[Fic/Art] Reborn!: Three Questions, Asks the Buddha
This is. This is...
Five hours earlier, I'd just finished rewriting the first part. Fast forward four hours; a third part gets dragged out by its proverbial hair, kicking and screaming bloody murder. I have homework in three classes due tomorrow.
In short, I kind of want to die.
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Title: Three Questions, Asks the Buddha
Series/Characters: [Reborn!] Mukuro/Hibari (Kind of. Sort of.)
Disclaimer: Amano's. Am only playing.
Word Count: 3567
Notes: If I ever get it into my head to take it upon myself to write a fic AND illustrate it again, please, someone beat the horrible, horrible notion out of me.
Else known as “Three Possible Scenarios in Which Mukuro Pisses Hibari Off.” The first part went through a massive rewrite. Three times. The second part’s illustration nearly landed me into a mental institution (brownie points to those who can pinpoint the little extras I added in my effort to preserve my sanity). The third part’s illustration makes no sense in conjecture with the fic and yes, I realize that it looks like Hibari is proposing to Mukuro (he’s not, really), and that if Mukuro’s eye were angled any different, it’d look as if he were eying Hibari’s crotch (as if he wasn’t already).
I’ve uploaded the bigger versions of the illustrations up on DevArt. So, if you’re thus inclined to look at them in all their colorless glory, they’re linked individually within the fic itself.
Dedication: Happy Birthday to nittle_grasper! I’d just like to say that with this, I demand to be free of holiday/birthday gift obligations until next year. I have no wish of becoming your fanworks-monkey ever again. OTL
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Three Questions, Asks the Buddha
by kasugai_gummie
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[My, how you’ve changed my dear Chrome...]
Perhaps it was the out-of-place scent (something fruity and somewhat sweet, like that disgusting alcoholic beverage Cavallone once had the gall of offering him), a touch of Not-Namimori that snaked through the afternoon air and wound around his head like a shroud. It may have been the unacceptable breach in his personal space, or even the displeasing sense of déjà vu that came with.
It had only been a few days since a rather conspicuous amount of herbivores (and, more alarmingly, the baby) seemed to have disappeared without a trace-albeit some of which were reported to have been replaced almost immediately with even more herbivores who, according to the footnotes, could’ve registered as “familiar”-if the Disciplinary President was one to remember faces to begin with.
He wasn’t, though. Older, stranger, less pathetic herbivores were still herbivores nonetheless; those who crowded and were so weak so as to cling to one another deserved no recognition, and Hibari, already displeased with the sudden shift in Namimori’s status quo, had grown increasingly incensed (foreigners who had not completed the paperwork prior to entering Namimori were not to be tolerated).
Pi-ni-ah-ra-da, or was it pi-ko-ra-da? No matter. Regardless of what it was, whatever it was, someone had dared to get close enough to tread on his shadow, thereby encroaching on his personal space (a punishable offense; ref. Namimori handbook, Appendix C) and Hibari judiciously spun around, tonfa released with the practical intent to maim.
“You look well, Hibari-san.” A low voice greeted him-calm, respectful, somewhere to his right, then his left, plus the light tap of dress shoes on cement.
Feminine.
The hand that moved up to deflect his strike was tapered like a woman’s, all well-masked calluses and well-shaped nails; Hibari stilled, just enough for the unwelcome stranger to side-step away on polished heels. Slant eyes narrowed at the woman, scrutinizing her features, at eyes hidden by designer shades and the odd black strap that ran parallel to the rims only to disappear into the dark sweep of bangs at her temple. Vaguely familiar, but not.
An herbivore, then.
Judgment passed, Hibari wound back, tonfa spinning. “Disappear,” he said in passing as he darted forward, torso held close to the ground and arm cocked towards the middle of her face. Frivolous accessories weren’t allowed within a half-kilometer radius of school grounds.
The strange woman dodged again, however, putting quite a bit of distance between them before stopping short. “Not quite,” she demurred, offering a polite smile that curled with something not unlike a secret on wry lips, “not yet. I’m here to deliver a message actually.”
“A message,” Hibari echoed, deadpan. He straightened, tonfas lowering to his sides-not quite at ease, but no longer projecting that business-like penchant for murder.
“Message,” the woman repeated, reaching up to pull down her shades. Hibari frowned even more at what was revealing to be an insignia-stamped eye patch.
“He’s been meaning to meet you again, for-”
“-quite some time now,” Mukuro finished, tucking away the eyewear into his jacket’s breast pocket. “It’s been a while, Hibari Kyouya. You’re looking well.”
A sharp intake of breath hissed through clenched teeth. Hibari almost rocked forward. “Rokudou.”
“In person,” Mukuro said. “Though,” he amended, “not for too long. This Chrome has yet to finish regaling me with all the tumultuous happenings in our near future. Fascinating stuff that I’m sure even you might find interesting.”
Hibari slid another half-step forward, expression almost droll in its disdain. “Your pathetic future does not concern me.”
“Oh?” Mukuro smirked. “Not even if I tell you that nine years from now Namimori will be compromised?”
Something shuttered to a standstill behind Hibari’s eyes; so Mukuro waited. Anticipated. Traced little fanciful caricatures of nocturnal creatures and birds and ashes with the end of his trident against the sidewalk.
