"Only the best for you of course." Because Mukuro's network of vessels, 'allies', and people he kept on contract were varied. This doctor was one he had used on several occasions, and was one of the few he hadn't bullied or blackmailed. Instead, he had funded her education and had been perfectly charming to her and her family. Having someone 'indebted' to him seemed to make them more loyal and manageable, at any rate.
Which might not fully assuage Chikusa's fears, so he glanced over to the other boy, expression almost as soft as the one he displayed to Chrome.
Softness… isn’t something that they experience often in their lives. Many people at least had their childhoods to return to, but not them. The experiments had damaged all of them that way, and escaping them didn’t change much in that regard. For a trio of children all on their own, the world was harsh, and they’d shifted themselves to match it. Poisonous, animalistic, deceiving. Hard. They were constantly on defense against a world that would gladly smother them, even if Mukuro-sama believed that the best defense was a ruthless offense. Unfortunately, even Chikusa can recognize that this has leaked somewhat into their relationships with one another. If nothing else… Besides a limitless devotion, he knows he can’t offer either his master or his partner much more.
That doesn’t mean he has no interest in it. It’s the exact opposite. He practically aches to earn any tenderness from the few people in the universe that he can rest easy around. From Mukuro, distant and independent, especially.
So at even this small show of softness, for all his misgivings, Chikusa starts to relax in Mukuro’s grip. “It won’t cause trouble for you, Maestro?” It would destroy him worse than any torture to be seen as a liability in some way for him.
For all that Mukuro would like to proclaim he was his own and no one else's, he had began to notice changes in himself since he defeat at the hands of Sawada Tsunayoshi, at meeting the girl he had renamed Chrome Dokuro. While he would like to believe he was an unchanging force, above everyone else, he had started to become more aware of the emotions of others, of how there were different paths to interacting with people. His earliest relationships had been shaped by the need to survive, nothing else. People were tools to be used and discarded once they were broken.
And yet...
It was distressing, more than he dared imagine, to think of the torture that Chikusa had to endure. What he might have to endure in the future just by knowing him. But for all of his wisdom and knowledge, Mukuro could see no other path for himself. There was still people in the world who deserved to drown in their own blood, and there were few willing to dirty their hands in such a manner. Nor were many as good at it as Mukuro was. He had always said he had gone through hell, but he had rarely gone there alone. So why now of all times was it starting to bother him?
He squeezed Chikusa's shoulder comfortingly enough, squinting into the sun as they stepped out. Their hideout wasn't that far, an hour's drive via car. While a good portion of his enemies believed he could transport at will, it was nothing so dependable. And at his current level, it was impossible with two people of flesh and blood.
"I wouldn't have offered if it would be, would I?" It was said with only a tinge of amusement, and he helped Chikusa into the car easily enough, flicking his bangs out of his face. "Rest."
If Mukuro has to adjust to the light of the outside, it’s doubly worse for Chikusa. A rare grimace contorts his face as the sun blinds him, and he’s forced to squeeze his eyes shut. Robbed of sight, all he can rely on is the man holding onto him. For all the height disparity, he still holds him so steadfastly, and the smell of him is more reassuring than Chikusa could ever verbalize: soft scent of earth and vegetation, something living instead of the sterile artificiality of the interrogation room ruined only by the copper bite of his own blood. Such a position can’t last forever. He is well aware. That doesn’t mean, eyes still teared up from adjusting to the light, he keeps his hands to himself as Mukuro places him into the car. They cling to the other, even as he struggles against how the world is still spotty.
Contrary to his hands, his reply is a quiet, “I understand, Maestro.” There’s more he wants to say, a longing that makes up his entire grasp, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Such openness, even now, even with the changes they’ve experienced from running into Sawada and his lot, is something he doesn’t know how to do.
It was fine if Chikusa didn't feel like speaking. Between Ken and Mukuro, they had more than enough words, and Mukuro understood the other boy as well as he did himself.
