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[continuation from this meme]

He couldn't be bothered to make him comfortable.

The room had been a spare guestroom, but he'd never had any guests. Probably because he never invited anyone to his apartment pad. Actually, he'd kept that particular habit since his youth. He didn't exactly know why, but he supposed it was simply because no one had ever asked. Of course, given his current situation, he was rather glad everyone had respected his privacy enough not to question him about his home address. He didn't need them seeing something or, more appropriately, someone he didn't want them to see. Anyway, it was pretty bare except for the queen-sized bed, a nightstand, and a small walk-in closet. The windows and walls had been reconstructed to withstand anything from bullets to explosives. He had spent quite a fortune redesigning the interior of his pad. It was a pride of his.

During the trip back to his place, Gokudera had blindfolded the newest addition to his household (for many reasons). He'd then set him down on top of the mattress and proceeded to gently tuck him in. Afterward, he'd exited the sleeping quarter to busy himself with dinner. He didn't pay any mind to his guest again until the following morning. It was a simple check up — a careful look over the wounds, a quick dab of the body with a wet cloth, and a cup of soup with a nice straw to suck on. He'd left the house minutes later. His job always came first and he knew very well his roommate would remain bedridden for a long, long while. He needed the rest. It was inevitable.

His shift ended early. Late afternoon, to be specific. He returned to his apartment with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his tie loosened haphazardly around his neck. It'd been a short, but tiring day. Draping his coat over the back of a chair, his gaze slowly traveled across the living area to the closed door where his guest laid. A lazy smile began to manifest on his pale feature at the remembrance. Perhaps, he should pay him a visit. He entered the bedroom without a single warning.

"Come ti senti, Mukuro Rokudo?"

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When Mukuro had woken, sometime before noon, and seen the baby bottle filled with soup standing on his bedside table, his first instinct was to knock the thing away.

Thankfully, Mukuro had learned never to act upon his first emotional reaction to something. The baby bottle did not suffer from being flung away, and Mukuro instead presented his back to the bottle. He stayed like that for the entire day, trying to ignore the growling of his stomach and the temptation to turn back around and reach for the bottle. It was stupid - even the illusionist acknowledged that. He needed any sustenance he could get if he wanted to recover.

When he heard the door open and close, some hours later, he closed his eyes. By now he was both thirsting and starving and did not want to move from where he lay.

"Vada via."

His eyes flickered from the thin figure on the bed to the bottle of untouched soup on the nightstand. How typical it was of Mukuro to deny his own stomach for his pride. Releasing a small sigh, Gokudera rubbed the back of his neck wearily as he closed the door to the sleeping quarter behind him. “Perché non mangi?” He asked, already knowing the answer. “Non hai mangiato per due giorni. Hai intenzione di morire di fame te stesso?”

Walking over to the small table, he picked up the plastic feeder, an unreadable expression on his face. It was cold to the touch. But of course it was. He’d left it hot early this morning since he’d suspected it would cool down to an appropriate temperature by the time the Mist woke up. Guess his attentiveness was all in vain. “Io vado a riscaldare di nuovo su,” he stated coolly as a red flame spread from his fingertips to the bottle, “e si sta andando a berlo, quindi girare e mi faccia.”

Mukuro bit his lip (gently) as the promising whiff of hot soup drifted by his nostrils. He didn't have to look at Gokudera's expression to know that it was a subtle threat and he already knew what options were available to him: if he continued to be stubborn, the man would simply force the liquid down his throat by holding his nose; if he complied, he'd avoid choking on soup. Those weren't his only choices, of course, but Mukuro couldn't imagine the rest deviating too far from those two.

He closed his eyes and inwardly cringed as his stomach gnawed at him. He really was very hungry and desperate for something other than that disgusting diet he'd been fed through tubes at Vendicare prison. "In prima luogo prendere tappo ridicolo che fuori la bottiglia." Mukuro would not be treated like an infant.

