Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

A/N: I LIVE!

And as for the change of pace... sharingank is to blame. She's the one whose constant badgering has sucked me into the awesome AWESOME world of Reborn, and by proxy has turned me into an utter fool for a certain man named Rokudo Mukuro. --shakes fists--

Ah well. Hopefully, you'll enjoy this little number as much as I do.

Takes place sometime before Chapter 168 and includes vague references to the Kokuyo and Millefiore Arcs.

Corporeal Voodoo

Raindrops seep in pearly rivulets through the cracks in the drywall, gliding down drooplily into the small puddle that grows within the sunken incline of the lacquered floorboards. Stamps of mold litter the corners of the walls, inching outwards with puffy, oozing fingers and breathing in the thick film of moisture in the air. A steady drip of water echoes weakly from behind him and metal pipes chime with each onslaught of rain that falls in strings from the ceiling.

His mismatched eyes stare at the muddied and grimy window panes, tracing the streaks of water that slither down the hazy glass and carry away the dirt in stripes. The weighty scent of mist and dust drifts around him, and the engulfing humidity of the room makes the strands of his hair curl in time with the coiled splinters of peeling wallpaper.

He slides his eyes shut momentarily, attention set on the faint friction of the fabric of his blazer against the gritty tweed chair he rests in. A broken spring presses uncomfortably against his lower back, but he sits eerily still, his folded hands lax and heavy against his stomach. The sheerest glimmer of moisture holds onto the skin of his pallid face, shining partially under the ill light that filters in through the window and the holes in the wall.

When he opens his eyes again, they fall upon the messy bundle of tied and twisted violet string in his lap, the loops and knots loosely forming arms and legs and a head. There is a slight burning in his right eye, --the one which has seen six lifetimes, six hells and heavens-- and irritated moisture gathers as it pulses and wriggles heavily within its socket.

The string is violet. Like storm clouds. Like the shadows in a boy's eyes, and the dark, heady intent in his threats to bite him, to tear him to shreds and trample him into nothing.

Listlessly, he tugs at a random string, slow and easy in his pulling.

The doll's makeshift chest only tightens slightly, the subtle squeeze of pressure weirdly tantalizing.

The world is his playground, and the people within it are toys to him, his to subdue and play with, to break into and command. Like string dolls, they unravel, they wear down, they fall apart, until there is nothing left to them but the space they once filled in, where he will fill in.

It is rare for him to come across a doll that resists, one that tugs back.

He smiles.

Even with the knowledge of six lifetimes, he cannot give a name to the unfamiliar quiver that ghosts along his veins at the memory of him, battered and broken, yet standing rooted and straight before him, an almost poisonous tint to the discernable smell of his sweat and his ragged breaths as he readies his tonfa. He knows nothing of awe and feels unjustified referring to this feeling as excitement, but for him, names are void in the face of uncommon oddities and hiccups of human productivity.

Kyoya Hibari is quite the hiccup indeed.

Otherwise, he would never be this thrilled contemplating a second encounter, even after ten years. Even after years of toil and spiraling downwards and changed plans and death, so much death.

But Hibari will not die; he will tug back.

Mukuro realizes this, just as much as he realizes that his fingers are now tangled in string.

Gently, he pulls his fingers away, staring unblinkingly at the small figurine before taking it up in his large palm and setting it gingerly on the damp lampside table to his right, careful to see that nothing comes undone. His joints groan as he stands up, and sidestepping the drops of water that plummet from the ceiling he makes his way under an open alcove and out into the grey hallway, heels clicking soundly against the crying floorboards.

He will come back for it later, like he always has.

On the lampside table, the string across the doll's chest loosens, almost breathing.

Ah well. I think this is one of my greater efforts. Comments as always are welcomed. Also, feel free to poke at my spelling and grammar, and any other mistakes in general.