He laced their fingers gently throughout the car ride, only letting go to shift gears if necessary, but considering the remoteness of the hide out and the lack of other cars, his hand was mostly free.
The ride was uneventful, made so by careful planning and having cleared the path long before he had stepped into the room where Chikusa had been held.
Once they made it safely to their hideout, the doctor was there to greet them, and helped get Chikusa safely inside.
Perhaps it was just Mukuro's general distaste for hospitals and anything that would remind him of a laboratory, but there was little there but a couch and a generous heaping of sun flames. True to his word, he kept close by, making sure to stay within reach.
In this case, Mukuro’s distaste for hospitals works in both their favor. With his master’s warmth so close by, Chikusa finally succumbs to brief naps as they drive through the countryside. His body, even for the modifications that the Estraneo did, is still human. Perhaps the closest to human out of all three of their group. His body needs its rest, and this is the safest he’s felt in days. When the car finally comes to a stop and the door opens, however, he’s immediately awake again. Perhaps not entirely alert, but awake, wary. A portion of it eases away when he sees the set up.
This is fine. He can deal with this.
Chikusa’s body is stripped nearly bare for the doctor to survey the damage. Besides the obvious, there are things that clothing hid: bruises, scrapes, shallow scratches from a body that’s been tossed around like a ragdoll. As it turns out, it’s a little difficult to tell the extent of the problems when the injured party in question has a distant relationship with their own body in multiple ways. That means taking care of the obvious first, and the doctor looks up from where she’s been inspecting his broken knees.
“I think I’m going to have to open his legs up first before using sun flames. The bone might not heal right otherwise without being set into place.”
"Chikusa, are you comprehending what the doctor is saying?" While Mukuro couldn't say he hadn't seen his followers in worse conditions, couldn't even say that he had never been the cause of them, it had started to take a distasteful tint to him. He didn't want to cause more pain to them than absolutely necessary, and this had not been necessary.
"Would you like to be taken away from here?" Meaning that Mukuro could just wrap them both in an illusion while the doctor worked, taking them somewhere peaceful and quiet and... pleasant until the procedure was over.
It’s debatable if he does. For a few seconds, there’s not an answer, and his attention is focused purely on the distorted color of his own shattered knees. Before any worry can be had, however, he stirs. “Maestro…”
What does he want to do? He doesn’t want to leave his body, the precious body that’s so useful to Mukuro, in the hands of someone he doesn’t know… In the hands of someone with scalpels and stitches and memories that are too strongly attached to both. On the other hand….
Running from his own body and the things it goes through are what he does all the time simply to survive.
“...Please.” He looks up from beneath his bangs, the action more vulnerable than what really shows on his face. If it were himself digging into his own flesh, he wouldn’t care about seeing all the gore and blood. However, in the hands of someone else… He doesn’t want it.
It's not a really difficult choice to make, in Mukuro's opinion. While he more than often used his illusions to hurt, they could be used for beauty too. When he had been imprisoned in the prison of the the Vindice, too weak to walk far but strong enough to be aware of where he was, he had crafted illusions of anything to his liking. Of fanciful childhoods he could have had instead, of civilizations long since buried and forgotten, of lands even he had not yet explored but had only read of.
It had been helpful to both sharpen his skills and to keep his mind from going mad, and it had served him well. If doing so could give Chikusa even a minute comfort, he would do so.
He only shot the doctor a pointed look that promised all sorts of terrible retribution if anything happened to them, because he would know, before taking Chikusa's hand in his own.
It was easy to conjure up the meadow of flowers, fragrant and beautiful, stretching out as far as the eye could see, broken up only by a crystal clear stream. Here there was no pain, only a tranquility and peace Mukuro knew few other places. It was as close to nirvana as he would allow himself.
In the times since they’d escaped the Estraneo, their small group has traveled all over. Decrepit buildings, idyllic towns, yawning countrysides, bustling cities, consuming forests. Their running had taken them across country borders, fumbling through new languages (more him and ken than Mukuro), and all manners of sights had passed before their eyes.
