of puppies on operating tables.
Chikusa/Ken. Nostalgia.
On occasions when it's too early in the morning to be alive, Chrome's bird-like arms dig into his sides and the slow waker in him confuses the tumble of warm limbs for corpses in Vindice.
The first thing he becomes aware of is his al dente body, the odd strain and angle of his elbow. The arm it belongs to remains fast asleep beneath the heavy press of Ken's back. Maybe this is what grounds him, the weight of Ken's bones, the yellow bright of his hair to ward against today's choice of agony.
He shifts, trying to find the slack in Oxfam green uniforms (Mukuro-sama had named the colour, said it reminded him of hungry orphans), but Ken bares his teeth, or tries to - what emerges is a sloppy, muzzy echo - and Chikusa stills before settling resignedly into the growing damp spot.
Vindice had leaked as well, at least until someone decided an inch of water was an easy way to die. Eyes crusted with sleep that never came proper, conscious moments were spent hoping your cellmate hadn't gone cold during the night, not out of any sentimentality on your part, but so you needn't suffer his share of punishment.
It was only once that Chikusa thought it might be him, the next dead fool covered in black plastic and wheeled out to burn. Monday afternoons were labelled Exercise on his tally sheet - E for Electricity, and he'd never taken to it well. Heart jolting erratically, he only thought it a shame to die on his knees, glasses steaming, hunted rabbit, reasonably sure this was it - but then hands were pawing at his clothes, no, you stupid mutt, get lost -
The world, when he got back to it, was unchanged, uncompromising and stark and filled with nerves like gelatin. Except, oddly enough, the blonde pressed up to him, tender and crooning and touching his germy hands all over the blistering rows of numbers on Chikusa's skin.
On occasions when it's too early in the morning to be alive, Chrome's bird-like arms dig into his sides and the slow waker in him confuses the tumble of warm limbs for corpses in Vindice.
The first thing he becomes aware of is his al dente body, the odd strain and angle of his elbow. The arm it belongs to remains fast asleep beneath the heavy press of Ken's back. Maybe this is what grounds him, the weight of Ken's bones, the yellow bright of his hair to ward against today's choice of agony.
He shifts, trying to find the slack in Oxfam green uniforms (Mukuro-sama had named the colour, said it reminded him of hungry orphans), but Ken bares his teeth, or tries to - what emerges is a sloppy, muzzy echo - and Chikusa stills before settling resignedly into the growing damp spot.
Vindice had leaked as well, at least until someone decided an inch of water was an easy way to die. Eyes crusted with sleep that never came proper, conscious moments were spent hoping your cellmate hadn't gone cold during the night, not out of any sentimentality on your part, but so you needn't suffer his share of punishment.
It was only once that Chikusa thought it might be him, the next dead fool covered in black plastic and wheeled out to burn. Monday afternoons were labelled Exercise on his tally sheet - E for Electricity, and he'd never taken to it well. Heart jolting erratically, he only thought it a shame to die on his knees, glasses steaming, hunted rabbit, reasonably sure this was it - but then hands were pawing at his clothes, no, you stupid mutt, get lost -
The world, when he got back to it, was unchanged, uncompromising and stark and filled with nerves like gelatin. Except, oddly enough, the blonde pressed up to him, tender and crooning and touching his germy hands all over the blistering rows of numbers on Chikusa's skin.