He had come out to take a call, half-hearted, not quite ready to stop enjoying himself (it was wearisome, in a way, to be as he was). He didn't pause to count the hours, wonder what in the hell time it was in Italy that they would be calling him in an evening hour he'd counted in the previous days as a peaceful, business-free one. He stood with his head to the door until Lambo's violent vacillations between crying and laughter became too much, and, murmuring business-like banalities under his breath to the voice on the other end, opened the door, stepped outside.
It wasn't not long. He made sure of it. He admitted time and again that he tended to lose focus of the job at hand when Romario's voice was not grounding him, when he had to listen to code and shady offerings for more than five minutes. His hand remained on the door, (he lives for and in moments where he doesn't have to think, where he can smile). He was prepared to step back inside the moment he ended the call with some brief pleasantries, shove the dark side of the mafia out and bask in the light. He glanced up when he murmured "goodbye," saw a faintly familiar form.
He knew what he -- she -- they were, vague images of an imprisonment he turned a blind eye toward (wasn't that diplomacy for you, he thought with a wry smile). He also knew diplomacy could be a lovely thing, things amalgamating into parties and nonsense, brief fits of contentment that keep you going. He knew, that meant, that this person had not had much of an opportunity to experience a healthy dose of that.
Which was not acceptable.
He smiled openly and shoved his cell phone into his pocket. "Don't be shy," he said.
Sometimes, when Mukuro was feeling pleasantly indulgent (and thinking in terms of other people's dictionaries) he self reflected. In an amusing way he was not so different from Hibari Kyouya -- too much mingling. And at the same time, they were drastically different. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly indulgent he would allow himself a small taste of envy for the Disciplinary Committee head. Hibari, he was sure, would have passed through Hell with no attachments to singe and burn. Today, however, he wasn't feeling that indulgent and kept his thoughts ordered and forward.
The mafia was disgusting, so reflective of this world and people's desires. Though. The light in the back of his head, that seemed to match the windows in front of him was not so bad. Sawada Tsunayoshi was too kind of a person (and what juxtaposition was that? To go with such a mafia style). Hardly as straight forward as he seemed. Mukuro did not think he had been so perplexed in a long time.
Of course. Don't be shy, from the mouth of some mafia ally of the Vongola was almost as perplexing.
The smile Dino Cavallone wore seemed so similar to Sawada Tsunayoshi's in so many ways. How open was the illusion. Mukuro could himself smiling back, pleasantly deceptive. He had grown up on the mafia, and there was no betraying his life lessons.
He wasn't expecting that. He reconsidered, thought he'd never known what to expect, with Mukuro. Chrome. This strange situation shoved under the bed by the mafia world (he had, of course let it be, because he did not know what was wrong and while the megalomaniacs you could see roamed freely, it was simply a little nag in the pit of his stomach, another injustice to mull over in a spare moment) now waited outside like a stray dog. How harmless, how disarming.
The sounds of warmth reached him from under the door, he wanted terribly to open it. And yet.
"Well! Come in," he said, "Tsuna's probably been waiting for you to show." He flashed another smile, inviting, knocked his cell phone out of his pocket in the process. The back, the battery, flew into the finely manicured lawn. "Oh," he said, and found (with a sudden quirk of his lips, disbelief), that he was hesitant to kneel to pick them up. Ridiculous. And yet.
Dino was unexpectedly like a golden retriever with too big feet. Mukuro was reminded (how oddly) of Ken, which brought a slight chuckle to his lips. What a habit, kufufufu, now it was more of a habit than a laugh. He crossed over into the lawn and bent, at the knee, crouching low in the grass and picked up the back of the cell phone and batter.
From his crouch he looked up at Dino, still smiling. "Somehow, I doubt that." Unlike most he had little faith in Sawada Tsunayoshi's capacity to love. Unexpectedly nice, yes, but there was always something else. If things were so baldfaced as to be what they were he would have no problem bending them. There had already been more than a spark of strength in the Vongola Tenth, not to mention his intuition. He always got the urge to say 'Well played, Vongola Tenth,' complete with hand motions... just to do it.
It was -- flattering, almost. To hear so much, so much wrong with the person before him, and then to see him kneeling as if in service to him, doing it for him -- it was so disarming. He huffed a laugh. "Thanks. The phone's getting a little old."