The shadows the satellite of buildings cast were long and seemed to grow even longer with each inch of setting sun lost to the horizon. When Hibari spoke again, it was with something dark and dangerous and brewing underneath the tight leash of his voice. “To lie to the Discipline Committee Head is a punishable offense,” he recited, his face a pale mask blanked by stiff fury.
The distance between them didn’t so much as close as it did disappear; Mukuro swinging down his trident to block, a five burning in his right eye; Hibari, lips pressed together in concentration, striking in quick succession to bypass Mukuro’s guard and perhaps to collapse an Italian lung.
“You’ve gotten stronger again,” Mukuro noted, and Hibari bared his teeth against another whisper of déjà vu. “But even the strong do not always survive,” finished the illusionist with a flourish, five flashing to two, a token word murmured to the sudden rasp of coils at their feet.
Hibari tripped. Sideways. On a snake. And he refused to contemplate the ramifications of such a disgrace and camaraderie with a certain other who crashed into walls of air on a regular basis. The sharp blow to the head-a lucky hit, really-shouldn’t have been surprising (and it wasn’t), but it still stung. A little. It was distracting enough to be a rightful nuisance, anyway.
Hibari shook his head against the din of bells clamoring between his ears. The staggered step back allowed him to check his balance, but barely. A flicker of a shadow in the corner of his eye, there, just to the right of that row of hedges-
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the arcobaleno‘s disappearance by now.”
And it was too late, Hibari discovered in mid-turn, mid-tilt, as a gloved hand closed around his wrist and wrenched his arm, tonfa and all, behind his back. Pinned it there. Another hand, fingers curled around the length of that ridiculous staff, pressed between his shoulder blades-an unnecessary assistant to the wall that rush up to meet him. Inexcusable-unacceptable-I will rend his flesh from his bones, Hibari thought-a jumble of wild, murderous thoughts-just as an unwelcome chin descended upon his shoulder, a humorless laugh pressed against his collar.
“Nine years and ten months from now, Namimori shall be compromised,” Mukuro said, leaning in close, closer to the shell of Hibari’s ear, as if divulging in a conspiracy. Perhaps he was. “Foreigners, like me, like Cavallone’s golden leader, will come armed with flames and secrets.”
Hibari had stilled; he didn’t need to crane his neck to see Mukuro’s infuriatingly trite smile that was anything but.
“Your town will be decimated,” Mukuro continued. “and the casualties, according to my dear Chrome from nine years and ten months in the future, will include Reborn and Sawada Tsunayoshi.” A small frown hovered on the Italian’s lips in a sudden moment of pique, “Of which, personally, I find a bit troublesome, if you ask me.”
But Hibari didn’t ask, didn’t even voice his derision. Rather, he settled for glaring at his captor from the corner of his eye and gripped his tonfas tighter despite the uncomfortable pressure on his shoulder. Everything was suddenly too warm and too still. Too close. And as Mukuro leaned in further when it became apparent that there would be no immediate answer forthcoming, smiling lips mouthing a travesty of niceties along the sharp line of a clenched jaw, the option of dislocating his shoulder to escape never seemed more appealing to Hibari than it did at that single moment.
Mukuro, for his part, merely feigned ignorance-a beatific smile at odds with the brute force he was applying in order to keep Hibari in place-insult on top of injury. “You know, I suppose it is fortunate that we are apparently still alive,” he said guilelessly. “But then that just raises the question of mortality even higher still.
“In light of such a future-tell me, Hibari Kyouya, when do you think you will die?”
It took a minute before something like a smile (but not quite, never that) curled over incisors-white and sharp and warning. “Not until I bite you dead,” Hibari said, body thrumming from the tension and ready to explode in a maelstrom of spikes and metal and death. He might’ve even said more if not for Mukuro forcing him playfully against (into) the wall.
Bricks dug against skin and bone. A light tsk touched across the finer strands at the nape of his neck and, despite having to keep one eye closed less he lose it against the mortar, Hibari could almost see his opponent’s mock concern.
“Oh, you Japanese. You’ve at least heard of ‘chivalry’ have you not?”
Hibari hadn’t, actually. “That term,” said Japanese managed to bite out, “is not found in the Namimori sanctioned dictionary.”
Mukuro laughed. “Is that so?” he asked, a speck of speculation coloring his voice. “Well, perhaps that would explain some things then.” Mukuro shook his head mournfully. “Such a patriarchal society really. You see, in most of Europe at least, ‘chivalry’ dictates that in certain situations of great importance, women and,” the hand clamped around Hibari’s wrist tightens, “children go first.”
“Sophistries,” Hibari said before he ducked to the side and pulled. The immediate sound of bone popping out of its socket was not one Mukuro had expected to hear anytime soon. Not if his arched brow and the “oh” of his mouth were of any indication anyway. Bracing one leg against the wall, Hibari ground his other sole against the concrete until he finally found better footing-no matter how flimsy it might’ve looked. Pivot on aforementioned footing and twist with the applied torque into the other’s chest; slam his shoulder cuff back into place, roll it twice; shake out the ache.
