KHR Request Drabbles~ :D
Title: ‘Lover Boy’
Rating: G
Pairing: Hints of Lal/Colonello.
Warnings: Colonello’s singing voice, abuse of the word 'kora'.
Summary: [Request and prompt for villanelle_koi.] In which Colonello learns that serenades are not the best way to make a first impression. [Pre-Series.]
The radio hissed with static for a moment, before discernable sound began to waken in the old veins of its wires. The song was fuzzy, but coming in clear enough to make out a few stable lines of melody…
’I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be your valentino just for you…’
Classic.
In English, but still Classic, and there was something romantic and nostalgic about a song like this on a radio like that in a place like here. Sand and sunshine and dry heat and a bad antenna rattling off a good song. Ooh, ooh…
“Ooh, ooh can you feel my love heat? Come on and sit on my hot-seat of love, kora!”
Those were the first choice words the greenhorn spoke, inadvertently, to his Athena. War Goddess that fit and stung every cliché, Lal Mirch, battlefield whisperer, the brutal woman he’d daydreamed about in his best and barest fantasies about packing heat, the kind of heat that rolled off a pistol when it was hot at the tip from gunpowder sparks, kora, and that got him pretty excited, got his blood rushing, riled, and hey, he was a hot-shot when it came to a rifle. Now, he just needed the girl.
Lal Mirch stared with disinterest and barely-muted displeasure at the abomination moonwalking across the floorboards of her quarters. His hair hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, zig-zagging blond bopping in time with his head movements, his voice lacking the tune that might have made his performance bearable.
“I don’t take singing telegrams.”
If he nearly tripped over the coffee table in his alarm, he made up for it by flashing a smile that wrinkled his nose and stretched his cheeks. “Lal Mirch, kora? I’m-“
“Trespassing.”
“-Lookin’ to be your next apprentice.”
“I don’t take students, either.”
“Do you take mechanics, kora? I fixed your radio.”
“Not well. It still has static.”
“Kora, you’re younger than I imagined.”
“Is your gun compensating for your lack of charm, or something more personal?”
“My lack of experience, ko-“
“Stop that.”
“-…ra.”
“Name?”
“Colonello.”
“The only students I take are those I feel won’t get themselves killed on their very first missions. They are stable, serious, courageous, clever, and they do not make fools of themselves within the first minute of meeting me. The door is over here, Colonello. You pull, don’t push.”
But Colonello was better at pushing, by far.
“Was that long speech compensating for your lack of charm, or something more personal, kora?”
’Ooh love, there he goes again just like a good old-fashioned lover boy,
Ooh loverboy~…’
A stalemate of stares, and the radio buzzed a chipper tune, and the disheveled daydreamer grinned something sincere, and it was nostalgic and romantic and classic. A photograph you’ve never seen, but remember deeply. Déjà vu that had yet to occur, tucked into the future safely, where it might one day make you stop and stare. And in that future, you’d want those blue-eyes staring back, just again like now, skylines and marbles and blueberry bubblegum that melted in your mouth.
It was a problem. This arrogant brat was a charmer. But she hadn’t adopted that problem just yet.
“I’ll take you on under one condition.”
“Kora?”
“The song on just now… I want you to go into the mess hall and serenade the troops with it at mealtime, 0:800 hours.”
Colonello shifted his gun strap, headband hanging a little too low over his brow. “Can I call you Lal?”
“No.”
“Lal, you said courageous, but clever. I’m not wet enough behind the ears not to know a sure way of getting the snot beat out of me when I hear one, kora.”
“Are you refusing an order?”
Sheepish shrug. “Kora.”
A trite smile. “You pass. Training begins tomorrow.”
’Everything's all right, Just hold on tight’…
Pleased pressure in his temples exploding, a thousand days of gunslinging to come and pass in good company, he hummed the last line to himself, pinning hands behind his head and tapping his foot in time…
“That's because I'm a good old-fashioned fashioned lover boy…”
“Stop singing.”
Title: ‘Something about Us’
Rating: PG
Pairing: 8027
Warnings: TYL slight spoilers.
Summary: [Request and prompt for hitsuuji] I continue to be horrible with summaries, so let’s just say… Yamamoto isn’t great at math. [Small Note: In the third part of this, it jumps TYL. Just to avoid confusion, if that isn’t as clear as I tried to make it. &hearts ]
It might not be the right time
I might not be the right one
But there's something about us I want to say
Cause there's something between us anyway
Hands drift together in a shy tango, saunter two steps close, and spin one back, testing the air in between, making sure it was mutual before the connect came, the tiniest thing in the world, two palms tickling against one another, fingers romancing. So why did Tsuna feel his stomach drop right out of his physical body, his throat clamped tight and refusing breath?
“Hey, Tsuna?”
“U-uh…” Right. Speaking. Even dame-Tsuna could do that. He’d done it many times before, and besides, out of everyone, Yamamoto had always been the easiest to speak to. He gave the impression of listening more wisely than he let on, and even exposed to the roughest weather of words or the silliest strand of confessional fears, his smile was infectious and constant. “Yes?”
Urrrk. That was the most overcooked ‘yes’ he’d ever given in his whole short-life. Shortening-life, as stress was going to be his end, and the meter was lit by rocket fuel, getting hotter and higher by the minute. Tsuna’s nerves were pinched, as he was sure that, at any moment, a sadistic baby in a fedora was going to pop out of a bush dressed like corn on the cob, or a bento box, or an akuma, and suddenly, his head would be ablaze, and he’d be BURNING to tell Yamamoto, with his dying will, that-
“This isn’t bad, right?”
That easy look on his face, like all the world was a simple matter, and Yamamoto didn’t need any proof to know he was right. There was bad and good, and this wasn’t bad, so it must be… good.
Tsuna relaxed, attention drifting to their touching hands.
“Ah-no, Yamamoto, I don’t mind.”
“Haha, all right. So-“
And he began to chatter, in just the same voice as always. Carefree, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. And in many ways, it was.
Walking home from school together, Tsuna’s home, where everyone’s Maman would have an early dinner prepared, and that sounded nice, just as nice as it was to hold hands like this, and listen.
I might not be the right one
It might not be the right time
But there's something about us I've got to do
Some kind of secret I will share with you
“Yamamoto?”
“Hm?”
“I need my hand back to use the chopsticks.”
“Haha, oh, that’s right. You do.”
Tsuna gave a weak, apologetic smile that hadn’t been pre-meditated. There it was, on his face, nothing he could do about it now.
“…Yamamoto.”
“Hm?”
“My hand-“
“Oh, just give me a second. I’m thinking about something.”
If Gokudera-kun were there, he probably would have scoffed and said that a second was about Yamamoto’s limit, when it came to thinking. Tsuna, however, was a little more worried that a second really meant a minute, or two, or five, or more when it came to Yamamoto, and his stomach was really starting to lurch, and if he didn’t get to his meal before Lambo’s nose played hide-and-seek with it, and won-
“Hey, I’m not great at math…“ Begun, and if there were something nervous in his tone, it drowned easily when Tsuna fidgeted, drawn out of the panicked monologue of his own mind. Yamamoto regained his cheer, concluding with gusto, “But between the both of us, we have two free hands.”
Tsuna wasn’t that great at math either, but even he could count that high. Had it really taken Yamamoto that long to--?
“And you only need two hands to use chopsticks.”
It was the first time he’d ever correctly solved a logic problem on his first try.
Unfortunately, Takeshi’s solution didn’t seem quite as logical a few moments later, when, each armed with a single chopstick and a needy mouth, they led an attack on Maman’s dinner, one hand each, which equaled two together.
…And were basically massacred…
’How many hands does it take to just pick up your food, again?’
‘Haha, only one.’
I need you more than anything in my life
I want you more than anything in my life
I'll miss you more than anyone in my life
I love you more than anyone in my life
Yamamoto absently rubbed the scar on his chin with a calloused finger.
“Hey, Tsuna?”
The grass was moist, but it didn’t bother his skin as it leeched into the fabric of his shirt, loosening the starch.
“I was thinking.”
If Gokudera were there, he probably would have snorted, said it was a miracle, Yamamoto thinking, because that’s what he still did these days, grasping at insults that had matured into comfort. Something as normal and easy as Yamamoto’s smiling, Gokudera’s profanity, and they were both trying to keep things normal and easy.