Still. It’s always strange to Chikusa, sometimes, to be in such nice places. He takes a slow look around, blinking as though trying to awake from the dream of reality, and breathes out as he tries to let himself be comforted. It’s not even the appearance of the place that gives him any ease. This is Mukuro’s domain- his world and his rules. If he says nothing can reach them here, hurt him here, then that’s fact. It means more to Chikusa than he can say.
Carefully, he reaches into the stream and lets water pass over his fingertips. “Anything of yours is good enough for me, Maestro.” Still, there’s something else on his mind. A tentative glance up towards the other, the question lurking in his eyes. He wants to request closeness, but he isn’t sure how. This already feels like so much.
Even though Mukuro would always feel most at home in torn down buildings, abandoned amusement parks, and ruins of ancient civilizations, he had a certain fondness for untouched nature. Ruins were truer to human nature than Mukuro could even begin to articulate, all the hard work that had gone into them nothing in compared to humanity's cruel apathy and laziness, and the simple passage of time.
But nature, true pure nature, was a rarity in the world where people were eager to lay claim on everything and plant fast food restaurants there and trash heaps. His cute little Chrome would probably say something along the lines of this was what he yearned for humanity to be, better and purer than what it was, but his favored vessel tended to be far more optimistic than Mukuro was.
At Chikusa's answer, he gave a slight nod, content to unlace his boots and roll up his pant legs, wading into the stream water, closing his eyes with a sigh. While Chikusa wouldn't voice his request, he didn't need to. He felt the unasked question in the back of his mind, as loudly as if Chikusa had actually spoken.
He turned back toward him, reaching out a gloved hand to him, expression soft and indulgent.
Pure thankfulness replaces the tentative query, almost as clear as the stream they’re at. Straightening up, Chikusa doesn’t bother to undo any of his clothing. His focus is on Mukuro as he wades into the water, reaching for his hand with more need than his lethargic nature usually permits. It’s not on purpose, not something he thinks through. It’s simply that away from everything, in a world where he can actually have more energy, covered need emerges. Plodding closer to him, he crumples somewhat, head pressing into Mukuro’s shoulder.
“Maestro…” Words struggle to form in his mouth. He doesn’t want to be weak, to be discarded or not seen as useful if those cracks become visible. At the same time…
Situations much like this one were common, once upon a time. Fleeing his body in the purely mental dissociative manner was never a permanent solution. It still isn’t. Eventually, he has to come back… It’s only a matter of when. He’d come back from the experiments quiet and blank faced, eerily so, and remain like that for a few minutes, a half hour, a full hour, two… And, out of nowhere, he’d slam back into existing, finding a place to hide and gasp out sobs which rattled him to the bone.
That’s what’s happening here, on a less severe level. Perhaps being wrapped in an illusion even helped kick it off. The mind is still such a strange thing.
For all of his strength, being able to stand beside two boys whose lab experiments did take and brought them to great heights, Chikusa was still a normal human being. With deadened nerves and an impressive apathy towards most things, but their upbringing had left their scars as deeply on the quiet boy as much as they had visibly Ken and Mukuro.
As Chikusa drew closer, he said nothing, letting Chikusa rest against him, running a gloved hand through his hair soothingly.
"I'll always come back to you, Chikusa. No matter what." It was a quiet reassurance. At one point, it might have been said merely to strengthen loyalty and nothing more, but nowadays... Well, perhaps Mukuro was getting sentimental for reasons he didn't want to articulate. "Take all the time you need."
Whether it’s been lip service or genuine, Chikusa’s always taken such words gladly. Now is no different. A shaky breath makes his whole body quiver, and the following exhale has him sagging into Mukuro’s touch. “Yes,” he replies, quiet, not really an answer.
So long as he’s owned, so long as he’s given direction, so long as he’s not discarded...
