom she projects.
02: a bell-shaped leaf
I-Pin isn't blind, despite her horrible eyesight. Even if she often mistakes objects -- and people -- for others worlds apart, there are some things that she notices. Or at least, senses. Her master has trained her well, after all, of equality, of oneness, of things beyond what they originally seem. She is a small child, shy and timid, but her will is good and her strength immense if she uses both well. Fū zĭ taught her that.
To Fon, strength means many things, and what he couldn't teach her, he made her learn from circumstances. She knows many things: not just memorized speeches, but also the wisdom embedded in them, and the spirit and goodness she harnessed from them. But she is a child, nonetheless, and her own words have a childish slur, a gleeful giggle and a sweetness and innocence to her speech. (Togetherness is happy, being apart is sad! or Gyoza bun, when eaten hot is delicious! Eaten together, even more delicious! recaptcha: gawd, what is this cute. ~.~)
But it doesn't really bother her: that the wisdom she has attained are taken as the ideals of a little girl. Fū zĭ has always been very considerate of her, after all. She knows what she is saying, and she understands what she has learned, and she is always more than willing to share what she has been given. I-Pin doesn't really understand sympathy, and she never learned it, never thought of it -- and so nothing she does is ever because of pity.
When she first approached the girl with the eye patch who is sometimes with Tsuna-san, whom she later met as Chrome-san, it was because she was silent and meek. Shy. She is just like I-Pin, she thought, and it was what first made her reach out: the childish glee at finding someone so similar. Then, it had been because she was kind and gentle, and she always hesitated, but she wasn't weak.
Now, it is because she wants to be friends.
Chrome-san is always alone, she discovers one day, and she is always in the dark, always so quiet, and she looks so sad. It's like she's scared, and she's lonely, and it also makes I-Pin sad. She wanted to reach out, and so she did, and she still does, and she smiles cheerfully and reassuringly even though there are times that Chrome-san is really scary.
It isn't something I-Pin noticed first -- it just happened. The way Chrome-san's one eye would flicker, and then it would dim and look dark and very scary. The way she would lift her chin just a bit higher, hold her weapon a bit tighter. Sometimes, it is the way she walks, her steps even quieter and more purposeful, her back straight, and Chrome-san's arms around her will become careless, nonchalant. Not cold. Never cold. Just... not like Chrome-san at all.
Her presence is also more like the mist, and her form is sly like a coiled serpent's. Chrome-san also says such strange things when she's like this, her words dripping with sugarcoated lies and slow, painful pin pricks. Sometimes, Chrome-san is more like fū zĭ than she is I-Pin, even if her master has never been so ruthless, so deceitful, so detached. Or at least, never with her.
But she knows fū zĭ is very powerful, very destructive when he wants to be, no matter how rare those instances are. She's never even seen them, only heard of them from hushed whispers and frivolous gossips. She's never paid attention to them. Master is master, yes? ---So, why does she listen now, when secrets are exchanged about Chrome-san?
They are horrible things: mean words and lies. I-Pin doesn't like them, and she's quick to defend her new friend, even if they care little for her words -- sweet, innocent, poor, misguided child that she is. I-Pin notices it, and she's not happy about it, but she understands, and she bites her tongue and stays by Chrome-san's side. She squeezes the Vongola Mist Guardian's hand, unsure of whether it is for her friend or for the man for whom she is a container. And somehow, she doesn't really care.
He is what makes Chrome-san not like her but like her fū zĭ, correct? Then there's nothing wrong; he can't be that bad. When he flickers and takes control and I-Pin can tell, he's a bit more relaxed than her friend, and despite how many awful things they say about him, he doesn't hurt her, doesn't even say mean things to her. He just holds her almost the same way as Chrome-san does, watches her a bit more sharply than she does, but he doesn't hurt her. Sometimes, when Chrome-san pats her head, and she feels his faint fingertips instead, he is gentle and almost kind. Like how fū zĭ makes I-Pin very happy, he makes Chrome-san very happy.
He can't be a villain, and when I-Pin clings a bit tighter the next time her friend holds her on her lap, the reassuring squeeze is as much as for Mukuro-san as it is for Chrome-san, and she thinks, absently, that she wants to be friends with him too.
03: petals falling one by one
She always writes letters, that girl. She writes them every day, and she sends them every other day. She writes countless letters weeks after weeks until months turned to years. She says they are for her master, and sometimes, I-Pin tells her of the things she wants her master to know: how much she has improved in her training, how delicious and fulfilling Maman's cooking is but how much she misses her master's own warm and rich meals, how beautiful Italy and Japan are but how much she misses living with him in Hong Kong, how annoying Lambo is yet how much fun she has with him, how kind and generous Tsuna-san is, how strong everyone is becoming and how many obstacles they've already faced and how many friends she has now --- including her.
It makes Chrome feel good somehow, and she isn't as hesitant to return the sweet smiles little I-Pin is always more than willing to give her. There are times, when it is allowed, that Chrome plays with her, helps her with her colors and readings and homework, watches her train and sometimes even trains with her, eat snacks with her and watches the small Thunder Guardian tease her and she him or even just talk. And these are moments that the female Vongola Mist genuinely enjoys.
