Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
waxen coated, vellum-sheathed
Written August Twenty-Eighth, 2008
His fingers were broken, or it seemed it, and blood matted the uniform of his shirt, left-side seeping pain down and down and down. Thick bruises, marring smooth, blooming skin and -
He can't be - separate, separate. In the moment of battle, lack of emotion is the greatest weapon one can have. Save rings and boxes and little metal rods, save intelligence. Mukuro's laughing at him, now, always laughing. Out of the corner of his eye fulvous (dirtied) feathers float slowly down the air, calm and weightless, reminding him of salty waves and mud-caked scents, cold streams of water in the bank of time, little silver flashes and misplaced scales. Lost, not misplaced.
Hibari isn't arrogant enough to say he knew it was coming, that being slammed into the ground was planned, breath knocked out of him with brutal force. This one, it isn't an illusion. The man leans over him, all whipstitch-quick, crushing weight, and smiles: a laceration complete with sharp, white teeth.
"Bodies," he says, single eye feverishly bright, grip too hard. "are merely twists and flicks of strings, fat-slicked neurons, and the delight in something lovely." The younger mutters something, threatens quietly with what little he can given the labouring of his fleshy, spongy lungs, but Mukuro's presence is like ether and molasses, like rainbow-coloured oil torpid and dripping into cracks, moving sluggishly onto the pavement, slow and unstoppable, and (he cannot wrench himself free, it is too strong, and too drawn-out. Even if - )
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References to quillslinger's (Also known as ronsard) Alice and Naminé story, and to The Little Mermaid. (With the scales).