Caring is Creepy; KHR
This sucks, and rips a line out of a shameful Shamal/Gokudera fill from the kinkmeme that is no longer anon oh god, but I just miss the pairing too much. Why don't I have a HibaGoku icon anyway?
Title: Caring is Creepy
Pairing: Hibari/Gokudera, a little Yamamoto/Gokudera.
Genre: Sort of angst, sort of fluff. Character introspection for Hibari.
Summary: Hibari, and coping with fear.
CARING IS CREEPY
There aren’t many things Hibari Kyouya is frightened of. Sometimes, the hollow cavity in his chest would surge in passion and emotion, and he‘d spread slender lifeless fingers across the skin, pushing it against his bones and making certain nothing would burst from his pores, nothing would come undone and into the light; and there aren’t many things Hibari Kyouya can be harmed by, either.
He blames Italy for this. He blames young brunette mothers and their greying husbands, blames the opera, the symphony, the wine and the beauty. After seven years of living in the Vongola family, he’s never once stepped foot inside the homeland of their heritage. Japan is enough for him, a simpler world, softer at the edges and say what you will about the yakuza, but Hibari bets in Namimori he won’t leave a lunch meeting in town with thirteen bullets lodged in his bones, rolling sickly inside the car trunk, staining the leather a permanent curse, a sickening memoir.
They find Gokudera’s father nestled in the trunk of a Mercedes, deep in the water, sticky with red and stiff with the cold of the sea, the cold of his drained veins and full lungs. They’re sent a removed bullet in the mail, initialled: H.L. Hibari doesn’t get it at first, until Tsuna begins pleading with Gokudera to keep quiet and cautious and Bianchi and Yamamoto start making a habit out of arguing in the kitchen after hours. Gokudera walks around pale faced and fuming, but for his Tenth’s sake he doesn’t once leave the base and Hibari doesn’t feel like declaring him weak for it at all.
Bianchi marches them all into Italy for the funeral and there are three days beforehand when she refuses to stop pestering her brother to join them - they argue into dawn, shrieking and hissing in a language that makes Hibari’s skin crawl. Bianchi mourns into his arms the day they all depart and he sits quietly holding her for as long as it takes, trembling hands in her hair, white faced from nausea and surprise.
It’s just the two of them left inside the base. There weren’t many other eventful goodbyes - Hibari was under whelmed by Yamamoto, pulling a reluctant Gokudera against him and breathing him in, quietly murmuring, “I can stay, too. I can stay if you want, don't worry.” Hibari stilled and Gokudera shook his head, hesitant enough that it didn't count, that nobody was convinced.
Hibari calms the irrepressible, inexplicable annoyance that twinges in his stomach after looking down into Gokudera’s face, close enough to see light freckles from his summer, close enough to the see conflicting and agonizing sorrow painted over his face. Gokudera shakes his head over and over, shaking a little, his thin arms crossed. “This fucking sucks,” he snarls, luckily the only Italian phrase Hibari’s picked up over the years.
There isn’t much Hibari can say to him, so he does away with words - holds Gokudera’s face firm, a little sore, and kisses dry lips briefly, like it’s much of anything, like it won’t just confuse and torment them both further. In that moment, Hibari is terrified, a feeling caught in the web, stuck in a hollow chest to discard of later. When his breath labours against Gokudera’s cheek, they both ignore it. Gokudera’s fingers have new grace while they pluck at buttons, and Hibari thinks about one of the more memorable arguments he and his sister shared. You aren’t built to be a soldier, she said, a little hysterical, eyebrows drawn together in a look of utter desperation and dainty hands clutching Gokudera’s long, slender, round-tipped ones. You aren’t built to be a soldier, Hayato, these hands were made for piano and wine.
Hibari seen a photograph of his mother once; it’s moments like this, with a hand bracing his delicate cheek and his eyes shut, soft, looking calm and at peace that the similarity is a little frightening, a little baffling. Something about Gokudera makes Hibari feel dreadfully sick and dreadfully content at the same time - he leans closer, lower, presses their skin together and exhales, slow, savouring, and if his body is shaking, the dusty heart in his chest is beating wildly, he doesn’t even notice at all.