They stumbled in step; Hibari pushing against Mukuro’s lanky frame, tonfas in tow. “I will bite all intruders to death. Starting with you,” he promised as they pulled away from the wall together, sweeping an arm up with every intention of crushing Mukuro’s jaw from below.
“Oya,” Mukuro said, eyes glinting with lofty amusement and tilted his head to the side to let the tonfa pass. “Ran out of patience already?” He let out an indulgent sigh. “Very well. I suppose I can always ask you again some other day.”
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[Kyou-san, you have a visitor-]
And it’s a good thing they’re all used to this by now because Hibari crosses the threshold without warning, Ring of Cloud flaring on his finger. Breezing past Kusakabe, he catches the unwanted guest across the face with a flying tonfa. “What do you want?”
Mukuro takes it all in stride, head twisting with the blow-not an illusion this time?-smirking despite a split lip. He grabs hold of the follow-up strike however, stops Hibari’s advance long enough to allow himself a moment of recomposure. “Not the front door? That’s fine. Shall I come through a window next time then?”
“There won’t be a next time,” Hibari sneers, but nods curtly when Kusakabe, already halfway through the door, respectfully inquires if he should “go prepare the tea.”
Hibari waits for all of half-a-minute-the time it takes for Kusakabe to leave their general vicinity-before wrenching his tonfa out of Mukuro’s grasp just as the air around them blurs, melts.
And suddenly they’re indoors; the scattered maples of Hibari’s courtyard replaced with gilded pillars and carved marble in sharp relief; the sky, a domed ceiling. Murals of saints and frescos of the heavenly Host cover every inch of wall space not otherwise occupied. The decor, in all, is very grandiose and very European and Hibari, never an avid appreciator of western architecture to begin with, bristles.
The marble sounds oddly like glass when it gives oh-so-easily under the long end of a tonfa. Hibari rounds on Mukuro, who’d summoned his trident with the illusion, ire evident only in the way he releases the spikes (terse and abrupt). “Undo this.”
But Mukuro doesn’t, seemingly engrossed in the fruits of his imagination, and, with a small furrow of concentration, adds a few streaming beams of light almost as an afterthought. “Did you know? Another pope died today,” the Italian finally remarks after a while, stops passing the staff between his hands and fixes his mismatched gaze on Hibari. “The holy leader is laid to rest; called back to the bosom of the Christian god. An entire institution grieves. For all of nine days anyway.”
“Tragic.” And Hibari gives Mukuro a look-one that speaks volumes as to just how much he empathizes with said tragedy. Which is to say, none at all and with a lot left to be desired. Then he’s sprinting forward and Mukuro’s twisting to the side and they’re moving in wordless tangent: right leg sweep, parry, left foot step, block. The trident gleams black and silver and sweeps downwards in a wave and crashes, locks against the junction of grip and grey steel. Mukuro bends down and Hibari leans up and Mukuro continues to divulge in his spiel at his increasingly irate opponent.
“The entire Cavallone family will pay their respects today, offer their thoughts and prayers to His Holiness, and I’m sure the arcobaleno will insist that Vongola’s illustrious leader and his father visit the Vatican as well. The Storm and Thunder Guardians will accompany their don faithfully and might even shed the appropriate tears under this arched palace. If they were brought up properly that is. Not even Siddhārtha Gautama himself received so much immediate civil ceremony and pomp posthumously.”
It takes the gouging of an entire chunk of wall to give Mukuro pause. “Now you’re just being disrespectful, destroying religious property,” he chides, shaking his head at the illusory damage. “Though,” he smiles wider, eyes glinting with malicious delight, “I do believe you’ve just thusly declared war on half of the Sicilian network. Good job.”
Hibari, as to be expected, does not answer; instead he takes another chunk out of John the Baptist’s robe (for good measure) and is about to rake a paint-chipped furrow through baby Jesus’s swaddling clothes when a voice that sounds vaguely like Kusakabe’s filters through the too-ethereal, too-vibrant surroundings.
“The tea is ready, Kyou-san.”
Playtime’s over. The tonfas lower almost immediately, though perhaps a bit reluctantly. “Undo this.”
“It is a little ostentatious isn’t it...”
“It’s an eyesore. Those preaching herbivores are eyesores. You’re an eyesore. Undo it.”
“How cold. And here I thought you’d be more pleased when the chance to finally bite me dead and proper presented itself again.” Mukuro arches an eyebrow, but releases the illusion anyway. The mosaics of saints bleed back into cherry wood and an oriental garden. “It’s been six years since-”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“-we first met, face to face. Really? But I even brought you flowers back then.”
Kusakabe coughs discretely from the door, lacquered tea tray held at his side.
“Besides, the pope just died. It is, as you said, very tragic. As a member of the Vongola Famiglia, as a affiliate of La Cosa Nostra, you’re expected to commiserate in the sadness. I came to see if you were alright, really; faith can be such a heart wrenching business,” Mukuro says in all mock-seriousness. He takes a moment to consider Hibari however, eyes the shorter man’s un-amused disdain. “But perhaps it’s just as well that you have not deigned to pick up the basis of mafia belief. I’d solicit some more, but I will assume your priorities haven’t changed.”
Hibari is silent in his contempt and merely wipes away a spot of blood with his thumb as he turns back to the house, leading the way to the immaculately arranged tea-for-two. Namimori, goes unsaid, but both hear it quite clearly.
