Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Balsamella
Written September 20th, 2008
It's cold outside. Chrome has gently warming mittens, soft yarns of red and white and red, and they have begun to bead at her fingertips and palms. A present from Mukuro, weeks past, when the weather started cooling and leaves began to fall in the air, fluttering and lurching like little baby birds in the wind, motherless and uncertain. She remembers someone told her once, if you can grasp a leaf while it's drifting from its branch…
Then, she had woken up in someone's kitchen, bread baking in the oven and sleeves rolled to combat the heat. Dusts of flour on her clothes and on her thin, nimble hands. A package neatly wrapped in plain, lined paper. (The bread, later, was - ) any garlic scent has faded, but the recipe is written in Italian: scrawled, black ink on the back of that same card, thin and unbleached, which bore her name.
She has no real coat - they wouldn't let her, despite that it was his body as well, despite - and, quietly, she breathes into the air. Watches what was once in her lungs swell into little clouds of sifting, pale whites, thinking maybe these are illusions born from illusions. Her fingers trace patterns into the dust.
And she smiles a little, because she has a secret. She can feel him, in the throbbing of her heart, in the warmth of her skin, on her lips. Maybe, every so often, he whispers things to her, inside her mind. Dreaming, the words are ti amo, Chrome and she can feel a little lighter. As if this were all it took to be happy, this blurring sentence in reverie. But still, it is too cold - she shivers into her arms and wishes for heat, for an oven with which to bake, for softer things than REM consolations.
Her missing eye itches. Winter dries the skin out, but she doesn't dare reach inside, touch the -
They call her Nagi. She watches the snow drift downwards with the wind, and wraps her scarf tighter around her neck. Tugs her gloves a little lower. It's quiet here. Mukuro is sleeping, hidden away for the season with less than a goodbye, a hazy nothingness. Can do nothing but keep and covet, the sensation of a man in her thin frame, of Mafiosi unpredictability. She quivers, imagining the glossy, smooth fur of a kitten at her ankle, the feel of a tail wrapping lazily around her calf, and Hibari comes to visit, sometimes. Mukuro doesn't say anything, anything at all if he's not there, not taking control and pushing her to some far, far away place where the land is dripping with sun and the air is soft butter, garlic cloves and shells.
The cold bites through her and she shudders, and it is empty, and Chrome has gently warming mittens, soft yarns of red and white and red, and they have begun to bead at her fingertips and palms. A present, from Hibari when the leaves started dying and melting away with the wind. She remembers, someone told her once, if you can grasp a leaf while it's drifting from its branch…
Sometimes, she wakes up - and there is the slight surprise of being somewhere she shouldn't, and the topsy-turvy feeling of oh, Mukuro was here, again, and maybe, sometimes, the garlic aftertaste of bread to coat the roof of her mouth. But her teeth are always clean, and her clothes are always ironed, and her cell phone is set to the sound of church bells - ringing and ringing, and perhaps this is Italy calling to her - and so she is content, even with:
Their room is bare, broken, cold. No kitchen, no furniture - that's too good for her, too good - and even Mukuro had been pleased with nothing but a couch and tattered draperies. Where the Kokuyou Entertainment Centre rests on the edge of the abandoned highway, caked mud and metal and pipes that leak with long-dead machine souls (ideas and thought), she sits. Quietly. Wondering what play Mukuro will have them perform next.
One time, amidst the sticky warmth of summer, her senses fell away from her and her thoughts diminished and there he was, only she could never see it, pushed away to some fairy-tale land with sugar blades of grass and blue, blue skies.
Her stomach - it always feels empty. Maybe it's illusions to feed illusion organs, illusions upon illusions. Something from nothing. To create illusions is to tamper directly with the five senses - turn carrion into bread, butter, lemons and fish. Something grand. She isn't sure if she's here or there, if she's Nagi or Mukuro or Chrome. She wakes up, and it is to the pulsing of a heart, the gurgle of blood, eyes dilated and breathing too fast, too fast -
He surprised them, or she surprised them. A kiss on the cheek, without a smile. Caring words. And it's a greeting, in Italy, so she's quite amazed when the boy who should be from there, isn't. The first time she meets Mukuro, he smells of cloves, and tells her that maybe, the two of them are alike. But by that point she's lost interest, her eyes roll to the side, seeing leaves and waves and fat, wriggling caterpillars amble through the dirt.
Her missing eye, it itches, and she longs to -
Nagi awakes and she dreams of the ocean, biting cold and trees that block the sun. Her hair is damp with rain, and she clutches her bag to her chest, double-checking the zipper with a trembling, uneven motion. She's on the rooftop of Namimori Junior High and there Hibari lays, snapped bones and broken, distorted words. Unmoving. And I did this for you, dear Chrome -
A Tuesday comes, and she's tipping into their flat; old, abandoned, dirty. Hello, she says, and no response. And always, always they ask for him and she replies: I can't call him. He does when he wants and right now there's no reason for it, no reason at all. Then they sit, talking of nothing, and she daydreams about kittens and clouds and little yellow butterflies in the summer air, pressed sheets and ribbons of sweet pastries to cool on smooth, clean counter-tops.
Italy comes to her in a dream. She wakes, and she is nothing but a vessel, but right now that is okay. Sometimes, she confuses (past and present Chrome, but it's okay) but it's okay. She wakes, and it is to the sound of church bells ringing, to adrenaline rushing through her and painless, effortless, continuous, death. Her fingers quiver.
xxxxxxxxx
For yamikakyuu.