Katekyo Hitman Reborn! Fan Fiction ❯ Trust. ❯ One-Shot

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ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER : I do not own Katekyou HITMAN REBORN!

Universe Title : Broken.
Story Title : Love Is…
Chapter Title : Trust (1/1).
Chapter Rating : R15+.
Main Character(s) : Dino, Superbi Squalo.
Genre(s) : Angst.
Summary : Thirty different ways to love.
Warning(s) : M/M, Swearing, Violence (Mild).
Word Count : +/- 1394.
Author's Note(s) : A series of drabbles and oneshots depicting thirty kinds of love. Written for Dino's birthday (2012/2/4).

Love Is…
Trust.

The thing is, the thing is, it's all a lie.

Like the royal blue, silk tie hanging loose around your neck - which he got you three years ago - still as resplendent as the one on display in a random window you both passed once, knotted around the collar of a suit so much like the many you own.

It's a lie like the pale green sweater in your closet - the one with the faded brown stain across the chest from when he spilled macchiato freddo on you - which, for reasons you don't like admitting, you can't find the heart to throw away. It wasn't even his drink - he hates coffee with the same passion he hates losing a battle - it was meant to be yours.

It's incalculable, meticulously spun webs of deceit, disguised like the autographed copy of Chi no Hate made - dogeared and yellowed - sitting amongst numerous other rare books you claimed to like, all procured from the same old bookstore in Japan. It's the miniature ceramic bulldog - the one from a silly little trinket store you were both forced to seek shelter in during an unexpectedly violent downpour - keeping your tomes company on the topmost shelf, or the little globe on your desk which bears no real function beyond that of a terribly trite paperweight.

It's the ridiculously extravagant fountain pen between your fingers, inditing your signature furiously upon documents your eyes have glazed over from perusing, the equally exorbitant watch which hangs heavy like guilt upon your wrist, the crystal goblet from which you sip the finely aged wine he offered.

You detest all of them - lies, all distasteful mendacity dragged nearly effortlessly (excruciatingly) from your throat - the way you detest the sight of his pale mouth shaping around the question he unfailingly asks you around this time every year, the way you loath how easily (how frequently) Xanxus's name falls from his lips.

"What do you want?"

You often wonder how those lips taste, what they would feel like wrapped around your cock. Touch me.

"What do you want?"

--

The thing is, the thing is, you really despise having to lie to him.

You thoroughly abhor the manner in which you so often deceive him, resent how he never sees through your duplicity (does he not know you?), hate how he never offers the one thing you truly desire.

So this year, you decide to go with the truth.

You're not quite sure why you're telling him now. Fuck, you're not quite sure why you're telling him at all. It just... slips out, like the uncountable falsehoods you've paved before him over time, like a questionable trail of breadcrumbs. There's not a saint in this world whose patience rivals yours.

You raise the goblet to your lips, take a sip (it really is good wine), set it back down atop your expensive, mahogany desk. You lean back in your armchair, fingers folding themselves neatly over the front of your suit - over that tie (that lie?) - and make sure your gaze doesn't waver from his alluring, silver-grey irises. "You, Squalo. I want you."

He very nearly falls off his chair laughing. His guffaw is gratingly raucous, his eyes are lit with unconstrained amusement. He obviously thinks you're joking, just like you knew he would. "What the fuck kind of cheesy ass answer is that?!"

"Cheesy," you reply matter-of-factly, still holding his gaze (don't you dare break now, you coward), "doesn't make it any less true."

Confusion paints itself like red lightning across his angular face. It feels like a knife twisting - slowly, cruelly - in your gut.

And you don't know what it is. Maybe it's the alcohol coursing through your veins. Maybe it's the way he's running a wet finger along the rim of his glass - a habit he formed in junior high - producing the most godawful noises which, in no existing realm, could possibly pass for music. Maybe it's years upon years of gnawing frustration, mountains of fruitless attempts to make him see.

Whatever it is has you out of your chair and rounding your desk, pulling him out of his seat and slamming him against the wall. And then it's your mouth against his - all rough lips and rough breath and feelmefeelmefeelme.

Squalo doesn't kiss back. His fingers rapidly find the front of your white, cotton shirt, palms flattening against your chest, shoving you off his person. "Voooii!!! What the fuck, Dino?!?"

You've opened the floodgates. May as well fucking drown. "I love you." Hear me.

He looks startled and wildly bewildered all at once. His eyes are like freshly sharpened scalpels carving themselves into your shuddering soul. His lips are bruised and moist, sanguine like the blood rushing to his cheeks in what you guess is embarrassment or anger. Maybe both. It makes you want to kiss him again.

He looks flustered, uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fumbling for the right words. "I know - "

You shake your head, cutting him off. He still doesn't get it. He never has. "No." You step closer, watch him nearly back into the wall like some cornered animal, like he doesn't trust you.

The knife penetrates deeper.

Deep breath. Just one. It hurts like a motherfucker. "I love you... the way you love Xanxus."

You didn't think his eyes could get any wider. They do.

And you Hate Hate Hate the silence that follows. It's oppressive - bearing down upon you like the heavens on Atlas's shoulders, crushing you like the boulder of Sissyphus, smothering like this thick heat which should have no place in a winter so cold.

So you break it with your mouth parting his again, your tongue intruding into his wet cavern, your teeth clamping down upon his lower lip. Taste me.

He lets you kiss him until you've run out of breath, until you try to steal the air from his lungs to fill your own. His body goes entirely still under your touch, yours burns with an agony you never believed could get any worse (it always does).

So you pull away, noticing the way his eyes have gone soft at the corners.

He looks worried. He looks like he understands. "I'm sorry."

It makes you hate him, feels like a jagged rock to your fucking face. You don't need his fucking pity.

"You know I don't - "

Don't say it. Maybe you're not in control of your emotions anymore. Maybe you've gone insane. Maybe you don't give a fuck.

Maybe isn't good enough.

Your right arm snaps forward, fist expertly finding his jaw - not hard enough to break it; enough to split his lip, to leave a bruise you know's gonna last for days. "Does this make it better, trash?"

See me.

Squalo's head snaps sideways from the force of your blow, his hand reflexively goes up to hold his wounded face, his injured pride. "Fuck!!!"

You like the way his blood falls in thick drops down his chin, the way it comes off on his glove.

"What the fucking fuck, Dino?!?"

"Is that how he hits you?" Your blood's gone cold beneath your skin, his has drained the color from his face. You know the question's caught him off guard, and these stolen seconds are all you need. In the space of a heartbeat, you've got him pinned against the wall, hands on either side of his head, fencing him in. "You can pretend I'm Xanxus."

His breaths are coming out hard and fast, shoulders tensed like he's readying himself to bolt. You prepare yourself for the oncoming attack - he's unarmed, but no less dangerous. Take away a lion's claws and he still has his teeth. "That way," you intone (why the fuck does it sound so much like a fucking plea?), moving your face closer to his - close enough for him to spit at you, to bite you, headbutt you, "we both get what we want."

Squalo stares at you for the longest moment (who knew a moment could feel like a day, a year, a century?) - the emotions warring on his visage indefinite enough to fill the vastest oceans, the deepest depths of Hell.

And then, he closes his eyes.

~ The End. ~