Author's Note: This is my entry for The Plot Thief's 6927 Challenge. Not much else to say, but to give this a shot. :]

Warnings: Slightly dark, unrequited love.

Metamorphosis

"With a thousand lies and a good disguise, hit 'em right between the eyes."

05. Poetry

Tsunayoshi.

The name remained unspoken against the dead silence of the room. He yearned to say the name, to have it roll languidly off of his tongue and out of his mouth with that addictive bitter yet sickly sweet taste, the way he knew it would. It was so deliciously addictive. If he's released – no, when he's released – he swears it will be the first word he breathes.

Just a measly four syllables, but they were able to express a deeper, more hidden meaning.

The sky.

It represented the sky dexterously well. The name voiced those ineffable saccharine honey eyes, always so warm and accepting to everyone; it meant a childish grin that could effortlessly put one into a trance; it meant trust and forgivingness, kindness and naiveté. It meant the open and inviting sky, the brightest and clearest blue, knowing no limits or perhaps just simply refusing to acknowledge them. It held everything that was dear to it closely and tenderly, and it was most often the world to many.

Rokudo Mukuro wasn't an exception.

It was the small glimmer of hope in this dark despair, the cans of bright, colourful paint next to this empty canvas and the life in this seemingly dead body. He had started as a mere verse, another challenge that needed to be conquered, but that mere verse had blossomed into a poem, then several poems – easily, so easily dominating each and every sentence until he was soon an entire book.

Tsunayoshi.

But the Mist is so ironically bound to the earth, hovering about with a lost sense of direction, always attempting to, but never quite reaching the sky. His familiga was able to. The storm, the rain, the thunder, the sun and the clouds – they were all able to... so... so why wasn't he?

It made him want to grab the outstretched hand of the unattainable sky and never let go. He wasn't able to, though. Never was. He was only able to stare up at its vastness with an immense longing.

Yes... it was just one word, a simple name, a mere ten letters, and it meant just that much more.

It was the great sky, after all.

04. Landscape

He had hoped to never return to here, to this.

To this desolate canvas.

To Vendicare.

When he had aided in the defeat of the Millefiore, he had prayed that they would cut him some slack and let him go. He had prevented the mafia world from succumbing and crumbling at Byakuran's hand... however, it went unnoticed and all dreams fell short when they showed up instantly to recollect him.

It was a vast and lonely void, an abyss filled with absolutely nothing but this impenetrable darkness that seeped into to your body, carving permanent scars into your soul with adept precision, slicing at that parts they knew hurt most. Such isolation could have driven anyone insane; it really was the ultimate punishment. A divine cruelty thought up by only the cruellest, faceless people (if they were even human, that is.)

Sometimes he was able to conjure up images, illusions, and he was able to escape morbid world in favour for another, even if it was just for a little bit. For the smallest amount of time he could trick himself into a false sense of happiness in which he was able to breathe, and to speak. To move his body around freely and to just relax.

Once every blue moon, when he was especially lucky, Tsuna would come to visit him.

He never really came by choice, just whenever he happened to be asleep while worrying about him.

But it meant he was worried, right?

He'd clumsily stumble into whatever scene Mukuro had painted that day, and traipse about, completely and utterly lost. Yet, not quite distraught by it. He'd scan his eyes over everything, making sure that it was all ingrained in his memory before complimenting him on how lovely the flowers smelt, how lovely the weather was, or something equally as trivial.

It was always a pretty scene.

If only he knew...

If only he knew that when he wasn't there, this pretty scene was gone. The canvas' bright azure, brilliant pine and cheerful amber was painted over in a liquid black – pitch black – with abrupt, angry strokes of frustration that nearly screamed 'That's not right! Do it again!' by a painter in desperate attempt to capture something – anything – real, but couldn't.

Because it was all so fake.

Because for those times where he wasn't able to escape, the shackles would dig particularly deep into his wrists, the chains around his body were especially heavy, nearly drowning him in the water if it were not for the mask over his mouth, attached to several tubes, forcing oxygen into his lungs. All these things would make their presence known again, and Mukuro would be reminded of where he was.

Because he only knew how to play pretend, and please the public with something they'd like.

He had grown tired of such pretty art... because life wasn't pretty at all.

03. Chimera

It's been a long time.

Two years, if Mukuro was right. Guards would check up on him every so often; about once an hour. He would count each time the door softly clicked open, straining himself so he would be able to hear the barely audible noise – it was the only way to even remotely tell the time. He would count until he got to twenty-four, because twenty-four times meant twenty-four hours; a day had passed. A day had been wasted.

He was never really able to sleep, or rather he was always asleep in terms of his body, but his conscience... his conscience was always awake. Every day would be lifeless and every night would be dreamless, because he lived a dream. A dream that induced cold sweat, blood-curdling screams, and muscle spasms.

A nightmare.

