Two Graves

Chapter 8: Pieces

Chrollo Lucilfer was feeling quite depressed.

A strange sentiment. It was almost funny. Almost.

He was eyeing the ceiling. It was still early in the morning, not that he had slept of course, and the white of the concrete was tainted with navy blue shadow. Remnants of amber light, caused by the sunrise, fading across the rough surface.

If Chrollo had been a painter, he would've been able to capture this moment of absolute nothingness quite well. But no. His hands weren't those of an artist. They were the hands of a thief.

A patchwork of faded scars and bruises from his early childhood meandered from his knuckles up to his elbow. There, where the cover of his book normally dug into the skin above his thumb, was a rough part. The hands of a murderer.

He should get up. But he didn't want to. His body felt about two times as heavy as it normally did, and his brain, which was known for working about thrice the speed of a normal human's, felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

But he really had to get up. He didn't want to have to face him in his pajamas and looking as sleep-deprived as he probably did.

He didn't want to face him at all.

The Kurta's beautiful hands had been bleeding because of him. Chrollo could only imagine why he'd shattered the mirror, and every new idea filled him with utter dread. He didn't even want to think most of it out loud.

He had not only ruined the other man's past. He also went ahead and tarnished everything he held dear in the present.

'I hate you'

Well, Chrollo hated himself quite enough already, but there was always room for more.

What are you doing, moping around the floor, feeling sorry for yourself? It's disgusting. At least own up to it. At least embrace it, you piece of human garbage.

Right, a villain shouldn't be acting like he did now. It was pathetic. Did he actually believe feeling sorry for himself would change anything? He had killed so many people. Ruined so many lives.

Get a fucking grip.

Silently, as always, Chrollo moved upright in one fluid motion. He straightened up; shoulder blades back, chin held high and made his lips slide into a vicious smile. This was more like it.

He could keep this up for another day or so. He had to.

Only one small glance was thrown upon the sleeping man in the bed next to him. Golden hair framing an almost-perfect face, nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrowed. Wow, even in his sleep the chain-user managed to frown at Chrollo! This thought almost made him laugh.

'You really must relish having members of your troupe being defenseless, don't you?'

Well, there went Chrollo's nonexistent good mood. He grabbed his suit and quickly changed in the bathroom. The sight of the broken mirror filled him with dismay again, but there was little he could do about it. Maybe pay the receptionist extra- it was her grandmother's hotel after all and the mirror probably had held more than a few precious memories for her and other customers. Well, they still had the pieces stuffed in the trashcan.

A vibration in his pocket made Chrollo snap back into reality. His phone. Ah, Machi was calling.

His thumb hovered over the accept button before he forced a smile and tapped the display softly.

"Hello, boss." Machi had opted for facetime instead of just voice-call. He could see the poor-quality image of her face in yet another hideout of theirs; an abandoned school in the middle of the Dentora Region.