But there are also times when Chrome sees I-Pin fight, and it isn't the same as her trainings, and it is Mukuro-sama who is like a shadow in her mind, creeping towards the surface, not entirely concerned but curious. The little girl is not incapable, and neither is she weak. She's strong, and she knows her strength, though she never flaunts it, and she always has good reason and good will with each strike and each kick and each battle cry. There is a certain grace in which she moves in those battles. It's almost like a dance, and she is as agile as a bird, quick as a feline, but not as artful, not as eloquent as what she could be. And Chrome pauses, blinking at those thoughts.
---Those words are not her own, she realizes, and then she wonders why. Mukuro-sama laughs in her head, and he tells her not to worry, and though confused, Chrome nods in agreement and holds I-Pin close when the child returns to her arms.
Chrome never tells I-Pin any of this, and she doesn't inquire about them to Mukuro-sama either. It isn't her business. And Mukuro-sama's harmless. In a way. He doesn't mean the child any harm -- he is merely curious, is only entertained by something about her friend, Chrome feels, or maybe only thinks. She is never too sure. She only trusts and only believes.
And in some way, they're pretty much the same. Trust, dependence, devotion and reverence. They both share these things -- she and I-Pin -- but then again, the child martial artist is gentle, and she is warm whereas Chrome is merely timid, and she oftentimes feels so cold. The Chinese child had learned kindness, and she... she has only tasted it, has only savored her fill of it, however estranged, however false, however double-faced.
Chrome is Mist, after all. Chrome isn't like Kyoko-san and Haru-san. Though oftentimes blunt, she isn't straight-forward, not the kind who would sugarcoat nothing and only hide the things that will hurt. She wraps everything she does in an illusion, lying and manipulating and hiding, but dreams are fleeting, and even those she weave fade, and I-Pin almost always recognizes the truth disfigured by those phantom hands.
(Careful, my dear, Mukuro-sama always chuckles every now and then, you're falling. But he sounds more teasing than anything, as if he's intrigued. Or most likely amused.)
The Chinese child is simple-minded, after all; she's not necessarily slow or stupid, but she sees things simply as they are, no matter complexities are wrapped around them. Chrome first thought of it as a gift, but then, once, she was there when a messenger hawk perched on that small doll of an accursed infant's likeness. The bird carries letters from her master, she later learns, and I-Pin sometimes reads them to her, unwittingly to Mukuro-sama as well, and Mukuro-sama marvels (How curious, kufufufu~), so interested now as Chrome quickly discovers the subtlety of implications in eloquent words, the speeches hidden by the text and the lines read in-between.
"瞬息", I-Pin calls the hawk. Shùn Xī. ほうまつ. Houmatsu. せつなき. Setsunaki. Ephemeral. Transient. Everything is temporary, it will all change. Even lies, even dreams, every facade, perhaps even the truth will someday fade. That is the little red and black and gold bird's name. How fitting, Mukuro-sama says in her head, like an absent thought, and she does not know why, and nor does she ask why.
Chrome has many questions, almost as many as her lies, incomparable to Mukuro-sama's, and most often, she has no answers because she never asks. They're like the falling cherry blossoms, she sometimes thinks, like Mukuro-sama said. Like Shùn Xī's name. Temporary. They pass by so briefly, stealing her attention, and then they drift away just as quickly, those questions even if they always go back and always go away.
She doesn't reach out for them, doesn't make them stay longer and linger in her mind. They don't matter. Not really. They are not the same as what she has: Mukuro-sama, Ken, Chikusa... I-Pin, Boss, Haru-san, Kyoko-san and Bianchi-san... Chrome smiles, and, she is content.
That is why as I-Pin sits on her lap and ties a letter to the bird's leg, she smiles almost as sweetly as the little girl does while she caresses Shùn Xī's beak. Chrome does not say a word, even when Mukuro-sama takes control of her hand and quickly nicks the tail feathers of the messenger hawk with his trident.
Later, when I-Pin -- always so sweet and innocent and earnest, that little girl -- asks her the general question of what's wrong and if something is bothering her, Chrome keeps her smile, ignores the sudden ache she feels and pretends that the lies coming from her mouth are the truth. (Kufufufu~)
04: a stem bent but never broken
He watches from beady eyes, black and sharp and endless, and he sees a familiar face on an accursed infant. --It makes him laugh, and inwardly he does at the sheer coincidence of it: long black hair bound in a loose braid, the twitch of a half-smile, pale skin and the slant of clear, onyx gaze.
That same stare lifts as he -- the hawk dives towards him, and then perches on his outstretched hand. His touch is gentle, almost loving as warm fingertips hidden amidst the folds of silk brush along the plumes of red and black and gold. As if in a praise. His caresses are gentle as he settles Shùn Xī down on a low table, and he takes the letter bound on his leg.
Nimble fingers pause there, and the bird's eyes flicker --- to Mukuro's, very briefly -- before Fon eventually pulls away, and he smiles. It's not suspicion. He knows. Mukuro's almost tempted to give him a beaky grin, but he restrains himself, and pretends to be a good messenger bird as a plate of grain is laid before him. But even as he eats, and he chirps amidst mouthfuls, those dark eyes never leave the infant's form.