Something occurs to him, however, and he shifts against Mukuro. “Ken…?” He can only imagine how his partner took to his absence, and, knocked out of his usual apathetic state, the idea of panic looms closer.
Mukuro let out a little hum as Chikusa settled against him, fine with not talking and just turning his face to the sunshine to enjoy it, even if it was illusionary. It was nice, warm and not too blindingly bright.
The question made him shift, turning to look at Chikusa, his mouth curling upwards slightly. "He tore apart his fair share of enemies. I can only hope now he's bathing. The doctor was given strict orders not to let him in otherwise."
Both for Mukuro's sensabilities as well as Chikusa's. He canted his head to the side, considering. "But he has faith in you. He knew you wouldn't betray us." Either by divulging information or by dying before they could reach him.
That Ken is alright and just as violent and filthy as ever is a reassurance. In fact, Chikusa doesn’t even realize how much of a reassurance it is until he’s sagging back against Mukuro again. He certainly doesn’t realize the look on his face, a tension he hadn’t known was there being wiped away by relief.
“I thought…” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. If he’d been targeted, after all, perhaps Ken had been as well. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Of course no one would go after Ken. He’s no illusionist, not like Mukuro-sama or Chrome or Fran, but he’s more lethal than anything especially when people dismiss him as an idiot. There’s an animalistic cunning to Ken that’s carried him through. Nothing like the kind of thinking Mukuro deals in daily, but something perfectly suited to the battlefield or hunting down opponents. Would something like this have happened to Ken? Chikusa doubts it. He would have seen enemies coming a mile away, have smelled their intent and heard the rustle of weaponry.
If anyone would want to get to Mukuro…. Of course Chikusa would be the target. “...I would never, Mukuro-sama…. It’s the least I can do for you…” Perhaps the only thing it feels like at times.
"They did try to get to him, but Fran and M.M. were with him." So needless to say, they'd all managed to fend for themselves, whereas Chikusa alone was an easy target. If Chikusa felt inadequate for being captured, he needn't have. Mukuro was far stronger than all of them, and yet he'd been caught more times than he cared to admit, and incarcerated for far longer. It wasn't a failing he would judge his followers for. If they were truly useless to him, he wouldn't have worked so hard to ensure their safety.
That loyal reply was practically scripted at this point, but it made Mukuro chuckle all the same. He pressed a fond kiss into Chikusa's hat covered hair, tightening his hold on his shoulder. "You've done more than enough. Now you should rest and recover."
On a logical level, Chikusa knows he’s earned his place.
Mukuro didn’t have time for a useless tool, when they were younger, and Chikusa knows enough now to read between the lines. A man doesn’t let himself go to prison because he feels nothing for the people he’s saving from the same fate. Yet what a flawed thing the human mind is, latching onto an idea and twisting it until it’s something terrible. Useless. Useless because the scientists had said so, murmuring to one another in bland tones about how he wasn’t living up to expectations and uncaring that his twisted body was still on the floor conscious and listening. Useless because he’d known from the start that he’d have to work that much harder, staring longingly at Ken’s physical prowess and Mukuro’s everything.
The Estraneo had been prepared to abandon him for dead so easily, just another broken child not performing like they wanted. It’s hard to forget that. Hard to forget, but not as hard to lessen the effects of, and Mukuro’s grip on him and his kiss push it to the edges of Chikusa’s mind instead of the forefront. Right. Mukuro would never let go of him, not like this, not willingly. He’s owned, and that fact will never stop being one of his greatest reliefs. “As you wish, Maestro,” he murmurs, as though it isn’t a relief. Slowly, he starts to sink down into the water, his grip on Mukuro wanting to bring him down with him.
The way that the tension drained out of Chikusa out of such a small gesture was admirable, in a way. Normally, Mukuro made sure to cultivate the sort of aura that would make others shy away from him, to fear him, and to want little to do with him. He had often scoffed at the notion of soulmates or people being made for each other, but he had to wonder that even a being such as himself had people who cared for him and who drew comfort from him, perhaps it was true. That no one in this world could be truly alone.