It was almost funny how he’d given the command like he honestly thought Gokudera would actually listen to him. He wasn’t the one in charge at the moment. He had no right to be making requests or demands when he was in such a subservient position. Choosing to ignore him, he knelt down on top of the mattress with one leg, hovering over him. His hand reached out to force him onto the flat of his back, his other one tilting the tip of the bottle down. Then, without a single word, he shoved it directly between his lips.

He was in too good of a mood to let an argument sour it. If Mukuro wanted to give him an attitude, then he was perfectly fine with overstepping his bounds to get him to comply (willingly or not). Maybe his approach had to have some sort of balance between kindness and ruthlessness. Giving one more due credit than the other clearly wasn’t going to work, not when it came to the illusionist. He seriously didn’t want to repeat what he’d done to him in the abandoned factory, but he wasn’t completely adverse to the idea of returning to that form of treatment either. It had worked. To some extent.

All he knew was that he shouldn’t waver in his resolve just because he wanted to be gentler toward him until he healed. He’d admittedly gone a little too out of control with the torture session. Not that it was entirely his fault. Impulsive decisions, touchy subjects.

Mukuro's throat closed up on instinct. He choked on the hot liquid, some of it dribbling past his lips and down his jaw before he managed to open up his throat again and start swallowing. Even then he nearly really did choke as it hit the back of his throat with unexpected suddenness, and his body thrashed beneath Gokudera's for a few seconds before settling. Small coughs continued to wrack him as he drank, but drink he did. Once he'd gotten the taste of proper, warm food on his tongue he found he didn't want to stop drinking until he'd consumed every last drop. There was a moment, when he realised that he was sucking from an empty cup, where a flicker of genuine disappointment that there hadn't been more showed upon his face.

"Enough." The illusionist pushed the cup back with a flimsy arm, voice rough. He winced at the twinge from his broken wrist as he did so, forced the near-sickening heaviness of his stomach back, and glared up at Gokudera. The half-healed burns scattered over his body still hurt like hell and his face still felt like it had been flattened. If the bones Gokudera had broken two days ago weren't set soon, they would heal crooked. "Why are you wearing such a ridiculous smile?" The Storm looked unusually pleased with himself, and not, Mukuro thought, because of this feeding.

“Do I need a reason to be in a good mood?”

He examined the empty bottle with a pleased expression as he set it down on top of the nightstand beside the bed. “But I’m glad you care enough to ask,” he continued, keeping up the pleasantries, “It’s the start of the weekend and do you know what that means?” The silverette hovered over him, his grin growing sly, “It means...”

He straightened back up with one sudden movement, swiping the plastic container off of the steel surface. The silence hung thick in the air until he’d reached the exit to the bedroom. “We’re going to have a wonderful weekend together.”

Disappearing through the door, he was back almost as quickly as he had left – with a gift in hand. “We never had a chance to catch up, did we?” After all, he had sort of barged into that empty factory on a whim. And, well, what had happened afterward was just... a necessary first step in their relationship. “Let’s start fresh,” he said, setting down the box he’d carried in, “A new beginning.” He seated himself. “You know why I did what I'd done. Or, at least, I hope you do. So, let’s avoid,” he made a gesture toward his injuries, “all that from now on. I really don’t want to hurt you and, look, I even brought a peace offering.”

See? Kindness. He was going to be nice if the illusionist stayed obedient. And, since he did such a splendid job finishing his food, he was going to reward him by disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. It wasn’t like he could bear the thought of leaving him a mess. They were going to be committed to each other from here on out and it was the very least he could do. Plus, his spirit just seemed to be growing steadily by the minute.

Mukuro narrowed his eyes. The Storm's bipolar behaviour constantly threw him, but there was consistency in what appeared to be his motive. At least as far as recovering was concerned, he and Gokudera shared the same goal, though he was sure they had very different ideas about how events would proceed afterwards. Mukuro had every intention of escaping the first available chance he was given. If those sexual overtones were anything to go by, Gokudera had something more intimate in mind for the long term.

Normally the Mist wouldn't refuse an advance. But when alarm bells rung in his mind, he had learned to respect them and take precautions.

"Do I know why you broke into my room and began to break me in" - literally break him in - "like a wild animal? No, I do not. I can only assume you yourself were abused as a child and thus try to pass on that treatment to those weaker than yourself."