Mukuro isn't disappointed. The Arcobaleno's form is tranquil, almost aloof, his presence soothing yet belying the power in his small, delicate body. He is fond of his silences, but he is not averse to music -- the gentle hum of the wind's song, the accompaniment of soaring birds and flopping fishes, the squeals of a monkey and the tilt of crickets.
He is a peaceful creature, Mukuro soon learns. How ironic for a storm, but the Chinese man is not exactly unfit for his role. He is a whirlwind, a myriad of colors and emotions with tricks and knives hidden in his sleeves. Beneath the kindness and warmth and the gentility, the baby is cruel and ruthless and selfish. And Fon smiles, denying none of it when he pets the hawk's beak, gently caressing her feathers. Mukuro knows that if not for the fondness the infant has for for Shùn Xī, the bird -- and he within her mind -- would have been a gaping skull, feathers plucked and wings torn.
But then, the Chinese Arcobaleno's tenderness isn't false. He is evasive, and he is deceptive, but he isn't fake, and he wears no mask. Each subtle gesture, the flicker of emotion on his face, no matter how utterly blatant it is, reveals nothing. Paradoxical and whole, he isn't like Tsunayoshi whose heart makes him ache when blood stains his hand. He isn't like Hibari who relishes in self-gratification, in blood lust and adrenaline. Fon doesn't weep for his kills, and he doesn't mourn his losses, but he doesn't thirst for battle, doesn't indulge violence -- he is serenity grazing apathy. Detachment. Tranquility. Indifference. A glorious euphemism.
How curious, Mukuro laughs, and he watches and watches. There is wisdom in affable smiles and knowing in sharp gazes, despite how the infant has no proof of his existence. The Mist doesn't really see this as surprising -- the Arcobaleno knows how to read well between the lines, and he answers just as such. It's entertaining, enthralling how a tap to the forehead would mean "silly of you," and the accompanying smile, "is it so amusing?"; the tilt of his head an inquire as to why with the reasoning, "you have nothing to gain" says the cruel smirk.
Fon doesn't really see a reason to really dissuade him, and Mukuro has no reason to cease and desist and leave him be. The Chinese Arcobaleno is -- in technicality -- not Vongola. Or mafia. But he holds many of their secrets, and he tells Mukuro none, exposes none, not even of himself and his relations, and it is up to the illusionist to connive and to sneak, to untangle the many intricate webs and pick the petals from a flower one by one.
"Don't indulge his camaraderie."
But, of course, a warning has come. Is that concern I hear? Kufufufu~
It doesn't have to be said -- "It will wither in the end," Mukuro hears the drawl of low baritone, the husk of a familiar voice. "It will wither and drown in the mud." The telephone piece buzzes with static, and the Mist recognizes the voice of the Vongola Tenth's tutor. Oya, so he knows as well? Shùn Xī stretches her wings and nuzzles the Arcobaleno -- curse broken, once a baby and now once more a man -- Mukuro wanting more to listen than to soothe, and the illusionist hides a smirk beneath the clip of a beak.
Fon hums, his murmurs soft as he absently pets the beak of his hawk, his white monkey Yún asleep on his lap. "And do tell me, Reborn," his smile widens as he tilts his head to the side, the midnight veil of his hair obscuring those onyx eyes, "what is wrong with the mud?"
Mukuro sees from beady hawk eyes, sharp and black and endless, something familiar on an accursed infant. It is a smile, thin and amused and lovely, the curve of his lips dangerous. Aloof, cruel and selfish, yet kind and understanding and affable -- humane.
What is wrong with having filth in the world?
And he laughs and laughs.
05: the white blossom rising from the mud
She finds the Storm Arcobaleno in the backyard of his home, knees on the ground and sleeves folded up to his elbows. I-Pin runs from her arms to his side, and it makes her smile when the child suddenly skids to a halt, remembers her manners and bows down before her master in the politest greeting a little girl giddy with excitement is capable of.
Fon chuckles, smiling kindly at his student, “I-Pin," then at her, "and you must be Chrome," he acknowledges with a slight bow, rising to a stand, "It is my pleasure to meet you." The Vongola Mist gives a bow of her own, one out of genuine politeness rather than faux courtesy just as I-Pin pauses stares wide-eyed, a giggle escaping her at the squeal a certain monkey gave, jumping into the Chinese girl's embrace.
“Aiyaaaaah,” the child exclaims in awe as she takes notice of the blossom - stem and roots and all - cradled in her master’s opened palms. "So pretty~" Chrome too admires it: the shimmer of dew on a creamy white blossom, the pinkish color painted on the tips of the petals, a large, round leaf engulfing it in a protective embrace, and a supportive, long, sturdy stem ending with roots dirty with mud; a stark contrast to the pallor of Fon’s skin.
It is a flower the young woman has seen many times, but she has never seen one as lovely as this. It shines with a light so radiant; it exudes a fragrance so charming, and masked by grime and dirt, it is only made more beautiful. “It is a lotus blossom,” he supplies helpfully to his student and maybe even to her, “purity, trustworthiness and wisdom, it all represents.”