All alone, memories locked up, and pushed into to the darkest corner of his mind would creep up on him unexpectedly and at the strangest of times.

H-he was only eight, just a kid – t-they... they were all just kids.

And kids shouldn't have experienced such pain, or seen such tragedy.

He remembers. He remembers it all. He remembers small bodies, huddled up and pressed together in the corner of a dark room. The door would swing open and bright light spilling through into the opaque void, and they'd come in and roughly grab a thin arm, yanking it away from the group like a rag doll. Their faces no longer adorned any signs of fear... of emotions. There would be a loud strangled cry from the other side of the door, and dull eyes would flicker to it knowingly. Faith, prayers and the idea of God had been abandoned long ago.

Nothing would save them.

What type of God would have allowed this suffering?

Mukuro remembered trembling. He remembered cringing and covering up his ears and biting his bottom lip to avoid crying at the screams. H-he remembered the sick twisted smiles, the feel of the marker as it traced along his flesh, marking more than just simply his skin, the shining scalpel dancing between gloved fingers, the excruciating pain he felt before passing out and waking up with a bandage over his eye and new, freshly-stitched scars.

S-sometimes... w-when the child was t-taken... they wouldn't r-return...

He remembered wanting to protect them... to save them. All of them. On that fateful day, when they had come again to pick another guinea pig to experiment on, he had followed. They didn't seem to notice his soft footsteps, or when he peered into the crack of the door...

Blood. He remembers the heavy scent of the crimson blood splattered against the white lab, and the child tied down as they reached for him. It was repulsive. He remembers the anger, and picking up the discarded trident on the floor... He remembers the numerous bodies on the ground because of his doing. He was trembling then too. His body was absolutely shaking in realization at what he had just done. He... he had k-killed all those people...

When the two had shown up, clutching onto each other, he stopped trembling and blinked away the tears. H-he had to be strong – f-for t-them! I-if he hadn't killed them, they would have all wound up dead! Y-yes, he was doing the r-right thing...

He smiled at them, and delicately peeled the bandage off, uncovering an eye as red as the blood tainting his little hands, then forced out words through clattering teeth before finally asking them to run away with him.

Ken, and Chikusa, and Chrome... he had to be strong for all of them or at least, pretend to be. So he changed. He changed that weak and scared boy into a self-assured, almost even arrogant man. He had to. Somewhere along the way, he had gained a supposed joking reputation – and that was fine, he could go with that. Those tears and that frown became an impish smirk. That quivering voice became a whimsical and light laugh. And those fears... those fears became non-existent.

He hated Vendicare, because when he's here, he can't help but feel like he's reverted back into that eight-year old boy, unable to fend for himself as these morbid memories relentlessly attack at him. When he's alone... he swears he can hear those haunting cries for help ringing through his ears.

02. Story

"Y-you see... we're kind of... together now."

No, no. Nonono. That's not how the story started... it started off happily...

...yes... happily.

Mukuro easily spotted Tsuna. He always easily spotted Tsuna... because... because he was always watching him. Every small movement, and every subtle gesture.

He saw his resolution and bright flame when they first met in Kokuyo.

Through Chrome's admiring eyes during the Ring Battles.

When poor little ten-years-younger Tsuna had argued with the Vendicare, of course it was ridiculous, but he didn't seem to comprehend that.

And right now in Mukuro's forest, wandering with a lost sense of direction.

"Kufufufu~"

Crap.

Tsuna spun his head around to look at him.

That chuckle had involuntarily left his mouth... oh well, there was no real harm done now, was there? As much as he would have liked to have continued watching the smaller man, this was fine too.

"It's been a while, Tsunayoshi-kun."

"Mukuro," Tsuna acknowledged, making his way towards Mukuro as a faint smile began to play at the corner of his lips before he knew it.

He was wearing a messy suit, Mukuro noted, he had probably just finished work. Or was he still doing it, but had dozed off in exhaustion? That would explain the rumpled look.

"Yeah, it has, hasn't it?" the smaller one agreed with an almost nostalgic tone to his voice, as he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I've been..." Tsuna hesitated, his tongue grappling for the right word, "...busy."

"Oya oya? Too busy to visit me, Tsunayoshi?" Mukuro stuck his bottom lip out and pouted. Everything inside would feel jumbled and fluffy from the mere presence of him – not that anyone would know. It was a warm feeling.

"Sorry," he apologized again, his smile widening slightly at his teasing.

"What have you been up to?"

There was a dreamy look on Tsuna's face.

"Oh, n-nothing really... work... and Hibari-san," Tsuna said the last part almost shyly.

Mukuro raised his eyebrows, hoping he didn't mean it like that, "Skylark-kun?"

"Y-yeah."

He hummed, "I haven't fought with him for quite some time... I'll have to when I get out of here again~"

"You can't!"