His expression changed somewhat, a little warmer. Doubt meant self-deprecation meant nothing he needed to take seriously. "Quit it," he said lightly, "you know Tsuna's a big worrier over stuff like this." In retrospect, perhaps not; it didn't matter. Parties were not things to be denied; it wasn't that it was a step in the direction of consumating fellowship, nor that you walked home reassured in your place among friends -- when you laughed hard enough you could cry it out (everything), and when you laughed hard enough no one would think twice when you pressed your head to the table and breathed sigh after sigh, becoming the haggard and sloppy person your very fibers begged you to be throughout the weeks of business (months years).
It was a connection common enough among those in the mafia -- the need for another. Mafia are perhaps the most social beings of all, he had once said. Out of necessity.
Here stood Rokudou Mukuro and Chrome, two people's worth of strife, utterly alone and shut up. "You are shy," he said, for he honestly, in this happy moment, imagine anything else he could blame.
He turned the phone pieces over in his palm. It was almost funny, he had never owned a cell phone. He wondered if he would have used one, ever. If, all those times, when he trecked back from Lancia's (and he thought of it was Lancia's, peculiar in his labeling) to where Ken and Chikusa were -- would he have just called? It would have been simpler, of course, and faster.
Mukuro brushed the thanks aside, not moving to stand, and even placing a hand flat against the ground. He knew he looked contemplative, wondered how the Cavallone reflected that with his words. If, at all. Weren't they all the type to take things at face value, or line it up with their goals (and wasn't he simply the product of that and mimicry of as well?).
"He's too sweet," Mukuro commented, the ground was going to frost, in a few days (or weeks). He could feel it in the dirt, already prickling with chill. As nice as always, and what was this Dino then? It was hard to believe that there was more than one Sawada Tsunyoshi, so he craned his neck and looked at up at Dino, unwavering in his study.
Like a tedious argument, who was it who wrote that, thought Dino. The way he wondered if he were not balancing on a tightrope with this familiar-enough stranger. He kneeled, a little step forward in the right direction, so that no one in this scene would have to think it was the time for formalities. (He loathed them.)
"I think it's cute," he said lightly. Refreshing from the stifling world they'd escaped from this night. He rested his hands on his knees. He met Mukuro's eyes with confidence, he'd practiced this for years, he hardly gave it a thought now. It had gotten him into trouble and scuffles before, near-death situations, but he was all instinct by now. Sloppy, because, in short, this person was supposed to be a friend.
"Why else would you wait out in the cold?" He, rather slowly, opened his palm to accept the pieces of cell phone and devise once again a nice, presentable demeanor. "You can't tell me you're having fun out here."
Mukuro handed over the pieces, rocking back on his heels a little. Was he having fun? That was entirely possible. Taking things apart was something he had learned to take pleasure in, the construction of scenes and tearing down of supports. And silent, for a few seconds.
"Perhaps I hate mingling," he replied, almost cheerful. The mockery of Hibari was quite clear. To an extent it wasn't a false either, Mukuro had no interest in people and their human habits. Their 'mingling' and noise making. Their laughter. He had invested his care in other things, one of which was such a firm pillar against that.
"Or perhaps I was waiting for someone to come outside, to kill them."
Lie? He knew he could pass any lie detector short of the hyper-intuition of Sawada Tsunayoshi. And even that. Even that could be broken down if he sunk to the depths of Chrome's mind again and surrounded himself with her spirit.
He smiled immeiately at that, the moment it plopped with such simplicity from Mukuro's lips. Where was Kyouya, anyway, these kids needed to learn for once how to enjoy themselves, he was thinking, when --
The little crack in the smile was evident, growing. Silent alarms flashing. What sort of kid -- it wasn't frightening, not when no weapon was in sight. It was almost irritating; don't pull the fire alarm or you'll be expelled. "We've already had our fill of dealing with bloodlust these past few days," he said with a faint smile, somewhere between amused and annoyed (these kids), "I think we're all set for now." Lay down the sword already, all of you.
Mukuro wondered, briefly, how easy it would be to kill Dino Cavallone, here. It would not be the first time he had killed someone and he assumed it would not be the last. In this train of thought, he thought about what he would use, a blade or his hands (he had never been one for strangulation) or the maddening grasp of illusions to still the heart? Death could be so clean, pristine. ...and he wondered why he cared whether or not this would be a death Chrome's body (even if he had manifested fully) committed; a first murder should be special.