"And it rises from the mud," Chrome supplies helpfully, in a voice she knows isn't her own, in words she knows that aren't her own, "to shed light unto the world." Fon pauses, and he glances over his shoulder to her from the sight of the pond's side befouled by muck. I-Pin stares with wide, chocolate brown eyes darting from her friend to her master, her expression befitting that of a curious child, also awed and amazed. Then, "indeed," her master chuckles, the sound sweet and melodious and free. "Yes, it does."
He leaves the garden and steps into the room, robes of red and white silk trailing behind him, black hair cascading down his shoulders in its loose braid like a midnight veil. His steps are silent, his gait graceful, his presence tranquil and belying the storm hidden within his person.
“I-Pin, little one,” Fon calls, looking down at her with a warm smile, “I have some snacks and tea prepared. Will you please get put them out while I clean up?” After a monkey's shrill squeak, and a small bow and a shì fū zĭ, a smile to her companion, small feet padded across the hall to the kitchen in a flurry of robes and twin braids. The Storm Arcobaleno's gentle eyes follow his student, and they do not harden even as they avert to the Vongola guardian. Nothing changes, and he remains as kind, gesturing for her to sit, and murmuring for her to excuse him.
But Chrome does not, and her eyes stay trained on the flower in his hands, and then she says, almost absently, too absently, "there's nothing wrong with mud." ---and Fon stops, not even the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, a silent mirth, a bemused sort of irony. There is only a silent amusement, a knowing, an understanding, before he pretends to compose himself even though he already has, and he once more chuckles. "Yes, there's nothing wrong with a bit of mud," he says, and Chrome tilts her head to the side, her smile widening into something more like a smirk.
“It is strange though,” Fon muses, sliding his eyes shut as he inhales the blossom's sweet scent, “it has been centuries since lotus flowers last blossomed in this place. They could have even come from the seeds from over a thousand years ago, and yet,” he pauses, his gaze lifting to meet hers, “they chose to thrive a bit late. It is no longer spring.”
Then, he smiles, knowing, pleasant and beautiful. "Don't you agree?” he asks, and though his tone is inquiring, the gentle slant of those half-mast eyes requires no answer.
“Sheer coincidence,” she nonetheless answers, even though she did not have to, and she reaches out, fingertips brushing against the tip of a petal before they trail down to the stem, and then, it isn’t her hands that cradle Fon’s own but his. Mukuro smirks, thin and dangerous yet captivating, even as he leans forward and places his lips upon a petal.
"Or sheer audacity, kufufufu~"
Fon laughs, and he does not pull away.
~ finite ~
End Notes :
*between : refers to the relationship of Chrome and I-Pin which consequently brought together Mukuro and Fon
*beyond : Fon's aloof relationship with the outside world, the being a storm and weighed down by nothing and how Mukuro, as a Mist, being uncontainable. Sort of refers to their mutual understanding.
*lotus blossom : while supposed to mean purity and truthfulness and virtue, I used it for indifference instead, because it blooms from the mud, unsoiled and uncaring that everything else around it is dirty.
*spring : spring is... a brief transition from the coldness of winter. Basically. Which is why the lotus blossom blooming out of season means that it cares little for that transition, and that it would make its own transition.
*creeps under a rock now* ~.~
Fandom : Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn!
Pairing/Characters : Mukuro x Fon, slight I-Pin x Chrome, mentions of Reborn and Tsuna and Hibari
Prompt : khrfest Round 3. IV. 66. Fon/Mukuro - coincidence
Warnings : general weirdness and possible OOC-ness, and uh. Not much else. Shounen-ai? Shoujo-ai? Kind of fluffy, I guess. No darker undertones whatsoever. I think. Sort of. Maybe.
Summary : It has always been through Chrome's eyes, her mouth and ears and through I-Pin's letters, her words and mannerisms. They have never actually met, but the world between them is enough, and then, when they do meet, there is what is beyond.
Author's Notes: I sometimes wonder why I even bother claiming prompts since I never meet deadlines and if I do manage them, I end up cramming and butchering it. .___.; Or I just suck, really. Or make no sense whatsoever. I fail at describing things. :|b
Not exactly my best work, hardly a good work, but I hope you like it. ^.^
01: the roots clinging to mud
Although many others may suggest otherwise, truthfully, they have never actually met. It has always been through Chrome’s eyes, her mouth and ears and through I-Pin’s letters, words and mannerisms. They have never met, but somehow, the world between them is enough.
It isn't something to be questioned -- but Mukuro thinks, and he ponders, intrigued and curious. It isn't really about I-Pin; Mukuro couldn't care less about I-Pin, but something about her... enthralls him. Beyond the cheerful squeals and the childish demeanor, there is something deeper that he cannot fully scrape within his vessel's new companion. It is strange, not entirely significant that would warrant his interest, but it does keep him amused.
It may have something to do with the way I-Pin speaks. Her Japanese is broken and her Italian even worse, but her words have meaning, hold a wisdom that he doubts she truly comprehends. She says kind things, sweet things befitting that of a child raised in a world of philosophical ideals, but they are strangely fitting, so awfully congruent with reality. Their reality.