-
AND HIS HEART GREW THREE SIZES THAT DAY.
Title: Caring is Creepy
Pairing: Hibari/Gokudera, a little Yamamoto/Gokudera.
Genre: Sort of angst, sort of fluff. Character introspection for Hibari.
Summary: Hibari, and coping with fear.
CARING IS CREEPY
There aren’t many things Hibari Kyouya is frightened of. Sometimes, the hollow cavity in his chest would surge in passion and emotion, and he‘d spread slender lifeless fingers across the skin, pushing it against his bones and making certain nothing would burst from his pores, nothing would come undone and into the light; and there aren’t many things Hibari Kyouya can be harmed by, either.
He blames Italy for this. He blames young brunette mothers and their greying husbands, blames the opera, the symphony, the wine and the beauty. After seven years of living in the Vongola family, he’s never once stepped foot inside the homeland of their heritage. Japan is enough for him, a simpler world, softer at the edges and say what you will about the yakuza, but Hibari bets in Namimori he won’t leave a lunch meeting in town with thirteen bullets lodged in his bones, rolling sickly inside the car trunk, staining the leather a permanent curse, a sickening memoir.
They find Gokudera’s father nestled in the trunk of a Mercedes, deep in the water, sticky with red and stiff with the cold of the sea, the cold of his drained veins and full lungs. They’re sent a removed bullet in the mail, initialled: H.L. Hibari doesn’t get it at first, until Tsuna begins pleading with Gokudera to keep quiet and cautious and Bianchi and Yamamoto start making a habit out of arguing in the kitchen after hours. Gokudera walks around pale faced and fuming, but for his Tenth’s sake he doesn’t once leave the base and Hibari doesn’t feel like declaring him weak for it at all.
Bianchi marches them all into Italy for the funeral and there are three days beforehand when she refuses to stop pestering her brother to join them - they argue into dawn, shrieking and hissing in a language that makes Hibari’s skin crawl. Bianchi mourns into his arms the day they all depart and he sits quietly holding her for as long as it takes, trembling hands in her hair, white faced from nausea and surprise.
It’s just the two of them left inside the base. There weren’t many other eventful goodbyes - Hibari was under whelmed by Yamamoto, pulling a reluctant Gokudera against him and breathing him in, quietly murmuring, “I can stay, too. I can stay if you want, don't worry.” Hibari stilled and Gokudera shook his head, hesitant enough that it didn't count, that nobody was convinced.
Hibari calms the irrepressible, inexplicable annoyance that twinges in his stomach after looking down into Gokudera’s face, close enough to see light freckles from his summer, close enough to the see conflicting and agonizing sorrow painted over his face. Gokudera shakes his head over and over, shaking a little, his thin arms crossed. “This fucking sucks,” he snarls, luckily the only Italian phrase Hibari’s picked up over the years.
There isn’t much Hibari can say to him, so he does away with words - holds Gokudera’s face firm, a little sore, and kisses dry lips briefly, like it’s much of anything, like it won’t just confuse and torment them both further. In that moment, Hibari is terrified, a feeling caught in the web, stuck in a hollow chest to discard of later. When his breath labours against Gokudera’s cheek, they both ignore it. Gokudera’s fingers have new grace while they pluck at buttons, and Hibari thinks about one of the more memorable arguments he and his sister shared. You aren’t built to be a soldier, she said, a little hysterical, eyebrows drawn together in a look of utter desperation and dainty hands clutching Gokudera’s long, slender, round-tipped ones. You aren’t built to be a soldier, Hayato, these hands were made for piano and wine.
Hibari seen a photograph of his mother once; it’s moments like this, with a hand bracing his delicate cheek and his eyes shut, soft, looking calm and at peace that the similarity is a little frightening, a little baffling. Something about Gokudera makes Hibari feel dreadfully sick and dreadfully content at the same time - he leans closer, lower, presses their skin together and exhales, slow, savouring, and if his body is shaking, the dusty heart in his chest is beating wildly, he doesn’t even notice at all.
-
AND HIS HEART GREW THREE SIZES THAT DAY.