(Untitled)
Who: Euphie and Hibari
When: during the event, time skip a bit forward~
Where: at Euphie's flower shop (Lower Level)
Rating: PG
Warnings: blood, possible violence -- basically, Hibari. ♥
Summary: Hibari returns to when he's a teenager -- when he's affected by the Sakura-kura Disease. Euphie finds him thoroughly thrashed. Mmhmm. ♥
Later, when he looks ( Read more... )
When: during the event, time skip a bit forward~
Where: at Euphie's flower shop (Lower Level)
Rating: PG
Warnings: blood, possible violence -- basically, Hibari. ♥
Summary: Hibari returns to when he's a teenager -- when he's affected by the Sakura-kura Disease. Euphie finds him thoroughly thrashed. Mmhmm. ♥
Later, when he looks ( Read more... )
She bent down, her dress pooling around her as she moved closer to Hibari, cautious of him (after all, he had made it clear he would strike her if she ever irritated him--and well, she didn't want to make him act on his statement).
To be honest, it had been difficult working with him. He showed no sign of being friends, no wish to associate himself with Euphemia or Dizzy or anyone else that worked at the flower shop, and rather than becoming upset, Euphemia found herself more and more determined to at, the very least, make him recognize her and acknowledge her. He obviously did not think very highly of her, she thought, and she was not used to that at all. She was not used to having to gain respect from someone.
"Are you okay?" she asked, worry laced in her words. "What just happened?"
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Paying no attention to her, his eyes still darted about, blindly searching for his tormentor.
"Rokudou," he breathed to no one in particular, voice shaking and body shuddering (and goddamnit, why wouldn't they stop trembling), the name punctuated by the sound of more blood splattering on the shop's floor. He spat the mouthful of blood derisively on the ground, moving sluggishly as more dripped slowly from his lips and body. "I'll bite--"
An empty threat when there was no opponent to be seen. Hibari barely managed to tug his upper body up by a few inches before he collapsed back on the ground. Sakura, and he could feel the scent twining rapidly around his limbs and paralyzing them. Sakura -- Mukuro had to be somewhere, and he would find him and win this fight no matter what.
Rokudou.
( Illusions. All of it. )
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"Hibari," she said, trying to make her voice as gentle as possible, an auditory caress. "What's wrong? Are you--?"
And she looked around herself for Hibari's invisible foe--who was Rokudou?--but there was nothing at all. Just the few rows of flowers, the glass cases with arrangements, the cash register, the definite knowledge that they were alone and there was no one else here that could be Rokudou.
"Are you okay?" she finished, repeating her first question. "Hibari, do you need... me to get you something?"
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Maybe Mukuro was gone. Maybe this strange place was another world entirely. Maybe the new world signified that he had won, but he wasn't taking any chances. (But really, even he knew somewhere deep down that he had had no chance after Mukuro's previously employed tactics.)
--the girl. It had to be her. It had to be the girl that was harboring Mukuro. An illusion, nothing else, and Hibari wouldn't shy away from ripping the illusion away. With no real strength left, only that of frenetic and wild desperation, Hibari forced himself to twist his arm and try and strike one final blow against his hidden opponent. He didn't have nearly enough power to bring his fist up into her face -- instead, he swung his elbow up and jammed it forward, just as he would when he had his tonfas, cold and sure under his bloodied fingers.
Show yourself.
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"I don't know why you did that," Euphemia began, "but you need to tell me what's hurting you, so we can fix you up. Am I clear, Hibari?"
It seemed whatever political authority Euphemia had, whatever training she had experienced in speaking, she was definitely calling upon to give ground and substance to her figure. Sure, Euphemia was not intimidating, but she was trying awfully hard to be, or to at least get Hibari to calm himself so she could help him out.
"And if you strike me again," she continued, "I will not hesitate to call for help."
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Help? What help would she need; after all, he was pinned to the ground by invisible hands, eyes defiant was they brought a silent challenge. Hibari couldn't fight anymore with the sakura. His body was tensed, shaking fingers clawing until they managed to twist in the folds of her dress. Knuckles whitened with the effort it was taking to grasp her dress, but he clung to it like it would anchor him to consciousness.
It couldn't be him. No, if it were him then fingers would be clenched in his blood-matted hair, the trident would be impaled into his body, and the maddening laughter would be rattling in his mind. Then who was she? Who was this girl, who spoke ever so regally, who wasn't even striking back? Trying to see past the inky patches that were blooming in his vision, Hibari's lips curled.
"Name."
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"You need to tell me what to do," she said. "I cannot just sit here and watch you--Hibari, is there something I can do to stop it?" She didn't even know what was wrong, but weakness had always worried her, if not in herself but in others, because she was propelled by that womanish need to protect and to conserve. "Please."
She was reminded, oddly, of those few wonderful monthes with Toshiki, and his stubbornness and his caustic nature; but where Toshiki had been gentle, Hibari still prickled with anger. She was wary. If it had been Toshiki, she would have pressed her cool hands on his forehead and been able to rouse an answer out of him.
Since this was not Toshiki, but a boy she barely knew, this was not the case.
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No, he was infallible. It took more than an illusionist to bring him down, even one that had traveled to a place worse than hell multiple times. As he lay, he scrabbled to hold onto that resolve. He wouldn't be battered down. Still, no matter what, hot shame and anger burned through his veins at the utter humiliation -- being defeated so thoroughly and having a girl stare at him with pitying eyes that he wanted so badly to claw out, if only to save him a portion of the feelings assaulting his mind.
He wouldn't lose.
