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There are two types of people in the world. People who do as they are told without a challenge and those who ask questions. Curiosity doesn't kill the cat. The cat learns how to hunt, when to cross the street, he earns intelligence. With intelligence there is freedom.
Chrollo never liked the phrase.
He uses the softest napkin he's ever held to dab at his runny nose. A chill courses throughout his body but his temples are hot. He can't even smell the blood.
"I feel a little bit terrible," Pakunoda shakes a golden bracelet off the arm of a dead bridesmaid.
Chrollo blows his nose, sighs, then says, "A bit?"
"Only a crumb of empathy." She observes the links between the diamonds.
"Why?" He crumbles the napkin in his hand.
"Your wedding day is peak womanhood—the happiest day of your life." She keeps her back towards him. Dots of blood trail down her shoulder blade, staining the white lace of her dress.
He doesn't know what to say. Not that she expects him to say anything at all.
"I truly feel like a thief." Pakunoda laughs at herself, sliding the bracelet onto her wrists. It's too loose. She tosses it and settles for the diamond earrings instead.
"If it makes you feel any better, she's too dead to protest." Machi accidentally smears more blood into her blouse.
"True." Pakunoda moves on to the next body and Machi follows her.
Chrollo observes the magnitude of the mess they had made. The reception had been a success for the most part in Pakunoda's opinion. She keeps up with things like this to feel normal or to measure the quality of her life in hopes that it has drastically improved. Chrollo knew next to nothing about weddings. Only that they are expensive and rich daughters love to have them.
Shalnark rolls a severed head onto the floor, makes room at a table to help himself to a piece of cake.
In the middle of executing the goal, it didn't feel very ambitious. That could have a lot to do with having a cold. He sweats but his body feels like ice. He shrugs out of the suit jacket and throws it over his shoulder.
No pocket is left empty. Flicking loose fingers from the salad bowl, they gorged themselves on the cold food. They are criminals but did not believe in wasting a good meal.
Chrollo bites into a soggy roll, but can't taste anything. It simply feels like slippery mush in his mouth.
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How do people who abide by the rules find contentment? Chrollo can't imagine—living that way would feel inauthentic. Someone had said to him 'When you find a reason to stay put, nothing else matters' but his joy is fleeting. God had given him an insatiable palate. Sometimes, he catches himself searching.
Like Pakunoda, he participates in mundane activities. Not to remind himself that he is nothing more than an amalgamation of cells. Just so that he knows what comfort is. He gets it when he irons a shirt. Little things like the smell of clean sheets fulfill his necessary human desires.
It's the little things in life that matter; standing in line at the cleaners humbles him, suit folded under an arm, Chrollo patiently waits for his turn, flipping the gold spider coin in his pocket. This is peak simplicity. He enjoys the monotony of the receipts printing and the buttons on the register. A spiritual level of calm creeps up the corners of his mouth. An actor and his stage.
Behind the counter is an old woman with big hair. As soon as it's his turn, she vanishes behind the beaded curtain with an armful of coats and pants. Her footsteps against the carpet, plastic rustling, a loud hum from the back—the establishment smells like an enclosed attic. After three minutes, Chrollo politely taps the silver bell next to the register. Not because he's in a hurry. He just felt compelled to do so. This is an act of participating in normalcy.
A young woman with a cowlick stumbles through the beads. She pats down her bangs and apologizes.
"What do you have for us today?" A slight rasp ruins the gentle quality of her voice. She either smokes or sings loudly, often, when she's alone. As she steps up to the counter, readjusting the bobby pin in her nicely curled hair, Chrollo notices that she has the prettiest pair of brown eyes he has ever seen. The observation itself doesn't surprise him, but the feeling it gives him does.
"I need this dry cleaned." He neatly sits his suit on the counter. She doesn't give him eye contact. Her mind clearly elsewhere. Chrollo makes a quick judgement of her character. She hates her job. It's a means to an end. Pretty but unaware of it because looks still haven't gotten her very far. Dresses smart to feel better about her place in society, which is a very small cramped place. Absent minded but clever—she drums her fingers along her chin. A bandaid is wrapped around her pink finger.
Wholesome. Reminds him of a cold glass of pink lemonade.
Dragging a pen from a cup, she scribbles the date, looks at him for the first time without a trace of emotion and asks, "What's the name?"
"Lucilfer."
The corners around her nose wrinkle. He waits for the typical 'thats an interesting name' but it never comes. She rips a pink slip from a receipt book and hands it to him. Chrollo lightly crumples it in his fist, failing to touch her fingers in the exchange.
"We should be done by tomorrow afternoon." Still not interested in making eye contact, she proceeds to examine his suit. "Sir, you're missing a button on your sleeve."
He blinks, not having realized that himself. She holds up the cuff of his sleeve to show it to him.
"I can sew a new one on for you if you like? Unless you like the edgy frayed look." She says seriously.
"Will it cost extra?" It won't matter if it does. He sniffles.
Finally, she looks at him directly and, to his surprise, she smiles.
"Nah. Not for one tiny button." And then she breaks eye contact, turning her attention back towards his suit.
Shoving the receipt in his pocket, Chrollo stands there as if she has more to say.
"Tomorrow afternoon. Have a nice day sir." She scoops up the suit and disappears like the old woman behind the beaded curtain.
She left Chrollo with the impression that he really isn't all that interesting. He can't quite reconcile being brushed off as if he were a nobody, but the very 'act' of being no-one in particular was the source of his joy just moments ago.
He could blame it on her poor customer service. That rationalization doesn't sit well with him either. The entire journey back to his hotel, he hated every crack in the cement and each tall building that blocked the setting sunlight.
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"Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky." ~ Truman Capote
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A/N: I don't know what this is. I've just got a huge fascination with the Phantom Troupe and wanted to write about Chrollo. When I figure out the direction, I will tag accordingly. This might just stay a single drabble. Anyway, thank you for making it to the end.