(no subject)
Jan. 11th, 2010 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat8chaTitle: White Paint
Author: Me
Fandom: KHR
Pairing: Mukuro/Shouichi hints of others
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: Mukuro does not quite fit in the real world, but he can fit himself anywhere in the land of dreams
Mukuro does not have the memories of a future ten years in the making. Mukuro alone was left behind when the Vongola travelled to the future, left to float in his cell, his chained fists made muffled thumps on the glass, while the mask over his face silenced his shouts of ‘Chrome’. The Vendice passed by his case more often those days, murmured to each other about how lively the inmate had become.
Things become fuzzy after that, the Vendice slipping a new sedative into Mukuro’s air supply, leaving Mukuro uncoordinated and unable to think.
Perhaps the future Irie Shouichi had predicted this, predicted that Mukuro Rokudo’s younger self would be useless. Or maybe Irie Shouichi completely left Mukuro out of his calculations. Hibari Kyouya had no love for Mukuro, and Sawada Tsunayoshi of ten years in the future had left Mukuro in the Vendicare prison for years.
Mukuro never leaves his cell. His eyes flicker, pulling at the tape that keeps them shut, seeing star bursts and black nights reflected on his eyelids. But when the Vongola return Mukuro can hear Chrome.
And Chrome brings him news of the future.
A few years later, Sawada Tsunayoshi brings Mukuro freedom.
--
Mukuro cannot help the urge to walk through dreams. It comes and goes like the tides or the waxing and waning of the moon. The moon tonight is gibbous, days from being full. Mukuro lies on the bed afforded to him by the Vongola. The bed is large, the room it is housed in is larger. The windows are wide, arched, with small iron bars locking it closed. It’s not a prison, not truly, but the shadows created make Mukuro shiver.
Though he would deny it.
The mattress he lies on is also chilly, the sheets cold and sterile, the expanse of pillows and sheets and blankets and mattress seem to suck the warmth from Mukuro’s body and spread it to the outer reaches, far away from Mukuro’s finger tips.
Mukuro has been cold many times in his life, but this chilly hospitality bites at his soul. Mukuro closes his eyes, to sleep, perchance to dream.
There is a dreamer calling to Mukuro, like Chrome once called, like the young boy Fran called to him. It’s not the ache and pain of a thrown away life, organs useless and family uncaring. It is not the yearning and hunger of a brilliant mind frantically scrambling to escape a doldrum life. It’s similar to both, and dissimilar as well. It’s the dream of an intelligent man, his dreams coming to naught, his life painfully empty, a throb of emptiness in the region of his heart. His hair, when Mukuro finds him, is a shocking bright red. A dream color, brighter than in real life, a self-image as well.
Red in dreams means many things.
“Why are you crying, boy?” Communication in dreams can be stilted, things must be posed a certain way in order for one to connect. This dreamer is no illusionist, to craft an open world to hide away in. He dreams in color, and shapes, but not in worlds. Not in words. Mukuro is an illusionist, he can fit in anywhere.
The boy looks up at Mukuro with green, green eyes. Green can also mean many things, in dreams. Red and green. Christmas colors.
“Who are you?” The boy asks, his face sharp angles and blocky spotches of color. Red high on the cheeks, a pale yellow beneath. Sharp glasses throw off an altogether bland face, they accent the boy’s inquisitive green eyes, his small nose, the flopping mop of red hair that grows in waves. “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” Mukuro motions around the white dreamscape. Black ley-lines appear, spreading and criss-crossing and forming a lab, with a large white machine dominating one wall. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you should tell me.” The boy opens his mouth to talk, his body growing and changing in the way dreams do. He is a man, then a teen, then a boy again. But before he can explain the dream to Mukuro the machine begins to hum, black lines spiraling into white as the machine opens up.
The dream shatters.
--
“I didn’t know you liked children’s stories, Mukuro-sama.” Chrome says, looking over Mukuro’s shoulder while he reads. The Vongola’s library is filled with rare finds, things one would not expect to discover in the library of a mafiosa. An eclectic selection of children’s books lines the lower shelves of one wall.
Mukuro glances up at Chrome with a small smile. She has grown up so nicely, her hair growing out of the mirror of his own, her skin becoming healthier due to a better diet and plenty of fresh air. She is becoming a woman, truly. Mukuro loathes the day he will have to admit it. “I’m interested in all sorts of things, Chrome.” Mukuro motions for Chrome to sit across from him. “I’ll read to you, if you wish.”
Chrome sits across from him, and Mukuro ignores the sound of scuffed footsteps, a flash of red hair around corner.
--
“Who are you?” The dreamer asks, his dusty tennis shoes are covered in duct tape and sharpie drawn chibis. “Why do you seem so…”
Mukuro does not look down at himself. He is an outline of indigo in the boy’s dream, backlit by white. He wonders what this boy sees him as, what dream construct has been created in place of Mukuro’s real face. “Familiar to you?”
Mukuro chuckles. “Kufufufu… The answer to that, Irie Shouichi, lies in a future you will never see.”
Mukuro has never been to the future, he did not travel there with Chrome and Sawada, he was never hit by the Bovino child’s bazooka. Indeed, Mukuro never wishes to visit the future, he prefers to take things as they come. But Mukuro can read the future reflected in the dreams and eyes and actions of those around him, and he knows he can shape it before it comes to be. And if in Irie Shouichi’s dreamscape his hair is spiked and white, and his eyes cruel slivers of purple, Mukuro will just gradually need to shape a construct of blue and black and red.
