Disclaimer:
D. Grayman belongs to Hoshino Katsura.
Warnings: AU
Noah!Rabi.
Library Conversation
Tiki reclines in the oversized chair, crossing his legs and leaning back against the velvet plush backing. The Noah makes himself comfortable, taking off his hat to smooth down his already perfect hair. He murmurs a quiet nonsensical noise of satisfaction, closing his eyes in the half-darkness of the unlit library, while a cluster of Tease play at his pristine gloved fingertips. He looks like Death, thinks Rabi, recalling illustrations in forbidden books.
Tiki is not a skeleton in rags. He holds nothing in his hands but disaster and a thousand beautiful black butterflies. He is made of blood and flesh and disarming smiles; he is mortal. He takes people's hearts, not souls, and he crushes the ugly organ with his fingers while it is still pumping. But the face is the same, painted with the devil's smile. The aura is the same, hanging thick and viscous, like blood and oil, above his head.
"What is it?" prompts Tiki, so deadly still that Rabi wonders if he even moves his mouth when speaking. The redhead shrugs because he is sure the man can see it even if his eyes aren't open. Tiki smiles, dignified mouth curling into a wicked grin with corners that twist like tendrils of smoke. "Because it is fun," he answers, hearing the unasked question. Rabi isn't surprised. "Because they are fragile, I break them."
Tiki is not an Akuma. He is almost human but is missing something essential. Rabi brings a hand up to the left side of his chest. Tiki laughs, amusement dark. He looks up, features obscured by shadows. "That makes no difference," he says, eyes drifting down to the splayed hand. "Aren't you the same as me? Pulses in our wrist. If we're cut, we bleed. Blood in our veins." The smile grows wider. "Blood on our hands."
Just like Death, Rabi thinks.