She says simple things, innocent things with artless eloquence and brutal sincerity. If anything, the Chinese child doesn't speak with Chrome with an air of experience; how could she? She's a child, hardly knowing any better, but instead, gleefully, she talks with something like a hero-worship, a reverence for a master whom she does not divulge. A faceless phantom whose secrets she doesn't reveal. It doesn't make her any less convincing.
It could also be the way she moves -- how a gesture follows a thought, how her small body exudes such trained grace and nimble elegance. She is not as sensual as how she could be, not as lovely or alluring as what to be expected from the best, but sometimes, when Mukuro isn't even looking for it, it is as if her movements are not her own. When it's too mundane to even be noticed: the way she reaches out to touch, how she leaps and when she runs, she does them so fluidly, so sensually and gracefully. Like the ripples of the water, like the flow of the wind. It's something ethereal and elegant and not her. Not really.
Or it could just be I-Pin, herself. Her comforting smiles, the adorable pink tinge on her cheeks, her high-pitched voice, her small, calloused hands and the warmth of her embrace. She is good to Chrome, Mukuro concludes, and perhaps good for him. Or, at least, it entertains him to see the twitches of a half-smile, the sharply cutting blows of small fists and the slant of dark, onyx eyes. From her persona exudes the serenity of the evening breeze, the beginning of the harshest gales, the knife-like thrust of a whirlwind. Red, paradoxical and beautiful.
It's remarkable, really, how well he can see beyond her, and when Chrome asks, he only chuckles and bids her to do as she pleases. He doesn't wish to meet the friend she has found in the little girl. Not really. Rather, he desires to see the person beyond her, whose presence lingers in her form. He wants to meet the master whom she projects.
02: a bell-shaped leaf
I-Pin isn't blind, despite her horrible eyesight. Even if she often mistakes objects -- and people -- for others worlds apart, there are some things that she notices. Or at least, senses. Her master has trained her well, after all, of equality, of oneness, of things beyond what they originally seem. She is a small child, shy and timid, but her will is good and her strength immense if she uses both well. Fū zĭ taught her that.
To Fon, strength means many things, and what he couldn't teach her, he made her learn from circumstances. She knows many things: not just memorized speeches, but also the wisdom embedded in them, and the spirit and goodness she harnessed from them. But she is a child, nonetheless, and her own words have a childish slur, a gleeful giggle and a sweetness and innocence to her speech. (Togetherness is happy, being apart is sad! or Gyoza bun, when eaten hot is delicious! Eaten together, even more delicious! recaptcha: gawd, what is this cute. ~.~)
But it doesn't really bother her: that the wisdom she has attained are taken as the ideals of a little girl. Fū zĭ has always been very considerate of her, after all. She knows what she is saying, and she understands what she has learned, and she is always more than willing to share what she has been given. I-Pin doesn't really understand sympathy, and she never learned it, never thought of it -- and so nothing she does is ever because of pity.
When she first approached the girl with the eye patch who is sometimes with Tsuna-san, whom she later met as Chrome-san, it was because she was silent and meek. Shy. She is just like I-Pin, she thought, and it was what first made her reach out: the childish glee at finding someone so similar. Then, it had been because she was kind and gentle, and she always hesitated, but she wasn't weak.
Now, it is because she wants to be friends.
Chrome-san is always alone, she discovers one day, and she is always in the dark, always so quiet, and she looks so sad. It's like she's scared, and she's lonely, and it also makes I-Pin sad. She wanted to reach out, and so she did, and she still does, and she smiles cheerfully and reassuringly even though there are times that Chrome-san is really scary.
It isn't something I-Pin noticed first -- it just happened. The way Chrome-san's one eye would flicker, and then it would dim and look dark and very scary. The way she would lift her chin just a bit higher, hold her weapon a bit tighter. Sometimes, it is the way she walks, her steps even quieter and more purposeful, her back straight, and Chrome-san's arms around her will become careless, nonchalant. Not cold. Never cold. Just... not like Chrome-san at all.
Her presence is also more like the mist, and her form is sly like a coiled serpent's. Chrome-san also says such strange things when she's like this, her words dripping with sugarcoated lies and slow, painful pin pricks. Sometimes, Chrome-san is more like fū zĭ than she is I-Pin, even if her master has never been so ruthless, so deceitful, so detached. Or at least, never with her.
But she knows fū zĭ is very powerful, very destructive when he wants to be, no matter how rare those instances are. She's never even seen them, only heard of them from hushed whispers and frivolous gossips. She's never paid attention to them. Master is master, yes? ---So, why does she listen now, when secrets are exchanged about Chrome-san?
They are horrible things: mean words and lies. I-Pin doesn't like them, and she's quick to defend her new friend, even if they care little for her words -- sweet, innocent, poor, misguided child that she is. I-Pin notices it, and she's not happy about it, but she understands, and she bites her tongue and stays by Chrome-san's side. She squeezes the Vongola Mist Guardian's hand, unsure of whether it is for her friend or for the man for whom she is a container. And somehow, she doesn't really care.
