Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
The silence of deep night was broken only by ticking of the clock, and one other thing.
The ragged breathing of the only waking soul in the entire Vongola mansion.
It was three in the morning, and at this ungodly hour, when the sky was painted an inky black, eighteen-year-old Rokudo Mukuro walked down the semi-familiar halls on silent feet.
His long blue hair was tied back into a messy ponytail, as he couldn't be bothered with his usual hairstyle this late at night.
His skin was soaked in a sheen of sweat, his damp shirt stuck to his back and stomach.
He stepped into the kitchen, no longer feeling soft, fuzzy carpet underfoot, but rather the smooth coolness of linoleum.
He left the lights off.
Walking over to the sink, the illusionist twisted the cold water tap open all the way so that a jet of water streamed out, pelting viciously down the drain.
Sticking his hand under the stream of cold, he didn't mind the drops that splashed onto the burning skin of his arms, or his flushed face.
He needed to get rid of that feeling.
The feeling of hot blood running through his fingers.
Of flesh fiving way beneath his hands.
He cold still feel it, his sky's lifeblood running down his arm, dripping slowly to the floor.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He could remember young Tsunayoshi's expression - crystal clear, as if it had been just yesterday, rather than three whole years ago.
That expression of absolute horror.
The horror he could live with.
It was what came after that still haunted Mukuro.
That one split second of betrayal that flashed across his little Tsuna's face before being replaced by more pain.
He had trusted Mukuro to keep him safe.
That was Mukuro's job as a mist.
As his mist.
But because of Mukuro's weakness, of his inability to protect his own mind from that damned melon head, Tsunayoshi had nearly died.
Mukuro kept his hand under the cold stream of water, frowning fiercely and scrubbing at his hand.
Blood.
He could see blood there.
Why wouldn't it wash out?
He needed to get rid of the blood.
If his dear Nagi saw it, she would get worried.
...but Nagi was in Namimori.
With Tsunayoshi.
They still had to finish their last year of high school.
But then they would be coming home.
To Italy.
And Mukuro wouldn't be alone.
But maybe it would be better if he was alone.
He wouldn't be around to hurt Tsunayoshi any more.
He wouldn't be around for others to take advantage of.
Letting out a frustrated growl, Mukuro kept scrubbing and scrubbing at his hand to try and get the blood out.
Finally, he gave up and took his hand back.
He hated this.
He hated when he got this.
So frantic and stressed and scatter-brained.
By morning, he would be back to his usual self.
And no one would be anything wiser.
He just had to make sure he surived until then.