54 - [Katekyo Hitman Reborn + Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro] utopia
Rating: gen
Characters: Xanxus, Kasai, Squalo.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn and Majin Tantei Neuro.
Summary: He who gives not all, has given nothing.
Notes: Some of the events taken from the rpg [soulcampaign]. For arsonists with secretly sharp teeth whom I willingly welcome to sharpen around my throat. >8| unbeta'd.
In his sleep he's not even spared with all of the other ghosts that plague him when he walks with his shadow in day or night. When he closes his eyes he's well aware that what he's actually doing is bargaining with the security of his days to trap himself back in the darkest hours of his childhood, again. Xanxus knows about death, he knows that every time he wakes up and rises from his bed the past has caught up to his heels one day at a time, all the way until he grew old and tired from his ghosts raking their nails on the back of his mind. So every day Xanxus compromised to lose something in order to begin again, because that's the only way to stop himself from combusting with rage. That's why in his older years he's plucked more than one feather away from his hair. A long time ago he walked with the full regalia of coloured feathers around his neck. As he grew older he realized that his ghosts are even harder to kill than before and something has to give; it's hard to walk your own path and take life into your hands when all you're waiting for is the perfect sky to raise your hands in surrender. But xanxus is proud, and resolves to carry himself like a king all the way to the end. He plucks the feathers every year he grows older and carries himself lighter, and a little lonelier than before. He's not like rokudo mukuro, who always has the opportunity to turn back and descend at his own convenience and come back a little singed, from playing a little too close to the fires of his own hell. Xanxus could do that. But Xanxus isn't like that.
Squalo stands beside him as he plucks the feathers out like a personal ritual; he carries the feathers in a small box and buries them at the back of the lawn and they never speak of the routine again. It's more than enough that he's done his part. Squalo looks at Xanxus' calloused hands as they hand him the feathers, broken and lonely in their muted colours, lost. He presses his mouth in a thin line. The Varia has their own mythologies, and he's not about to question the map that Xanxus has made for them. There's always a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. Xanxus closes his eyes, drinks whiskey, and lets the taste burn down his throat. When he opens them he feels that he is forged anew in the same fire that consumes him, and that's exactly how he likes it.
He walks back to his room a little less than kind, and Squalo watches his shadows catch up to his heels; a third of himself who has always walked behind him longer than squalo himself has served his boss. He shudders, not knowing what he's just seen, not knowing whether what he's seen is something that he was invited to see. There are some demons that one should leave his fellow to deal with, and this was one of them.
Xanxus remembers all of this as he opens his eyes in his dark, again, and puts a fist against his mouth, biting the knuckles hard enough to prevent himself from screaming. He watches his shadow writhe in moonlight in some silent, unsatiated rage.
*
The day that Squalo arrives in Nevada was the day of the fog. Xanxus has been wary enough of the city that when the flash of bone-white hair appeared on the screen in video, screaming for his name like some forlorn cry from beyond the grave (and it really was; Xanxus died at 25, too), he felt the air trapped within his cage of scarred flesh and bone, and wondered whether he was being haunted, or he'd died again.
Xanxus died three times. This is a little more than the others he runs with and a little less from Mukuro's count, not that he's trying to aim to be as nebulous and disjointed as the man was. He first died when he was ten, sold to the cares of an old man merciful enough to let him sink his fangs to his wrist when he grew older. He died when he was eighteen in the basement of his house, frozen to death as Squalo screamed some version of a prayer to the sky, withholding their threats and injuries and his life for the price of another. And then he died when he was twenty-four staring at the eyes of a boy whose blood pulsed louder and sang higher than the one that ran in his veins. It's a little disconcerting to see the Squalo with the golden eyes call him out, sporting the same bone-white hair, the same sharp grin. At that point in time, he's not sure which one of them died without knowing that they were dead. Xanxus clutched Bester's box in his fist, willing it to be alive, the corners impressing against his calloused palms and trying to convince him that he is still alive even if the flame had rested itself a long time ago, even farther back before he'd come to this place who took it away permanently. That's not exactly true, and he knows it perfectly well with bitterness as he stormed the hallway of the communal to fight his own demons. The truth is he allowed the flame to burn gently until the glow it gave within his hands were nothing more than the whisper of a flame, because he was nearing the time where he has to lay down his hand and decide whether his crusade has gone far enough or not. The answer will always be no, it is never enough and it never ended. But he can never bid himself to say it out loud, and so the words remain locked in his throat and they burn him every time he speaks to Squalo.
