Delusional Disorder

Full Summary: Mukuro is sent to a mental institution when he was at a young age. He suffers from delusional disorder, or whatever they accused him of. An author at a young age, he is well-known in the world for being one of the most successful writers with a mental illness. This is about Mukuro's past, present and future. It is a story of him, and just him. AU. No pairings. One-shot.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of them, no matter how much I want to own Mukuro.

Warnings:

-OC mentioned or spoken about.

-Just a character analysis in a story form.

-Mukuro is the only KHR character in this story but other people are mentioned.

-OOC

Happy Birthday Mukuro!

Dark, grey clouds loomed the city, swallowing the place with endless darkness. It was raining; the water dripped down from the sky and drenched the gutters, overflowing the roads. Occasionally when cars zoomed by, the water on the road splashed onto the pavement where hardly anyone walk passes. The water hit the pavement eventually, just like the way moths fluttered their way towards light, they knew they were bringing destruction to themselves, but they still did. The sound of the water pouring into the drains was heard, yet the thundering sound of thunder was not anywhere to be heard and neither did lightning strikes.

A young man sitting by the window sill of the mental institution had distinctive indigo coloured hair. It was sleek and it looked very soft. The hair entwined with each other and slithered down the man's shoulders. It stuck flatly on his back but it swayed as its' owner moved around. There were a few strands of hair that covered his eyes, but it was quite clear he had heterochromic eyes. Some of his hair was tied back, leaving him a pineapple-looking hairstyle.

His eyes glittered at the lights that were outside; his left eye was ocean blue, while the other one was bloody red. He was wearing a thin sheet of a white plain shirt that almost seemed transparent on his slim body. His skin was pale, almost in the sickly way. His long fingers entwined with each other, cupping a glass of invisible air. His jeans were black and it fitted him perfectly, showing his lines and how good his body looked. He had long and slim legs that could easily make anyway else jealous.

He was a deadly handsome young man indeed.

But no one wanted someone who was from a mental institution. The man suffered from delusional disorder, a mental illness that refers to a condition associated with one or more nonbizzare delusions of thinking, such as believing things that are not true that is associated with themselves. Some say he's mental, yet some say he's a dreamer. Most of his reader's believe he was an excellent writer with imagination while his mad followers believed in what he has said about himself in his books that he has published.

Mukuro stared at the rolling raindrops that slid across the window, slanting the window in half, leaving a trail of tiny droplets. His lips were thin but delicate and can make girls swoon at him by licking his lips. His cheek bones were high and his jaw looked powerful. His nose was just the right size and his whole presence seemed like a fantasy. His eyelashes were long and it looked like a butterfly when he blinked. His lips curved into a faint mysterious smile and it looked like he knew things that no one else does. The aura around him was suspenseful, faint but there. He gave an impression of isolation and loneliness and that no one ever understands him fully. It was like dipping a hand into water, expecting it to be boiling hot, yet it turned out to be surprisingly icy.

Mukuro was like an illusion that was too perfect to actually exist in real life. His smile made him look approachable, yet people think that his smile never reached his eyes and the smile is just the matter of the politeness and isolation. But only he knew that the smile was the smile of acceptance, knowing and calmness. He knew this world and the world acknowledged him by giving him a perfect presence. He was like the lotus that floated above the water, making it ripple whenever vibrations were sent.

No matter how angelic he looked like, he was evil and dark. But not like the unknown darkness of the universe, it was different from the pitch black that never allowed any light through, or like the mask of darkness that could be easily pulled off by hand. It was like ink, graceful, elegant and smudged in gently into the paper until it cannot dye any further. It was similar to the art technique 'sfumato', it was clean but at the same time blurry. It was hard to understand him, but once you do, there was no one else you could possibly compare him to.

One of his eyes was ocean blue and it sparkled like rippling water. It almost looked like the blue can swallow someone in one wave, drowning their life out of them. It looked seductive, making anyone who looked into his eyes follow what the eyes desire. The other eye was crimson red; it was the colour was fresh blood. It glowed more than the blue eye did and it was almost enchanted to make people fall into his eyes. It represented the ruthless he possessed in him and it contrasted with the calming yet seductive ocean blue.