He tilted his head to the side at the younger man, "Why is that?"

Tsuna fidgeted uncomfortably, muttering something under his breath, before speaking in an audible tone, "Y-you see... we're kind of... together now."

Mukuro's eyes widened, and his stomach dropped, "Ah."

"I-I thought you'd know... because of Chrome and a-all."

He lightly taps his finger to his chin, "No."

Tsuna shrugs apprehensively. "O-oh."

They were by a pond, with the gentlest of wind grazing delicately on their skin; the pond a clear blue, sparkling and inviting. Several lily pads floated about easily, and gracefully, in perfect balance with the water. A few ducks swam around, making the smallest of ripples through the water.

"Hey, Tsunayoshi-kun," Mukuro said as they stood side by side on the blades of perfectly green grass. There was something off about him, and Tsuna could sense it. Maybe it was the far-away look in his eyes, or how his voice wasn't confident and teasing as usual, but more sombre and thoughtful. "I love you too, you know."

Was there a point in saying that now? It's better to live without regrets, right? He might never get another opportunity like this, so he should take it, right? It couldn't hurt to give it a shot, right?

Right?

...right...?

Wrong.

Tsuna whipped his head around and looked at Mukuro, who was staring down on him, a sad smile pressed against his mouth. The Decimo blinked a couple times slowly. Those warm honey orbs softened considerably after a brief moment of surprise; the unvoiced feelings and thoughts that reflected off of them made Mukuro's chest contract painfully. A wave of awkward silence washed up over them, quickly, and suddenly.

Say something, he pleaded desperately. Thankfully, he did.

"Hey, Mukuro," Tsuna said in very much like the same manner Mukuro had. "Thank you."

Mukuro's eyes widened.

"You know I've always had a soft spot for you, but I...I-I can't. I'm with Hibari-san now, maybe – maybe if the circumstances were different, or if the timing was a bit different, then we could've worked things out. ...but that's in the past, we can't go back and change history."

Why not?

"Oya, oya? Is there no hope for me, Tsunayoshi?" he said with a lighter tone, his signature smile plastered onto his face, as usual. Only the smallest traces of the quivering, or brokenness of his voice was echoed though his words. A skill attained through years of living, and practising it.

He took a small step forward, closing off the space between them before wrapping his arms snugly around the sickly thin body, resting his head on Mukuro's chest, just below his chin. "Thank you."

A soft smile spread across Tsuna's face, and Mukuro could feel it against his chest and against his heart which seemed to have sped up; thumping wildly.

That's... not fair, he thought childishly, How am I supposed to react to... this?

Tsuna had this inexplicable hold over Mukuro. He always had. Kind of like how fairy tale princesses always seemed to have everyone wrapped around their finger.

Kufufufu, yes, Tsuna, without a doubt, was the princess.

But if Tsuna was the princess, Mukuro had to be the wicked witch, hated by the kingdom, scarred with a tainted past.

He finally decides to close his arms tightly around the smaller once, grabbing harshly onto the back of his suit. He buried his face into the fluffy brownness of Tsuna's hair, trying to make the moment last forever... or at least to ingrain it into his memory to keep on replay, again and again... because that's all he'll have.

His hair... It's the faintest scent of strawberry, and that alone is enough to cause his eyebrows to knit together furiously, pleading with his eyes not to cry, but they won't listen, and his eyelashes are damp with the few tears that managed to escape. The others remain unshed, and forever will be. He bites down on his bottom lip, to stop it from trembling, just shallow enough not to make it bleed. If only time would stand still at this particular moment... everything would be so... perfect...

Something's lodged in his throat, and it's making it difficult for him to breathe, much less speak coherently. But it's been too long, and he knows it – they can't stay like this any longer, so he pulls away, regret lingering in the space where Tsuna should have been. He feels incomplete. He wants to grab at him again, pull him close and never let go, but he doesn't. He grins instead.

"Does this mean you're finally giving your body up to me?"

Tsuna laughs.

And so once upon a time, in a far away land, the witch had fallen in love with the princess.

It's ironic, he knows, to fall in love with the person who he was to murder. An easy spell, a simple poisoned apple, a single blade to that throat was all it would have taken to eradicate him. He had tried, honestly, but he could never fully bring himself to do it.

Because the princess was just so wholly captivating.

He had a certain endearing charm, an alluring gait, an enticing voice and oh, with just a quick flash of his smile, you'd be a goner just like all the others enslaved.

And that silly witch got his heart broken.

Because once upon a time, the witch had fallen in love with the princess, and the princess had fallen in love with somebody else.

To have the witch... bewitched...

It was absolutely and entirely absurd.

But undeniably true.

01. Theatre

"Mukuro... Mukuro..."

His eyes slowly flutter open, and he looks around in panic. Where were they?

Oh.

Thank god.

They were in a nice picture.