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[Ten O’clock, tonight. I’m sure you know where the red-light district is, or would you like directions?]
He doesn’t enter right away. The corridor is empty, save for the occasional scurried movements of servants and the affected high-pitched laughs of the women and their patrons. Hibari waits, takes the time to evaluate his surroundings and acknowledges the cubic weight in his inner breast pocket. Even when he does, finally, deign to enter, it takes him a moment to not just simply turn on his heel and walk right back out; it takes him a precious moment to quell the overwhelming urge to perform a profound act of charity and exorcise the entire damn building with a baptism by fire.
Mukuro doesn’t say anything as he steps through the wood frame, but rather projects his greeting in the things unspoken of in a half-lidded gaze over the rim of a porcelain saucer. All of which Hibari ignores with a practiced ease.
“... interesting choice for a rendezvous. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” Disdain drips from his lips and onto the glittering rings that encircled his hand. The paper door slides close behind him with a dry whisper.
“I thought it quaint,” Mukuro says. He demonstrates this in languid movements, stretching his legs across the layered spread of tatami, a dark accent of Armani poised atop a dragon-footed stool. “They make it an art form here: so many layers of customs and pleasantries. Nothing like the whorehouses of Sicily.”
Hibari spares the floral-printed room a cursory once-over before finally directing his attention back to the other man’s sharp cut of western fashion. Mukuro smiles pointedly at the adjacent seat, mismatched eyes daring and decidedly serpent-like in their invitation to join. “Truth be told, I was a little surprised to find such an establishment so close to Namimori’s borders.” Mukuro leans forward on his elbows, carefully avoiding the heated bottle of rice wine to the side. “Did you know of this earlier?” he asks with, oddly enough, genuine curiosity.
“Of course.”
“Oh? I see.” Mukuro raises an eyebrow at Hibari’s dismissive admittance, but doesn’t question further. Time and long-term association had tempered both for the better after all (or so the Vongola Tenth had apparently hoped when he’d assigned them both to the same mission).
On the other hand, less antagonism between the two didn’t necessarily mean an obligatory increase in civility, and so Hibari ignores the lone cherry wood chair in favor of standing.
Unfazed, Mukuro pours Hibari a small dish of sake anyway and slides it forward with a light touch.
Half-listening to the occasional strain plucked from a shamisen by practiced fingers filtering through the-literally-paper-thin walls, Hibari slips off a ring from his right hand. He holds it aloft. “The newest line of Hell rings in circulation,” he explains. “This one was procured from a dealer in Germany. They’re still relatively rare and have been documented as most compatible with only a select few.” Hibari frowns. “After the last debriefing, the baby believes that you’d benefit from it the most.”
“My, my,” Mukuro murmurs, head propped against the palm of his hand. “A Hell ring for me? Really? You shouldn’t have.”
Hibari snorts and tosses the heavy piece at his companion with a flick of his fingers. “I have no use for its particular properties.”
“Then I don’t suppose you have the box that goes with?” Mukuro solicits wryly, turning the heavy piece of jewelry in his hand before slipping it on.
Hibari’s soft tch overrides all other sounds in their small room, but he acquiesces. Reaching into his inner jacket, he retrieves a box no bigger than a child’s fist and sets it on the table.
Mukuro watches Hibari’s movements, contemplates the other’s unconsciously elegant motions, then redirects his attention and eyes the box with particular interest; it wasn’t a particularly pretty box-not like the ones that were manufactured for the more conventional rings. Cast from a dark alloy, a spider web of grooves and embossments laced every side-one of which possessed something that looked not unlike an eyeball the size of a five-yen coin at its center.
“I expect to be reimbursed, by the way.”
“Oh? Did you actually pay for this one, this time?”
“Of course not,” Hibari scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “They gave it to me on their own volition. But for this particular transaction, I expect a payment.”
Mukuro is silent for a heartbeat. “Does it have to be monetary?” He taps a finger pointedly in time with the muted, but more prominent, sounds threaded into the background.
“Yes.”
Mukuro sighs with faux-chagrin. “Ah, such a killjoy, Kyouya.”
“I’ll bite you to death,” Hibari mutters, though without as much heat as say, eight years ago. Rather, he pulls out a small fold of paper and lays it atop the Hell attribute box. “Your flight is scheduled for eleven o’clock, Saturday night. Once you achieve your first objective, my server can be accessed through this routing address. Don’t screw this up.”
The Italian nods agreeably, somehow causing his Japanese colleague to frown even further. “Will you miss me if I’m gone?” he asks, no visible trace of guile on his face despite the nature of his question. “While I’m gone?”
Hibari pauses at the door, hand hovering just above the sliding panel and an ‘you utter waste of oxygen are beyond stupid’ look on his sharp features. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps with nonexistent patience. “I trust you won’t be so useless so as to die while in disguise anyway.”
Somehow it’s enough for Mukuro to indulge in a small, dark smile, however, and to raise a porcelain saucer salute towards Hibari’s swiftly departing footsteps.