Gokudera, who had always insisted, dogmatically, that he was Tsuna’s right-hand. And that had been fine by Takeshi, who always used to hold Tsuna’s left.
“I was thinking that I screwed up that math problem.”
Tsuna hadn’t needed any hands at all. Tsuna would have been Tsuna without any hands, or with four-hundred. The reason Tsuna was Tsuna was because he accepted hands, shyly, and couldn’t let go, even when it made sense to.
Closing his eyes, he shifted over the patch of loose earth. A nap didn’t sound bad. Even here, where sleep should be impossible.
But that was logic, and Takeshi was never very good, when it came to math.
Title: Target
Rating: Gokudera’s Mouth
Pairing: Slight 8059, fluff and humor
Warnings: Gokudera’s Mouth
Summary: [Request and prompt for __kaze__. Big thank you to kurinoki, who Gokudera’s characterization is based off of. &hearts]. The Vongola’s best pair on a Very Important Mission. ….FYL? Ohoh.
“Yamamoto.”
Silence.
“Baseball Dork.”
Silence.
“Takeshi.”
“Huh?”
“Shit, you mind not zoning out in the middle of-“
“Ahahah!”
“WHAT’S so funny, all of a sudden?!”
“You called me ‘Takeshi’. I think that’s a first, Gokudera.”
“Go have a friggin’ party about it later then. You can wear a funny little hat and everything.”
“You really think so? That might be excessive.”
“Were you born this dumb, or were you dropped on your head?”
“Hahaha. ’Hayato’.”
“…You’re such a fucking retard.”
“Hey, hey! Put the lighter away, I’m sorry. We should get going, right?”
“ABOUT AN HOUR AGO!”
“We’ve only been here five minutes…”
“It feels like longer when I’m stuck with YOU. What were they thinking, pairing us up?!”
“Haya-“
“Don’t you DARE.”
“-Gokudera. We’re usually paired up, aren’t we?”
“SO?”
“So…”
“Well?”
“Okay, nevermind. I just meant that maybe Tsuna thinks we make a good team?”
“…”
“He’s right, you know.”
“Do you think I need you to tell me whether or not the Tenth is right about something?”
“Then you agree?”
“…I guess.”
“…”
“Well, stop just staring at me!”
“Ah--! It’s just that, your cheeks-“
“What’s wrong with them? And that wasn’t a cue to start grinning!”
“They’re just a little red, is all.”
“Well it’s COLD.”
“It shouldn’t be, with that much blood rushing to them.”
“Wha…”
“Your face usually feels warm when you blush, right?”
“Don’t flatter yourself!”
“Oh, it’s getting worse now.”
“Y-YOU--!”
“Hahaha. Don’t fall behind, Gokudera!”
And Yamamoto was off, hand to the hilt of his katana, the sputtering time-bomb of his red-faced partner following in his footstep’s near-wake.
The target wouldn’t be far now. It had been their job to infiltrate and apprehend-
“H-hibari?” Yamamoto’s skidding footsteps, halting, Gokudera smashing into his back a few seconds later, and the overall atmosphere of bumbling confusion on their parts did not have Hibari smiling.
Then again, few things did.
“Late. The target has been taken care of.”
“Ah-already?”
“BY YOU? But that was our job-“
Hibari tapped the headset on his ears, and gave them the cold shoulder, more interested in his tonfas than in their outrage.
Headset…
Gokudera stiffened a little, and Yamamoto actually looked more surprised than he had a moment ago when Gokudera’s forehead had gotten too personal with his solar plexus.
“Ah, we forgot again. The headsets were on…”
Tsuna’s voice crackled over the intercom a moment later, sheepish, laced with something that might have been old, concealed laughter. “Sorry, Yamamoto, Gokudera. When we heard you two were arguing again, we thought it might be best to just appeal to Hibari-san to finish the job…”
“…This is all your fault, Takeshi.”
Silence.
“Baseball idiot…?”
Silence.
“YAMAMOTO!”
“Ahahaha! They keep pairing us up for the comic relief, Gokudera!”
“YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO FINDS THIS FUNNY!”
“Hahaha…!”
Title: It’s A Small World
Rating: PG
Pairing: X+S, Belphagor - Lucky Chrams, LussuriaxMop, MarmonxSqualo’s Cash
Warnings: Violence against breakfast cereal
Summary: [Prompt and Request by hehe_05]. Varia in Disney World. Enough said.
Belphagor had been furious. His unique, off-kilter brand of rage had been put on display, parading around Squalo’s life demandingly, pay attention to me, the Prince is displeased~, sulking and biting and whining, and generally being a ROYAL pain in the ass. His brooding was evident from the first moment of every morning, and nagged at him until evening.
One of the more unique examples of this altered behaviour was the new manner in which Bel had taken to stirring his breakfast cereal, somehow appeased by moving the spoon in such a way that it gutted the bowl, violent churning while he made quiet, hissing noises, lucky charms spilling over the sides in a messy milk-splatter. More ended up on the table than down his throat, and Lussuria would sigh and make bedroom eyes at the mop wistfully until the Prince was finished with his brutal morning meal. Metaphorically speaking, that had the potential to be not good in the very near future, but Squalo curbed his concern with satisfying daydreams of shoving that cereal box right up Belphagor’s--…
Perhaps Squalo would have pitied the Ripper Prince’s next victim, be it a mafia brat, or Levi’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch, if he wasn’t too preoccupied with self-pity. His lack of sympathy for Bel wasn’t quite a leap of the imagination, considering what exactly the spoiled little monster had decided to throw his epic temper tantrum over. Of all the STUPID REAAASONS…
Enough was enough.
When Squalo had found his bed pillows torn down the middle, stuffing seeping out in a strange parody of horror, knife wounds on cotton, he’d had just about had it.
“UOOOOI! It’s not a real Magic Kingdom, brat!”
Belphagor poked his head in, quirked it slightly. “Oh?” Seemed to mull that over for a moment, before his lips twitched into a pointy grin. “But Squalo~ the pamphlet said-“
“IT’S A FUCKING FAKE CASTLE.”
Once again, Belphagor considered this. And then, apparently, deigned to give royal pardon, fake castles and phony Magic Kingdoms not being nearly as interesting as they had been five minutes ago, when they were real. “Ushishi~ sorry about the pillows~”
It was the least sincere apology Squalo had ever heard.
And it was of no comfort.
It did not bring back his Venetian embroidered pillows, that he’d consequently had to pay Marmon up the whazoo for, and it didn’t make this mission any less reeeeeetarded.
DISNEY WORLD? Boss must be LOSING IT.
But not a week later, Boss was there with him, very serious and half-sane, which was just the quota requirement for the Varia. His Boss’ relative mental health also wasn’t much of a comfort to Squalo, who clutched a falafel in whitening knuckles, a camera slung awkwardly around his neck, and a pair of god damn mouse ears sitting proud atop his head.
Xanxus smiled, just the very shadow of one, easy to miss. “Trash…”
“WHAT?” Shot his subordinate, snappy, grump just molting from his voice.
Xanxus lifted a brow, short burst of amusement, before he corrected, “I wasn’t addressing you. Over there-the trash, if you don’t plan on finishing that.” However unholy-mighty Squalo’s skill with a blade, it would be more difficult for him to wield it with sticky, occupied fingers…
As Squalo stomped off, a great, huffy leather-clad freak in the irritatingly cheerful Florida sunshine, Xanxus curbed his delight in Squalo’s displeasure, and scanned the crowd, focusing on the task ahead.
It was nearly time for the parade. Small children clung like leeches to their mothers, or sat atop their father’s shoulders, all bearing wide, cotton candy smiles. …Hn. America, a breeding ground for Garbage, and Walt Disney World, the capital dumpster that all of its pitiful flies were attracted to. (Xanxus wasn’t much for theme parks. Nor was he much of a people person. He also disliked parades. And children. And music. Especially music. In theme parks, with kids watching parades. But their victory would make the entire ordeal worth the trip-as would the hotel room later, where he had a fine stock of crystal glasses just preening to be lobbed at Squalo’s frontal lobe. Always his favourite form of stress relief, playing catch with heads.)
The music drummed up then, band coming around the bend, signaling the beginning of the assignment. The Varia’s reason for being here. Which was well enough, because as Squalo made his way back, with a clear expression of ‘Remind-me-why-we’re-here-oh-wait-you-didn’t-tell-me-to-begin-with’, Xanxus was able to lift a lazy hand, pointing.