He is what makes Chrome-san not like her but like her fū zĭ, correct? Then there's nothing wrong; he can't be that bad. When he flickers and takes control and I-Pin can tell, he's a bit more relaxed than her friend, and despite how many awful things they say about him, he doesn't hurt her, doesn't even say mean things to her. He just holds her almost the same way as Chrome-san does, watches her a bit more sharply than she does, but he doesn't hurt her. Sometimes, when Chrome-san pats her head, and she feels his faint fingertips instead, he is gentle and almost kind. Like how fū zĭ makes I-Pin very happy, he makes Chrome-san very happy.
He can't be a villain, and when I-Pin clings a bit tighter the next time her friend holds her on her lap, the reassuring squeeze is as much as for Mukuro-san as it is for Chrome-san, and she thinks, absently, that she wants to be friends with him too.
03: petals falling one by one
She always writes letters, that girl. She writes them every day, and she sends them every other day. She writes countless letters weeks after weeks until months turned to years. She says they are for her master, and sometimes, I-Pin tells her of the things she wants her master to know: how much she has improved in her training, how delicious and fulfilling Maman's cooking is but how much she misses her master's own warm and rich meals, how beautiful Italy and Japan are but how much she misses living with him in Hong Kong, how annoying Lambo is yet how much fun she has with him, how kind and generous Tsuna-san is, how strong everyone is becoming and how many obstacles they've already faced and how many friends she has now --- including her.
It makes Chrome feel good somehow, and she isn't as hesitant to return the sweet smiles little I-Pin is always more than willing to give her. There are times, when it is allowed, that Chrome plays with her, helps her with her colors and readings and homework, watches her train and sometimes even trains with her, eat snacks with her and watches the small Thunder Guardian tease her and she him or even just talk. And these are moments that the female Vongola Mist genuinely enjoys.
But there are also times when Chrome sees I-Pin fight, and it isn't the same as her trainings, and it is Mukuro-sama who is like a shadow in her mind, creeping towards the surface, not entirely concerned but curious. The little girl is not incapable, and neither is she weak. She's strong, and she knows her strength, though she never flaunts it, and she always has good reason and good will with each strike and each kick and each battle cry. There is a certain grace in which she moves in those battles. It's almost like a dance, and she is as agile as a bird, quick as a feline, but not as artful, not as eloquent as what she could be. And Chrome pauses, blinking at those thoughts.
---Those words are not her own, she realizes, and then she wonders why. Mukuro-sama laughs in her head, and he tells her not to worry, and though confused, Chrome nods in agreement and holds I-Pin close when the child returns to her arms.
Chrome never tells I-Pin any of this, and she doesn't inquire about them to Mukuro-sama either. It isn't her business. And Mukuro-sama's harmless. In a way. He doesn't mean the child any harm -- he is merely curious, is only entertained by something about her friend, Chrome feels, or maybe only thinks. She is never too sure. She only trusts and only believes.
And in some way, they're pretty much the same. Trust, dependence, devotion and reverence. They both share these things -- she and I-Pin -- but then again, the child martial artist is gentle, and she is warm whereas Chrome is merely timid, and she oftentimes feels so cold. The Chinese child had learned kindness, and she... she has only tasted it, has only savored her fill of it, however estranged, however false, however double-faced.
Chrome is Mist, after all. Chrome isn't like Kyoko-san and Haru-san. Though oftentimes blunt, she isn't straight-forward, not the kind who would sugarcoat nothing and only hide the things that will hurt. She wraps everything she does in an illusion, lying and manipulating and hiding, but dreams are fleeting, and even those she weave fade, and I-Pin almost always recognizes the truth disfigured by those phantom hands.
(Careful, my dear, Mukuro-sama always chuckles every now and then, you're falling. But he sounds more teasing than anything, as if he's intrigued. Or most likely amused.)
The Chinese child is simple-minded, after all; she's not necessarily slow or stupid, but she sees things simply as they are, no matter complexities are wrapped around them. Chrome first thought of it as a gift, but then, once, she was there when a messenger hawk perched on that small doll of an accursed infant's likeness. The bird carries letters from her master, she later learns, and I-Pin sometimes reads them to her, unwittingly to Mukuro-sama as well, and Mukuro-sama marvels (How curious, kufufufu~), so interested now as Chrome quickly discovers the subtlety of implications in eloquent words, the speeches hidden by the text and the lines read in-between.
"瞬息", I-Pin calls the hawk. Shùn Xī. ほうまつ. Houmatsu. せつなき. Setsunaki. Ephemeral. Transient. Everything is temporary, it will all change. Even lies, even dreams, every facade, perhaps even the truth will someday fade. That is the little red and black and gold bird's name. How fitting, Mukuro-sama says in her head, like an absent thought, and she does not know why, and nor does she ask why.
Chrome has many questions, almost as many as her lies, incomparable to Mukuro-sama's, and most often, she has no answers because she never asks. They're like the falling cherry blossoms, she sometimes thinks, like Mukuro-sama said. Like Shùn Xī's name. Temporary. They pass by so briefly, stealing her attention, and then they drift away just as quickly, those questions even if they always go back and always go away.