He feels a little older as he confronts him in the court, hands clenched, teeth gnashing. Another chapter of his life has re-opened at the man's arrival, and it's time for him to lose something else to get to the heart of this. "You're late," he snarls, and spits the words out bitterly. He was looking for him when he came. Xanxus was looking for a shelter, for a dealer to deal him a card out of his shadows that is so high and wild that he'll never need to go look back at his old crusade, the one where he died twice without even realizing it, the one where he'd promised not to die as he watched squalo's hair grow longer throughout the years and his eyes become dull and opaque and merciless, a soft grey that surrendered everything to him mercilessly, reminding him of his oath. This Squalo wasn't like that and Xanxus feels that crushing feeling in his chest, painful as he realized that the past ten years of his life was now standing right before him; the third that always walks behind him has now walked forward and seized his throat with its hands ten years younger than he was. "You're really fucking late," he roars, because there's nothing he can do anymore. Suddenly he feels terrified, like a child, all over again.
*
In the days that followed Xanxus has managed to live around Squalo's existence, whom his mind steadfastly refused to acknowledge. There's a younger part of him who's already dead, but was revived enough at the man's arrival who is happy, and content that Squalo has arrived. That Squalo doesn't recognize who he is is putting it lightly -- Xanxus is enough of a dangerous stranger to anyone, after all; including himself, including all the dead selves he's abandoned and mercilessly tried to forget, and this includes Squalo, who was breathing the time when he was young and foolish and ridiculously lost as he arrived. Xanxus is tired as he watches Squalo's eyes flash in frustration when he realizes he's overstepped the boundaries Xanxus has drawn for himself to keep him sane, because he realized that he can't keep coming back to the time when he was twenty-four and he died in a coffin made in ice. It took him ten years to learn that living with your shadows and sleeping with your own ghosts isn't any good and does more harm to you than anything else. He's not about to fall into the same trap and cross that path again to meet his younger self, but it's very tempting. Squalo wants him, but not him, he wants the one who died ten years ago and it drives him mad, that he can grant what he wishes easily, but he will not.
Xanxus revises his rituals as he touches the tips of the few remaining feathers that hang ominously around his neck, like an old prophecy waiting to be deciphered again, and decides that he needs to lose something every night in order to be able to face Squalo in the morning and all of his demons. He goes to Kasai's room. Kasai's room smells like smoke; Kasai himself is the smoke that chokes Squalo in anger and infuriates him to hell, reminding him of his pride, of his own insecurities as he watches the man linger around Xanxus -- not too near, but close enough that he can smell the scent of nicotine on Xanxus' coat.
Kasai leans against the windowsill watching Xanxus forge himself with every other shot of whiskey that he drinks down, burning his throat. Searing the edges of Xanxus' vision. He doesn't pretend to understand what Xanxus is doing, he doesn't need to know Xanxus' rituals. He doesn't need to know where the endless rage comes from, though he is curious, at times. This was one of those nights -- it's three am, Xanxus has no intention of sleeping because he's bothered by something else and he notices how Xanxus' coat wasn't just draped around his shoulders anymore, he was actually wearing it, like a personal mantle. He hates it when the man invades his house in one of his moods, simply because he likes his own peace and quiet and like hell Xanxus is going to live in silence, or let others involved with him live in silence. He's come to realize that's just how Xanxus lives; a raging storm of anger that always needs the solid cliffs to lash against. The smoke curls around him as he smokes and watches xanxus from a distance. Xanxus has long since accepted the smoke as another part of his extended lists of demons and shadows and personal antagonists who are so close to his boundaries, that a little more and he'll be forced to call them family. Kasai doesn't want to throw anything away for him, and that's fine. That's perfectly fine.