A dream of white is like a blank canvas, after all.
Author: Me
Fandom: KHR
Pairing: Mukuro/Shouichi hints of others
Rating: PG/PG-13
Summary: Mukuro does not quite fit in the real world, but he can fit himself anywhere in the land of dreams
Mukuro does not have the memories of a future ten years in the making. Mukuro alone was left behind when the Vongola travelled to the future, left to float in his cell, his chained fists made muffled thumps on the glass, while the mask over his face silenced his shouts of ‘Chrome’. The Vendice passed by his case more often those days, murmured to each other about how lively the inmate had become.
Things become fuzzy after that, the Vendice slipping a new sedative into Mukuro’s air supply, leaving Mukuro uncoordinated and unable to think.
Perhaps the future Irie Shouichi had predicted this, predicted that Mukuro Rokudo’s younger self would be useless. Or maybe Irie Shouichi completely left Mukuro out of his calculations. Hibari Kyouya had no love for Mukuro, and Sawada Tsunayoshi of ten years in the future had left Mukuro in the Vendicare prison for years.
Mukuro never leaves his cell. His eyes flicker, pulling at the tape that keeps them shut, seeing star bursts and black nights reflected on his eyelids. But when the Vongola return Mukuro can hear Chrome.
And Chrome brings him news of the future.
A few years later, Sawada Tsunayoshi brings Mukuro freedom.
--
Mukuro cannot help the urge to walk through dreams. It comes and goes like the tides or the waxing and waning of the moon. The moon tonight is gibbous, days from being full. Mukuro lies on the bed afforded to him by the Vongola. The bed is large, the room it is housed in is larger. The windows are wide, arched, with small iron bars locking it closed. It’s not a prison, not truly, but the shadows created make Mukuro shiver.
Though he would deny it.
The mattress he lies on is also chilly, the sheets cold and sterile, the expanse of pillows and sheets and blankets and mattress seem to suck the warmth from Mukuro’s body and spread it to the outer reaches, far away from Mukuro’s finger tips.
Mukuro has been cold many times in his life, but this chilly hospitality bites at his soul. Mukuro closes his eyes, to sleep, perchance to dream.
There is a dreamer calling to Mukuro, like Chrome once called, like the young boy Fran called to him. It’s not the ache and pain of a thrown away life, organs useless and family uncaring. It is not the yearning and hunger of a brilliant mind frantically scrambling to escape a doldrum life. It’s similar to both, and dissimilar as well. It’s the dream of an intelligent man, his dreams coming to naught, his life painfully empty, a throb of emptiness in the region of his heart. His hair, when Mukuro finds him, is a shocking bright red. A dream color, brighter than in real life, a self-image as well.
Red in dreams means many things.
“Why are you crying, boy?” Communication in dreams can be stilted, things must be posed a certain way in order for one to connect. This dreamer is no illusionist, to craft an open world to hide away in. He dreams in color, and shapes, but not in worlds. Not in words. Mukuro is an illusionist, he can fit in anywhere.
The boy looks up at Mukuro with green, green eyes. Green can also mean many things, in dreams. Red and green. Christmas colors.
“Who are you?” The boy asks, his face sharp angles and blocky spotches of color. Red high on the cheeks, a pale yellow beneath. Sharp glasses throw off an altogether bland face, they accent the boy’s inquisitive green eyes, his small nose, the flopping mop of red hair that grows in waves. “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” Mukuro motions around the white dreamscape. Black ley-lines appear, spreading and criss-crossing and forming a lab, with a large white machine dominating one wall. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you should tell me.” The boy opens his mouth to talk, his body growing and changing in the way dreams do. He is a man, then a teen, then a boy again. But before he can explain the dream to Mukuro the machine begins to hum, black lines spiraling into white as the machine opens up.
The dream shatters.
--
“I didn’t know you liked children’s stories, Mukuro-sama.” Chrome says, looking over Mukuro’s shoulder while he reads. The Vongola’s library is filled with rare finds, things one would not expect to discover in the library of a mafiosa. An eclectic selection of children’s books lines the lower shelves of one wall.
Mukuro glances up at Chrome with a small smile. She has grown up so nicely, her hair growing out of the mirror of his own, her skin becoming healthier due to a better diet and plenty of fresh air. She is becoming a woman, truly. Mukuro loathes the day he will have to admit it. “I’m interested in all sorts of things, Chrome.” Mukuro motions for Chrome to sit across from him. “I’ll read to you, if you wish.”
Chrome sits across from him, and Mukuro ignores the sound of scuffed footsteps, a flash of red hair around corner.
--
“Who are you?” The dreamer asks, his dusty tennis shoes are covered in duct tape and sharpie drawn chibis. “Why do you seem so…”
Mukuro does not look down at himself. He is an outline of indigo in the boy’s dream, backlit by white. He wonders what this boy sees him as, what dream construct has been created in place of Mukuro’s real face. “Familiar to you?”
Mukuro chuckles. “Kufufufu… The answer to that, Irie Shouichi, lies in a future you will never see.”
Mukuro has never been to the future, he did not travel there with Chrome and Sawada, he was never hit by the Bovino child’s bazooka. Indeed, Mukuro never wishes to visit the future, he prefers to take things as they come. But Mukuro can read the future reflected in the dreams and eyes and actions of those around him, and he knows he can shape it before it comes to be. And if in Irie Shouichi’s dreamscape his hair is spiked and white, and his eyes cruel slivers of purple, Mukuro will just gradually need to shape a construct of blue and black and red.
A dream of white is like a blank canvas, after all.