Oh, but there was venom in his eyes now, as Squalo followed the direction of his pointer finger, eagerly, all the way over to… “Heey. It’s Snow White.”
“Kill her.”
“…What the hell? Boss?”
“Do I need to repeat my orders?”
No, he didn’t. Squalo peeked again, a lady in costume, a wide yellow skirt, and one prissy, gelatinous hair-do. That was their target?
“Heeey, what the fuck, she doesn’t look that dangerous to me…” Best to know ahead of time if there was something he should be watching out for, though he was convinced whatever Snow White had up her sleeve wouldn’t phase him. Even if the bitch had grenades, he wasn’t worried about getting the job done… just, best to know, that’s all. There was a reason Xanxus had chosen his best man for the task, and that reason was--
“I dislike that movie.”
A blink. A pause. Wait…
What?
“What?”
“You heard me, Squalo. Eliminate her. I -dislike- Snow White.”
Another pause. Xanxus’ gaze shifted, and solemn eyes dared Squalo to question him again.
The swordsman shifted, snorted, and then turned his back. Fucking fine. So they were at Disney World to kill some chick in a costume because Xanxus had childhood issues… tch, this was Belphagor’s kind of thing, why hadn’t he been the one invited along, after all?
As if a mind reader, Xanxus’ shadowy voice replied, low, “It would be a waste for Belphagor to get rid of Aurora as well. You know his penchant for tiara-envy. It would have been too messy.”
Tch. Like this wasn’t messy already?
“Oooi, I bet you just liked Sleeping Beauty.” Muttered, under his breath, before footfalls took him fast away from Xanxus, heading for the thrill of the parade, to assassinate Snow White, and maybe take out a few dwarfs, if they got in the way.
Xanxus, meanwhile, boomed with laughter.
Squalo still had the mouse ears on, after all.
Title: Crescere
Rating: G
Pairing: None
Warnings: A bit of creepiness, in some parts.
Summary: [For islanderfan2] Part I in a series of ‘childhood vignettes’. Features short, connective situations with characters as children. You can feel free to guess at their ages! :D The characters included are - Hibari, Tsuna, Gokudera, Belphagor, Yamamoto, Lussuria, in that order.
Bambino Anziano
Maybe a child with old eyes is no child at all.
But then, Hibari Kyoya had never been very interested in being a child. It was a noisy, wicked affair, and he cringed away from it, putting himself outside the laws of age and their inferior concepts of time. He might be ten, or six, or fifty-two, and it hardly mattered.
He’d never stuck a crayon up his nose, or glued macaroni to a paper pate, or wondered what he’d be in the future, because he wasn’t a child. He was Hibari, and in the future, he’d be the same Hibari he was now.
To other people, he looked like a child. Undersized, scraggly boy that had been forced into a sweater vest by a loving relative, his hair neatly combed, and his hands free of the tell-tale signs of sandbox tomfoolery. Schoolboy, wearing a chubby frown that seemed a pout, with his narrowed eyes and his harmless fists, very much like he was ten, and not fifty-two.
That was their mistake.
Delinquents were ageless too, he’d learned. The simpletons in his classes that put gum under the seats were the same people who robbed stores when they grew big, and since there was no such thing as age-and-time, Delinquents were just Delinquents, all the same, and Hibari was fifty-two. Hibari was fifty-two-and-ten, and he was a carnivore. So he wouldn’t stand behind the shield of age and wait to get older before gnashing his teeth (a few of which had come suspiciously loose, recently.)
They’d laughed when he told them, very clearly, that crowds were bothersome, stepping up in front of the wounded bird, a motley little creature with a broken wing, who probably didn’t appreciate the pebbles being tossed at it.
The group of older-boys (but Hibari didn’t really take in that they were older; just nosier) had chuckled at him (which he registered as becoming louder; boo… how annoying…) and mentioned that playground heroes were stupid, and that he didn’t have any weapons, anyway. Not even his hands looked like weapons, too small.
Oh well. …Then I’ll just bite you to death.
It had taken about five minutes. Five minutes of biting into the loudest boy’s arm, which might have also been the biggest boy (who knew, who cared?) before they’d retreated, bunch of herbivoves, one blubbering over a little bit of blood.
Hibari’s mouth had a metallic tang to it as he knelt, staring at the bird curiously, moving his tongue to wiggle at his now-looser tooth. It was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t quite paying attention.
The bird, freed of its bullying, stared back.
And then, deep in its throat, it made a furrowing sound. Wao.
Hibari blinked. “Wao…?” Hm. Taking a breath, he repeated, more clearly, “Wao.”
Well.
He could grow up later. For now, this was more interesting.
Nessun Buon Figlio
For now, this was more interesting. Way more interesting than the picnic spread, or the butterflies, or the bark of a nearby dog.
The child gurgled, plump fingers gripping at the chain with curious gusto.
Voices flew over his head, but their unimportant, friendly words went ignored. Nothing was as alluring to Tsuna right now as the manner in which the toy glinted prettily, cold silver seeming to emanate sunshine itself, tickling his skin with heat.
Not even when mother shooed him kindly did he loosen his grip, wide, tawny eyes like-his-father’s drawn to the glow of his new playmate.
“Tsu-kun seems to like it.”
And be it because he’d just learned he could slip a finger, two even, through the sweet little ring, or rather because he recognized his name, ‘Tsu-kun’, the boy gave a proud, bashful giggle, smiling a gummy smile.
“Ah, and look. It fits his hand.” The old man shifted, and Tsu-kun bristled, seeming to have forgotten that the comfortable seat of his lap was so mobile. A soft blink from the infant cued the old man to lean down, asking the boy intimately, words just as warm as the ring Tsuna had waggled his clutching fingers through, “How about it, boy…?”
“…Do you want to be the next owner of that ring, Tsuna?”
To the sound of a good-natured laugh, Tsu-kun began to wail.
Vongola the Ninth’s mustache tickled his baby’s skin too close to his ear, prickling awkwardly as he spoke. The needling sensation had the boy’s attention jerking away from his shiny plaything, and onto his new discomfort.
Chain falling away from fidgeting hands, Tsuna pulling too hard to try to escape the ring, his fingers stuck, and that was painful too, so his free hand went to claw the air for Maman. To the scent of sunshine and picnics and Italian cologne, his nose sniffled, wet, whimpering sounds blubbering forth from his throat.
“It seems that the answer is no.”
It would be a long time before he slipped his finger through the shiny again, though perhaps in the future, he’d handle it even less maturely. For now…
Maman clucked her tongue and tried to rock him.
“Oh, Tsu-kun, it’s a good thing we brought along the butter, or else your hand would be stuck like that.”
Tears streaked his face.
Il Ragazzo Di Musica
Tears streaked his face.
Knees drawn to his chest, tie long since loosened and disgruntled across his collar, light hair tickling his knees in a gesture of small comfort. He’d been sitting diligently on the long, lacquered black bench for hours now, backside having gone numb, nails leaving half-moons in his calves from clutching.
The room was distressingly silent. It was only his sniffling, and that was a shameful music, or so Madre had told him. ‘Big boys should not cry’, she’d scolded.
But Hayato was not a big boy yet, and Madre was not his Kaa-san.
Not a big boy, but he’d become bigger today. Happy birthday, but no one came. No brightly coloured box. Sometimes, he remembered the pretty boxes more clearly than he did her face. Blue paper and pink ribbon. But no box this year, never-ever again. Why not?
He could remember sitting in her lap, remember the dresses she wore. They were starchy, and they billowed, flowing with ruffles, like her hair fell too, both curling delicately. Like a doll, as he’d seen Bianchi-sorella’s dolls, all in lovely dresses, and Madre was just like that…
Only but, he was warned not to call her Madre anymore. She told him that lightly, while she placed his hands on the keys and pressed down, making a sweet sound, almost as clear and soothing as her voice. ‘You mustn’t say that anymore. You’ll upset the lady of the house, Hayato.’ ‘But Madre--’ ‘Kaa-san. It means just the same as Madre. It’s Japanese, sweet one.’
And it will be our secret.
He’d practiced pronouncing it.
Kaa-san… Kaa-san… Kaa-san…
She smiled when he played, laughed at his own excitement over his natural skill, was proud herself as she brushed back his pesky hair and clipped it away, promising-‘If you play very often Hayato, I will be playing too, and it will be as if we were playing together, just like right now.’
