A/N: This was written for the amazing xglimpsex of LJ, for the prompt "Mukuro/Chikusa- wail", and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. I didn't realize how much I like this ship until I started writing it, so there will probably be more of it. I still love 6996 and 1449, before anyone asks, though. xD As always, feedback is love, especially on characterization- did I get these two "down"? I've never written them before, so I'm not sure how I did.

Mukuro knows how people work. Over countless lifetimes, he's experienced all of their actions and reactions, their emotions and motivations, and categorized them neatly into little boxes. He knows how they'll behave when inanely happy, when pitifully sad, when they fuck, when they're on the brink of death. The scientists whose blood still drips warm all over his body were just as predictable as any other of the multitudes of lives he's ended over his own. The children that watch him are just as easy to read- shocked, yet desensitized enough to death that glimmers of hope take the place where horror or disgust usually lurk. This is what interests him, he supposes- that, and the fact that he always knows the stirrings of loyalty when he sees them. It's a unique combination that's rare to come across, he thinks, looking the two scraps of humanity over, and unique combinations are always useful. Mukuro's eyes linger first on the light one, but are drawn to the darker of the pair- Kakimoto Chikusa is the boy's name, a purebred Japanese. His eyes are black as his hair and are unaccustomed to the contortions of surprise, of powerful and overt emotions in general. Quiet apathy is clearly what they're made for, yet Mukuro is for some reason curious to see them go beyond what they're made to be. As he offers to take them away, he wonders if the devotion they'll develop will blind them from the fact that in some ways, he's really not so different from the scientists.

Time is relative to Mukuro, and as of late, the point at which he affixes it is how long Ken and Chikusa have been with him. He does not do it because of affection- rather, out of convenience, he insists. Currently, they occupy a penthouse in Vienna, its previous occupants still stagnant on the floor where they died. It's only a temporary stop, but there is a certain satisfaction in having taken care of one of their hottest pursuers. Mukuro finds Chikusa right where he left him, seated on a windowsill in the master bedroom, black eyes reflected in a window that they do not reflect back. The edges of his off-white cap are damp, the only sign that he's moved at all to take his customary shower. No matter the occasion, Chikusa will be certain to bathe afterwards, even if not a speck of filth has touched him. Binge, purge, binge, purge. Mukuro slips up behind him and cups Chikusa's cheek in his hand, turning the boy's head to face him. The shift in Chikusa's expression is so minimal that anyone but Mukuro would miss the flickers of devotion at the corners of his opaque eyes and full lips, but they are there, waiting to be shaped. His other hand trails down a slim, pale neck, over the slight protrusion of an Adam's apple, and into the dip of a protruding collarbone that belies the emaciation beneath baggy clothes. Chikusa sits stock-still, years of struggling against human touch having exhausted his ability to fight back now.

Time is still so very relative, so variable, enough so that the minutes that lead them to the bed and place Mukuro atop a half-undressed Chikusa are of rather little consequence. On principle, they do not kiss, do not make any noises beyond breaths crescendoing in harshness. Mukuro's hands move down Chikusa's sides, tracing the scars that crisscross the tight skin as if they are a natural part of his body. Chikusa's lips are parted ever so slightly, but he remains silent, the only sign of his sudden discomfort lurking in the dark haze of his eyes. Blue and red meet black, the dichromatic curious, the colourless in reminiscence. Holding Chikusa's gaze, Mukuro brings a hand to his lips and pulls off a leather glove with his teeth. Now bare, his hand returns to Chikusa's chest, middle finger perfectly aligned with the boy's sternum. It would be far easier to crush him than to humour him, differentiating himself from the countless other gloved hands with a single raw touch, Mukuro thinks. The human body is a sorrowfully fragile vessel, no matter how eager it is to serve. Yet the mind within it intrigues him, that it, that Chikusa, could recognize not only the stigma of a gloved touch, but the hand behind it, the true factor in deciding trust. His trust is more likely than not misplaced, something that Mukuro has yet to decide as he slowly pushes himself into Chikusa's all-too willing body, straining against the heat and the pressure of thought. Had he lived a few less lives, he might surrender himself to oblivion, but his head remains clear, his gaze sharp. Chikusa remains quiet as their bodies strain and writhe against each other, though his eyes are anything but. They churn and swirl like thunderheads, they wail with need and devotion, louder than any cry. Mukuro comes first, Chikusa following with nothing but a soft grunt to belie the intimacy of their exchange. Like watching life's light bleed from a dying man, Chikusa's eyes slowly return to their opaque state, and Mukuro muses that they truly are not made for such expressiveness.

Their welcome overstayed in Vongola's base, Mukuro sweeps his followers away to their hideaway in the mountains without so much as a trace. There is an irony in their proximity to Vendicare, one that amuses Mukuro where it disconcerts those who have spent the past ten years attempting to free him from its walls of liquid and stone. Mukuro surveys the blizzard outside with a half-smile, and Chikusa pretends not to watch him from a chair halfway across the room, an odd reversal of their situation in Vienna. He's surprised he even remembers the tryst, one of many in this lifetime alone, one of countless multitudes in all his others. Stealing a glance of his own at Chikusa, Mukuro notes the changes time has wrought on him- a new hat, sharper clothes, a deep amethyst ring twinkling on his finger, bright as his eyes are still dark. Each man watches the other watch him in silence, the howling wind outside insubstantial as a slight breeze. Chikusa's eyes do not leave him as he takes a deep swig from what appears to be a bottle of wine. Refined as always, even in his vices, he appears to be unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol he's consumed- this is his second bottle, and two more sit patiently on the floor beside him, quietly willing to please as Chikusa himself. When the bottle leaves Chikusa's lips, Mukuro is there to take it from his hand, consuming the wine with a far less desperate air.

The bottle falls to the floor and shatters instantly, alcohol pooling at their feet like blood as they kiss. Chikusa's reaction is delayed for a fraction of a second by shock, but he is quick to comply, opening his mouth and tilting his head to the side. He tastes of wine and curling wisps of shadow, with a fine edge of despondency Mukuro cannot be sure was there before. The air is heady, rather than cool and detached as they tumble to the bed, tearing at one another's clothes with a desperation and finesse that is intimately new. Experience has emboldened Chikusa in his reciprocation, slim fingers roaming with a foreign insistence over Mukuro's back and sides, twining in the coarse strands of his hair as if they are the strings of a yo-yo. Or perhaps, Mukuro wonders, thrusting into Chikusa at a relentless pace, the change is his own, and like a moon about a planet, Chikusa has altered his course accordingly. Chikusa comes first this time, a hoarse shout escaping his lips. The sudden sound alone is enough to set Mukuro off, but instead of pulling out and striding away, he stays, bare chest rising and falling at a slowly decreasing pace against Chikusa's. Stealing a glance at those pitch-black eyes, he is only half-surprised to see that rather than returning to their quiet opaqueness, they still cry out for more.