She doesn't reach out for them, doesn't make them stay longer and linger in her mind. They don't matter. Not really. They are not the same as what she has: Mukuro-sama, Ken, Chikusa... I-Pin, Boss, Haru-san, Kyoko-san and Bianchi-san... Chrome smiles, and, she is content.
That is why as I-Pin sits on her lap and ties a letter to the bird's leg, she smiles almost as sweetly as the little girl does while she caresses Shùn Xī's beak. Chrome does not say a word, even when Mukuro-sama takes control of her hand and quickly nicks the tail feathers of the messenger hawk with his trident.
Later, when I-Pin -- always so sweet and innocent and earnest, that little girl -- asks her the general question of what's wrong and if something is bothering her, Chrome keeps her smile, ignores the sudden ache she feels and pretends that the lies coming from her mouth are the truth. (Kufufufu~)
04: a stem bent but never broken
He watches from beady eyes, black and sharp and endless, and he sees a familiar face on an accursed infant. --It makes him laugh, and inwardly he does at the sheer coincidence of it: long black hair bound in a loose braid, the twitch of a half-smile, pale skin and the slant of clear, onyx gaze.
That same stare lifts as he -- the hawk dives towards him, and then perches on his outstretched hand. His touch is gentle, almost loving as warm fingertips hidden amidst the folds of silk brush along the plumes of red and black and gold. As if in a praise. His caresses are gentle as he settles Shùn Xī down on a low table, and he takes the letter bound on his leg.
Nimble fingers pause there, and the bird's eyes flicker --- to Mukuro's, very briefly -- before Fon eventually pulls away, and he smiles. It's not suspicion. He knows. Mukuro's almost tempted to give him a beaky grin, but he restrains himself, and pretends to be a good messenger bird as a plate of grain is laid before him. But even as he eats, and he chirps amidst mouthfuls, those dark eyes never leave the infant's form.
Mukuro isn't disappointed. The Arcobaleno's form is tranquil, almost aloof, his presence soothing yet belying the power in his small, delicate body. He is fond of his silences, but he is not averse to music -- the gentle hum of the wind's song, the accompaniment of soaring birds and flopping fishes, the squeals of a monkey and the tilt of crickets.
He is a peaceful creature, Mukuro soon learns. How ironic for a storm, but the Chinese man is not exactly unfit for his role. He is a whirlwind, a myriad of colors and emotions with tricks and knives hidden in his sleeves. Beneath the kindness and warmth and the gentility, the baby is cruel and ruthless and selfish. And Fon smiles, denying none of it when he pets the hawk's beak, gently caressing her feathers. Mukuro knows that if not for the fondness the infant has for for Shùn Xī, the bird -- and he within her mind -- would have been a gaping skull, feathers plucked and wings torn.
But then, the Chinese Arcobaleno's tenderness isn't false. He is evasive, and he is deceptive, but he isn't fake, and he wears no mask. Each subtle gesture, the flicker of emotion on his face, no matter how utterly blatant it is, reveals nothing. Paradoxical and whole, he isn't like Tsunayoshi whose heart makes him ache when blood stains his hand. He isn't like Hibari who relishes in self-gratification, in blood lust and adrenaline. Fon doesn't weep for his kills, and he doesn't mourn his losses, but he doesn't thirst for battle, doesn't indulge violence -- he is serenity grazing apathy. Detachment. Tranquility. Indifference. A glorious euphemism.
How curious, Mukuro laughs, and he watches and watches. There is wisdom in affable smiles and knowing in sharp gazes, despite how the infant has no proof of his existence. The Mist doesn't really see this as surprising -- the Arcobaleno knows how to read well between the lines, and he answers just as such. It's entertaining, enthralling how a tap to the forehead would mean "silly of you," and the accompanying smile, "is it so amusing?"; the tilt of his head an inquire as to why with the reasoning, "you have nothing to gain" says the cruel smirk.
Fon doesn't really see a reason to really dissuade him, and Mukuro has no reason to cease and desist and leave him be. The Chinese Arcobaleno is -- in technicality -- not Vongola. Or mafia. But he holds many of their secrets, and he tells Mukuro none, exposes none, not even of himself and his relations, and it is up to the illusionist to connive and to sneak, to untangle the many intricate webs and pick the petals from a flower one by one.
"Don't indulge his camaraderie."
But, of course, a warning has come. Is that concern I hear? Kufufufu~
It doesn't have to be said -- "It will wither in the end," Mukuro hears the drawl of low baritone, the husk of a familiar voice. "It will wither and drown in the mud." The telephone piece buzzes with static, and the Mist recognizes the voice of the Vongola Tenth's tutor. Oya, so he knows as well? Shùn Xī stretches her wings and nuzzles the Arcobaleno -- curse broken, once a baby and now once more a man -- Mukuro wanting more to listen than to soothe, and the illusionist hides a smirk beneath the clip of a beak.
Fon hums, his murmurs soft as he absently pets the beak of his hawk, his white monkey Yún asleep on his lap. "And do tell me, Reborn," his smile widens as he tilts his head to the side, the midnight veil of his hair obscuring those onyx eyes, "what is wrong with the mud?"
