Genre: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Summary: Chrome finds something slightly objectionable in Hibari's closet. [Invisible 1896.]
Rated: G for...gen?
Author's Notes: I find it lawltastic that bad yaoific inspired an almost-het fic. Ohhhh fandom.
“Hi…bari-san,” Chrome says, slow and careful, as if mulling over whether she truly wants to speak the thought has chosen now to roost in her mind.
Hibari grunts, not even sparing her a look, which she assumed he would do. It is very rarely that people truly look at her, which she does not entirely mind, since she is so self-conscious about her appearance. Furthermore, Hibari’s eyes hold an unyielding ferocity that she is still not entirely comfortable having on her; it burns deep and lingers, marring the sensation of whatever part of the anatomy it falls to, leaves it haggard and half-melted, like a ray of sun intensified by magnifying glass.
And so before she continues, she pauses, sucking her plump lower lip between her off-white teeth. She is not sure whether she should voice this particular comment, but it is a query that rubs its prickly back against her stomach and makes her nearly queasy with compulsion. Mukuro-sama voices no opinion on the subject whatsoever and so she is left alone to knit her brows and twist her hands.
“…if it will not offend you,” she says, still hesitant, “may I ask you a question?”
“I assume you mean a question other than the one which you just asked.” He still does not look up, preoccupied as he is polishing his tonfa with a handkerchief on the veranda, presumably because Hibari is a young man of endless prioritizations, and Chrome’s mundane inquiries are placed, in his minds, far below the maintenance of his fangs.
She sighs softly and rings the hem of the knee-length skirt that is covering her bandaged legs. “Yes. That is… Hibari-san.”
“What,” he says, his blooming annoyance filtering into his voice’s edges, “is it.”
“I…” She looks down and braces herself properly. “Why do you have a girl’s school uniform from Namimori High hanging in your closet?”
There is a glint of silver as the tonfa catch the moonlight and it scatters along the tatami floor at her feet. She traces it slowly before looking up, which is perhaps the reason why she jumps so badly; it is an abrupt, swift plunge from tranquil to unsavory. Hibari’s look paints her face red and injects her tongue with a stutter.
“Th-That is,” she says, quickly, “you don't mind—”
“I do,” Hibari says, lowly.
“Alright,” she says. “I’m sorry I—”
“Do not ever inconvenience me with such trivial questions ever again.”
“Okay.” She's as red as can be.
And that is the last they ever speak of it.