He let out a small noise of surprise as Chikusa dragged him down into the water, which was only waist high at best. Since he had control over this world, the water was only crisp and refreshing instead of freezing like it should be.
"Did you need to be clean this much?" He asked teasingly, splashing a bit of the water towards Chikusa.
In contrast to how he normally is, let alone the sunken quiet that’s taken over him since Mukuro rescued him, Chikusa straightens up at the splash with with a befuddled look on his face. For once, it hadn’t been an action out of his need to be clean, or as clean as any of them were at any given time. “Maestro, no-” ...But now that he’s been reminded of it…
Trailing off, Chikusa pauses, frowning slighty as he looks down at his hands. In Mukuro’s perfect world, of course he’s just fine. Why wouldn’t it be? Yet he’s well aware that in the real world, as the doctor works on his destroyed knees, it’s the opposite case. “...They didn’t let me bathe while I was there…” It’s clear from the intense focus on his hands that he’s not going to stop thinking about this now.
All of them had the scars that had come from their upbringing, some more visibly than others. Chikusa's, it seemed, were mostly internal, prone to springing up at the most random times and in the most interesting forms of neurosis. Mukuro peered at the hands that Chikusa was scowling at, taking one of them and kissing the palm.
"You can bathe when the good doctor is done with you. Should I tell you how our enemies were dispatched to keep your mind off of things?" If there was one thing Mukuro was good at, it was talking after all and redirecting and misdirecting thought.
As always, Mukuro’s attentions distract Chikusa quiet thoroughly, and his quiet tension eases up as lips brush along his palm. Right. Mukuro will let him tend to himself when everything is done. As long as Mukuro says so, Chikusa will believe him without fault. For things like this, after all, he’s always been honest with them about things like this. More than anyone else, he understands Chikusa, Ken, and even Dokuro and what they all need.
“If you’d like, Maestro.” Chikusa doesn’t care, but his apathy doesn’t mean he won’t hang onto every word and remember what Mukuro has said in this moment even months from now.
Soothing, Mukuro working his fingers through Chikusa hair, he told him of the deeds he, Ken, Fran, and even M.M. had performed in order to extract revenge for what had happened to Chikusa. His gentle touch and soft voice was a direct juxtaposition to the savageness of the actions he spoke of, and he let his voice flow as easily as the stream.
When he was aware of the doctor finishing up her treatment, he nudged Chikusa gently. "Are you ready to go back?"
If something like this is strange, Chikusa doesn’t see how it could be. Ever since they first met Mukuro, this juxtaposition has been a vital part of their lives: that soft lilting tone completely at ease with the world and any difficulties it might try to create, echoing in a room full of carnage and bloodshed. After all these years, it’s no longer something to be concerned about in Chikusa or Ken’s eyes. Instead, in some bizarre twist, it’s a reassuring thing to hear. Sitting there in the softly running water, eyes closed, Chikusa lets Mukuro’s voice take over his senses.
The nudge snaps him out of it, his eyelids fluttering open, and he’s nodding automatically before he’s even processed the words. “Yes, Maestro.” He’s not, actually. A greedy part of him wants this to be their eternity, serene expanse and nothing but one another (and others like Ken, of course). This is all he’s ever wanted, Chikusa suspects. Their pursuit of revenge has always been spearheaded by Mukuro, followed by Ken the ever loyal hunting dog, and Chikusa has let himself get swept up in it because it’s what both of them want.
But him? He wants this. He wants them.
God, he’s so tired.
Before the illusion can fade away to leave them in harsh reality again, however, he reaches over to lay his hand upon Mukuro’s arm. “I won’t cause a problem like this for you again, Maestro.” It’s a promise, as much as he can afford to make such a thing. All he has in this world is Mukuro and Ken. For something to take him away from them, to try and turn him against them… He won’t let it happen.