"You almost sound like him," Almost like Tsuna, only too assured. Too confident in his words and position. More like the mafia, Mukuro decided.
He was smiling again. Yes, decidedly more amused at this strange person kneeling here so calm, enlightened. It was charming. "Thanks," he said, knowing exactly who they had in common. "You sound like my student." Which was ony half true, but Dino found himself without a foundation. Groping blindly through this odd little encounter, wanting it to continue on, not knowing the magic words to break this person out of the shell he could feel.
So he took this odd person's hand, just the back of it, just so, gentle, so as not to cause a stir. "Come in," he said decidedly. "If I can sound like your boss, I think that entitles me to invite you into his home, eh?"
Touch was such an unusual thing. He did not actively dislike it, and over the years he had certainly learned to react in the way that other people did. To treat it with a fluster if the situation called for it, anger, or acceptance. The lines of social etiquette on touch were very situationally based -- this one required nothing more than the tilt of his head, and the slight tilt of his lips.
"My boss...?" He questions. How funny, the word 'boss', it's clumsy in Japanese. "I wouldn't lump myself together with them," and a bob of the head, indicating the household behind Dino. No, he would not consider himself Vongola.
There was this nagging bit of intuition Dino frequently crushed when he didn't need to keep high the airs his men expectd, the realist in him that would say 'this won't work' or 'this is kind of stupid of you.' It was biting at his stomach, kicking around in his head, saying 'It might be a bad idea to take someone like this inside.'
He always thought of Hibari as not quite house-trained. Mukuro and Chrome -- were more of the willing refugees. The light burns their eyes. (He thinks he understands -- no, he does. Certainly.) The realist was now half-sated; Dino kept holding, and yet there was no jovial laughter, the dismissal as he pulled his captive inside. Instead: "No?" he asked mildly, ready to forget. "Then who do you lump with, if not someone as lumpable as Tsuna?"
A flash of childishness, the urge to firmly plant his feet and protest -- Mukuro gave into half of it. Planted his feet firmly, half teasingly compliant in tone of voice. "No one human." Was the answer to the question. He wondered if the concept would be understood at all.
Humanity, this world, it clung to his skin like sweat and oil. Sometimes, when he wasn't being careful, it burned and stung. Mukuro was not fond of either feeling, but the clinging was what he disliked the most. The feeling of being heavy, or drowning.
"And I am not going to go where unwelcome." Another situation he had created for himself, as he often did. People were so easy to read and it was even easier to plant a seed and wait for their opinions to be changed by it. Mukuro Rokudou, great criminal and murderer was not welcome -- and he knew that if he were to let Chrome go in his stay she would be far more welcome. How silly of them, to think any tool (needed person) of his was kinder to the world than he.
No one who had managed in the mafia world thus far was a terribly religious person. God was now a facade, a tipping of the hat to tradition. It wasn't that he believed Mukuro believed.
But he did fish around in his pocket (that black hole) and pull out his rosary. "Inescapable force, isn't it." More positive influences in the world were always welcome, he decided, and simply leaned against the door. Okay. Five more minutes, he said, and hit the snooze button on the rest of the world. "Am I welcome to wait around with you?" (Never mind that he had not a clue why.)
Religious? Mukuro straightened, a bit, reclaiming his hand to shove it back in his pocket again. He needed distance from this, he preferred distance. There was something grumbling in his movement he knew, too obvious of a slight dislike.
"I'm not particularly religious," he had once read a book on the 'religious concepts' that he could say were parts of his life. Or lives. He was well aware of the teachings of some man who had once been called the Buddha. He thought them ridiculous and only a little bit truthful.
No, he felt like saying. Instead: "I was just leaving," a thin smile. He could hear them, pleasantly warm and full of light. He thought, even, he might have heard Lancia's voice (was it a laugh as well?) -- and said 'at least I am not envious' to himself.
It wasn't not long. He made sure of it. He admitted time and again that he tended to lose focus of the job at hand when Romario's voice was not grounding him, when he had to listen to code and shady offerings for more than five minutes. His hand remained on the door, (he lives for and in moments where he doesn't have to think, where he can smile). He was prepared to step back inside the moment he ended the call with some brief pleasantries, shove the dark side of the mafia out and bask in the light. He glanced up when he murmured "goodbye," saw a faintly familiar form.