Mukuro's eyes darkened when the amount of rainfall decreased, he jumped off the window sill, his bare foot touching the icy cold tiles that held no warmth. His foot was as pale as any part of his body but the coldness of the tiles did not make him shiver. He walked gracefully through his room and flopped himself onto a sofa that was standing near a side table. He flicked open one of his books that was placed on the side table and started reading. The book was not very thick, but it was one of those books that are time-consuming. The cover was emerald-green, much similar to the trees and greens outside of this mental institution. The title was printed in cursive and elegant writing that was in a different language than to Japanese. There were alphabets and it looked much alike to the home language of Italy, Italian. The whole room was silent except for the occasional flip of pages and the steady breathing that belonged to Mukuro.

The room was elegantly decorated, plain, but with grace. His bed was pushed against the wall and his bed side table was standing next to his bed. There was a jellyfish-looking lamp on it and was surrounded by some pieces of sticky notes and paper. The table was grey in colour while the knobs to the drawer were ebony. Then it was his bookshelves that filled almost the whole of his room, the bookshelves had covered most of the wall so no one can actually determine what colour the wall was. The bookshelves were full and each book was carefully placed in order. There was a sofa near the corner between the bookshelves, which was holding a man of perfectness. In front of him are a side table that held a laptop, a notebook, a few pen and pencil that was loosely pressed against a stack of writing paper.

The rain had stopped; the pattering deceased as the chirping of birds had began once again. Sunlight spilled into the room as the clouds moved on, slanting across the window and onto the tiles. Sunlight after rain was bitter and cold, not yet as warming as it usually was. Mukuro enjoyed the rain, he enjoyed listening to the sound of raindrops hitting the ground and he enjoyed watching raindrops sliding across his window. He liked the sunlight after rain as well, but just that. He disliked the warm sunlight that shone through during the day; he believed that night was a much better option for him. Mukuro folded his legs as he kept on reading, his fingers caressing the pages as he went. Sometimes he would stare at one particular word and smile at the image that was given to him by the author of the book.

The time after rain was always like this.

It was calm and peaceful, like nothing else that happened concerned him.

There was a gentle knock at the plain door when Mukuro has just finished a chapter. It always seemed like the person outside the door knew when Mukuro finished his chapter. Mukuro didn't like it when someone interrupted him when he was half way through a book. But rather than interrupting half way during a chapter, interrupting at the end of the chapter was always more acceptable than that. Mukuro didn't answer immediately, instead he stood up, putting the book back onto the table and went to open the door. He didn't usually do this; he only did when he was in a very happy mood. Mukuro tucked the few strings of hair that swung loosely in front of his eyes to the back of his ears and opened the door.

Mukuro was greeted by a young woman about his age with short black hair. If someone didn't notice she didn't have an obvious Adam's apple or she didn't have a plainly flat chest, she would have been mistaken as a man. She was wearing a brown jumper over her shirt and her legs were covered by long black trousers. She was holding a large drawing book in her hands and she smiled at the sight of a happy Mukuro. She was another mental patient in this mental institution and she suffered prosopagnosia, which was a disorder of the ability to recognise faces is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing and intellectual functioning remain intact. She never recognised anyone in the mental institution so she stuck herself in her room and started drawing and painting on how people actually look like and sometimes she drew landscape. It was until she spotted Mukuro when she had finally come out of the room. His eyes were the only thing she could see properly and then after she had befriended with the mysterious man who lived next door to her.

'Come in.' Mukuro stared at her for a few seconds before opening the door wider to let her in. She politely nodded to him and found herself a spot underneath the sunlight. Mukuro frowned at the sight of his only friend sitting under the sunlight while he liked the dark more. She was the illustrator of his books so they kept a nice relationship between them. Mukuro and she was better off alone than to work together in each other's presence.

'I've finished drawing,' she said as she flipped to the page where she drew the cover of the new book Mukuro was writing. 'Would you like to see it?' Mukuro nodded his head as he flicked through the drawing book she held. He was not surprised that the girl in front of him had drawn a perfect cover that fitted his story and imagination so well since she always did. The girl handed him a few more sheets of paper and she waved her hand and left Mukuro in his own room.

Mukuro looked at the few sheets of paper that she had handed him. The picture looked so real that Mukuro almost thought he was looking at himself in the mirror. She had drawn his eyes in the few pieces of paper. As Mukuro contacted the publisher that he published his first book in, he handed in his name and the name of the girl as his illustrator. Then Mukuro went back to his book, his fingers caressing the book as he thought about the new book he was about to write, based on the imaginations of what other people believed as 'Delusional Disorder'.