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Fin
Completed: April 14, 2008
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Crits, comments, edits would be lovely. But I'll be horrifically slow to respond because I put off at least 2 days worth of homework to get this done. You better appreciate this imoutochan. OTL
Five hours earlier, I'd just finished rewriting the first part. Fast forward four hours; a third part gets dragged out by its proverbial hair, kicking and screaming bloody murder. I have homework in three classes due tomorrow.
In short, I kind of want to die.
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Title: Three Questions, Asks the Buddha
Series/Characters: [Reborn!] Mukuro/Hibari (Kind of. Sort of.)
Disclaimer: Amano's. Am only playing.
Word Count: 3567
Notes: If I ever get it into my head to take it upon myself to write a fic AND illustrate it again, please, someone beat the horrible, horrible notion out of me.
Else known as “Three Possible Scenarios in Which Mukuro Pisses Hibari Off.” The first part went through a massive rewrite. Three times. The second part’s illustration nearly landed me into a mental institution (brownie points to those who can pinpoint the little extras I added in my effort to preserve my sanity). The third part’s illustration makes no sense in conjecture with the fic and yes, I realize that it looks like Hibari is proposing to Mukuro (he’s not, really), and that if Mukuro’s eye were angled any different, it’d look as if he were eying Hibari’s crotch (as if he wasn’t already).
I’ve uploaded the bigger versions of the illustrations up on DevArt. So, if you’re thus inclined to look at them in all their colorless glory, they’re linked individually within the fic itself.
Dedication: Happy Birthday to nittle_grasper! I’d just like to say that with this, I demand to be free of holiday/birthday gift obligations until next year. I have no wish of becoming your fanworks-monkey ever again. OTL
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Three Questions, Asks the Buddha
by kasugai_gummie
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[My, how you’ve changed my dear Chrome...]
Perhaps it was the out-of-place scent (something fruity and somewhat sweet, like that disgusting alcoholic beverage Cavallone once had the gall of offering him), a touch of Not-Namimori that snaked through the afternoon air and wound around his head like a shroud. It may have been the unacceptable breach in his personal space, or even the displeasing sense of déjà vu that came with.
It had only been a few days since a rather conspicuous amount of herbivores (and, more alarmingly, the baby) seemed to have disappeared without a trace-albeit some of which were reported to have been replaced almost immediately with even more herbivores who, according to the footnotes, could’ve registered as “familiar”-if the Disciplinary President was one to remember faces to begin with.
He wasn’t, though. Older, stranger, less pathetic herbivores were still herbivores nonetheless; those who crowded and were so weak so as to cling to one another deserved no recognition, and Hibari, already displeased with the sudden shift in Namimori’s status quo, had grown increasingly incensed (foreigners who had not completed the paperwork prior to entering Namimori were not to be tolerated).
Pi-ni-ah-ra-da, or was it pi-ko-ra-da? No matter. Regardless of what it was, whatever it was, someone had dared to get close enough to tread on his shadow, thereby encroaching on his personal space (a punishable offense; ref. Namimori handbook, Appendix C) and Hibari judiciously spun around, tonfa released with the practical intent to maim.
“You look well, Hibari-san.” A low voice greeted him-calm, respectful, somewhere to his right, then his left, plus the light tap of dress shoes on cement.
Feminine.
The hand that moved up to deflect his strike was tapered like a woman’s, all well-masked calluses and well-shaped nails; Hibari stilled, just enough for the unwelcome stranger to side-step away on polished heels. Slant eyes narrowed at the woman, scrutinizing her features, at eyes hidden by designer shades and the odd black strap that ran parallel to the rims only to disappear into the dark sweep of bangs at her temple. Vaguely familiar, but not.
An herbivore, then.
Judgment passed, Hibari wound back, tonfa spinning. “Disappear,” he said in passing as he darted forward, torso held close to the ground and arm cocked towards the middle of her face. Frivolous accessories weren’t allowed within a half-kilometer radius of school grounds.
The strange woman dodged again, however, putting quite a bit of distance between them before stopping short. “Not quite,” she demurred, offering a polite smile that curled with something not unlike a secret on wry lips, “not yet. I’m here to deliver a message actually.”
“A message,” Hibari echoed, deadpan. He straightened, tonfas lowering to his sides-not quite at ease, but no longer projecting that business-like penchant for murder.
“Message,” the woman repeated, reaching up to pull down her shades. Hibari frowned even more at what was revealing to be an insignia-stamped eye patch.
“He’s been meaning to meet you again, for-”
“-quite some time now,” Mukuro finished, tucking away the eyewear into his jacket’s breast pocket. “It’s been a while, Hibari Kyouya. You’re looking well.”
A sharp intake of breath hissed through clenched teeth. Hibari almost rocked forward. “Rokudou.”
“In person,” Mukuro said. “Though,” he amended, “not for too long. This Chrome has yet to finish regaling me with all the tumultuous happenings in our near future. Fascinating stuff that I’m sure even you might find interesting.”
Hibari slid another half-step forward, expression almost droll in its disdain. “Your pathetic future does not concern me.”
“Oh?” Mukuro smirked. “Not even if I tell you that nine years from now Namimori will be compromised?”
Something shuttered to a standstill behind Hibari’s eyes; so Mukuro waited. Anticipated. Traced little fanciful caricatures of nocturnal creatures and birds and ashes with the end of his trident against the sidewalk.