That had enticed him most of all, and if he played the music very well, his memory might become sharper, for a song. He’d practiced, playing and pronouncing, and trying to recall.
Maybe she’d had a hard time remembering his face, too?
Had she forgotten? Kaa-san, you forgot…?
She’d promised they’d be together, every time he grew bigger.
She’d promised to buy him a present.
I Due Principi
She’d promised to buy him a present.
Best present in the entire whole wide world, best-best, because he was the best, he was Prince, and nothing was better than Princes, who deserved the very best.
Little Prince, he’d read in storybooks all about his breed. Regal-regal, Petty-Pretty-Princes, frogs and warriors and sons-of-heaven with hands-of-hell. Of Princes in fairy tales and history and his own head, aren’ttheyallthesamething, ushishi~?, Princes write history, because facts don’t matter when you’re royal, we can make our own, and you have-to have-to believe us, or we’ll claw into your villages with the power of earth and God and our blood. Princes, who wielded gross amounts of power, who invaded borders because silly lines on a map don’t matter toaPrince, whose displeasure made heads roll, who kidnapped pretty girls on horseback, and who demanded tribute to curb their violence.
He and his brother were given tribute, same as any Prince. Expensive things that they challenged one another to break, sitting behind the hedges, covered in mud, beating tiny fists into the faces of dolls, scratching tattered nails against leathery playing-balls, gnashing their teeth against the fabrics of new shirts. Ushishi~ tastes like silk and feels like dirt, and shines on, because Princesalwaysshine.
When they spoke to one another about how they’d stuck a needle in the maid’s cushion, they imagined her dyingdyingdead, because their porridge had been cold yesterday, and they didn’t like their porridge anyway, but serving something notgoodenough for a Prince was a bad-bad crime, and in their minds, they tossed her body into the murky-lake and she was never heard from again. The porridge was cold, you should be punished~
Drowning in one-hundred thousand ideas, so she drowned there, many people drowningdead in their minds, because I am a Prince, and I demand tribute and battle, and I will make all of my subjects unhappy, ushishi fun game, taxes and scandal and no one wins but us. Everyone gets to play my subject, our subjects, less-than-Princes, make them sweat and bow, because Princes are negligent with their dolls, and greedy with them, and I want it it’s MINE, come amuse me, off with her head if not. A Prince’s favourite game is when they drowned, or paid tribute.
She’d promised him the best-best present in the whole-wide-world, and it was a present fit for a Prince.
He’d heard whispers though, because everyone whispered in this little boy’s mind, no-one mattered enough for volume, so they whispered in their doll voices that his brother had received a gift fit-for-a-King.
Older bother, one-day King, fake-Prince. Echo of Princes, fake-fake-fake, not a real Prince. A to-be-King, which wasn’t a Prince, and wasn’t a King, and wasn’t anything at all.
Boring.
His eyes stayed rooted to the curve of the jeweled dagger in its bed of tissue paper, his fit-for-a-Prince gift, and he thought that he would be very-very kind to his brother, because he was a good and fair and just Prince sometimes, so he would lodge it very-very deep into his heart one day, fit-for-a-Prince, deep down in brother future-King’s heart, and he could be a Prince forever, a fairy tale, a fact that could change as he pleased, based on whatever game they were playing.
Just like the violence in his head. Bury him in the river. Bury him in a book. Bury him in history, as a Prince, before he buries you, as a King~
Ushishi~
Playing Princes forever.
What a fun game.
Il Buon Figlio
What a fun game!
Takeshi’s legs dangled from the chair, rocking energetically against the air. The tips of his toes almost reached the floor now, long-legs for a young-boy, and they were great for basketball, but just as good for running. Just as good for becoming baseball-legs.
Dirt spots and juicy smears of green-grass stained the whites of his uniform pants, and he quietly lamented that he would have to enter the tub soon. He liked smelling like this, the scent of sweat and glove leather and the outdoors.
Because it was such a good game today, because he’d hit the winning home run (CRACK, the sound of the bat against the ball, and it just flew on, into forever, and he ran in time with its flight, and it felt just like flying too, haha), Dad had said he could eat before his bath, much to the delight of his gurgling stomach. His favourites, too, sweet egg rolled up in sticky rice and strawberry milk, and it was a good day, and baseball was a good game.
Takeshi didn’t think he was a very creative kid. He liked running, and he liked Dad’s sushi, and he liked smelling bad, ha-ha-ha, liked laughing too, and that was all pretty normal, wasn’t it?
But he liked most of all when Dad smiled like he was smiling right now, when he pressed a plate in front of him an told him to eat up. Takeshi’s old man-- who didn’t have a single gray hair on his head, but he seemed very… tall, and they called it ‘growing up’, so old people must be tall, right? (Haha, maybe he wasn’t a very bright kid, either.) Anyway, Takeshi’s old man, who’d put his hands over his son’s, and showed him how to swing a bat, how to go through the motion, how to hit the ball, Takeshi’s old man when he smiled like that.
Takeshi was a pretty normal, good, lively kid. He followed rules and grinned a lot, was popular with the kids his age because he hit balls and dived into mud better than anyone, was popular with adults because he held doors and carried tea trays, was popular in general, because he was always smiling, and people smiled back.
But he knew, when his dad smiled at him like that, that the old man was smiling not because Takeshi was a good kid, but because Takeshi was just his kid. His uncreative, not-so-bright kid, who reeked and grinned about nothing.
When he hit that home run, everyone was happy, because they liked baseball, and victory.
It would be the best though, he thought, if one day he found people who hated baseball, and who smiled when he hit a home run anyway, because they liked Takeshi.
Although…
Maybe he really was just unintelligent, but…
Finding someone out there who didn’t like baseball?
Haha. Impossible!
It was the best.
Uomo Dispari
It was the best.
The absolute best shade he’d ever seen. The bottle called the colour ‘Harlequin’. Somewhere between Yellow and Hunter, and that sent a thrill down his spine, shivering over his body, made his eyes widen, and gave him nerve. Ohh~ A little sunshine for the morning, and a little executioner before lights out, and put them together in a bottle, and you got Harlequin Green, which was the hair colour he was absolutely born for, if not with.
Once he had his new hair, the dye having left the strands brittle and smelling of peroxide, he had other plans, other fantasies to fulfill, so he could embrace a colour so diverse and bright. Harlequin, Harlequin…
Daydreams of breaking into Mother’s makeup drawer would soon be a satisfying reality. Smearing the liquids and sticks of colour across his face, to complement and accentuate the greatness of his new head. He’d play in the playground that had always been off limits, dipping his fingers in and cracking open tops. He’d blend the reds across his cheeks, and use glitter on his eyelids, and he wouldn’t regret a single thing, since Mother didn’t ever use her makeup to its full potential, the potential he saw in those glossy cases.
If that woman had green hair, hers would be Myrtle. Between Mould-green and Office-green, age marks and slog.
But Lussuria was undoubtedly fabulous, even if his roots were buried in dirt. Light-blond dirt, if he were talking about hair roots. He just had to take the final step. Intimidating… thrilling final step. Curiosity burned his bones, and lashed at panic. Do it.
Hands twitched, sweaty palms, gripping at the slim bottle of dye. A stolen five dollars to purchase it, and it rested with the weight of the future against his skin. Sighingly. He felt sick with nerves. But, couldn’t turn back now…
He popped the cap, and reassured himself, staring back at a reflection of a thin face and wavy blond hair, a little-boy-face even if he thought he’d always had much more maturity to him, barely making it over the sink, his age hardly greater than his number of fingertips, at least, he assured himself, tonight, when he sat down in the livingroom floor with his nose close to the glass of the television, watching the news play over the fuzzy grains of bad reception, with Harlequin hair and make-up to match…
At least for one night of his life, Father would have something better to wonder about than why his face took on an alien, crawling smile as he watched the body bags inch across the screen, imagining, imagining and hoping to catch a glimpse.
Death was such a grand concept, so much bigger than him and everyone. Death must be the most wonderful make-up of all. He was sure he’d have a crush on something so beautiful and delicate as a body perfectly preserved in the troughs of death.
So he wanted to look his best tonight, for those body bags, his puppy crush.
Biting his lip, he squeezed.
Haha, I hope this isn’t too much writing spam for everyone, and that someone got enjoyment out of it. &hearts :D
Will check up on the FList later, guys. o/
Rating: G
Pairing: Hints of Lal/Colonello.
