Author's Notes: 1,289 words, so maybe it's more a drabble, I dunno. I also don't know why I keep writing angsty Mukuro. Bah. Also, nothing explicit except for language, so maybe the powers that be will let me be on this one.

Tsuna knew it was a dream, just as he knew it wasn't his dream.

It was cold, so unbearably cold, the bitter chill so harsh it stole his breath and sent shivers racing along his body. The room he was in was small, sterile, devoid of light or furniture, only a small drain in the center of the floor marring its stale symmetry. It stank of blood and waste and human misery, and even though he knew it was a dream, Tsuna still felt sickened by the stench.

There in the corner, curled into a fetal position, wearing filthy rags that had long since lost any semblance to actual clothing, was a small boy. He was crying, weeping, giant wracking sobs that shook his whole body, but no sound came from his mouth, and when he lifted his face, it was dry. His odd, dual-colored eyes, one a beautiful blue, the other crimson and still bruised around the edges, were bereft of tears.

Tsuna felt something warm and wet trickling down his own cheeks, the tears the little boy could not shed, and his heart broke, rent, fragmented.

The cell door opened, because really that is what it was, a cell, a prison, a hellhole that the child could not escape, and men came in. Men who ordered the boy to do something, show them something, but no, he shook his head, he refused. So they hit him, beat him, kicked him, punished him so cruelly. And Tsuna cried out, reached out, tried to stop them, but his hands grasped no one, touched no one, saved no one.

The little boy looked at him, with blood trickling from his head and his lips, and he sneered, hatred on that face that was much too young to bear such a burden, seeming to say, "You are just like them, you can't protect anyone, you won't protect anyone." But in his eyes, in those mysterious heterochromatic eyes, he was saying something else, pleading, "Make it stop, make the pain stop. Save me, someone, anyone."

It was his own voice that woke him up. His own voice calling out a name, the name that used to fill him with trepidation and dismay and fear, but now made him feel something else entirely, something he couldn't name, or maybe didn't want to.

"Mukuro."

Opening his eyes, Tsuna threw back the down blanket and slung his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn't bother with a robe or slippers or even running a cursory brush through his untamed, sleep tousled hair. He just dashed out of his bedroom and down the hall, to the last door on the right, to the room where his second most reluctant Guardian stayed when he deigned to stay with them at all.

Tsuna lifted his hand, wondering if he should knock, but the sound of glass shattering made his decision for him. He tested the knob, found it unlocked, and rushed inside. His eyes searched the darkness and found Mukuro in front of the vanity, the mirror now smashed into a hundred tiny pieces.

"I don't recall inviting you inside, Tsunayoshi, either here in my room or in my dreams," Mukuro said quietly, too quietly, no trace of the usual sly mischievousness in his voice. He didn't turn around, just stood over the vanity, palms flat, back hunched a little, head down, the long tail of his dark hair stark against the white shirt he wore.

Swallowing, Tsuna shut the door and took a few steps into the room. "I just … just …," he couldn't find the words to say, couldn't admit to being an unwilling hitchhiker into Mukuro's own private hell, but he didn't have to.

Mukuro turned around, a bitter smile twisting his lips, eyes glittering like the splintered glass at his feet. His shirt was unbuttoned and his pants were unfastened and Tsuna wanted to look away but couldn't. "You just what, Tsunayoshi? Came to see if your rabid dog could be saved, or if it needed to be put down for the good of everyone?"

His tone was hateful, mocking, but beneath it was pain, so much pain. Uncaring of his bare feet or the broken glass, only caring about the broken man in front of him, Tsuna walked, then ran the last few meters until he stood in front of Mukuro.

"I came to comfort my friend," he countered softly, amber eyes wide and clear and full of compassion.

Laughing harshly, a sound completely devoid of mirth, Mukuro grabbed Tsuna's hands and placed them on the pale, smooth expanse of his chest. "Make no mistake, Tenth Boss of the Vongola, I am not now nor have I ever been your friend. But if you still want to comfort me," he dragged Tsuna's hands down his abdomen, past his navel, to the bulge at his groin, "well you can start with this."

It was a crude, disgusting gesture. Or, it should have been, but Tsuna wasn't fooled. Mukuro truly did crave the warmth of another's touch right then, his touch, and he wasn't averse to giving it, had actually wanted to give it for a long time but could only now admit it to himself.

"Alright," he nodded, and cupped Mukuro's hot, swollen cock through the tight fabric of his pants.

Eyes widening, Mukuro stood frozen for a moment, letting Tsuna fondle him, feel him, but when one small hand went to free him from the restrictive confines of his trousers, he snapped out of his daze.

Snatching Tsuna's wandering hands, he flung them away and then spun on his heel, facing the battered vanity once more. "Get out," he ordered, and the command was raw, guttural, desperate.

Tsuna moved up to him, walking on shards of glass, feeling them cut into his feet, the pain incomparable to the pain in his heart right then. Wrapping his pajama-clad arms tight around Mukuro's waist, he buried his head in that back that was more fragile than anyone knew and shook his head.

"I don't want to."

"I'll fuck you if you don't," Mukuro warned, using lewd, visceral imagery in an attempt to scare Tsuna away. "I'll fuck you hard and fast and I won't care if you cry or say no or try to run away. I'll just shove my cock in your ass and fuck you until I come over and over again. Do you understand?"

Brushing his lips over Mukuro's spine, Tsuna willed away any fear he felt at those primal, explicit words. "I won't say no, and I won't run away."

"Then heaven help you, because no one else will," Mukuro hissed.

Circling one of Tsuna's wrists, Mukuro yanked him to the side and pivoted. Sealing their lips together in a brutal, demanding kiss, he picked the smaller man up, took him to the bed, and then took him to his word that he wouldn't say no or run. All night long, he pounded out his anger and his hatred and his memories on Tsuna's small, welcoming body. In return, through the pain and, eventually, through the pleasure, Tsuna tried to show him the warmth he desired, as well as hope and gentleness and the promise of tomorrow.

And maybe it worked, maybe Tsuna was able to communicate his feelings, his love, because when he finally drifted off, when they drifted off, there was another dream. Again, it wasn't his. Again, there was a little boy with mismatched eyes, but it was different this time. They were outside, the sun blinding and dazzling, and so was the child as he smiled, as he laughed, as he ran, reaching out for a hand, Tsuna's hand, and Tsuna felt tears on his face one more time.

Fin.