It takes a while for Xanxus to remember that there are people who exist like this, who have no intentions of advertising their lives for him to pick up and use at his convenience. It takes a while, but somehow he's relieved to know that it's there.
Kasai takes a drag from his cigarette, releases the smoke slowly in the room. "How long are you gonna stay here? I'd like to rest, but hell if you're making things easier for me." The idea of sleeping in his room while Xanxus was outside, seething in rage, makes him wary for his life.
"A while," Xanxus replies. Then, he adds, "I hate my room." Kasai rolls his eyes in response, though it's hard to see with that fucking hat. e'd like to say it's not his problem, but it's Xanxus, and anything that concerns Xanxus somehow manages to concern himself as well, and it's kind of annoying but he deals with it anyway. "Don't pass out on my couch," he says, going off to the kitchen to go grab a beer from the fridge. He watches as Xanxus stares dead ahead, boring an invisible hole in the wall, shoulders slouched forward like he's awaiting a hammer to fall in the silence. It probably has something to do with Squalo again. Or any other of the strangers and the ghosts that hound the man wherever he goes. Kasai doesn't want any part of it but Xanxus imposes everything on practically anything that comes near him. If he didn't know any better he'll say that Xanxus is marking his life as he breathes so no-one will actually forget that he lived for a brief moment before he met his end. This is all theory, but who the fuck knows, Kasai thinks as he opens the can. I guess even in daylight he sees his own dreams.
Xanxus will never admit it, but Kasai's place was peaceful enough for him when he'd like to get a break from Squalo who constantly interrupts his time, his space with his age, with that hair that's too short for his liking. Kasai doesn't expect him to be anything other than himself, and that's the most that he can ask for, sometimes. If he was a grateful kind of a man he'd thank Kasai, shake his hand, maybe buy him a drink or two. But he's not, and he will never be, so some days he saves his fangs from being dangerously close to ripping the skin off his skull. In this apartment his shadows never follow him and always hesitant to cross the threshold, simply because the old man has no connections to anyone from his past, and never will. And some nights, that's all he asks for.
He owes a lot more to kasai than he will ever, ever admit to anyone, not even himself.
*
He ends up getting smashed and sleeps on Kasai's couch. Kasai stayed in for the night, left him alone, went to his room in silence, only bothering to check if Xanxus choked on his own drink and died, which he hadn't, apparently. He sends a message to Squalo to pick up his own fucking boss and drag him out of his apartment. This is all done at around 7 am because Kasai doesn't really sleep that much, and his message infuriates Squalo, who never gets to sleep because Xanxus keeps him awake and busy all the time. Kasai decides that Xanxus isn't that bad some days, when he's drunk and he's not feeling more vindictive than usual. Kasai wishes Xanxus has more days like this. Some days Kasai might actually like the bastard because he can keep his mouth shut and Kasai is spared with Xanxus sniping at him for being the trash that he says he is (but he always comes back to his fucking apartment. Kasai thinks he's more than fucking delusional. Why come back when he hates him so much? It's fucking inconvenient, and somebody's in a state of perpetual denial. Fucking christ).
Xanxus wakes up at around noon, berates Kasai for not having prepared breakfast ("Do I look like your fucking maid?" "Do you really want me to answer that?"), and Xanxus walks out of the apartment angry, but feeling just a little better than the last time. He crosses the threshold back out into the hall and his shadows cling to his heels again in some comforting, painfully nostalgic way as he meets Squalo's glare outside. "I want brunch," Xanxus growls out, and Squalo sputters, yells in protest. There's an accusing glare that's thrown at his back all afternoon: why didn't you tell me who he is, why is he important, who are you, where have you been? What's happened? Xanxus never answers all of them in full. Xanxus will never answer all of them. He fixes the cuffs of his pants around the stairwell and the feathers around his neck pierce his cheek and choke him as he kneels down. He folds the ends of his pants into sharp creases around his ankles and imagines that his feet will be forever shackled until he dies, and that's alright, that's alright. That's perfectly alright.