But truly, he didn't need to speak. The rapid rise and fall of his chest as he panted for oxygen and the torn shirt together outlined a slash down his chest where blood was pulsating sickeningly out. There were other wounds littering his entire body, broken bones sending sharp cracks of pain lashing through his system, and his hands were coated in blood. But he was Hibari and there was no way he was going to die, no way he would display such a humiliating ending on the floor of this Britannia girl. Hibari, which in turn was skylark, flying higher than all others, flying out of reach from death. Always. This time no exception.
No. He just needed to rest and gather up his strength again.
Hibari involuntarily released her dress as his fingers fell loose.
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But what could she do? She had never been trained in any sort of medical arts. She was useless, utterly useless.
Suddenly, she regretted being a Britannian princess. It seemed anytime a situation like this arose, she was forced to sit on the sidelines and watch miserably.
"Wait," she said, a sudden idea coming to her mind. "Hibari, I have an idea. Can you... swallow?" She thought back to the case in the backroom, the one full of potions procured from The Curios Cait Item Shop in case of emergency. She could try one on him; she had never tried them herself, but for the most part, people had told her they were useful and good. It was only an idea. If he didn't take it, she would think of something else.
Maybe she should move him too, she thought nervously, but she didn't want to hurt him more than he already had been.
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"...Sakura," he whispered, eyes closed as he spat the words out along with a splash of blood and a slew of coughs. "Take...away--"
Take it away, take it out, crush it. If that didn't get the message across, he wasn't sure what else he could do. This sakura was not illusionary, and his mind wasn't caught in an illusion either; it was real and solid and there and there was no way he could bend his mind to evade it. Just that one thought sent his mind reeling as his fingers slowly bent, one at a time to try and assure himself that he wasn't out cold (or dead, for that matter -- but Hibari wouldn't die, not at all) on the floor yet. He cursed the thing and man who had given him this disease, cursed them relentlessly in his mind.
But this wasn't right; how did she know his name? How did she speak to him with a sense of familiarity?
Euphemia li Britannia -- who was she?
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Wait. She turned her head and the blossoming branches held in water, often used for the flower arrangements for their fragrance and delicate appearance. He surely was not talking about the plants, was he? What harm could the flowers do, especially if they were nowhere near him? But Euphemia decided this wasn't the time to question the sanity of his request, and instead she inclined her head down, nodding.
"The cherry blossom branches," she said, as if clarifying, and not even waiting for him to reply, she got up from her crouching position and immediately began taking those heavy vases and moving them to the back room, away from Hibari. She wasn't quite sure what this would do, but if it worked, it would work. She didn't like seeing her employees, or potential friends if they would let her, lying on the floor in near-torture.
It took a good fifteen minutes, but finally Euphemia came back from placing the last of the sakura in the backroom, looking anxiously over at Hibari.
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He hated the knowledge.
Even without the sakura there, he was still incapable of moving too well, so he let his fingers inch slowly up his chest to uselessly touch the blood. Hibari could feel Euphemia's eyes on him, but he chose to ignore her with his eyes closed. As he finally decided to stop scrabbling onto consciousness, a thought struck him:
She hadn't asked any questions.
...Suddenly, he found her presence just a bit less irritating. Maybe.
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But she had potions. She got up slowly, going to the backroom and shuffling throuhg the First Aid box until she got that small glass bottle filled with a green liquid--she had never had one herself, but it couldn't be too bad. She went back into the front where Hibari was.
How to get him to drink it? He certainly wasn't going to really accept her help, was he?
She bent down and tried to nestle the bottle against his lips, prepared to tip it so he could get some of the liquid down his throat. "Drink."
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And then he felt better -- not enough to pull him back awake, but enough so that sleep blanketed peacefully over his face. Hibari looked different, almost. The slight scowl usually present on his face was still there, but it gave him a shadow of vulnerability. ...Of course, it didn't help that he was lying in a puddle of his own blood, next to someone who was actually trying to help him.
Suddenly, a slight smile tugged on his lips as he murmured quietly: "A game, Britannia. If anyone makes a sound while I sleep...I'll bite them to death."
Then again, even if he was usually woken by "a falling leaf," there was no way he would have the ability to actually follow through with the terms of the game.
But nevermind that.
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She continued to twist her hands nervously.
"That isn't a good game," she said, mouth turning slightly down at the corners, but she didn't show she disagreed. Instead she moved to the backroom for a few more moments, before coming back--something was rustling in her hands, and when she unravelled it, it was obviously a sheet of fabric.
She tore off a piece and bent down towards Hibari, her mouth set firmly in a line. "You need a tourniquet for your wounds, at the very least."
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He was used to staying around the hospital when he was younger (this age), always being close to Namimori. Being the one upholding the hospital and being utterly revered by the director, he didn't find it odd to take a stroll in when he was in need of peace and quiet, even if he only caught a cold. It had been that, that had also helped shape him. When he wanted something, no matter how unorthodox, he would get it. But, he didn't ever like being hospitalized unless he chose it out of his own free will.
And this, certainly, wasn't of his own free will. Even if it was impossible, he still insisted to himself that he could sit back, poof!, and his body would heal itself. It was always that belief that he carried on his shoulders, the belief that sent him fighting above his limits, fighting with no regard with what could happen to his own body. No matter the extent of his damage, it would all eventually be fixed, back into top condition for him to break down once more. No matter what, there would be no chance that he would fall. Even if an enemy managed to strike him down, he would inevitably spring back up, teeth locked to take blood.
Even if this idea of action out of pity disgusted him, he would endure.
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