and fill your mouth with freedom's feelings [closed]

[antimafioso.livejournal.com]

When; Any evening. Let's go with August 12, Friday.
Rating; PG?
Characters; Rokudou Mukuro [antimafioso] & Chrome Dokuro [ragazz0dinebbia]
Summary; Domestic. 1+1=1.
Log;

In the few months since he (and she) moved into the apartment (their apartment? a possessive he both denied and claimed with ease, natural to assume ownership, yet the aftertaste, artificial, was less than pleasant), routine had not developed. Sometimes he spent the day lounging on the couch, or stretched out on the shag rug, immersed in a book, or the NintendoDS he'd secured those months ago. Sometimes he spent days away, not once stopping by. (Not that he ever left her alone for that long, not completely, a sporadic weight in her mind, a breath of interest, had she lunched well, had the milk gone past its date, didn't she think this curse amusing?).

When his hand curled around the cold metal and swung open the door, it had been five days since he last stepped foot inside, seven since last sleeping there. The clothes on his back weren't the ones he left in, and he hadn't packed any bags. There's a bag in his arm now, paper and smelling strongly of spices, of sauces, of dinner. As he closed the door he considered a hat, a coat rack, a coat to shrug off as he called, honey, I'm home! The thought both amusing and disgusting. His mouth twisted with mirth that missed his eyes. These few rooms, though well-furnished, were incomplete. It had nothing to do with her. (One might conjecture that the promise of her, whether physical or traces left behind as she, too, took to the City and beyond, was a single redeeming feature, a, the reason to return at all, to think of it as returning. One might.) What a small, pathetic picture of life, of people, such a line invited.

Which made it more tempting to say.

The moment passed (though that meant little). He did not announce himself; she would know even if he'd taken care to make no sound at the door. Crossing to the dining table, he began to unpack take-out containers. Italian might seem a little boring, but only one with a rudimentary understanding of the cuisine could say and believe that. More to the point, he'd wanted it.

By appearance occupied with sorting the dishes (a broad selection, he liked to have a little of everything, whatever his fancy), in fact, he was waiting. He waited.

Comments

[ragazz0dinebbia.livejournal.com]

Contrary to what might be considered as popular belief regarding a girl's feelings towards her savior (existence), she didn't really think on the possibility of physically living together with him. He needed her, she was happy to be of use, and the ultimate goal was to free him from his underwater cage. It skipped some steps, but he was free, and still seemingly needed her for... something she did not know, but didn't know if she wanted to find out.

But now they physically co-existed in an enclosed space, and though it didn't seem like it at first, she was getting used to it, bit by bit.

They were like... cats. If he was on the couch she was sometimes on the windowsill, leaning against the glass and reading or, if he'd allow it, beside him and watching him play a game on the NintendoDS. If she was in her room she'd come out, pour drinks for both of them and place his on the table and go back inside with hers. If she'd wake up at the morning (or night) with an empty apartment, she'd just pick up the open book on the rug and bookmark (with a tissue, petal or piece of paper) on where it opened, or charge the DS (play if she thought the game interesting, new game). If he did not show himself for a week or more she'd think on where he is, but would not ask if when he'd come. Back.

She came out of her room just as he was setting the dishes in her pajama bottoms and t-shirt. She washed her face at the kitchen sink first before taking out the bottle of sparkling water from the fridge (she likes the way it tickles her nose as she swallows) and red wine (uncorked yesterday, still good she reckons).

Okaeri, Mukuro-sama

[antimafioso.livejournal.com]

Tadaima.

In pleasant singsong. The appropriate exchange, if in this context, a width too narrow from honey, I'm home!, but his distaste did not show, did not shadow the amused inflection. It wasn't unwelcome, such a greeting, sincere and unassuming from her. He wouldn't respond with nothing, even a nothing that wasn't, a silence colored by a hum or drip or tinge of emotion.

There were too many dishes: salads and pastas and chicken, veal, fish. It was too much and they would throw most of it out. Someone might have complained while pressing at his glasses, another would have eaten it all, even the aluminum and styrofoam, to the first's chagrin. He did not think of this while folding the bag and leaving it on the counter top, stepping around her to procure to plates. (How kind of their neighbors to let them have them; he knew they wouldn't miss them [or their lava lamp]).

Even pajamas and a plain shirt suited her, though he preferred to dress her in cuter things, especially now that he could see her outside of her mind's eye, beyond the mirror's reflection. Glasses and utensils. A moment's break in the setup to breathe in the wine. Not bad. He smiled with a trace of approval.

"I hope you're hungry?"

[ragazz0dinebbia.livejournal.com]

Living with Mukuro also taught her something new; there was food beyond what was offered at the convenience store. Big supermarkets intimidated her, so she stuck to instant noodles, chips and chocolate bars when they were a party of three and she was stuck with buying duty. Ken and Chikusa never complained about her purchases, so she never deviated from them.

Every now and then these days, he would come home with a variety of take-outs from every restaurant in the city - Chinese, Mexican, Indian - and they would eat it together, just like what they were about to do. She was always fascinated with the different tastes and textures that met (and sometimes scalded) her tongue, and how watching her eat a particular dish for the first time seemed to amuse him. Tonight was Italian (they had that often), and she looked forward to that most.

Looking at the food that could have fed at least 3 more (and suddenly missing the two that could have consumed all of it in an instant... well, one in particular), she replied with an affirmative, moving the already laid out food a bit here, a nudge there, to make it look more... inviting.

[antimafioso.livejournal.com]

Having had only the occasional eye on what they ate, on how they survived without him, it had amused him, though he never addressed it. Such children, helpless and scrambling, dependent and codependent. Yet, managing. They had to, after all, to wait for him, and was it egotistic if it was true? Supermarkets had a mass-produced and cheap appeal, a testament to the roachlike ingenuity of humans. Perhaps she'd like them better if they commandeered a cart and went flying down the aisles.

Such a clutter of excessive dishes clashed, but her adjustments, slight as they were, helped. He pulled out her chair for her before sitting himself, tipping the wine into their glasses, beginning to serve a little from each dish onto his plate. Some portions slid into one another, flavors mingling. When the plate was full he lifted his glass, angled it for a toast. He looked at her with expectation, a question in his mirth-bright, mismatched eyes.

Letting her guide the toast or prayer, to start the meal.

[ragazz0dinebbia.livejournal.com]

She held up her own wine glass (he insisted she drink wine sometimes) and, haltingly, spoke an old Irish blessing. In her still-learner's Italian:

<< May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
May the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand. >>

She finished, red, as she clinked her glass against his. She also has been working on her Italian, still wanting to converse in his native language.