Warnings: Colonello’s singing voice, abuse of the word 'kora'.
Summary: [Request and prompt for villanelle_koi.] In which Colonello learns that serenades are not the best way to make a first impression. [Pre-Series.]
The radio hissed with static for a moment, before discernable sound began to waken in the old veins of its wires. The song was fuzzy, but coming in clear enough to make out a few stable lines of melody…
’I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings, be your valentino just for you…’
Classic.
In English, but still Classic, and there was something romantic and nostalgic about a song like this on a radio like that in a place like here. Sand and sunshine and dry heat and a bad antenna rattling off a good song. Ooh, ooh…
“Ooh, ooh can you feel my love heat? Come on and sit on my hot-seat of love, kora!”
Those were the first choice words the greenhorn spoke, inadvertently, to his Athena. War Goddess that fit and stung every cliché, Lal Mirch, battlefield whisperer, the brutal woman he’d daydreamed about in his best and barest fantasies about packing heat, the kind of heat that rolled off a pistol when it was hot at the tip from gunpowder sparks, kora, and that got him pretty excited, got his blood rushing, riled, and hey, he was a hot-shot when it came to a rifle. Now, he just needed the girl.
Lal Mirch stared with disinterest and barely-muted displeasure at the abomination moonwalking across the floorboards of her quarters. His hair hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, zig-zagging blond bopping in time with his head movements, his voice lacking the tune that might have made his performance bearable.
“I don’t take singing telegrams.”
If he nearly tripped over the coffee table in his alarm, he made up for it by flashing a smile that wrinkled his nose and stretched his cheeks. “Lal Mirch, kora? I’m-“
“Trespassing.”
“-Lookin’ to be your next apprentice.”
“I don’t take students, either.”
“Do you take mechanics, kora? I fixed your radio.”
“Not well. It still has static.”
“Kora, you’re younger than I imagined.”
“Is your gun compensating for your lack of charm, or something more personal?”
“My lack of experience, ko-“
“Stop that.”
“-…ra.”
“Name?”
“Colonello.”
“The only students I take are those I feel won’t get themselves killed on their very first missions. They are stable, serious, courageous, clever, and they do not make fools of themselves within the first minute of meeting me. The door is over here, Colonello. You pull, don’t push.”
But Colonello was better at pushing, by far.
“Was that long speech compensating for your lack of charm, or something more personal, kora?”
’Ooh love, there he goes again just like a good old-fashioned lover boy,
Ooh loverboy~…’
A stalemate of stares, and the radio buzzed a chipper tune, and the disheveled daydreamer grinned something sincere, and it was nostalgic and romantic and classic. A photograph you’ve never seen, but remember deeply. Déjà vu that had yet to occur, tucked into the future safely, where it might one day make you stop and stare. And in that future, you’d want those blue-eyes staring back, just again like now, skylines and marbles and blueberry bubblegum that melted in your mouth.
It was a problem. This arrogant brat was a charmer. But she hadn’t adopted that problem just yet.
“I’ll take you on under one condition.”
“Kora?”
“The song on just now… I want you to go into the mess hall and serenade the troops with it at mealtime, 0:800 hours.”
Colonello shifted his gun strap, headband hanging a little too low over his brow. “Can I call you Lal?”
“No.”
“Lal, you said courageous, but clever. I’m not wet enough behind the ears not to know a sure way of getting the snot beat out of me when I hear one, kora.”
“Are you refusing an order?”
Sheepish shrug. “Kora.”
A trite smile. “You pass. Training begins tomorrow.”
’Everything's all right, Just hold on tight’…
Pleased pressure in his temples exploding, a thousand days of gunslinging to come and pass in good company, he hummed the last line to himself, pinning hands behind his head and tapping his foot in time…
“That's because I'm a good old-fashioned fashioned lover boy…”
“Stop singing.”
Title: ‘Something about Us’
Rating: PG
Pairing: 8027
Warnings: TYL slight spoilers.
Summary: [Request and prompt for hitsuuji] I continue to be horrible with summaries, so let’s just say… Yamamoto isn’t great at math. [Small Note: In the third part of this, it jumps TYL. Just to avoid confusion, if that isn’t as clear as I tried to make it. &hearts ]
It might not be the right time
I might not be the right one
But there's something about us I want to say
Cause there's something between us anyway
Hands drift together in a shy tango, saunter two steps close, and spin one back, testing the air in between, making sure it was mutual before the connect came, the tiniest thing in the world, two palms tickling against one another, fingers romancing. So why did Tsuna feel his stomach drop right out of his physical body, his throat clamped tight and refusing breath?
“Hey, Tsuna?”
“U-uh…” Right. Speaking. Even dame-Tsuna could do that. He’d done it many times before, and besides, out of everyone, Yamamoto had always been the easiest to speak to. He gave the impression of listening more wisely than he let on, and even exposed to the roughest weather of words or the silliest strand of confessional fears, his smile was infectious and constant. “Yes?”
Urrrk. That was the most overcooked ‘yes’ he’d ever given in his whole short-life. Shortening-life, as stress was going to be his end, and the meter was lit by rocket fuel, getting hotter and higher by the minute. Tsuna’s nerves were pinched, as he was sure that, at any moment, a sadistic baby in a fedora was going to pop out of a bush dressed like corn on the cob, or a bento box, or an akuma, and suddenly, his head would be ablaze, and he’d be BURNING to tell Yamamoto, with his dying will, that-
“This isn’t bad, right?”
That easy look on his face, like all the world was a simple matter, and Yamamoto didn’t need any proof to know he was right. There was bad and good, and this wasn’t bad, so it must be… good.
Tsuna relaxed, attention drifting to their touching hands.
“Ah-no, Yamamoto, I don’t mind.”
“Haha, all right. So-“
And he began to chatter, in just the same voice as always. Carefree, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. And in many ways, it was.
Walking home from school together, Tsuna’s home, where everyone’s Maman would have an early dinner prepared, and that sounded nice, just as nice as it was to hold hands like this, and listen.
I might not be the right one
It might not be the right time
But there's something about us I've got to do
Some kind of secret I will share with you
“Yamamoto?”
“Hm?”
“I need my hand back to use the chopsticks.”
“Haha, oh, that’s right. You do.”
Tsuna gave a weak, apologetic smile that hadn’t been pre-meditated. There it was, on his face, nothing he could do about it now.
“…Yamamoto.”
“Hm?”
“My hand-“
“Oh, just give me a second. I’m thinking about something.”
If Gokudera-kun were there, he probably would have scoffed and said that a second was about Yamamoto’s limit, when it came to thinking. Tsuna, however, was a little more worried that a second really meant a minute, or two, or five, or more when it came to Yamamoto, and his stomach was really starting to lurch, and if he didn’t get to his meal before Lambo’s nose played hide-and-seek with it, and won-
“Hey, I’m not great at math…“ Begun, and if there were something nervous in his tone, it drowned easily when Tsuna fidgeted, drawn out of the panicked monologue of his own mind. Yamamoto regained his cheer, concluding with gusto, “But between the both of us, we have two free hands.”
Tsuna wasn’t that great at math either, but even he could count that high. Had it really taken Yamamoto that long to--?
“And you only need two hands to use chopsticks.”
It was the first time he’d ever correctly solved a logic problem on his first try.
Unfortunately, Takeshi’s solution didn’t seem quite as logical a few moments later, when, each armed with a single chopstick and a needy mouth, they led an attack on Maman’s dinner, one hand each, which equaled two together.
…And were basically massacred…
’How many hands does it take to just pick up your food, again?’
‘Haha, only one.’
I need you more than anything in my life
I want you more than anything in my life
I'll miss you more than anyone in my life
I love you more than anyone in my life
Yamamoto absently rubbed the scar on his chin with a calloused finger.
“Hey, Tsuna?”
The grass was moist, but it didn’t bother his skin as it leeched into the fabric of his shirt, loosening the starch.
“I was thinking.”
If Gokudera were there, he probably would have snorted, said it was a miracle, Yamamoto thinking, because that’s what he still did these days, grasping at insults that had matured into comfort. Something as normal and easy as Yamamoto’s smiling, Gokudera’s profanity, and they were both trying to keep things normal and easy.
