There are never lit candles and shadows and curtains that match the colour of his eyes. Dark red of dried blood. Of hatred. Of wrath. Of him, because he is The Wrath. And he was his Pride, because silver matches that shade of red so much, like blade of his sword after coming home from battle. His sword that was broken, shattered into pieces. No, not his sword, him. Both of them.
Xanxus lets out a sigh. He is out of red wine again, he has been for hours, but no one comes to ask him whether he needs something. He does not even knows whether there is someone in the manor at all. Maybe they fled away right after that and he might have been sitting in this chair under this blanket for eternity. There are no clock to measure the time, just window covered by curtains and his own breath. The man lying on the bed is not breathing. There is no need for him to count the time; he will not wake up, may it be minutes or years or centuries. He will wait. That man waited for him eighteen years. Now it is his turn.
The man was his right hand, at least everyone used to call him so. Xanxus have not even thought about using that term. For being someone's right hand man, you must be trusted. He did not trust him one bit. He was loyal, indeed, but it seemed to him as a twisted loyalty. Because how can one unconditionally follow a man that beats him every night just to see blood on that beautiful silver hair. It does not make sense to Xanxus, just as it does not make sense to him why was he so keen on seeing that man suffer, so much, so often. Although many things do not make sense to Xanxus. Such as why is he sitting here, by the side of man he does not harbor any feeling towards. Maybe it is boredom. Maybe sentiment. Maybe pity.
It is his room, his bed. The same bed whose sheets used to be stained so often that maids gradually stopped changing them. Xanxus noticed, but did not care. That shark surely noticed and cared, but did not dare to complain. Or maybe did not get time to complain. Look, shitty shark. They are clean now, pure white and cold, just like your skin is now. Of all things that did not make sense to the former leader of Varia, this one was the most elusive. He is living, yet he is not breathing, not moving, not warm. Xanxus usually does not think about things, he just screams and throws porcelain and shoots bullets. There remained nobody to scream at, to throw things at.
He stretches his left hand and reaches for his hair. They keep on growing, the only sign of stubborn clinging to life. They are uncombed and covered by dust and Xanxus likes them that way. Were they clean and shiny, he would not stop touching them, kissing them, maybe even braiding them. Oh, how ridiculous. That is not what shark's hair are meant for, they are meant for being pulled until he is bleeding. They are meant for it because Xanxus decided so. And now he contradicts himself. He quickly decides that it is this dark, timeless emptiness that softens him. He cannot find any other real reason why would he occupy his only remaining limb with caressing hair of some trash. But, indeed, Xanxus is no thinker. He acts on impuls. And his impulses oftenly used to have something to do with touching body parts of that shark.
He looks at his hand. He would not be able to shoot a gun. The hand is trembling. Is he that weak? He realizes it is cold here, almost freezing. The fireplace is empty and filled with wood turned into white ashes. He has a blanket on the knees, but it almost fell down and he did not even notice, and if he did, what could he do? He has only one hand and a faint pain in a place where the other used to be. He cannot shoot now. He does not need to anymore. Who would he fight against? That Vongola brat? Let him be, he thinks and is almost scared of his own thoughts. Only almost, because Xanxus is never scared of anything. Not even loss. Not even death. There is surely some other reason why he keeps holding on the strand of silky silver hair. There surely is, but he is too tired to think about reasons or possibilities or futures. So he just sits here, in a cold room filled with candles, shadows, curtains and one of his annoying former subordinates.
He wonders why it took him so long to realize that dust is not grey. It is silver.