The shadows the satellite of buildings cast were long and seemed to grow even longer with each inch of setting sun lost to the horizon. When Hibari spoke again, it was with something dark and dangerous and brewing underneath the tight leash of his voice. “To lie to the Discipline Committee Head is a punishable offense,” he recited, his face a pale mask blanked by stiff fury.
The distance between them didn’t so much as close as it did disappear; Mukuro swinging down his trident to block, a five burning in his right eye; Hibari, lips pressed together in concentration, striking in quick succession to bypass Mukuro’s guard and perhaps to collapse an Italian lung.
“You’ve gotten stronger again,” Mukuro noted, and Hibari bared his teeth against another whisper of déjà vu. “But even the strong do not always survive,” finished the illusionist with a flourish, five flashing to two, a token word murmured to the sudden rasp of coils at their feet.
Hibari tripped. Sideways. On a snake. And he refused to contemplate the ramifications of such a disgrace and camaraderie with a certain other who crashed into walls of air on a regular basis. The sharp blow to the head-a lucky hit, really-shouldn’t have been surprising (and it wasn’t), but it still stung. A little. It was distracting enough to be a rightful nuisance, anyway.
Hibari shook his head against the din of bells clamoring between his ears. The staggered step back allowed him to check his balance, but barely. A flicker of a shadow in the corner of his eye, there, just to the right of that row of hedges-
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the arcobaleno‘s disappearance by now.”
And it was too late, Hibari discovered in mid-turn, mid-tilt, as a gloved hand closed around his wrist and wrenched his arm, tonfa and all, behind his back. Pinned it there. Another hand, fingers curled around the length of that ridiculous staff, pressed between his shoulder blades-an unnecessary assistant to the wall that rush up to meet him. Inexcusable-unacceptable-I will rend his flesh from his bones, Hibari thought-a jumble of wild, murderous thoughts-just as an unwelcome chin descended upon his shoulder, a humorless laugh pressed against his collar.
“Nine years and ten months from now, Namimori shall be compromised,” Mukuro said, leaning in close, closer to the shell of Hibari’s ear, as if divulging in a conspiracy. Perhaps he was. “Foreigners, like me, like Cavallone’s golden leader, will come armed with flames and secrets.”
Hibari had stilled; he didn’t need to crane his neck to see Mukuro’s infuriatingly trite smile that was anything but.
“Your town will be decimated,” Mukuro continued. “and the casualties, according to my dear Chrome from nine years and ten months in the future, will include Reborn and Sawada Tsunayoshi.” A small frown hovered on the Italian’s lips in a sudden moment of pique, “Of which, personally, I find a bit troublesome, if you ask me.”
But Hibari didn’t ask, didn’t even voice his derision. Rather, he settled for glaring at his captor from the corner of his eye and gripped his tonfas tighter despite the uncomfortable pressure on his shoulder. Everything was suddenly too warm and too still. Too close. And as Mukuro leaned in further when it became apparent that there would be no immediate answer forthcoming, smiling lips mouthing a travesty of niceties along the sharp line of a clenched jaw, the option of dislocating his shoulder to escape never seemed more appealing to Hibari than it did at that single moment.
Mukuro, for his part, merely feigned ignorance-a beatific smile at odds with the brute force he was applying in order to keep Hibari in place-insult on top of injury. “You know, I suppose it is fortunate that we are apparently still alive,” he said guilelessly. “But then that just raises the question of mortality even higher still.
“In light of such a future-tell me, Hibari Kyouya, when do you think you will die?”
It took a minute before something like a smile (but not quite, never that) curled over incisors-white and sharp and warning. “Not until I bite you dead,” Hibari said, body thrumming from the tension and ready to explode in a maelstrom of spikes and metal and death. He might’ve even said more if not for Mukuro forcing him playfully against (into) the wall.
Bricks dug against skin and bone. A light tsk touched across the finer strands at the nape of his neck and, despite having to keep one eye closed less he lose it against the mortar, Hibari could almost see his opponent’s mock concern.
“Oh, you Japanese. You’ve at least heard of ‘chivalry’ have you not?”
Hibari hadn’t, actually. “That term,” said Japanese managed to bite out, “is not found in the Namimori sanctioned dictionary.”
Mukuro laughed. “Is that so?” he asked, a speck of speculation coloring his voice. “Well, perhaps that would explain some things then.” Mukuro shook his head mournfully. “Such a patriarchal society really. You see, in most of Europe at least, ‘chivalry’ dictates that in certain situations of great importance, women and,” the hand clamped around Hibari’s wrist tightens, “children go first.”
“Sophistries,” Hibari said before he ducked to the side and pulled. The immediate sound of bone popping out of its socket was not one Mukuro had expected to hear anytime soon. Not if his arched brow and the “oh” of his mouth were of any indication anyway. Bracing one leg against the wall, Hibari ground his other sole against the concrete until he finally found better footing-no matter how flimsy it might’ve looked. Pivot on aforementioned footing and twist with the applied torque into the other’s chest; slam his shoulder cuff back into place, roll it twice; shake out the ache.
They stumbled in step; Hibari pushing against Mukuro’s lanky frame, tonfas in tow. “I will bite all intruders to death. Starting with you,” he promised as they pulled away from the wall together, sweeping an arm up with every intention of crushing Mukuro’s jaw from below.