Gokudera, who had always insisted, dogmatically, that he was Tsuna’s right-hand. And that had been fine by Takeshi, who always used to hold Tsuna’s left.
“I was thinking that I screwed up that math problem.”
Tsuna hadn’t needed any hands at all. Tsuna would have been Tsuna without any hands, or with four-hundred. The reason Tsuna was Tsuna was because he accepted hands, shyly, and couldn’t let go, even when it made sense to.
Closing his eyes, he shifted over the patch of loose earth. A nap didn’t sound bad. Even here, where sleep should be impossible.
But that was logic, and Takeshi was never very good, when it came to math.
Title: Target
Rating: Gokudera’s Mouth
Pairing: Slight 8059, fluff and humor
Warnings: Gokudera’s Mouth
Summary: [Request and prompt for __kaze__. Big thank you to kurinoki, who Gokudera’s characterization is based off of. &hearts]. The Vongola’s best pair on a Very Important Mission. ….FYL? Ohoh.
“Yamamoto.”
Silence.
“Baseball Dork.”
Silence.
“Takeshi.”
“Huh?”
“Shit, you mind not zoning out in the middle of-“
“Ahahah!”
“WHAT’S so funny, all of a sudden?!”
“You called me ‘Takeshi’. I think that’s a first, Gokudera.”
“Go have a friggin’ party about it later then. You can wear a funny little hat and everything.”
“You really think so? That might be excessive.”
“Were you born this dumb, or were you dropped on your head?”
“Hahaha. ’Hayato’.”
“…You’re such a fucking retard.”
“Hey, hey! Put the lighter away, I’m sorry. We should get going, right?”
“ABOUT AN HOUR AGO!”
“We’ve only been here five minutes…”
“It feels like longer when I’m stuck with YOU. What were they thinking, pairing us up?!”
“Haya-“
“Don’t you DARE.”
“-Gokudera. We’re usually paired up, aren’t we?”
“SO?”
“So…”
“Well?”
“Okay, nevermind. I just meant that maybe Tsuna thinks we make a good team?”
“…”
“He’s right, you know.”
“Do you think I need you to tell me whether or not the Tenth is right about something?”
“Then you agree?”
“…I guess.”
“…”
“Well, stop just staring at me!”
“Ah--! It’s just that, your cheeks-“
“What’s wrong with them? And that wasn’t a cue to start grinning!”
“They’re just a little red, is all.”
“Well it’s COLD.”
“It shouldn’t be, with that much blood rushing to them.”
“Wha…”
“Your face usually feels warm when you blush, right?”
“Don’t flatter yourself!”
“Oh, it’s getting worse now.”
“Y-YOU--!”
“Hahaha. Don’t fall behind, Gokudera!”
And Yamamoto was off, hand to the hilt of his katana, the sputtering time-bomb of his red-faced partner following in his footstep’s near-wake.
The target wouldn’t be far now. It had been their job to infiltrate and apprehend-
“H-hibari?” Yamamoto’s skidding footsteps, halting, Gokudera smashing into his back a few seconds later, and the overall atmosphere of bumbling confusion on their parts did not have Hibari smiling.
Then again, few things did.
“Late. The target has been taken care of.”
“Ah-already?”
“BY YOU? But that was our job-“
Hibari tapped the headset on his ears, and gave them the cold shoulder, more interested in his tonfas than in their outrage.
Headset…
Gokudera stiffened a little, and Yamamoto actually looked more surprised than he had a moment ago when Gokudera’s forehead had gotten too personal with his solar plexus.
“Ah, we forgot again. The headsets were on…”
Tsuna’s voice crackled over the intercom a moment later, sheepish, laced with something that might have been old, concealed laughter. “Sorry, Yamamoto, Gokudera. When we heard you two were arguing again, we thought it might be best to just appeal to Hibari-san to finish the job…”
“…This is all your fault, Takeshi.”
Silence.
“Baseball idiot…?”
Silence.
“YAMAMOTO!”
“Ahahaha! They keep pairing us up for the comic relief, Gokudera!”
“YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO FINDS THIS FUNNY!”
“Hahaha…!”
Title: It’s A Small World
Rating: PG
Pairing: X+S, Belphagor - Lucky Chrams, LussuriaxMop, MarmonxSqualo’s Cash
Warnings: Violence against breakfast cereal
Summary: [Prompt and Request by hehe_05]. Varia in Disney World. Enough said.
Belphagor had been furious. His unique, off-kilter brand of rage had been put on display, parading around Squalo’s life demandingly, pay attention to me, the Prince is displeased~, sulking and biting and whining, and generally being a ROYAL pain in the ass. His brooding was evident from the first moment of every morning, and nagged at him until evening.
One of the more unique examples of this altered behaviour was the new manner in which Bel had taken to stirring his breakfast cereal, somehow appeased by moving the spoon in such a way that it gutted the bowl, violent churning while he made quiet, hissing noises, lucky charms spilling over the sides in a messy milk-splatter. More ended up on the table than down his throat, and Lussuria would sigh and make bedroom eyes at the mop wistfully until the Prince was finished with his brutal morning meal. Metaphorically speaking, that had the potential to be not good in the very near future, but Squalo curbed his concern with satisfying daydreams of shoving that cereal box right up Belphagor’s--…
Perhaps Squalo would have pitied the Ripper Prince’s next victim, be it a mafia brat, or Levi’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch, if he wasn’t too preoccupied with self-pity. His lack of sympathy for Bel wasn’t quite a leap of the imagination, considering what exactly the spoiled little monster had decided to throw his epic temper tantrum over. Of all the STUPID REAAASONS…
Enough was enough.
When Squalo had found his bed pillows torn down the middle, stuffing seeping out in a strange parody of horror, knife wounds on cotton, he’d had just about had it.
“UOOOOI! It’s not a real Magic Kingdom, brat!”
Belphagor poked his head in, quirked it slightly. “Oh?” Seemed to mull that over for a moment, before his lips twitched into a pointy grin. “But Squalo~ the pamphlet said-“
“IT’S A FUCKING FAKE CASTLE.”
Once again, Belphagor considered this. And then, apparently, deigned to give royal pardon, fake castles and phony Magic Kingdoms not being nearly as interesting as they had been five minutes ago, when they were real. “Ushishi~ sorry about the pillows~”
It was the least sincere apology Squalo had ever heard.
And it was of no comfort.
It did not bring back his Venetian embroidered pillows, that he’d consequently had to pay Marmon up the whazoo for, and it didn’t make this mission any less reeeeeetarded.
DISNEY WORLD? Boss must be LOSING IT.
But not a week later, Boss was there with him, very serious and half-sane, which was just the quota requirement for the Varia. His Boss’ relative mental health also wasn’t much of a comfort to Squalo, who clutched a falafel in whitening knuckles, a camera slung awkwardly around his neck, and a pair of god damn mouse ears sitting proud atop his head.
Xanxus smiled, just the very shadow of one, easy to miss. “Trash…”
“WHAT?” Shot his subordinate, snappy, grump just molting from his voice.
Xanxus lifted a brow, short burst of amusement, before he corrected, “I wasn’t addressing you. Over there-the trash, if you don’t plan on finishing that.” However unholy-mighty Squalo’s skill with a blade, it would be more difficult for him to wield it with sticky, occupied fingers…
As Squalo stomped off, a great, huffy leather-clad freak in the irritatingly cheerful Florida sunshine, Xanxus curbed his delight in Squalo’s displeasure, and scanned the crowd, focusing on the task ahead.
It was nearly time for the parade. Small children clung like leeches to their mothers, or sat atop their father’s shoulders, all bearing wide, cotton candy smiles. …Hn. America, a breeding ground for Garbage, and Walt Disney World, the capital dumpster that all of its pitiful flies were attracted to. (Xanxus wasn’t much for theme parks. Nor was he much of a people person. He also disliked parades. And children. And music. Especially music. In theme parks, with kids watching parades. But their victory would make the entire ordeal worth the trip-as would the hotel room later, where he had a fine stock of crystal glasses just preening to be lobbed at Squalo’s frontal lobe. Always his favourite form of stress relief, playing catch with heads.)
The music drummed up then, band coming around the bend, signaling the beginning of the assignment. The Varia’s reason for being here. Which was well enough, because as Squalo made his way back, with a clear expression of ‘Remind-me-why-we’re-here-oh-wait-you-didn’t-tell-me-to-begin-with’, Xanxus was able to lift a lazy hand, pointing.