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badliifechoiice22016-01-08 10:36 am
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Which might not fully assuage Chikusa's fears, so he glanced over to the other boy, expression almost as soft as the one he displayed to Chrome.
"I'll stay with you the whole time."
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That doesn’t mean he has no interest in it. It’s the exact opposite. He practically aches to earn any tenderness from the few people in the universe that he can rest easy around. From Mukuro, distant and independent, especially.
So at even this small show of softness, for all his misgivings, Chikusa starts to relax in Mukuro’s grip. “It won’t cause trouble for you, Maestro?” It would destroy him worse than any torture to be seen as a liability in some way for him.
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And yet...
It was distressing, more than he dared imagine, to think of the torture that Chikusa had to endure. What he might have to endure in the future just by knowing him. But for all of his wisdom and knowledge, Mukuro could see no other path for himself. There was still people in the world who deserved to drown in their own blood, and there were few willing to dirty their hands in such a manner. Nor were many as good at it as Mukuro was. He had always said he had gone through hell, but he had rarely gone there alone. So why now of all times was it starting to bother him?
He squeezed Chikusa's shoulder comfortingly enough, squinting into the sun as they stepped out. Their hideout wasn't that far, an hour's drive via car. While a good portion of his enemies believed he could transport at will, it was nothing so dependable. And at his current level, it was impossible with two people of flesh and blood.
"I wouldn't have offered if it would be, would I?" It was said with only a tinge of amusement, and he helped Chikusa into the car easily enough, flicking his bangs out of his face. "Rest."
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Contrary to his hands, his reply is a quiet, “I understand, Maestro.” There’s more he wants to say, a longing that makes up his entire grasp, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Such openness, even now, even with the changes they’ve experienced from running into Sawada and his lot, is something he doesn’t know how to do.
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He laced their fingers gently throughout the car ride, only letting go to shift gears if necessary, but considering the remoteness of the hide out and the lack of other cars, his hand was mostly free.
The ride was uneventful, made so by careful planning and having cleared the path long before he had stepped into the room where Chikusa had been held.
Once they made it safely to their hideout, the doctor was there to greet them, and helped get Chikusa safely inside.
Perhaps it was just Mukuro's general distaste for hospitals and anything that would remind him of a laboratory, but there was little there but a couch and a generous heaping of sun flames. True to his word, he kept close by, making sure to stay within reach.
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This is fine. He can deal with this.
Chikusa’s body is stripped nearly bare for the doctor to survey the damage. Besides the obvious, there are things that clothing hid: bruises, scrapes, shallow scratches from a body that’s been tossed around like a ragdoll. As it turns out, it’s a little difficult to tell the extent of the problems when the injured party in question has a distant relationship with their own body in multiple ways. That means taking care of the obvious first, and the doctor looks up from where she’s been inspecting his broken knees.
“I think I’m going to have to open his legs up first before using sun flames. The bone might not heal right otherwise without being set into place.”
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"Would you like to be taken away from here?" Meaning that Mukuro could just wrap them both in an illusion while the doctor worked, taking them somewhere peaceful and quiet and... pleasant until the procedure was over.
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What does he want to do? He doesn’t want to leave his body, the precious body that’s so useful to Mukuro, in the hands of someone he doesn’t know… In the hands of someone with scalpels and stitches and memories that are too strongly attached to both. On the other hand….
Running from his own body and the things it goes through are what he does all the time simply to survive.
“...Please.” He looks up from beneath his bangs, the action more vulnerable than what really shows on his face. If it were himself digging into his own flesh, he wouldn’t care about seeing all the gore and blood. However, in the hands of someone else… He doesn’t want it.
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It had been helpful to both sharpen his skills and to keep his mind from going mad, and it had served him well. If doing so could give Chikusa even a minute comfort, he would do so.