A park: complete with beige plastic slides, swings that idly swung due to the wind, making soft eerie screeches and horses that sprung back and forth. Mukuro was lying down on a wooden bench, as the soft crimson sun began to set. Hues of purple and orange stretched themselves into the sky, blurring and meshing into each other, where did one start? Where did one end?

"Tsunayoshi?"

Tsuna, who's off to the side of him, nods.

"This... is strange. You haven't come here for a while..." Mukuro says as he languidly stretched and sits up on the bench, patting the spot beside him elicitating a hollow sound. "Have a seat."

"...Mukuro," the brunette says tenderly as he sits down next to him. They're too close. Mukuro's heart nearly skips a beat, a blush is rapidly crawling up his neck, and he prays that Tsuna doesn't notice it but before he can speak again, Tsuna does. "It's time."

"Time?"

The vision of Tsuna abruptly disappears.

"Wait! What do you mean?" he cries out into the empty scene, his voice echoing on the empty metal and plastic.

He hears the countdown, a booming, monotone voice over head that seems to fill the entire vicinity with its numbers.

Five.

What-what? What's this? The loud sounds, vibrations of glass and water... somehow this is all so familiar... "It's time." Is... is this what Tsuna meant?

Four.

The water's draining, the liquid's now his collar bone, and he's slowly moving downwards with it. ...he's-he's being released! His oxygen mask slips off, and he can feel his hair, wet and matted against his face.

Three.

The cuffs on his hands snap open, and fall limply by his side. He can barely comprehends any of it, his mind blurs. There's a draft, it's cold. Or maybe the water was just warm?

Two.

In any case, it's almost gone; he's standing for the first time in two years.

One.

It's down to his ankles, and he can feel the wet straight jacket sticking to his body. The tank somehow opens and the chain confining his body, the only thing that was holding him up, loosens enough to fall off. He can't support himself, he can't remember how to use this body – he's a flailing mess as he tumbles forward.

Zero.

He's collapsed onto the concrete floor, savouring the feeling of just feeling, and with great effort, lifts his lids, vision slowly returning to him. He inhales his first real breath, cherishing how his lungs expand on his accord, and not because a tube is forcing it into him.

He feebly tilts his head to the side, so he could peer at him out of the corner of one mismatched eye.

He sees Tsuna's worried face directly above... there are lines on his forehead from furrowing his brows, he'd like to reach up and poke Tsuna's forehead, laugh and tell him that frowning will give him wrinkles. His cotton candy pink lips are pressed together into a thin line disapprovingly. Would they taste as sweet as they looked? He'd have to try it sometime, whenever he regained his strength. What type of face would Tsuna make? He continues to stare up at Tsuna, debating trivial thoughts – that when he notices.

Look, there's Tsunayoshi.

...and next to him is Skylark-kun.

And suddenly, his chest is hollow again, regardless of the sweet air he had just taken in. He feels empty, and the blood running through his veins feel cold. But Tsunayoshi's here – he can't show this vulnerability to anyone… so he'll cast away this resentment… and put on a mask.

"Kufufufu."

It sounds weak, too weak for his taste.

"Miss me, Tsunayoshi-kun?"

The words coming out no more than a croak with his unusually raspy voice, but there it was: his always teasing and joking demeanour.

Tsuna smiles gently in relief.

It's the last thing he sees before his lids fall shut, and darkness takes over him again.

While laughter may be the best medicine, it was also the most convincing of disguises. He knows that better than anyone.

And Mukuro does this only because he's the Mist, the ever-so elusive mist. Sometimes, you have to wonder if that lazy, perpetual grin of his is real or fake, because hidden in an illusion is the real illusion, from one illusion will sprout another illusion, hidden in truths lie lies, hidden in lies hides the truth.

Where did it start...?

...where did it end?

He's an actor – an actor destined to play his part of this never-ending play of life, with every day as his stage, and every person as his audience.

He's like the sky in some ways, he can envelope everything with a blanket of that reassuring laughter of his and convince you everything's okay with that low and persuasive, suave voice – even when he's broken inside and all the shattered pieces are relentlessly tearing at him.

He's bleeding invisible anguish, and everyone's too blind to see it. Or perhaps he's just too frighteningly good at concealing it.

He's a master of the art of the Mist; he's a master of deception and deadly lies.

He's nothing more and nothing less than just simply...

Mukuro.

Author's Note: Yay for really, really bad analogies and symbolism~

Reviews make my day, so if you can, drop me one. :]

Any constructive criticism is appreciated!

[Because in all honesty, I'm not at all satisfied, so please give me any feedback you may have.]

Vote for me if you enjoyed it, yeah? :D (whenever you're supposed to vote!)

EDIT: So I've fixed up the scene where Mukuro's being released a bit (a very little bit.) ^_^

Happy Valentine's day everyone! (I hope it turns out/had turned out better than mine!)