DRABBLES!!

[mukuro]

mukuro & ginshu- domesticity.

Ginshu visits often, and Mukuro suspects it's out of loneliness. He's generally right about this kind of thing, having long since mastered the art of reading solitude in the way Ginshu raps on the door (three knocks; is someone there, please say yes) and smiles with a faded brilliance when Mukuro opens it.

He lets him sweep in and tidy the corners of the apartment, hair tied up and out of the way, sleeves of his cardigan rolled to his elbows as he contends with the dust that gathers there. Dust that always seems to make its way back, even when Chrome does her best to counter it. Chrome, who greets Ginshu with a polite, ducked head and faint flush when Ginshu clucks over her and glances at Mukuro. Mukuro, who never answers those looks with more than a faint smile.

Before long, it's almost routine- Ginshu shows up, Ginshu brings baked goods and scolds Mukuro and Chrome about the dangers of an unmaintained household, and sometimes lingers for tea. On several memorable occasions, the bathroom is steamy and humid and the drain in the tub slowly clogged by sloughs of skin as Mukuro loofahs at Ginshu with painstaking patience.

"What would I do without you?" Ginshu asks one day.

Mukuro, the rolled cuffs of his pants damp despite the precaution, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "Wither away into an empty husk on your own, I suppose."

A sigh, and Ginshu scratches idly at his arm. "When you put it like that, it sounds even worse."

"Don't worry," he laughs, stepping out of the tub. "The Twelve are jealous gods."

Ginshu catches Mukuro by the shirt hem, and looks up at him under a sweep of thick lashes. His mouth is struggling with the shape of his loneliness, tongue failing to put it into words. "Promise me you won't leave."

Mukuro only smiles and gently pries Ginshu's fingers from his shirt.



mukuro & shouichi - winter in munich

"It's too cold, this is ridiculous and pointless and--" Irie Shouichi is made up of nothing but complaints this chilly winter day, curled in on himself and wobbling hopelessly on ice, gripping the railing as though his life depends on it.

Not that it helps when Mukuro knocks the feet out from under him, sending Shouichi butt-first onto the ice with an indignant yelp and an angry whoosh of air. He glides in a slow circle around Shouichi's fallen form, the air ringing with splutters of embarrassment and irritation.

"W-WHAT WAS THAT FOR." It hurts, and he winces as he tries to get to his feet, failing utterly and miserably and wanting very dearly to see Mukuro trip over his skates and fall on his own feet. Okay, it'll probably never happen anyway, but he can dream, right?

Mukuro stops in front of Shouichi, laughing. "You weren't getting anywhere, so I thought I'd give you a chance to stretch your legs."

"I don't really see how this is supposed to help at all!" This is definitely one of Mukuro's more sadistic ideas, trapping him at Munich's largest ice rink (he's never been, this is his first time at the Münchner Eiszauber) with children cutting ice faster than he can sneeze all around him. It's hell, he's sure of it. Hell frozen over and dusted with a fine layer of ice and snow. Never, ever again.

"Stand up." Mukuro says, prodding Shouichi with the toe of his skate. Shouichi glowers up at him, but he has the nerve to keep laughing, before reaching down in an uncharacteristic gesture of good will.

"Anytime today would be excellent, Irie Shouichi," He says when Shouichi fails to take his hand. "You're making a spectacle of yourself. I assure you I won't bite."

Grudging, Shouichi seizes Mukuro's hand (what choice does he have? he can't get up by himself) and rights himself shakily.

"Now," Mukuro says, both hands in Shouichi's. "Shall we begin?"