Cold Hands
TITLE: Cold Hands
FANDOM: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
RATED: K
PAIRINGS: Mukuro/Chrome (TYL)
SUMMARY: Chrome must be on her own for a bit. An event preceding Tsuna's arrival in the future. One-shot.
CHALLENGE: 30_romances
THEME: #1 - Cold hands ; cold feet
Chome's mittens are made of soft cashmere. She holds them preciously, as one would a small animal.
My Chrome shouldn't let her hands get cold.
She feels a little nudge in the back of her mind, Mukuro's presence, a tiny orb enveloped by her consciousness. When he thinks, he flexes like a squirming dove wrapped in her hands.
'Mukuro-sama, this was expensive.' Ken and Chikusa had tossed them to her when they returned with a couple shopping bags of winterwear.
It is impolite to refuse a gift.
'…If that is the custom,' she thinks back, blushing to herself.
Kufufu~ My cute Chrome. For she does not hide her shy pleasure.
Only now.
Now.
Here in this empty apartment. Here in this empty body. Chrome is no longer the lamp of a powerful genie. Her slim fingers pet an old, worn mitten. She sits alone in this freshly painted apartment, bare of furniture, with only a wheeling suitcase leaning on the wall next to her. Chrome's eye patch is simpler and her hair has grown out-she no longer resembles him. She wears no childish school uniform, her skirt replaced with an elegant pant-suit.
Chrome replays many crystal ball memories in her mind's eye. Very many.
But Chrome Dokuro, no matter how significant the event, does not think about the truck that slammed into her small frame. She does not think of the old pains. What choice had she?
It was out of her control.
She was powerless before it.
And now, she is less herself. Or all herself? She is precisely half of her previous being, but there is no exact line.
Chrome continues to stroke the small mitten, rubbing it in very small, slow circles. The white chaos outside is distracting her single eye. Snow has that effect, each flake dancing its individual performance before it clumps on the ground, blending into one being, one landscape. That snow-swept world was too large for her to admire. Chrome is a small girl and she only needs a small world. She creates her own enclave to rest, for rest is rare. Nowadays, Chrome roams like a gypsy, selling fortunes with old tarot cards passed down to her.
Two weeks ago, Chrome picked this place out, this high penthouse hideout, from a listing of hundreds.
Last week, she signed the contract with her homemade name.
And now, right now, the Vongola ring wraps around her finger.
It kindles her flame.
Chrome stumbles as she gets up and has to put a hand on the wall to stabilize herself. These vaulting sky-lighted ceilings, these cedar kitchen cabinets, these hardwood oak floors overwhelm her with all their air. She will never fill this space with anything. No furniture, no rugs, no appliances. She has no time. She has to work, to weave her mists for her boss.
Tracing the wall lightly with her nails, Chrome floats to the sliding glass door, attracted by the snowfall, but meets the eyes of a dangerous-calm man leaning against the railing.
Isn't she dangerous-calm herself? To face such a man and not shiver? She opens the door.
"Chrome," he says in slick Italian, "I will do this for you." The snow falls in heavy clumps and decorates her phantom's head and shoulders, white against black and blue.
White against the colors of bruises.
"You look tired. You always wear yourself out."
"Mukuro-sama." Her eyes rest on him.
"Are you cold? Where are your mittens?" he asks teasingly.
Her eyes do not shift to the right. She could never lie to him. Not him. Never him. No matter who she fooled, never him.
"I… I'm sorry." She remembers their softness. "They are gone."
"You are very strong, Chrome," he continues after studying her, and then, he smiles to himself. "That's how you're like me." Finger by finger, he pulls off his black leather gloves, and all smoothness, he reaches for her hand. She willingly meets him halfway, like she is catching a falling glass. Her two small hands wrap around his, one interlacing with his fingers, the other covering the outside. His hand is burning cold. So cold, it hurts. And then it doesn't hurt. She looks up.
Mukuro is checking the inside of her apartment over her shoulder.
"Are you alone?" he asks with soft thunder, the sound not aligning with his lips. He is already pulling her closer, away from the empty apartment and closer to where he stands on the balcony.
"Yes. Until I..." But she does not say it fast enough. His ears have already turned back into snowflakes. The snowman underneath has already deteriorated from her flames.
She has no power. Her illusions are imperfect.
Chrome remembers: His hands were always just as warm as hers.
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