Oh, but there was venom in his eyes now, as Squalo followed the direction of his pointer finger, eagerly, all the way over to… “Heey. It’s Snow White.”
“Kill her.”
“…What the hell? Boss?”
“Do I need to repeat my orders?”
No, he didn’t. Squalo peeked again, a lady in costume, a wide yellow skirt, and one prissy, gelatinous hair-do. That was their target?
“Heeey, what the fuck, she doesn’t look that dangerous to me…” Best to know ahead of time if there was something he should be watching out for, though he was convinced whatever Snow White had up her sleeve wouldn’t phase him. Even if the bitch had grenades, he wasn’t worried about getting the job done… just, best to know, that’s all. There was a reason Xanxus had chosen his best man for the task, and that reason was--
“I dislike that movie.”
A blink. A pause. Wait…
What?
“What?”
“You heard me, Squalo. Eliminate her. I -dislike- Snow White.”
Another pause. Xanxus’ gaze shifted, and solemn eyes dared Squalo to question him again.
The swordsman shifted, snorted, and then turned his back. Fucking fine. So they were at Disney World to kill some chick in a costume because Xanxus had childhood issues… tch, this was Belphagor’s kind of thing, why hadn’t he been the one invited along, after all?
As if a mind reader, Xanxus’ shadowy voice replied, low, “It would be a waste for Belphagor to get rid of Aurora as well. You know his penchant for tiara-envy. It would have been too messy.”
Tch. Like this wasn’t messy already?
“Oooi, I bet you just liked Sleeping Beauty.” Muttered, under his breath, before footfalls took him fast away from Xanxus, heading for the thrill of the parade, to assassinate Snow White, and maybe take out a few dwarfs, if they got in the way.
Xanxus, meanwhile, boomed with laughter.
Squalo still had the mouse ears on, after all.
Title: Crescere
Rating: G
Pairing: None
Warnings: A bit of creepiness, in some parts.
Summary: [For islanderfan2] Part I in a series of ‘childhood vignettes’. Features short, connective situations with characters as children. You can feel free to guess at their ages! :D The characters included are - Hibari, Tsuna, Gokudera, Belphagor, Yamamoto, Lussuria, in that order.
Bambino Anziano
Maybe a child with old eyes is no child at all.
But then, Hibari Kyoya had never been very interested in being a child. It was a noisy, wicked affair, and he cringed away from it, putting himself outside the laws of age and their inferior concepts of time. He might be ten, or six, or fifty-two, and it hardly mattered.
He’d never stuck a crayon up his nose, or glued macaroni to a paper pate, or wondered what he’d be in the future, because he wasn’t a child. He was Hibari, and in the future, he’d be the same Hibari he was now.
To other people, he looked like a child. Undersized, scraggly boy that had been forced into a sweater vest by a loving relative, his hair neatly combed, and his hands free of the tell-tale signs of sandbox tomfoolery. Schoolboy, wearing a chubby frown that seemed a pout, with his narrowed eyes and his harmless fists, very much like he was ten, and not fifty-two.
That was their mistake.
Delinquents were ageless too, he’d learned. The simpletons in his classes that put gum under the seats were the same people who robbed stores when they grew big, and since there was no such thing as age-and-time, Delinquents were just Delinquents, all the same, and Hibari was fifty-two. Hibari was fifty-two-and-ten, and he was a carnivore. So he wouldn’t stand behind the shield of age and wait to get older before gnashing his teeth (a few of which had come suspiciously loose, recently.)
They’d laughed when he told them, very clearly, that crowds were bothersome, stepping up in front of the wounded bird, a motley little creature with a broken wing, who probably didn’t appreciate the pebbles being tossed at it.
The group of older-boys (but Hibari didn’t really take in that they were older; just nosier) had chuckled at him (which he registered as becoming louder; boo… how annoying…) and mentioned that playground heroes were stupid, and that he didn’t have any weapons, anyway. Not even his hands looked like weapons, too small.
Oh well. …Then I’ll just bite you to death.
It had taken about five minutes. Five minutes of biting into the loudest boy’s arm, which might have also been the biggest boy (who knew, who cared?) before they’d retreated, bunch of herbivoves, one blubbering over a little bit of blood.
Hibari’s mouth had a metallic tang to it as he knelt, staring at the bird curiously, moving his tongue to wiggle at his now-looser tooth. It was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t quite paying attention.
The bird, freed of its bullying, stared back.
And then, deep in its throat, it made a furrowing sound. Wao.
Hibari blinked. “Wao…?” Hm. Taking a breath, he repeated, more clearly, “Wao.”
Well.
He could grow up later. For now, this was more interesting.
Nessun Buon Figlio
For now, this was more interesting. Way more interesting than the picnic spread, or the butterflies, or the bark of a nearby dog.
The child gurgled, plump fingers gripping at the chain with curious gusto.
Voices flew over his head, but their unimportant, friendly words went ignored. Nothing was as alluring to Tsuna right now as the manner in which the toy glinted prettily, cold silver seeming to emanate sunshine itself, tickling his skin with heat.
Not even when mother shooed him kindly did he loosen his grip, wide, tawny eyes like-his-father’s drawn to the glow of his new playmate.
“Tsu-kun seems to like it.”
And be it because he’d just learned he could slip a finger, two even, through the sweet little ring, or rather because he recognized his name, ‘Tsu-kun’, the boy gave a proud, bashful giggle, smiling a gummy smile.
“Ah, and look. It fits his hand.” The old man shifted, and Tsu-kun bristled, seeming to have forgotten that the comfortable seat of his lap was so mobile. A soft blink from the infant cued the old man to lean down, asking the boy intimately, words just as warm as the ring Tsuna had waggled his clutching fingers through, “How about it, boy…?”
“…Do you want to be the next owner of that ring, Tsuna?”
To the sound of a good-natured laugh, Tsu-kun began to wail.
Vongola the Ninth’s mustache tickled his baby’s skin too close to his ear, prickling awkwardly as he spoke. The needling sensation had the boy’s attention jerking away from his shiny plaything, and onto his new discomfort.
Chain falling away from fidgeting hands, Tsuna pulling too hard to try to escape the ring, his fingers stuck, and that was painful too, so his free hand went to claw the air for Maman. To the scent of sunshine and picnics and Italian cologne, his nose sniffled, wet, whimpering sounds blubbering forth from his throat.
“It seems that the answer is no.”
It would be a long time before he slipped his finger through the shiny again, though perhaps in the future, he’d handle it even less maturely. For now…
Maman clucked her tongue and tried to rock him.
“Oh, Tsu-kun, it’s a good thing we brought along the butter, or else your hand would be stuck like that.”
Tears streaked his face.
Il Ragazzo Di Musica
Tears streaked his face.
Knees drawn to his chest, tie long since loosened and disgruntled across his collar, light hair tickling his knees in a gesture of small comfort. He’d been sitting diligently on the long, lacquered black bench for hours now, backside having gone numb, nails leaving half-moons in his calves from clutching.
The room was distressingly silent. It was only his sniffling, and that was a shameful music, or so Madre had told him. ‘Big boys should not cry’, she’d scolded.
But Hayato was not a big boy yet, and Madre was not his Kaa-san.
Not a big boy, but he’d become bigger today. Happy birthday, but no one came. No brightly coloured box. Sometimes, he remembered the pretty boxes more clearly than he did her face. Blue paper and pink ribbon. But no box this year, never-ever again. Why not?
He could remember sitting in her lap, remember the dresses she wore. They were starchy, and they billowed, flowing with ruffles, like her hair fell too, both curling delicately. Like a doll, as he’d seen Bianchi-sorella’s dolls, all in lovely dresses, and Madre was just like that…
Only but, he was warned not to call her Madre anymore. She told him that lightly, while she placed his hands on the keys and pressed down, making a sweet sound, almost as clear and soothing as her voice. ‘You mustn’t say that anymore. You’ll upset the lady of the house, Hayato.’ ‘But Madre--’ ‘Kaa-san. It means just the same as Madre. It’s Japanese, sweet one.’
And it will be our secret.
He’d practiced pronouncing it.
Kaa-san… Kaa-san… Kaa-san…
She smiled when he played, laughed at his own excitement over his natural skill, was proud herself as she brushed back his pesky hair and clipped it away, promising-‘If you play very often Hayato, I will be playing too, and it will be as if we were playing together, just like right now.’