This speech delivered in a cool (though raspy) voice, the illusionist watched the box Gokudera had brought in as if he expected needles filled with poison to inhabit it. Which wasn't entirely ridiculous - not when said box had a fat, red cross painted on its side. Old, childhood fears of anything medical-related surfaced briefly before being forced back down by his ironclad will. He wasn't in a hospital bed and he certainly wasn't about to be operated on. There was nothing to fear.

Edited 2013-05-16 13:06 (UTC)

The side of his lips twitched at the comment, awakening memories he’d long put to rest. He turned away from looking at him as he reached out to pluck the first aid box off of the counter and onto his lap. His demeanor turned dark and he grew silent, unclasping the container in his hold. Removing a couple of bandage wraps and the materials needed to help disinfect his wounds, he inhaled slowly, resetting the smile on his face. He couldn’t let him see he had struck a chord, now could he?

His relationship with his family had always been bad. It’d gotten worse over the years and now he’d lost contact with pretty much everyone – everyone meaning Bianchi. It seemed over the years he hadn’t really changed from that little boy who was betrayed by his father. And, despite how the Tenth had taken him in, Gokudera wasn’t able to forgive and forget. He acted normally around his friends, but, deep inside, he still felt alone. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, of course. He just needed to find that someone who would fill the gap within – and that someone happened to be Rokudo Mukuro.

He’d known right away when they’d met again after all those years in the abandoned factory. Well, alright, almost right away. It was like suddenly something – he couldn’t quite explain it – opened up inside of him and he had to take him with him. He had to bring him back to his home and make him his because that was exactly what he was – his. He’d always been. Honestly, he couldn’t give a solid explanation for why, but a lot of things in the world couldn’t be answered away simply. This was one of them.

“You weren’t obedient,” he placed the box back onto the nightstand, repositioning himself on the mattress to face him better, “Disobedience requires punishment.” His lips curves upward into a pleasant smile as his eyes ran their course along the man’s body. Where should he start? “This is going to sting,” he warned, deciding he’d begin with the burns. As he started the disinfecting process, he continued in a light tone, “Would you like something more to eat after this? I can make any soup you like.”

"Hmph..." Mukuro opted for a non-response. Scathing comments were his forte, but keeping in mind his decision to cooperate with the Storm (temporarily), withholding further comment about the other man's childhood was the wisest course of action.

The illusionist inwardly sneered at the thought of being obedient. Was he not the Mist, who, like the Cloud, couldn't be swayed or caught by anyone? It was preposterous that Gokudera believed he would allow himself to be broken in. Well, the snake was patient. It was silent. As long as it wasn't bothered, it didn't bother you. But if you stepped on it - watch out! Snakes were fast and they had fangs.

"Something savoury," he manages to rasp, flinching at a dab from some disinfectant. "But not spicy."

Now, see? That wasn’t so hard.

His answer seemed to satisfy him as he proceeded to clean him up in silence for the remainder of the treatment. With the aid, some of the less serious injuries were going to be able to heal more rapidly now. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to contain him forever especially if the illusionist’s strength seeped back. The very idea of losing him caused a very unpleasant stir in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t lose him. He couldn’t.

Once he managed to bandage him up, Gokudera leaned down to press a soft kiss to the man’s temple before he left the room with the box in toll. It was time to make him something to eat for being so good. Savory, but not too spicy. He could do that. He could definitely do that.

The illusionist's lip curled in disgust, sneering at the affection bestowed upon him through that moment of intimate contact. There was no question that Mukuro was going to make some sort of attempt to escape from the apartment when his strength returned - the better question to ask was: when? It might take weeks, or several months, but Mukuro had already started to absorb the details of the room and catalogue them precisely. Control the space, control the senses of your opponent, and the battle would already be half-won.

Mukuro rolled over on to his side and winced as the burn scars stretched with the movement. The liquid he'd consumed earlier stayed his hunger slightly, but his stomach still ached for something filling. It galled him to think he'd be dependent on the Storm for his meals.

He closed his eyes. Chrome... Chrome, can you hear me?

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