Characters: Xanxus, Kasai, Squalo.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn and Majin Tantei Neuro.
Summary: He who gives not all, has given nothing.
Notes: Some of the events taken from the rpg [soulcampaign]. For arsonists with secretly sharp teeth whom I willingly welcome to sharpen around my throat. >8| unbeta'd.
In his sleep he's not even spared with all of the other ghosts that plague him when he walks with his shadow in day or night. When he closes his eyes he's well aware that what he's actually doing is bargaining with the security of his days to trap himself back in the darkest hours of his childhood, again. Xanxus knows about death, he knows that every time he wakes up and rises from his bed the past has caught up to his heels one day at a time, all the way until he grew old and tired from his ghosts raking their nails on the back of his mind. So every day Xanxus compromised to lose something in order to begin again, because that's the only way to stop himself from combusting with rage. That's why in his older years he's plucked more than one feather away from his hair. A long time ago he walked with the full regalia of coloured feathers around his neck. As he grew older he realized that his ghosts are even harder to kill than before and something has to give; it's hard to walk your own path and take life into your hands when all you're waiting for is the perfect sky to raise your hands in surrender. But xanxus is proud, and resolves to carry himself like a king all the way to the end. He plucks the feathers every year he grows older and carries himself lighter, and a little lonelier than before. He's not like rokudo mukuro, who always has the opportunity to turn back and descend at his own convenience and come back a little singed, from playing a little too close to the fires of his own hell. Xanxus could do that. But Xanxus isn't like that.
Squalo stands beside him as he plucks the feathers out like a personal ritual; he carries the feathers in a small box and buries them at the back of the lawn and they never speak of the routine again. It's more than enough that he's done his part. Squalo looks at Xanxus' calloused hands as they hand him the feathers, broken and lonely in their muted colours, lost. He presses his mouth in a thin line. The Varia has their own mythologies, and he's not about to question the map that Xanxus has made for them. There's always a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. Xanxus closes his eyes, drinks whiskey, and lets the taste burn down his throat. When he opens them he feels that he is forged anew in the same fire that consumes him, and that's exactly how he likes it.
He walks back to his room a little less than kind, and Squalo watches his shadows catch up to his heels; a third of himself who has always walked behind him longer than squalo himself has served his boss. He shudders, not knowing what he's just seen, not knowing whether what he's seen is something that he was invited to see. There are some demons that one should leave his fellow to deal with, and this was one of them.
Xanxus remembers all of this as he opens his eyes in his dark, again, and puts a fist against his mouth, biting the knuckles hard enough to prevent himself from screaming. He watches his shadow writhe in moonlight in some silent, unsatiated rage.
*
The day that Squalo arrives in Nevada was the day of the fog. Xanxus has been wary enough of the city that when the flash of bone-white hair appeared on the screen in video, screaming for his name like some forlorn cry from beyond the grave (and it really was; Xanxus died at 25, too), he felt the air trapped within his cage of scarred flesh and bone, and wondered whether he was being haunted, or he'd died again.
Xanxus died three times. This is a little more than the others he runs with and a little less from Mukuro's count, not that he's trying to aim to be as nebulous and disjointed as the man was. He first died when he was ten, sold to the cares of an old man merciful enough to let him sink his fangs to his wrist when he grew older. He died when he was eighteen in the basement of his house, frozen to death as Squalo screamed some version of a prayer to the sky, withholding their threats and injuries and his life for the price of another. And then he died when he was twenty-four staring at the eyes of a boy whose blood pulsed louder and sang higher than the one that ran in his veins. It's a little disconcerting to see the Squalo with the golden eyes call him out, sporting the same bone-white hair, the same sharp grin. At that point in time, he's not sure which one of them died without knowing that they were dead. Xanxus clutched Bester's box in his fist, willing it to be alive, the corners impressing against his calloused palms and trying to convince him that he is still alive even if the flame had rested itself a long time ago, even farther back before he'd come to this place who took it away permanently. That's not exactly true, and he knows it perfectly well with bitterness as he stormed the hallway of the communal to fight his own demons. The truth is he allowed the flame to burn gently until the glow it gave within his hands were nothing more than the whisper of a flame, because he was nearing the time where he has to lay down his hand and decide whether his crusade has gone far enough or not. The answer will always be no, it is never enough and it never ended. But he can never bid himself to say it out loud, and so the words remain locked in his throat and they burn him every time he speaks to Squalo.