He knew what he -- she -- they were, vague images of an imprisonment he turned a blind eye toward (wasn't that diplomacy for you, he thought with a wry smile). He also knew diplomacy could be a lovely thing, things amalgamating into parties and nonsense, brief fits of contentment that keep you going. He knew, that meant, that this person had not had much of an opportunity to experience a healthy dose of that.
Which was not acceptable.
He smiled openly and shoved his cell phone into his pocket. "Don't be shy," he said.
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The mafia was disgusting, so reflective of this world and people's desires. Though. The light in the back of his head, that seemed to match the windows in front of him was not so bad. Sawada Tsunayoshi was too kind of a person (and what juxtaposition was that? To go with such a mafia style). Hardly as straight forward as he seemed. Mukuro did not think he had been so perplexed in a long time.
Of course. Don't be shy, from the mouth of some mafia ally of the Vongola was almost as perplexing.
The smile Dino Cavallone wore seemed so similar to Sawada Tsunayoshi's in so many ways. How open was the illusion. Mukuro could himself smiling back, pleasantly deceptive. He had grown up on the mafia, and there was no betraying his life lessons.
"I'm hardly shy."
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The sounds of warmth reached him from under the door, he wanted terribly to open it. And yet.
"Well! Come in," he said, "Tsuna's probably been waiting for you to show." He flashed another smile, inviting, knocked his cell phone out of his pocket in the process. The back, the battery, flew into the finely manicured lawn. "Oh," he said, and found (with a sudden quirk of his lips, disbelief), that he was hesitant to kneel to pick them up. Ridiculous. And yet.
Reply
Dino was unexpectedly like a golden retriever with too big feet. Mukuro was reminded (how oddly) of Ken, which brought a slight chuckle to his lips. What a habit, kufufufu, now it was more of a habit than a laugh. He crossed over into the lawn and bent, at the knee, crouching low in the grass and picked up the back of the cell phone and batter.
From his crouch he looked up at Dino, still smiling. "Somehow, I doubt that." Unlike most he had little faith in Sawada Tsunayoshi's capacity to love. Unexpectedly nice, yes, but there was always something else. If things were so baldfaced as to be what they were he would have no problem bending them. There had already been more than a spark of strength in the Vongola Tenth, not to mention his intuition. He always got the urge to say 'Well played, Vongola Tenth,' complete with hand motions... just to do it.
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His expression changed somewhat, a little warmer. Doubt meant self-deprecation meant nothing he needed to take seriously. "Quit it," he said lightly, "you know Tsuna's a big worrier over stuff like this." In retrospect, perhaps not; it didn't matter. Parties were not things to be denied; it wasn't that it was a step in the direction of consumating fellowship, nor that you walked home reassured in your place among friends -- when you laughed hard enough you could cry it out (everything), and when you laughed hard enough no one would think twice when you pressed your head to the table and breathed sigh after sigh, becoming the haggard and sloppy person your very fibers begged you to be throughout the weeks of business (months years).
It was a connection common enough among those in the mafia -- the need for another. Mafia are perhaps the most social beings of all, he had once said. Out of necessity.
Here stood Rokudou Mukuro and Chrome, two people's worth of strife, utterly alone and shut up. "You are shy," he said, for he honestly, in this happy moment, imagine anything else he could blame.
[ooc: I let myself get carried away SORRY.]
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Mukuro brushed the thanks aside, not moving to stand, and even placing a hand flat against the ground. He knew he looked contemplative, wondered how the Cavallone reflected that with his words. If, at all. Weren't they all the type to take things at face value, or line it up with their goals (and wasn't he simply the product of that and mimicry of as well?).
"He's too sweet," Mukuro commented, the ground was going to frost, in a few days (or weeks). He could feel it in the dirt, already prickling with chill. As nice as always, and what was this Dino then? It was hard to believe that there was more than one Sawada Tsunyoshi, so he craned his neck and looked at up at Dino, unwavering in his study.
"What makes you say that?"
((ooc: It's okay >D ARGH. DONE TYPOING.))
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"I think it's cute," he said lightly. Refreshing from the stifling world they'd escaped from this night. He rested his hands on his knees. He met Mukuro's eyes with confidence, he'd practiced this for years, he hardly gave it a thought now. It had gotten him into trouble and scuffles before, near-death situations, but he was all instinct by now. Sloppy, because, in short, this person was supposed to be a friend.
