Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Ipod Challenge II. ❯ One-Shot

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

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All situations depicted in the following fanfiction, unless otherwise stated, have no bearing on the creators' original works, and are solely the creation of the author based on personal interpretation of the mentioned works or are parodies exempted from copyright laws. It is the responsibility of the reader to observe all warnings before proceeding to the fiction works in this journal, as they may contain any number of situations, themes, ideas, views, or lifestyles not suitable for those under the age of 18 or which may be contrary or offensive to the beliefs of some. In the event that the following is the author's original work, or contains an original character, the author holds the copyright and should be contacted before either is used or distributed in any way.


ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER : I do not own Katekyou HITMAN REBORN!




Universe Title : N/A.
Story Title : Ipod Challenge II (1/1).
Chapter Title : (N/A).
Chapter Rating : G - R15+.
Main Character(s) : Hibari Kyouya, Rokudou Mukuro, Lal Mirch, Sawada Tsunayoshi, Sasagawa Kyouko, Superbi Squalo, Xanxus, Belphegor, Yamamoto Takeshi, Dino, Chrome Dokuro, Flan, I-Pin.
Genre(s) : Angst, Deathfic, Drama, Gen, Romance, Smut.
Summary : Ten drabbles for ten songs.
Warning(s) : M/F, M/M, Character death, Sex (Non-explicit), Suicide, Swearing, Violence (Mild).
Word Count : +/- 3610.
Author's Note(s) : Decided to go with drabbles instead of one-sentence fics this time, unlike my first two.



I. GARASU no Kao. G

Hibari Kyouya always looks the same - hard, dispassionate, and irritatingly cool. Age does nothing to him, even if it has and should. He's changed, perhaps - ever so slightly - and yet remains inherently the same.

It's almost as if he's perfect - an entirely smooth surface which expertly conceals his sharp edges and even sharper bite, coupled with a strange sort of metallic finesse.

But Rokudou Mukuro knows Hibari isn't flawless.

His frown is the fingerprints that smudge his once before impeccable surface. His glare - the one which fuels his slate grey eyes with a deadly fierce intensity - is the crack that runs fine and long, marring what ought to be infallible. The downward turn of his mouth - and the trail of blood that trickles from its corners - are the stain which never goes away.

And like a mischievously gleeful child armed with a catapult and a pocketful of rocks against a window, Mukuro is going to enjoy breaking him.



II. Maybe Someday. G

It's stupid to cry, even if she should.

Lal Mirch stands - unsheltered - beneath the raging storm, wet clothes clinging to her frame and carrying a paralyzing chill into her bones.

She misses him and utterly hates herself for it. She misses his ebullient, engaging smile - the one that could light rooms and warm her heart. She misses his reckless courage and his tireless enthusiasm and his infuriating, merciless teasing which never ceased to drive her completely mad.

Lal bites down hard on her bottom lip, fingers clenching painfully around the pale blue pacifier in her hand. She hates herself for failing to protect him, for not training him hard enough to protect himself.
She's a failure at everything, really. As his superior. As his comrade. As his tutor.

But it's stupid to cry, just as it's stupid to miss him.

So she tilts her head back and laughs instead, because she knows that someday she'll see him again. And when she does, she'll greet him with a wide smile before enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug, and she'll boss him around exactly like she used to. And then, she'll kick the crap out of him just because.

Lal laughs until her heart aches something awful and her knees give out, because suddenly it's a chore to stand and an utter burden to breathe. But she doesn't cry - that's just the rain painting tracks along her cheeks - and she most certainly does not miss him.

The stupid bastard never even said goodbye.



III. Must Have Done Something Right. G

Sometimes, Tsuna thinks that Kyouko should hate him.

It's not easy being the Vongola Boss; he is loved as he is hated, revered as he is feared. Tsuna understands, better than anyone, what profound loss feels like - he's lost too many comrades already, to war and betrayal, to madness and fear. It's not that he enjoys killing - in truth, he downright detests it - but someone's got to do it and if he doesn't act quickly enough, his enemies will. And damn if he'd let any more harm come to his Family.

Tsuna will stop at nothing to protect them, even if it means staining his Guardians' hands - and his - in blood.

But it hurts, too. Every decision made, every mission appointed, every alliance formed or broken is a sure-fire way of putting the people he cares most about at risk.

Kyouko should hate him for what he does; for sending their friends - Yamamoto, Gokudera-kun, Chrome, even Lambo and I-Pin (always children in his eyes no matter how much they've grown) - to what could very well be certain death. She should hate him for risking her beloved brother's life, and for making him take the lives of others.

Only she doesn't, because she's always there. She's the balm that assuages his tormenting guilt, the undying support to his sense of duty, and the quiet resilience behind his strength. She is the silent worry, the reassuring prayer, the encouraging smile, and the placating laughter.