He feels a little older as he confronts him in the court, hands clenched, teeth gnashing. Another chapter of his life has re-opened at the man's arrival, and it's time for him to lose something else to get to the heart of this. "You're late," he snarls, and spits the words out bitterly. He was looking for him when he came. Xanxus was looking for a shelter, for a dealer to deal him a card out of his shadows that is so high and wild that he'll never need to go look back at his old crusade, the one where he died twice without even realizing it, the one where he'd promised not to die as he watched squalo's hair grow longer throughout the years and his eyes become dull and opaque and merciless, a soft grey that surrendered everything to him mercilessly, reminding him of his oath. This Squalo wasn't like that and Xanxus feels that crushing feeling in his chest, painful as he realized that the past ten years of his life was now standing right before him; the third that always walks behind him has now walked forward and seized his throat with its hands ten years younger than he was. "You're really fucking late," he roars, because there's nothing he can do anymore. Suddenly he feels terrified, like a child, all over again.
*
In the days that followed Xanxus has managed to live around Squalo's existence, whom his mind steadfastly refused to acknowledge. There's a younger part of him who's already dead, but was revived enough at the man's arrival who is happy, and content that Squalo has arrived. That Squalo doesn't recognize who he is is putting it lightly -- Xanxus is enough of a dangerous stranger to anyone, after all; including himself, including all the dead selves he's abandoned and mercilessly tried to forget, and this includes Squalo, who was breathing the time when he was young and foolish and ridiculously lost as he arrived. Xanxus is tired as he watches Squalo's eyes flash in frustration when he realizes he's overstepped the boundaries Xanxus has drawn for himself to keep him sane, because he realized that he can't keep coming back to the time when he was twenty-four and he died in a coffin made in ice. It took him ten years to learn that living with your shadows and sleeping with your own ghosts isn't any good and does more harm to you than anything else. He's not about to fall into the same trap and cross that path again to meet his younger self, but it's very tempting. Squalo wants him, but not him, he wants the one who died ten years ago and it drives him mad, that he can grant what he wishes easily, but he will not.
Xanxus revises his rituals as he touches the tips of the few remaining feathers that hang ominously around his neck, like an old prophecy waiting to be deciphered again, and decides that he needs to lose something every night in order to be able to face Squalo in the morning and all of his demons. He goes to Kasai's room. Kasai's room smells like smoke; Kasai himself is the smoke that chokes Squalo in anger and infuriates him to hell, reminding him of his pride, of his own insecurities as he watches the man linger around Xanxus -- not too near, but close enough that he can smell the scent of nicotine on Xanxus' coat.
Kasai leans against the windowsill watching Xanxus forge himself with every other shot of whiskey that he drinks down, burning his throat. Searing the edges of Xanxus' vision. He doesn't pretend to understand what Xanxus is doing, he doesn't need to know Xanxus' rituals. He doesn't need to know where the endless rage comes from, though he is curious, at times. This was one of those nights -- it's three am, Xanxus has no intention of sleeping because he's bothered by something else and he notices how Xanxus' coat wasn't just draped around his shoulders anymore, he was actually wearing it, like a personal mantle. He hates it when the man invades his house in one of his moods, simply because he likes his own peace and quiet and like hell Xanxus is going to live in silence, or let others involved with him live in silence. He's come to realize that's just how Xanxus lives; a raging storm of anger that always needs the solid cliffs to lash against. The smoke curls around him as he smokes and watches xanxus from a distance. Xanxus has long since accepted the smoke as another part of his extended lists of demons and shadows and personal antagonists who are so close to his boundaries, that a little more and he'll be forced to call them family. Kasai doesn't want to throw anything away for him, and that's fine. That's perfectly fine.