He only shot the doctor a pointed look that promised all sorts of terrible retribution if anything happened to them, because he would know, before taking Chikusa's hand in his own.
It was easy to conjure up the meadow of flowers, fragrant and beautiful, stretching out as far as the eye could see, broken up only by a crystal clear stream. Here there was no pain, only a tranquility and peace Mukuro knew few other places. It was as close to nirvana as he would allow himself.
"Is this pleasant enough?"
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Still. It’s always strange to Chikusa, sometimes, to be in such nice places.
He takes a slow look around, blinking as though trying to awake from the dream of reality, and breathes out as he tries to let himself be comforted. It’s not even the appearance of the place that gives him any ease. This is Mukuro’s domain- his world and his rules. If he says nothing can reach them here, hurt him here, then that’s fact. It means more to Chikusa than he can say.
Carefully, he reaches into the stream and lets water pass over his fingertips.
“Anything of yours is good enough for me, Maestro.” Still, there’s something else on his mind. A tentative glance up towards the other, the question lurking in his eyes. He wants to request closeness, but he isn’t sure how. This already feels like so much.
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But nature, true pure nature, was a rarity in the world where people were eager to lay claim on everything and plant fast food restaurants there and trash heaps. His cute little Chrome would probably say something along the lines of this was what he yearned for humanity to be, better and purer than what it was, but his favored vessel tended to be far more optimistic than Mukuro was.
At Chikusa's answer, he gave a slight nod, content to unlace his boots and roll up his pant legs, wading into the stream water, closing his eyes with a sigh. While Chikusa wouldn't voice his request, he didn't need to. He felt the unasked question in the back of his mind, as loudly as if Chikusa had actually spoken.
He turned back toward him, reaching out a gloved hand to him, expression soft and indulgent.
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“Maestro…” Words struggle to form in his mouth. He doesn’t want to be weak, to be discarded or not seen as useful if those cracks become visible. At the same time…
Situations much like this one were common, once upon a time. Fleeing his body in the purely mental dissociative manner was never a permanent solution. It still isn’t. Eventually, he has to come back… It’s only a matter of when. He’d come back from the experiments quiet and blank faced, eerily so, and remain like that for a few minutes, a half hour, a full hour, two… And, out of nowhere, he’d slam back into existing, finding a place to hide and gasp out sobs which rattled him to the bone.
That’s what’s happening here, on a less severe level. Perhaps being wrapped in an illusion even helped kick it off. The mind is still such a strange thing.
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As Chikusa drew closer, he said nothing, letting Chikusa rest against him, running a gloved hand through his hair soothingly.
"I'll always come back to you, Chikusa. No matter what." It was a quiet reassurance. At one point, it might have been said merely to strengthen loyalty and nothing more, but nowadays... Well, perhaps Mukuro was getting sentimental for reasons he didn't want to articulate. "Take all the time you need."
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So long as he’s owned, so long as he’s given direction, so long as he’s not discarded...
Something occurs to him, however, and he shifts against Mukuro. “Ken…?” He can only imagine how his partner took to his absence, and, knocked out of his usual apathetic state, the idea of panic looms closer.
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The question made him shift, turning to look at Chikusa, his mouth curling upwards slightly. "He tore apart his fair share of enemies. I can only hope now he's bathing. The doctor was given strict orders not to let him in otherwise."
Both for Mukuro's sensabilities as well as Chikusa's. He canted his head to the side, considering. "But he has faith in you. He knew you wouldn't betray us." Either by divulging information or by dying before they could reach him.
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“I thought…” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence. If he’d been targeted, after all, perhaps Ken had been as well. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Of course no one would go after Ken. He’s no illusionist, not like Mukuro-sama or Chrome or Fran, but he’s more lethal than anything especially when people dismiss him as an idiot. There’s an animalistic cunning to Ken that’s carried him through. Nothing like the kind of thinking Mukuro deals in daily, but something perfectly suited to the battlefield or hunting down opponents. Would something like this have happened to Ken? Chikusa doubts it. He would have seen enemies coming a mile away, have smelled their intent and heard the rustle of weaponry.