Mukuro sees from beady hawk eyes, sharp and black and endless, something familiar on an accursed infant. It is a smile, thin and amused and lovely, the curve of his lips dangerous. Aloof, cruel and selfish, yet kind and understanding and affable -- humane.
What is wrong with having filth in the world?
And he laughs and laughs.
05: the white blossom rising from the mud
She finds the Storm Arcobaleno in the backyard of his home, knees on the ground and sleeves folded up to his elbows. I-Pin runs from her arms to his side, and it makes her smile when the child suddenly skids to a halt, remembers her manners and bows down before her master in the politest greeting a little girl giddy with excitement is capable of.
Fon chuckles, smiling kindly at his student, “I-Pin," then at her, "and you must be Chrome," he acknowledges with a slight bow, rising to a stand, "It is my pleasure to meet you." The Vongola Mist gives a bow of her own, one out of genuine politeness rather than faux courtesy just as I-Pin pauses stares wide-eyed, a giggle escaping her at the squeal a certain monkey gave, jumping into the Chinese girl's embrace.
“Aiyaaaaah,” the child exclaims in awe as she takes notice of the blossom - stem and roots and all - cradled in her master’s opened palms. "So pretty~" Chrome too admires it: the shimmer of dew on a creamy white blossom, the pinkish color painted on the tips of the petals, a large, round leaf engulfing it in a protective embrace, and a supportive, long, sturdy stem ending with roots dirty with mud; a stark contrast to the pallor of Fon’s skin.
It is a flower the young woman has seen many times, but she has never seen one as lovely as this. It shines with a light so radiant; it exudes a fragrance so charming, and masked by grime and dirt, it is only made more beautiful. “It is a lotus blossom,” he supplies helpfully to his student and maybe even to her, “purity, trustworthiness and wisdom, it all represents.”
"And it rises from the mud," Chrome supplies helpfully, in a voice she knows isn't her own, in words she knows that aren't her own, "to shed light unto the world." Fon pauses, and he glances over his shoulder to her from the sight of the pond's side befouled by muck. I-Pin stares with wide, chocolate brown eyes darting from her friend to her master, her expression befitting that of a curious child, also awed and amazed. Then, "indeed," her master chuckles, the sound sweet and melodious and free. "Yes, it does."
He leaves the garden and steps into the room, robes of red and white silk trailing behind him, black hair cascading down his shoulders in its loose braid like a midnight veil. His steps are silent, his gait graceful, his presence tranquil and belying the storm hidden within his person.
“I-Pin, little one,” Fon calls, looking down at her with a warm smile, “I have some snacks and tea prepared. Will you please get put them out while I clean up?” After a monkey's shrill squeak, and a small bow and a shì fū zĭ, a smile to her companion, small feet padded across the hall to the kitchen in a flurry of robes and twin braids. The Storm Arcobaleno's gentle eyes follow his student, and they do not harden even as they avert to the Vongola guardian. Nothing changes, and he remains as kind, gesturing for her to sit, and murmuring for her to excuse him.
But Chrome does not, and her eyes stay trained on the flower in his hands, and then she says, almost absently, too absently, "there's nothing wrong with mud." ---and Fon stops, not even the brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, a silent mirth, a bemused sort of irony. There is only a silent amusement, a knowing, an understanding, before he pretends to compose himself even though he already has, and he once more chuckles. "Yes, there's nothing wrong with a bit of mud," he says, and Chrome tilts her head to the side, her smile widening into something more like a smirk.
“It is strange though,” Fon muses, sliding his eyes shut as he inhales the blossom's sweet scent, “it has been centuries since lotus flowers last blossomed in this place. They could have even come from the seeds from over a thousand years ago, and yet,” he pauses, his gaze lifting to meet hers, “they chose to thrive a bit late. It is no longer spring.”
Then, he smiles, knowing, pleasant and beautiful. "Don't you agree?” he asks, and though his tone is inquiring, the gentle slant of those half-mast eyes requires no answer.
“Sheer coincidence,” she nonetheless answers, even though she did not have to, and she reaches out, fingertips brushing against the tip of a petal before they trail down to the stem, and then, it isn’t her hands that cradle Fon’s own but his. Mukuro smirks, thin and dangerous yet captivating, even as he leans forward and places his lips upon a petal.
"Or sheer audacity, kufufufu~"
Fon laughs, and he does not pull away.
~ finite ~
End Notes :
*between : refers to the relationship of Chrome and I-Pin which consequently brought together Mukuro and Fon
*beyond : Fon's aloof relationship with the outside world, the being a storm and weighed down by nothing and how Mukuro, as a Mist, being uncontainable. Sort of refers to their mutual understanding.
*lotus blossom : while supposed to mean purity and truthfulness and virtue, I used it for indifference instead, because it blooms from the mud, unsoiled and uncaring that everything else around it is dirty.
*spring : spring is... a brief transition from the coldness of winter. Basically. Which is why the lotus blossom blooming out of season means that it cares little for that transition, and that it would make its own transition.
*creeps under a rock now* ~.~