That had enticed him most of all, and if he played the music very well, his memory might become sharper, for a song. He’d practiced, playing and pronouncing, and trying to recall.
Maybe she’d had a hard time remembering his face, too?
Had she forgotten? Kaa-san, you forgot…?
She’d promised they’d be together, every time he grew bigger.
She’d promised to buy him a present.
I Due Principi
She’d promised to buy him a present.
Best present in the entire whole wide world, best-best, because he was the best, he was Prince, and nothing was better than Princes, who deserved the very best.
Little Prince, he’d read in storybooks all about his breed. Regal-regal, Petty-Pretty-Princes, frogs and warriors and sons-of-heaven with hands-of-hell. Of Princes in fairy tales and history and his own head, aren’ttheyallthesamething, ushishi~?, Princes write history, because facts don’t matter when you’re royal, we can make our own, and you have-to have-to believe us, or we’ll claw into your villages with the power of earth and God and our blood. Princes, who wielded gross amounts of power, who invaded borders because silly lines on a map don’t matter toaPrince, whose displeasure made heads roll, who kidnapped pretty girls on horseback, and who demanded tribute to curb their violence.
He and his brother were given tribute, same as any Prince. Expensive things that they challenged one another to break, sitting behind the hedges, covered in mud, beating tiny fists into the faces of dolls, scratching tattered nails against leathery playing-balls, gnashing their teeth against the fabrics of new shirts. Ushishi~ tastes like silk and feels like dirt, and shines on, because Princesalwaysshine.
When they spoke to one another about how they’d stuck a needle in the maid’s cushion, they imagined her dyingdyingdead, because their porridge had been cold yesterday, and they didn’t like their porridge anyway, but serving something notgoodenough for a Prince was a bad-bad crime, and in their minds, they tossed her body into the murky-lake and she was never heard from again. The porridge was cold, you should be punished~
Drowning in one-hundred thousand ideas, so she drowned there, many people drowningdead in their minds, because I am a Prince, and I demand tribute and battle, and I will make all of my subjects unhappy, ushishi fun game, taxes and scandal and no one wins but us. Everyone gets to play my subject, our subjects, less-than-Princes, make them sweat and bow, because Princes are negligent with their dolls, and greedy with them, and I want it it’s MINE, come amuse me, off with her head if not. A Prince’s favourite game is when they drowned, or paid tribute.
She’d promised him the best-best present in the whole-wide-world, and it was a present fit for a Prince.
He’d heard whispers though, because everyone whispered in this little boy’s mind, no-one mattered enough for volume, so they whispered in their doll voices that his brother had received a gift fit-for-a-King.
Older bother, one-day King, fake-Prince. Echo of Princes, fake-fake-fake, not a real Prince. A to-be-King, which wasn’t a Prince, and wasn’t a King, and wasn’t anything at all.
Boring.
His eyes stayed rooted to the curve of the jeweled dagger in its bed of tissue paper, his fit-for-a-Prince gift, and he thought that he would be very-very kind to his brother, because he was a good and fair and just Prince sometimes, so he would lodge it very-very deep into his heart one day, fit-for-a-Prince, deep down in brother future-King’s heart, and he could be a Prince forever, a fairy tale, a fact that could change as he pleased, based on whatever game they were playing.
Just like the violence in his head. Bury him in the river. Bury him in a book. Bury him in history, as a Prince, before he buries you, as a King~
Ushishi~
Playing Princes forever.
What a fun game.
Il Buon Figlio
What a fun game!
Takeshi’s legs dangled from the chair, rocking energetically against the air. The tips of his toes almost reached the floor now, long-legs for a young-boy, and they were great for basketball, but just as good for running. Just as good for becoming baseball-legs.
Dirt spots and juicy smears of green-grass stained the whites of his uniform pants, and he quietly lamented that he would have to enter the tub soon. He liked smelling like this, the scent of sweat and glove leather and the outdoors.
Because it was such a good game today, because he’d hit the winning home run (CRACK, the sound of the bat against the ball, and it just flew on, into forever, and he ran in time with its flight, and it felt just like flying too, haha), Dad had said he could eat before his bath, much to the delight of his gurgling stomach. His favourites, too, sweet egg rolled up in sticky rice and strawberry milk, and it was a good day, and baseball was a good game.
Takeshi didn’t think he was a very creative kid. He liked running, and he liked Dad’s sushi, and he liked smelling bad, ha-ha-ha, liked laughing too, and that was all pretty normal, wasn’t it?
But he liked most of all when Dad smiled like he was smiling right now, when he pressed a plate in front of him an told him to eat up. Takeshi’s old man-- who didn’t have a single gray hair on his head, but he seemed very… tall, and they called it ‘growing up’, so old people must be tall, right? (Haha, maybe he wasn’t a very bright kid, either.) Anyway, Takeshi’s old man, who’d put his hands over his son’s, and showed him how to swing a bat, how to go through the motion, how to hit the ball, Takeshi’s old man when he smiled like that.
Takeshi was a pretty normal, good, lively kid. He followed rules and grinned a lot, was popular with the kids his age because he hit balls and dived into mud better than anyone, was popular with adults because he held doors and carried tea trays, was popular in general, because he was always smiling, and people smiled back.
But he knew, when his dad smiled at him like that, that the old man was smiling not because Takeshi was a good kid, but because Takeshi was just his kid. His uncreative, not-so-bright kid, who reeked and grinned about nothing.
When he hit that home run, everyone was happy, because they liked baseball, and victory.
It would be the best though, he thought, if one day he found people who hated baseball, and who smiled when he hit a home run anyway, because they liked Takeshi.
Although…
Maybe he really was just unintelligent, but…
Finding someone out there who didn’t like baseball?
Haha. Impossible!
It was the best.
Uomo Dispari
It was the best.
The absolute best shade he’d ever seen. The bottle called the colour ‘Harlequin’. Somewhere between Yellow and Hunter, and that sent a thrill down his spine, shivering over his body, made his eyes widen, and gave him nerve. Ohh~ A little sunshine for the morning, and a little executioner before lights out, and put them together in a bottle, and you got Harlequin Green, which was the hair colour he was absolutely born for, if not with.
Once he had his new hair, the dye having left the strands brittle and smelling of peroxide, he had other plans, other fantasies to fulfill, so he could embrace a colour so diverse and bright. Harlequin, Harlequin…
Daydreams of breaking into Mother’s makeup drawer would soon be a satisfying reality. Smearing the liquids and sticks of colour across his face, to complement and accentuate the greatness of his new head. He’d play in the playground that had always been off limits, dipping his fingers in and cracking open tops. He’d blend the reds across his cheeks, and use glitter on his eyelids, and he wouldn’t regret a single thing, since Mother didn’t ever use her makeup to its full potential, the potential he saw in those glossy cases.
If that woman had green hair, hers would be Myrtle. Between Mould-green and Office-green, age marks and slog.
But Lussuria was undoubtedly fabulous, even if his roots were buried in dirt. Light-blond dirt, if he were talking about hair roots. He just had to take the final step. Intimidating… thrilling final step. Curiosity burned his bones, and lashed at panic. Do it.
Hands twitched, sweaty palms, gripping at the slim bottle of dye. A stolen five dollars to purchase it, and it rested with the weight of the future against his skin. Sighingly. He felt sick with nerves. But, couldn’t turn back now…
He popped the cap, and reassured himself, staring back at a reflection of a thin face and wavy blond hair, a little-boy-face even if he thought he’d always had much more maturity to him, barely making it over the sink, his age hardly greater than his number of fingertips, at least, he assured himself, tonight, when he sat down in the livingroom floor with his nose close to the glass of the television, watching the news play over the fuzzy grains of bad reception, with Harlequin hair and make-up to match…
At least for one night of his life, Father would have something better to wonder about than why his face took on an alien, crawling smile as he watched the body bags inch across the screen, imagining, imagining and hoping to catch a glimpse.
Death was such a grand concept, so much bigger than him and everyone. Death must be the most wonderful make-up of all. He was sure he’d have a crush on something so beautiful and delicate as a body perfectly preserved in the troughs of death.
So he wanted to look his best tonight, for those body bags, his puppy crush.
Biting his lip, he squeezed.
Haha, I hope this isn’t too much writing spam for everyone, and that someone got enjoyment out of it. &hearts :D
Will check up on the FList later, guys. o/