the click-clack of ribboned heels fell silent as she trekked from swirl-patterned marble onto ruby red carpet. overhead lamplight ricocheted warmth along the walls and set the floor for all its impersonal mingling, accompanied by the languid sway of bodies and heavy indoor air. along the way nagi counted six, seven designer perfumes vouching nothing for their brands except the vanity of their names. with her chin held high, she made her way to a floral display, seeking the off-center solace it offered from the denser parts of the crowd. one thing she has learned about the mafia is that they double as party animals behind the barrels of their guns, hosting a medley of galas that exhausted her just as oft as they required her attendance. boss was no doubt hovering around ninth, learning the ropes with reborn cracking his whip. the image reminded nagi just how better off she was, social depletion aside, following bianchi’s lead at a number of these events and honing her own skill set in the throes of underground politics. in the end it was simply business―adulterated by vice variables of tort and murder, but business all the same―and as with most practices, the accumulation of experience went hand-in-hand with time.
seven years from bermuda saw her not only wiser, but taller than before. flowing chiffon flattered her frame with its breathable beiges and antique whites, painting her an angel as if the lace garter biting her thigh had no handgun strapped against it. her hair swished behind her, upkept and radiant; upon her stilling it notably fell to the small of her back, and her lips, glazed a tinge of opaque red, left her imprint on the rim of her wine flute. more than a few suitors had tried for her company, though none could gain her hand as they pleased. once upon a time, she might have proven too mousy to fend them off. but once upon a time she had lacked many things, the largest of these a finely-tempered comprehension of her abstruse emotions.
not now. nothing about her exuded skittish as she leant against the high rim of the display’s brick perimeter, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with aimless insouciance bordering on boredom.
parties; it would be a lie to claim that he disliked them. typically, he didn’t. he could easily recall more than one occasion where he had sought out these events, for business as much as pleasure. they alleviated boredom and provided chances to hone both his perception and charm. and admittedly, sometimes, he simply enjoyed the attention. tonight, though, was different. very different. this time he’d been forced to make an appearance. and with every fiber of his being, he didn’t want to be seen.
it had been three weeks since he’d returned to japan, setup a home for himself in the town over. he’d claimed he needed the distance, that it was necessary for his work. and while true to some degree, there was most certainly nostalgia there, too. namimori was not his home. and it would never be. that would never change even if his circumstances had.
the months leading up to his move had gone by quickly, a whirlwind of blood-smeared anger and something that might have been heartache if he had allowed it. in the end, it had felt as though his choice had been made from the beginning. his fate had been sealed years before, maybe even earlier. but, that had not made anything easy. he had done his best to stay quiet. only reborn, yamamoto takeshi and sawada tsunayoshi --- always him --- knew that he’d agreed, at long last, to something more than a simple truce.
the conditions to which he’d agreed were difficult to explain. and for now, a great deal hinged upon his ability to be present, a part of the family he had so long denied. that was why he was here. part of it, anyway. the other part was even more difficult to put into words. and he didn’t dare. he’d see her eventually. and some time maybe, if she allowed it, he’d do his best to explain.
did it even matter, though? after all this time?
it was cheating, of course --- and iconically him --- but mukuro had chosen to slip in through a back entrance. no one bothered him as he wandered at the fringes; few, he guessed, recognized him. ten minutes passed and, already, he had loosened his tie. the exhaustion --- brought on from being quiet --- seemed to settle in his eyes. he skirted around strangers, swiping a champagne flute from a woman he passed. she huffed as he walked on, though he didn’t seem to hear. he threw his head back, downing it.
and then, looking back, he felt his feet, his heart, stop dead. out of everyone here, how had he managed to wander right to her? it was her; somehow he knew, though she looked very little like the girl he remembered. the longer he stood there, utterly frozen, he more he felt that distant, familiar pull.
it was a moment --- painfully long --- before he realized that he was staring. unceremoniously, his mouth had parted and his eyes had grown wide reflecting some foreign mixture of mild horror and pointed disbelief. but. his sense didn’t lie. this was her. and while he knew she would be here, that he would find her eventually, he hadn’t thought to see her now... at least, not like this.
despite how close they found themselves, there was an eery, unsettling distance between them as her gaze flicked up and found him. and he felt his breath catch in his throat. she looked like a painting that belonged in some foreign museum, a thing he did not deserve to touch. and with the thought, all at once, his senses returned. his gaze lowered to the floor and his head shook. he forced a breath --- please --- and then, as he looked back, he clumsily opened his mouth again, hunting for his words.
strangely, he only found the truth.
“ you look beautiful. ” a pause. he looked away. “ sorry. that’s... obvious, huh. ”
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