Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Creme D'Yvette
Written September Third, 2008
"Do it," he says, and she does, in the mild warmth of an Italian afternoon, in the bathroom of some local hotel with cracked tiles and dirtied walls. Inconspicuous, and cheap, and the colour of vanilla créme, and nothing but games on the television. Fizzing in and out of clarity but neither of them like to watch: anyway, there is something like humidity. And she drinks her tea with careful sips because, there is no attracco for her here, so things are weightless.
The two of them are in their standard, black suits, Chrome's eyepatch bland and Hibari's temporary (foreign, and strange, and different in colour) bird eating seed at the windowsill, short bursts of song to punctuate the minutes of nothing, because there's nothing and nothing to talk about, besides the mission. He asked her, once, if Mukuro was there - he wasn't.
With one hand on his back, a light touch, she can feel the words vibrate through his skin. She shivers: he is strong, very strong. There are no scissors, so the razor blade is sharp and smooth against her palm, metallic and small and biting. Being this close to someone is unnerving, but Hibari is calm and still, so she uses two thin, young hands and does the best that she is able. Notices that his hair is rough and straight, like her own, so maybe they are the same after all.
The girl accidentally slices the pad of her thumb once, twice, not deep enough to bleed, so far. A thin layer of white, dead skin. Brushes the clipped hair from his shoulders, from his clothes, and it lands in dark whorls against the sticky flooring with a lazy scattering in the air, and soundless impact. When they finish the day is almost over, and she sweeps it clean, into the dust bin.
There is a meeting, tomorrow.
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I did not know that "creme" doesn't have an accent. But I am keeping it there for... pronunciation. Haha.