“Oya,” Mukuro said, eyes glinting with lofty amusement and tilted his head to the side to let the tonfa pass. “Ran out of patience already?” He let out an indulgent sigh. “Very well. I suppose I can always ask you again some other day.”
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[Kyou-san, you have a visitor-]
And it’s a good thing they’re all used to this by now because Hibari crosses the threshold without warning, Ring of Cloud flaring on his finger. Breezing past Kusakabe, he catches the unwanted guest across the face with a flying tonfa. “What do you want?”
Mukuro takes it all in stride, head twisting with the blow-not an illusion this time?-smirking despite a split lip. He grabs hold of the follow-up strike however, stops Hibari’s advance long enough to allow himself a moment of recomposure. “Not the front door? That’s fine. Shall I come through a window next time then?”
“There won’t be a next time,” Hibari sneers, but nods curtly when Kusakabe, already halfway through the door, respectfully inquires if he should “go prepare the tea.”
Hibari waits for all of half-a-minute-the time it takes for Kusakabe to leave their general vicinity-before wrenching his tonfa out of Mukuro’s grasp just as the air around them blurs, melts.
And suddenly they’re indoors; the scattered maples of Hibari’s courtyard replaced with gilded pillars and carved marble in sharp relief; the sky, a domed ceiling. Murals of saints and frescos of the heavenly Host cover every inch of wall space not otherwise occupied. The decor, in all, is very grandiose and very European and Hibari, never an avid appreciator of western architecture to begin with, bristles.
The marble sounds oddly like glass when it gives oh-so-easily under the long end of a tonfa. Hibari rounds on Mukuro, who’d summoned his trident with the illusion, ire evident only in the way he releases the spikes (terse and abrupt). “Undo this.”
But Mukuro doesn’t, seemingly engrossed in the fruits of his imagination, and, with a small furrow of concentration, adds a few streaming beams of light almost as an afterthought. “Did you know? Another pope died today,” the Italian finally remarks after a while, stops passing the staff between his hands and fixes his mismatched gaze on Hibari. “The holy leader is laid to rest; called back to the bosom of the Christian god. An entire institution grieves. For all of nine days anyway.”
“Tragic.” And Hibari gives Mukuro a look-one that speaks volumes as to just how much he empathizes with said tragedy. Which is to say, none at all and with a lot left to be desired. Then he’s sprinting forward and Mukuro’s twisting to the side and they’re moving in wordless tangent: right leg sweep, parry, left foot step, block. The trident gleams black and silver and sweeps downwards in a wave and crashes, locks against the junction of grip and grey steel. Mukuro bends down and Hibari leans up and Mukuro continues to divulge in his spiel at his increasingly irate opponent.
“The entire Cavallone family will pay their respects today, offer their thoughts and prayers to His Holiness, and I’m sure the arcobaleno will insist that Vongola’s illustrious leader and his father visit the Vatican as well. The Storm and Thunder Guardians will accompany their don faithfully and might even shed the appropriate tears under this arched palace. If they were brought up properly that is. Not even Siddhārtha Gautama himself received so much immediate civil ceremony and pomp posthumously.”
It takes the gouging of an entire chunk of wall to give Mukuro pause. “Now you’re just being disrespectful, destroying religious property,” he chides, shaking his head at the illusory damage. “Though,” he smiles wider, eyes glinting with malicious delight, “I do believe you’ve just thusly declared war on half of the Sicilian network. Good job.”
Hibari, as to be expected, does not answer; instead he takes another chunk out of John the Baptist’s robe (for good measure) and is about to rake a paint-chipped furrow through baby Jesus’s swaddling clothes when a voice that sounds vaguely like Kusakabe’s filters through the too-ethereal, too-vibrant surroundings.
“The tea is ready, Kyou-san.”
Playtime’s over. The tonfas lower almost immediately, though perhaps a bit reluctantly. “Undo this.”
“It is a little ostentatious isn’t it...”
“It’s an eyesore. Those preaching herbivores are eyesores. You’re an eyesore. Undo it.”
“How cold. And here I thought you’d be more pleased when the chance to finally bite me dead and proper presented itself again.” Mukuro arches an eyebrow, but releases the illusion anyway. The mosaics of saints bleed back into cherry wood and an oriental garden. “It’s been six years since-”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“-we first met, face to face. Really? But I even brought you flowers back then.”
Kusakabe coughs discretely from the door, lacquered tea tray held at his side.
“Besides, the pope just died. It is, as you said, very tragic. As a member of the Vongola Famiglia, as a affiliate of La Cosa Nostra, you’re expected to commiserate in the sadness. I came to see if you were alright, really; faith can be such a heart wrenching business,” Mukuro says in all mock-seriousness. He takes a moment to consider Hibari however, eyes the shorter man’s un-amused disdain. “But perhaps it’s just as well that you have not deigned to pick up the basis of mafia belief. I’d solicit some more, but I will assume your priorities haven’t changed.”
Hibari is silent in his contempt and merely wipes away a spot of blood with his thumb as he turns back to the house, leading the way to the immaculately arranged tea-for-two. Namimori, goes unsaid, but both hear it quite clearly.