It takes a while for Xanxus to remember that there are people who exist like this, who have no intentions of advertising their lives for him to pick up and use at his convenience. It takes a while, but somehow he's relieved to know that it's there.
Kasai takes a drag from his cigarette, releases the smoke slowly in the room. "How long are you gonna stay here? I'd like to rest, but hell if you're making things easier for me." The idea of sleeping in his room while Xanxus was outside, seething in rage, makes him wary for his life.
"A while," Xanxus replies. Then, he adds, "I hate my room." Kasai rolls his eyes in response, though it's hard to see with that fucking hat. e'd like to say it's not his problem, but it's Xanxus, and anything that concerns Xanxus somehow manages to concern himself as well, and it's kind of annoying but he deals with it anyway. "Don't pass out on my couch," he says, going off to the kitchen to go grab a beer from the fridge. He watches as Xanxus stares dead ahead, boring an invisible hole in the wall, shoulders slouched forward like he's awaiting a hammer to fall in the silence. It probably has something to do with Squalo again. Or any other of the strangers and the ghosts that hound the man wherever he goes. Kasai doesn't want any part of it but Xanxus imposes everything on practically anything that comes near him. If he didn't know any better he'll say that Xanxus is marking his life as he breathes so no-one will actually forget that he lived for a brief moment before he met his end. This is all theory, but who the fuck knows, Kasai thinks as he opens the can. I guess even in daylight he sees his own dreams.
Xanxus will never admit it, but Kasai's place was peaceful enough for him when he'd like to get a break from Squalo who constantly interrupts his time, his space with his age, with that hair that's too short for his liking. Kasai doesn't expect him to be anything other than himself, and that's the most that he can ask for, sometimes. If he was a grateful kind of a man he'd thank Kasai, shake his hand, maybe buy him a drink or two. But he's not, and he will never be, so some days he saves his fangs from being dangerously close to ripping the skin off his skull. In this apartment his shadows never follow him and always hesitant to cross the threshold, simply because the old man has no connections to anyone from his past, and never will. And some nights, that's all he asks for.
He owes a lot more to kasai than he will ever, ever admit to anyone, not even himself.
*
He ends up getting smashed and sleeps on Kasai's couch. Kasai stayed in for the night, left him alone, went to his room in silence, only bothering to check if Xanxus choked on his own drink and died, which he hadn't, apparently. He sends a message to Squalo to pick up his own fucking boss and drag him out of his apartment. This is all done at around 7 am because Kasai doesn't really sleep that much, and his message infuriates Squalo, who never gets to sleep because Xanxus keeps him awake and busy all the time. Kasai decides that Xanxus isn't that bad some days, when he's drunk and he's not feeling more vindictive than usual. Kasai wishes Xanxus has more days like this. Some days Kasai might actually like the bastard because he can keep his mouth shut and Kasai is spared with Xanxus sniping at him for being the trash that he says he is (but he always comes back to his fucking apartment. Kasai thinks he's more than fucking delusional. Why come back when he hates him so much? It's fucking inconvenient, and somebody's in a state of perpetual denial. Fucking christ).
Xanxus wakes up at around noon, berates Kasai for not having prepared breakfast ("Do I look like your fucking maid?" "Do you really want me to answer that?"), and Xanxus walks out of the apartment angry, but feeling just a little better than the last time. He crosses the threshold back out into the hall and his shadows cling to his heels again in some comforting, painfully nostalgic way as he meets Squalo's glare outside. "I want brunch," Xanxus growls out, and Squalo sputters, yells in protest. There's an accusing glare that's thrown at his back all afternoon: why didn't you tell me who he is, why is he important, who are you, where have you been? What's happened? Xanxus never answers all of them in full. Xanxus will never answer all of them. He fixes the cuffs of his pants around the stairwell and the feathers around his neck pierce his cheek and choke him as he kneels down. He folds the ends of his pants into sharp creases around his ankles and imagines that his feet will be forever shackled until he dies, and that's alright, that's alright. That's perfectly alright.