And when she looks at him - vibrant amber eyes filled with concern or pride or joy, but never disgust - even when he can't look at himself in the mirror; when she remains by his side even when he never once asked her to stay, Tsuna thinks that maybe - maybe - he isn't such a monster, after all.



IV. You Got Me. PG12

It very nearly knocks him off his already unsteady feet - the violent coughing fit that makes his entire body convulse in pain. He reflexively presses his left hand to his mouth - cold metal against feverish flesh - in a fruitless attempt at halting the flow of spit and blood and vomit from escaping his lips. His right hand is held against his abdomen - applying pressure to the deep gash that's just below his ribcage.

Squalo staggers along; footsteps draggy and heavy against the uneven forest floor. His gaze - usually so sharp and perceptive, now bleary and unfocused from the dizzying pain and tears - travels over the rapidly darkening patch on his uniform. He can feel the slick, sticky fluid steadily soaking his palm. The white gold band around his ring finger is now dyed red - its very hue makes his insides lurch and his head spin in a way that's just so, so wrong.

The sight of his own blood doesn't excite him - he isn't Belphegor - it only makes him madder. The blade that sliced his flesh - sharp, biting, tearing - had been poisoned, he realizes belatedly. He can feel its burn gradually creeping through his body and setting his every nerve and fiber ablaze. It's not even the good kind of flame, the one he likes. This one is mordant and choking and vile, like its trying to kill him in the most excruciating way possible.

He can feel the bile lodge itself in the back of his throat, gagging him. He can taste the copper that's pooling beneath his tongue. Squalo gasps harshly - desperately - but no matter how hard he tries, he can't drag the air into his lungs. Everything before him is swirling and coagulating into a stomach-churning mess of distorted shape and color. The only thing he hears is a headachy mishmash of undistinctive sound - like a relentlessly throbbing backbeat pounding against the base of his skull and making the backs of his eyes hurt.

He shouldn't be moving around this much, but the stubborn pride in him refuses to let him give up. His entire body hurts - it's like having his flesh melted off and a scorching blade scraped against his bones. And then, he stumbles - feet catching against an invisible obstacle - and Squalo finds himself hurtling facefirst towards the ground. It's much like the time Flan decided to trip him up with his illusionary cords out of sheer boredom; only this is way beyond embarrassing and a million times more painful.

Squalo collides severely against grass and stone and earth; the pale skin of his cheek tearing upon impact, instantly drawing blood. He lies there - breaths coming out strained and ragged - in a heap of limbs and too-long silver hair, inhaling dirt while crimson liquid pours from his frame and seeps into the soil. His body brutally spasms - teeth grinding hard against the utter hurt of it all - and he almost laughs at the pathetic state he's in. He's always known he'd die in battle, but he'd always imagined something a lot more grandiose. Something that most certainly did not involve stumbling around like a drunken idiot while choking on his own vomit before collapsing in the middle of butt-fucking nowhere.

And then, he feels himself being turned over and pulled, upper body lifting a little ways off the ground. The motions should be agonizing, only they aren't, because his head's suddenly pillowed comfortably in a warm lap. He feels a pair of arms around him - powerful and possessive and familiar - cradling his fragile form protectively.

Abruptly, his vision clears, and Squalo finds himself staring into those eyes - red like his blood that doesn't make him want to throw up, smoldering intensely like fire that doesn't make him want to claw at his insides in helplessness.

And even as he feels the life force ebb from his broken body and the light fade from his world, Squalo smiles.

It doesn't hurt anymore.



V. HARUMONIA. PG12

It's the gentle sway of his hands and the deft snap of his wrists to a tune only he can hear.

It's rows upon rows of gleaming silver blades, dancing along sharp, invisible wires.

It's the manic grin which cuts across his face and his quiet, deranged laughter - the thrill that tingles up and down his spine like electric ice - at the sight of his own royal blood.

It's the scent of fear which permeates the air - thick and cloying - and the frozen terror imprinted in his victims' eyes, punctuated by their gasps of pain, their screams for mercy.

It's the deafening whistle of wind in his hair, the violent slam of his hurried footfalls against the ground, beating out a terrifying rhythm when he charges.

It's the euphoric leap in the air, the melody of his blade ripping through warm flesh, its deadly edge crunching sickeningly against bone.

It's the song of which he is composer, the symphony of which he is master, and the world of which he is King.



VI. Seijaku. G

Yamamoto Takeshi stands - broad, solid frame leaning against a sturdy oak pillar, arms crossed casually over the front of his impeccably pressed suit - at the top of the steps that lead to and from the old safe house. His eyes - a deep, rich mocha hue - fix themselves intently upon his lover standing in the lawn a few feet away.