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[Ten O’clock, tonight. I’m sure you know where the red-light district is, or would you like directions?]
He doesn’t enter right away. The corridor is empty, save for the occasional scurried movements of servants and the affected high-pitched laughs of the women and their patrons. Hibari waits, takes the time to evaluate his surroundings and acknowledges the cubic weight in his inner breast pocket. Even when he does, finally, deign to enter, it takes him a moment to not just simply turn on his heel and walk right back out; it takes him a precious moment to quell the overwhelming urge to perform a profound act of charity and exorcise the entire damn building with a baptism by fire.
Mukuro doesn’t say anything as he steps through the wood frame, but rather projects his greeting in the things unspoken of in a half-lidded gaze over the rim of a porcelain saucer. All of which Hibari ignores with a practiced ease.
“... interesting choice for a rendezvous. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” Disdain drips from his lips and onto the glittering rings that encircled his hand. The paper door slides close behind him with a dry whisper.
“I thought it quaint,” Mukuro says. He demonstrates this in languid movements, stretching his legs across the layered spread of tatami, a dark accent of Armani poised atop a dragon-footed stool. “They make it an art form here: so many layers of customs and pleasantries. Nothing like the whorehouses of Sicily.”
Hibari spares the floral-printed room a cursory once-over before finally directing his attention back to the other man’s sharp cut of western fashion. Mukuro smiles pointedly at the adjacent seat, mismatched eyes daring and decidedly serpent-like in their invitation to join. “Truth be told, I was a little surprised to find such an establishment so close to Namimori’s borders.” Mukuro leans forward on his elbows, carefully avoiding the heated bottle of rice wine to the side. “Did you know of this earlier?” he asks with, oddly enough, genuine curiosity.
“Of course.”
“Oh? I see.” Mukuro raises an eyebrow at Hibari’s dismissive admittance, but doesn’t question further. Time and long-term association had tempered both for the better after all (or so the Vongola Tenth had apparently hoped when he’d assigned them both to the same mission).
On the other hand, less antagonism between the two didn’t necessarily mean an obligatory increase in civility, and so Hibari ignores the lone cherry wood chair in favor of standing.
Unfazed, Mukuro pours Hibari a small dish of sake anyway and slides it forward with a light touch.
Half-listening to the occasional strain plucked from a shamisen by practiced fingers filtering through the-literally-paper-thin walls, Hibari slips off a ring from his right hand. He holds it aloft. “The newest line of Hell rings in circulation,” he explains. “This one was procured from a dealer in Germany. They’re still relatively rare and have been documented as most compatible with only a select few.” Hibari frowns. “After the last debriefing, the baby believes that you’d benefit from it the most.”
“My, my,” Mukuro murmurs, head propped against the palm of his hand. “A Hell ring for me? Really? You shouldn’t have.”
Hibari snorts and tosses the heavy piece at his companion with a flick of his fingers. “I have no use for its particular properties.”
“Then I don’t suppose you have the box that goes with?” Mukuro solicits wryly, turning the heavy piece of jewelry in his hand before slipping it on.
Hibari’s soft tch overrides all other sounds in their small room, but he acquiesces. Reaching into his inner jacket, he retrieves a box no bigger than a child’s fist and sets it on the table.
Mukuro watches Hibari’s movements, contemplates the other’s unconsciously elegant motions, then redirects his attention and eyes the box with particular interest; it wasn’t a particularly pretty box-not like the ones that were manufactured for the more conventional rings. Cast from a dark alloy, a spider web of grooves and embossments laced every side-one of which possessed something that looked not unlike an eyeball the size of a five-yen coin at its center.
“I expect to be reimbursed, by the way.”
“Oh? Did you actually pay for this one, this time?”
“Of course not,” Hibari scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “They gave it to me on their own volition. But for this particular transaction, I expect a payment.”
Mukuro is silent for a heartbeat. “Does it have to be monetary?” He taps a finger pointedly in time with the muted, but more prominent, sounds threaded into the background.
“Yes.”
Mukuro sighs with faux-chagrin. “Ah, such a killjoy, Kyouya.”
“I’ll bite you to death,” Hibari mutters, though without as much heat as say, eight years ago. Rather, he pulls out a small fold of paper and lays it atop the Hell attribute box. “Your flight is scheduled for eleven o’clock, Saturday night. Once you achieve your first objective, my server can be accessed through this routing address. Don’t screw this up.”
The Italian nods agreeably, somehow causing his Japanese colleague to frown even further. “Will you miss me if I’m gone?” he asks, no visible trace of guile on his face despite the nature of his question. “While I’m gone?”
Hibari pauses at the door, hand hovering just above the sliding panel and an ‘you utter waste of oxygen are beyond stupid’ look on his sharp features. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps with nonexistent patience. “I trust you won’t be so useless so as to die while in disguise anyway.”
Somehow it’s enough for Mukuro to indulge in a small, dark smile, however, and to raise a porcelain saucer salute towards Hibari’s swiftly departing footsteps.
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Fin
Completed: April 14, 2008
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Crits, comments, edits would be lovely. But I'll be horrifically slow to respond because I put off at least 2 days worth of homework to get this done. You better appreciate this imoutochan. OTL