If anyone would want to get to Mukuro…. Of course Chikusa would be the target.
“...I would never, Mukuro-sama…. It’s the least I can do for you…” Perhaps the only thing it feels like at times.
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That loyal reply was practically scripted at this point, but it made Mukuro chuckle all the same. He pressed a fond kiss into Chikusa's hat covered hair, tightening his hold on his shoulder. "You've done more than enough. Now you should rest and recover."
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Mukuro didn’t have time for a useless tool, when they were younger, and Chikusa knows enough now to read between the lines. A man doesn’t let himself go to prison because he feels nothing for the people he’s saving from the same fate.
Yet what a flawed thing the human mind is, latching onto an idea and twisting it until it’s something terrible. Useless. Useless because the scientists had said so, murmuring to one another in bland tones about how he wasn’t living up to expectations and uncaring that his twisted body was still on the floor conscious and listening. Useless because he’d known from the start that he’d have to work that much harder, staring longingly at Ken’s physical prowess and Mukuro’s everything.
The Estraneo had been prepared to abandon him for dead so easily, just another broken child not performing like they wanted. It’s hard to forget that.
Hard to forget, but not as hard to lessen the effects of, and Mukuro’s grip on him and his kiss push it to the edges of Chikusa’s mind instead of the forefront. Right. Mukuro would never let go of him, not like this, not willingly. He’s owned, and that fact will never stop being one of his greatest reliefs. “As you wish, Maestro,” he murmurs, as though it isn’t a relief. Slowly, he starts to sink down into the water, his grip on Mukuro wanting to bring him down with him.
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He let out a small noise of surprise as Chikusa dragged him down into the water, which was only waist high at best. Since he had control over this world, the water was only crisp and refreshing instead of freezing like it should be.
"Did you need to be clean this much?" He asked teasingly, splashing a bit of the water towards Chikusa.
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...But now that he’s been reminded of it…
Trailing off, Chikusa pauses, frowning slighty as he looks down at his hands. In Mukuro’s perfect world, of course he’s just fine. Why wouldn’t it be? Yet he’s well aware that in the real world, as the doctor works on his destroyed knees, it’s the opposite case. “...They didn’t let me bathe while I was there…” It’s clear from the intense focus on his hands that he’s not going to stop thinking about this now.
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"You can bathe when the good doctor is done with you. Should I tell you how our enemies were dispatched to keep your mind off of things?" If there was one thing Mukuro was good at, it was talking after all and redirecting and misdirecting thought.
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“If you’d like, Maestro.” Chikusa doesn’t care, but his apathy doesn’t mean he won’t hang onto every word and remember what Mukuro has said in this moment even months from now.
it okay to wrap this up? : O
When he was aware of the doctor finishing up her treatment, he nudged Chikusa gently. "Are you ready to go back?"
I'm good for it!
The nudge snaps him out of it, his eyelids fluttering open, and he’s nodding automatically before he’s even processed the words. “Yes, Maestro.” He’s not, actually. A greedy part of him wants this to be their eternity, serene expanse and nothing but one another (and others like Ken, of course). This is all he’s ever wanted, Chikusa suspects. Their pursuit of revenge has always been spearheaded by Mukuro, followed by Ken the ever loyal hunting dog, and Chikusa has let himself get swept up in it because it’s what both of them want.
But him? He wants this. He wants them.
God, he’s so tired.
Before the illusion can fade away to leave them in harsh reality again, however, he reaches over to lay his hand upon Mukuro’s arm. “I won’t cause a problem like this for you again, Maestro.” It’s a promise, as much as he can afford to make such a thing. All he has in this world is Mukuro and Ken. For something to take him away from them, to try and turn him against them… He won’t let it happen.
He’d sooner die, first.