Squalo is pacing aimlessly in the garden, soaked from head to toe. His wild, silver mane hangs heavily from his head, plastering wet tendrils to his face and dripping down the back of his uniform. The swordsman tilts his head upwards, meeting the cold, steady raindrops with his pale countenance. He spreads his arms wide - a gesture that would almost appear innocent, if not for the sword attached to his left hand.

Yamamoto allows his gaze to wander - over the slight, subtle smile which surreptitiously creeps across Squalo's face, to the bony frame encumbered by thoroughly drenched black and beige leather, down to the heavy jackboots speckled with grass and mud - and permits himself a knowing, tiny smile of his own. He straightens and leaves his shelter, wooden steps creaking beneath his weight, heading towards his lover in the downpour.

Squalo remains standing with his arms outstretched, head cocking ever so slightly in Yamamoto's direction; a wide, feral grin spreading across his visage in a fashion not unlike his namesake. His eyes are a gleaming, manic platinum - piercing and intense and utterly gleeful - which seem to say, I like the rain.

Yamamoto slips his hands into his pockets, offering his significant other an understanding smile in return. I know.



VII. Born To Be My Baby. R15+

Dino likes it best when he's fully sheathed inside Squalo; madly pulsating length encompassed within tight, velvet heat.

It's in that moment that he goes completely still; earth brown eyes boring deep into Squalo's own, reading every shred of emotion contained within those flinty, charcoal depths. Dino remains motionless - not because he or his lover need time to get used to the sensation (they've done this often enough already) - simply because he wants to indulge and just feel.

It's that instant - when he feels Squalo wrapping tightly, desperately, around him, and the lazy, rolling heat which coils in the base of his gut before it builds and builds, threatening to engulf him in a heady, whirling inferno. It's the feel of sweat that drips off his nose and pours off his back, the look Squalo's giving him - eyes clouded with barely contained lust and raging desire - raw and earnest and oh-so-there.

Dino loves that moment best, when he reaches for Squalo's hand - the real one - and raises it, clasping those sword-calloused fingers over his rhythmically beating heart. He doesn't move an inch; merely fills his expressive lover and breathes. Nothing escapes him - the attractive splay of white hair spilling all over the bed, the way Squalo's eyes slide halfway shut in pleasure, the part of his mouth from which spill quiet pants and lascivious moans, the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows in anticipation, the rise and fall of his pale chest, deep breaths falling in sync with Dino's own. He takes it all in, riding on the wave of unremitting bliss that hurriedly overwhelms his senses.

I love you, Dino almost but doesn't quite say - Squalo never seems to know how to react when he does - because there really isn't any need to. His piercing stare never leaves his lover, and his fingers gently entwine with Squalo's own; still possessively held against his chest.

And finally - finally - the moment (or is it really several?) ends, and Dino's moving. Moving inside pulsing, aching heat, fire twining itself through his every vein. The heat builds, slow and steady but it's there - hungry and consuming and enclosing around them both. Dino gives in and loses himself completely - just feels every bit of Squalo clinging to him, pulling him deeper, deeper...

He doesn't say I love you. The rapid drumming of his heart says more than enough.



VIII. Yokan. R15+

He would like to think it's a dream, only he's wide awake when it happens.

Hibari Kyouya finds himself staring into a pair of mismatched eyes - right, a portentous crimson, left, a deep, engaging violet. A mischievous, bone-chilling smirk curves over a too-thin face, the gleaming point of a trident is pressed precisely against the sharp knob of his Adam's apple. The corners of those pale lips stretch further upward, laughter drips from them like bitter honey - kufufufu - and then the edge of that weapon is pushing, coaxing trickles of blood from his throat.

"Are you alright, Kyou-san?"

Hibari finds himself standing stock-still in the middle of an overcrowded sidewalk, Kusakabe's concerned expression making its way into his gradually refocusing line of vision. Glares are directed at him from all directions - no doubt a result of disapproval at his abrupt halt on a too-busy pathway - but he only glares right back, effectively sending the herbivores scurrying on. His hand finds its way to his throat, fingers rubbing against skin that remains unblemished.

"Kyou-san?"

Hibari drops his hand to his side, schooling his countenance into his regular, dispassionate mien. "Let's go." He continues towards his originally intended destination, brushing away the vision as nothing more than a minor annoyance and ignoring the nagging in the back of his mind that that left eye should have been blue, not violet.

--

It isn't until he's back in his hotel room - back against the soft, cotton sheets of his bed, Chrome's knees at each side of his hips - that he starts contemplating that vision again.

Hibari watches her lower herself; slick heat enveloping his straining erection, fingers curling and digging into his flesh, leaving angry, red streaks in their wake. He runs his hand along her bony ribcage, reaches up to cup the modest curve of her breast, runs the calloused pad of his thumb over a hard, peaked nipple.