"Why else would you wait out in the cold?" He, rather slowly, opened his palm to accept the pieces of cell phone and devise once again a nice, presentable demeanor. "You can't tell me you're having fun out here."
Reply
"Perhaps I hate mingling," he replied, almost cheerful. The mockery of Hibari was quite clear. To an extent it wasn't a false either, Mukuro had no interest in people and their human habits. Their 'mingling' and noise making. Their laughter. He had invested his care in other things, one of which was such a firm pillar against that.
"Or perhaps I was waiting for someone to come outside, to kill them."
Lie? He knew he could pass any lie detector short of the hyper-intuition of Sawada Tsunayoshi. And even that. Even that could be broken down if he sunk to the depths of Chrome's mind again and surrounded himself with her spirit.
Reply
The little crack in the smile was evident, growing. Silent alarms flashing. What sort of kid -- it wasn't frightening, not when no weapon was in sight. It was almost irritating; don't pull the fire alarm or you'll be expelled. "We've already had our fill of dealing with bloodlust these past few days," he said with a faint smile, somewhere between amused and annoyed (these kids), "I think we're all set for now." Lay down the sword already, all of you.
Reply
Mukuro wondered, briefly, how easy it would be to kill Dino Cavallone, here. It would not be the first time he had killed someone and he assumed it would not be the last. In this train of thought, he thought about what he would use, a blade or his hands (he had never been one for strangulation) or the maddening grasp of illusions to still the heart? Death could be so clean, pristine. ...and he wondered why he cared whether or not this would be a death Chrome's body (even if he had manifested fully) committed; a first murder should be special.
"You almost sound like him," Almost like Tsuna, only too assured. Too confident in his words and position. More like the mafia, Mukuro decided.
Reply
So he took this odd person's hand, just the back of it, just so, gentle, so as not to cause a stir. "Come in," he said decidedly. "If I can sound like your boss, I think that entitles me to invite you into his home, eh?"
Reply
"My boss...?" He questions. How funny, the word 'boss', it's clumsy in Japanese. "I wouldn't lump myself together with them," and a bob of the head, indicating the household behind Dino. No, he would not consider himself Vongola.
Reply
He always thought of Hibari as not quite house-trained. Mukuro and Chrome -- were more of the willing refugees. The light burns their eyes. (He thinks he understands -- no, he does. Certainly.) The realist was now half-sated; Dino kept holding, and yet there was no jovial laughter, the dismissal as he pulled his captive inside. Instead: "No?" he asked mildly, ready to forget. "Then who do you lump with, if not someone as lumpable as Tsuna?"
Reply
Humanity, this world, it clung to his skin like sweat and oil. Sometimes, when he wasn't being careful, it burned and stung. Mukuro was not fond of either feeling, but the clinging was what he disliked the most. The feeling of being heavy, or drowning.
"And I am not going to go where unwelcome." Another situation he had created for himself, as he often did. People were so easy to read and it was even easier to plant a seed and wait for their opinions to be changed by it. Mukuro Rokudou, great criminal and murderer was not welcome -- and he knew that if he were to let Chrome go in his stay she would be far more welcome. How silly of them, to think any tool (needed person) of his was kinder to the world than he.
Reply
No one who had managed in the mafia world thus far was a terribly religious person. God was now a facade, a tipping of the hat to tradition. It wasn't that he believed Mukuro believed.
But he did fish around in his pocket (that black hole) and pull out his rosary. "Inescapable force, isn't it." More positive influences in the world were always welcome, he decided, and simply leaned against the door. Okay. Five more minutes, he said, and hit the snooze button on the rest of the world. "Am I welcome to wait around with you?" (Never mind that he had not a clue why.)
Reply
"I'm not particularly religious," he had once read a book on the 'religious concepts' that he could say were parts of his life. Or lives. He was well aware of the teachings of some man who had once been called the Buddha. He thought them ridiculous and only a little bit truthful.
No, he felt like saying. Instead: "I was just leaving," a thin smile. He could hear them, pleasantly warm and full of light. He thought, even, he might have heard Lancia's voice (was it a laugh as well?) -- and said 'at least I am not envious' to himself.
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