The first book he had published was about him before he had died in his first life. The book was a hit in the market and it was very popular among young adults that believed in miracles and supernatural things. Then he started writing the second, and third and each book were more interesting than it was the book before. Mukuro had become one of the richest authors but no one knew the real identity of him except the girl who drew for him. The girl's drawing was actually another big hit, the publisher had asked him about the real identity of the girl in order to let her draw some of the cover for other authors.

The book he was about to publish was his sixth and last book. It is where everything ends and where everything else begins. There were symbols and codes in the text that no one else except him could understand. He doubted that the girl figured it out either. Mukuro mailed the drawing of the cover and the hard copy of the text to the publisher and sat back down on his sofa. He sunk into it and the sofa moaned as it swallowed Mukuro's weight and body. He picked the Italian book up again and started reading from where he was interrupted. He was sucked back into the world of the book again.

Reading the language of Italy reminded Mukuro of things of his last life; his mental age was over 200, but he fought and acted like a child. He couldn't remember where he had heard or seen it, but it said that Xanxus was determined to claim the throne of The Tenth, Byakuran was persistent to rule all the parallel worlds, Spade was passionate on making Vongola a better one and yet, he was the only one that was tenacious about being evil himself and letting the darkness consume the world. Fighting for that young but powerful leader had made him mature once again. When he was shown the way to light, he didn't flutter immediately towards it. He held out his hand, waiting and waiting for someone to grab his hand and pull him out of the darkness. Sawada Tsunayoshi did; so he had paid his own life in return.

His name spoke himself out, Rokudo Mukuro; meaning the corpses of the remaining dead body. He had lived through 6 lives, 7 including this one and he was already numb about death. It was just another horrible adventure after death; experience revenge on thing someone has done wrong in life and finally erasing their memories and sending them back into life. It was pathetic and ironic; having someone learn from their mistakes and then erasing their memory about them. Mukuro chuckled mockingly when he was put through that the first time. Death wasn't the end of everything; it wasn't the way to free someone from pain. There was nothing behind desperation; there was no hope.

He never learned how to treat people nicely because they didn't in return. Sawada Tsunayoshi had taught him how to be humane yet the darkness within him was already rotten to the core; it could not be reversed. Mukuro was just another child that has been treated in an inhumane way and he was determined to destroy the world so that no one else could be treated like the same way he was treated. He calls himself ruthless and cold, yet he is doing something that is beneficial for other people.

Mukuro finished the book by dawn. The sunlight that spilled into the window was long gone, but the room was shaded with a warm orange tint that reminded Mukuro of the flame of Sawada Tsunayoshi. Mukuro broke a piece of chocolate from the packet and popped one in his mouth, letting the silky touch melt in his mouth and the bitterness entwine with the sweetness, making his taste buds dance in joy. He swallowed the melted chocolate in his mouth and put the book back where it belonged on the shelves. He looked back at his laptop and the pieces of paper that was floating around in his room for at least a few years.

He had finished writing his story.

But there was still a long way to go for someone like him.

Someone like Mukuro never dies;

Not physically; and definitely not mentally either.

Fin.

Afterword:

Just managed to finish in time; at first I had no idea on what to write about, so I just randomly flicked through some ideas and fitted them onto Mukuro. He is my favourite character from KHR, indeed. All I've got to say is that there are thousands of Mukuro in thousands of people, so don't judge so badly that Mukuro is so OOC in this fanfic. I am seriously bad at tenses and grammar, so if you're criticising, please help me edit this. Well, please read and review and tell me how you think about this. The girl in this fic is just an OC and she has nothing to do with Mukuro, whatsoever; except for the fact she is drawing for Mukuro's book. She doesn't even have a name, but I was thinking about the name Kaijin, meaning dust, which was the remains of something burnt, but I never got to mention it. But whatever, Mukuro has no feelings for that girl because I don't allow it because I'm just that possessive. I just hope that this would help people who don't like Mukuro understand him a bit more than before. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it myself.

Oh, and for the last few sentences of the fic, I was actually thinking: 'Someone like Mukuro never dies; Not physically and not mentally either. Especially when he lives in our hearts.'

And for the last time today,

Happy Birthday Mukuro.

-Mad Hatter 9/6/14