The touch makes her gasp and roll her hips, which in turn makes him hiss sharply through gritted teeth, back arching in response. He feels the sudden, inexplicable urge to peel that eyepatch from her skin, finds himself bizarrely drawn towards the empty socket he knows is concealed underneath.

And when he does, he finds a bloody orb - number six boldly emblazoned on it - meeting his gaze instead of a black void. Those warm, moist lips curve into a cheeky, ominous smile and the last thing Hibari sees are a face contorted in triumphant arrogance and a left eye that's violet instead of blue.



IX. Shippuden. PG12

Squalo's the first to find the box, just like he's the first to have found Bel - all frozen grin and a slit throat - in the Prince's chamber.

It's an old, ordinary shoebox - faded gold lettering imprinted upon smooth ebony. There's scuff marks along its side, as if it were hastily kicked under the bed; the lid isn't even properly fitted, as if to tease anyone curious enough about its contents.

Squalo sits himself Indian style upon Bel's bed, uncovering the box and carefully studying the items contained within, one by one.

It's a whole bunch of crap, really. A useless pocketknife - blunt edge and a broken handle. An untitled, pale blue covered notebook. A Varia ring dangling from a length of Mammon chain, instead of being secured with it. Ticket stubs from that godawful play Lussuria made them all watch two years ago, because they apparently didn't have enough culture in their lives. A dark piece of cloth - part of Mammon's hood, Squalo realizes. A very bad sketch of what appears to be Bel perched grandly on a throne that's planted at the peak of a mountain of dead bodies. Never mind being a genius, the kid never could draw to save his life. A receipt for that Anton Diabelli CD he'd purchased six days before he killed himself. A yellowed letter from someone named Sara. Even (bizarrely) a discolored, frog-shaped keychain and (even more bizarre than that) a dried leaf.

Squalo reaches for the notebook - dogeared and with what looks like a coffee stain on its edge - and flips it open, picking out a random page. Slate grey eyes gradually widen upon figuring out Belphegor's familiar chicken scratch. I didn't know the kid kept a diary.

He hurriedly snaps the book shut - feeling strangely like he's intruding into something he really shouldn't - and averts his gaze to the rest of the room. It's too... clean, too organized, and too unlike Bel that it makes him sick. Squalo's eyes roam over the plush carpet, to the intricately carved patterns along the sturdy, rosewood desk, to the full-length mirror in the corner, to the giant walk-in closet, before coming to rest upon that spot on the king-sized bed.

The sheets have long since been changed, but he can still see the blood spilling from Bel's neck and seeping into the mattress. Anger slams itself - hot and violent - against the back of his throat, frustration claws deep within his chest, threatening to pull an anguished scream from his lungs.

Squalo's fists clench - fingernails digging into his knees and knuckles going white - and he finds himself valiantly resisting the urge to throw a tantrum, blinking way too hard against tears that aren't there at all. Fucking moron.

--

"I think," Squalo intones slowly, handing the shoebox to the Varia's newest recruit. "he would have wanted you to have this."

Flan stares up at him blankly, jade eyes flawlessly replicating flat mirrors and countenance eerily devoid of any expression. The boy blinks - once, twice - before finally accepting the gift.

Squalo's not expecting a word of thanks - manners are quite the nonexistent thing amongst the Varia - and he doesn't get one, but it's those eyes and that face that sends annoyance prickling through his veins; that makes his fingers itch to wrap themselves around the young illusionist's throat.

Flan looks dead - dead - and with Mammon and Bel gone, Squalo doesn't think he has the right to look that way.

But he restrains himself from voicing those thoughts - and a million others - out loud; instead turning around and storming off, footfalls echoing thunderously in the hallway. He doesn't look back, but he can feel Flan's eyes on him when he leaves, and he can't help but wonder if the boy would - one day - follow in the footsteps of his predecessors.

Squalo grits his teeth and hopes that he wouldn't be the first to find the boy's corpse if - when - the time comes.



X. Islands In The Stream. G

They always sit a foot apart, somewhere between touch me and don't touch me.

She always walks by his side - never behind him - because weakness is something he vehemently abhors and damn if she's going to submit to anyone, least of all him.

He never holds back when he fights her - she'd be rightfully insulted if he does.

She gives as good as she gets, too - motions the very mark of elegance and grace, but no less forceful. She is not afraid to scar; even when the edge of his tonfa brutally impacts against her cheek, even when his knee accurately lands against her solar plexus. She hits him right back - long leg snapping viciously against the side of his head, fist slamming itself right under his pale jaw - wearing a self-satisfied smile whenever she draws blood from his usually immaculate flesh.

She never asks him to come back safe, not because his profession won't allow him to make that promise, but because restraining a cloud would be a futile task. So she becomes the wind that gently supports him; subtle enough to allow him space, but strong enough that he can't ignore the fact that she's always there.

And he unfailingly returns, because no matter how far a cloud drifts, it always has its place in the sky.