Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
The Thousand
Written February Twelfth, 2009
They are sitting in a rental house in Reykjavik, waiting for coffee and toast, and Chrome is reading at the table. Noting errors in pen, writing into the margins of her textbook with her native Japanese. Studying. It is evening - the time difference is still something they haven't quite settled into, and either way they probably won't be staying for long, again. Pulled into another conflict that she feels no regret for - one of her responsibilities is to make mistakes disappear, paint over them with layers and layers of something not-quite-there.
She'd like to quit, she thinks. Everything.
"Are you happy, being alive?" Nagi asks, turning the page, rubbing one finger along the edge of the table and wishing it would smear. Living with Yamamoto, she is tired of Japanese food: of eggs on rice and miso soups and delicate, blushing sushi with every meal. No matter how rare some things are here. [However, she doesn't cook for herself , so] there is nothing she can do about it. He's laughing, at something. Perhaps at her. Perhaps, at something he is reading in the English edition of the newspaper, protests and changes in government, signs of the times. She sets her work aside, gathers pieces of paper together from the desk.
A revolution, is that what this is?
She almost misses Mukuro. The letters they send to each other are fake, sweet notes to a sweet-faced Leonardo, his girlfriend from abroad writing in love-struck code on white paper with green lines. She prints in Italian, but mixes in English or French while pretending to not know the word, asking him for help on grammar or spelling or phrasing or life. Picks up her pen and starts another letter, decorates it with a tiny heart.
"Yeah, I'm happy." The Rain pauses, glances at her, reaches for the milk. She imagines that he looks concerned, imagines what he's thinking. Doesn't look away from the ink on the pads of her fingers, or the scratches in the table, or the hemming of her sleeve. "What brings that up?"
Nagi doesn't answer, and moves from the greeting to the opening sentence. If she tried to - but, she can't do that, lest he think something is wrong. The fear of looking weak has never been something to affect her, but to distract his work would be… inappropriate. Unacceptable, as he resembles the Cloud a bit more than previously thought. And, Byakuran is a delicate operation to configure, after all.
"Is something going on with him?" Yamamoto doesn't know where Mukuro is or what he is doing, but speaks as if talking about a close friend, casual Japanese when surrounded by Icelandic. She wonders if he really doesn't know better, that the Mist serves only himself; and she almost smiles, almost.
It's nothing. If she wandered into the ocean, she might be found too quickly. Or her body might wash ashore while unconscious, coughing up water with the natural instincts to survive. If she tried a rope, there was always the possibility that the knot could come undone, or that she wouldn't be able to find a tree to tie it from in the first place. Really, it isn't anything more than a matter of resolution, and of finding the best way to…
"Do you know, what to do if you are lost in a forest here?" She asks, almost writing something obscene. Mukuro would be amused to know his dear little Chrome had such a way with words, but the two of them should keep up appearances. They are nothing but sweethearts, and there's something to be said about keeping innocent in thought.
The man shrugs, and grins. He's heard it before, most likely, but that isn't going to stop him from laughing again, buttering another piece of toast and sitting down at the table across from her. He was raised well, this Yamamoto Takeshi - doesn't even try to peek at what she's writing, just listens.
"You just… look around, and stand up." Because there are no forests to speak of, and nothing to block one's view, not really. The baseball player chuckles despite the way she delivers the line, monotonous and apathetic, and shifts to tap her on the wrist. For a moment, Nagi wonders what he is going to tell her - she leans back in her chair and stares as he flits over her cheekbones, her missing eye. Then as he grows quiet: busies himself clearing away the dishes, washing his hands.
She dips her fingers in girlish perfume and creases the edges of the paper, folding it into the envelope resting to her left. Pre-addressed in sloping, messy cursive with words bleeding into words, elbow brushing against her mug of coffee, almost tipping it over and onto her shirt. Silently, moves it away and continues with her work, closing the envelope the way a proper lady should.
The letter is finished but outside it is raining, and she feels too lethargic to leave the house, umbrella in the corner by the door. Yamamoto asks her if she would like some tea, and she declines, and with two fingers smears the ring of coffee that her mug has left behind. Nagi feels tired, [a little tired] of everything, and sighs into the crook of her arm, and rests her head against the table.
"I'm going to take a bath." She tells him, placing her cup on the counter of the kitchen, lingering by the stove. Running her hands along the edges of the cabinets, tapping a rhythm with the flat of her palms, awkwardly, bored and without thought. Seconds pass before she turns to leave, realizes [it is not her place,] and the kitchen is too crowded, with the two of them. She almost says something, but changes her mind. Yamamoto hums to himself, wipes his hands on the dishtowel hanging by the sink, and turns the light off when he leaves the room. Takes his place back at the table, and opens up his newspaper again.
Tomorrow, she will do it tomorrow.
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Written for the KHR-Undercover community. "The Thousand" - (Giuseppe Garibaldi and his Red Shirts - renamed the Thousand - began a campaign to unite Southern Italy)