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

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ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER : I do not own Katekyou HITMAN REBORN!

Universe Title : Loss and Gain.
Story Title : Love Is…
Chapter Title : Warmth (1/1).
Chapter Rating : PG12.
Main Character(s) : Hibari Kyouya, Superbi Squalo.
Genre(s) : Angst, Gen.
Summary : Thirty different ways to love.
Warning(s) : M/M, Swearing.
Word Count : +/- 883.
Author's Note(s) : A series of drabbles and oneshots depicting thirty kinds of love.

Love Is...
Warmth.

He likes to stand in the rain, unsheltered.

You like to watch him (though you'll never admit it) from your office window, or the front porch of the Chiavarone Estate, or wherever the fuck you are when he decides to indulge; whimsical creature that he is.

You often wonder if he does so because he embodies the Rain, or if it's the other way around. You wonder if he does this so that no one will see him cry.

This time, you're seated behind the wheel of your sleek, black Porsche; rooftop open and raindrops eagerly making themselves at home against the plush leather interior you've just fucked him on scant minutes ago.

You watch him stand outside - quiet and still, like the broken second hand of an old clock - gazing heavenward with eyes closed, seemingly uncaring that he might catch hypothermia or something much worse from this unforgiving cold. His silver hair falls like a curtain concealing his back, like a veil that's as thick and unyielding as this downpour - so violent and angry that it's almost hard to see right through.

You know what that hair means, know that the moisture pulling it straight down to his upper thighs isn't the reason it looks so heavy. You unavailingly wonder if he'll ever cut it off.

It's strange, but even now, you feel this inexplicable need to protect him.

He would laugh in your face if he knew - tell you he's in no need of protection - even when his eyes always fail to hide the blatant lie. He knows pride like you know Namimori, wears it well the way you used to wear that red and gold armband upon your sleeve (so many eons ago now - even before thirty you're old, too fucking old).

Yes, he's more than well acquainted with whatever's left of his mangled pride; clings to it the way a dying man clings to his last breath, the way his thoroughly soaked garments cling like a lover to his pallid skin (so akin to how your raiment adheres to yours).

Even now, you hear Dino's voice - weary and resigned like a father admonishing his child against something he knows will be done anyway - as distinct as an ocean's rolling echo in your ear, "What are you doing, Kyouya?"

You don't know.

You've never had an answer for him back then, you sure as shit don't now.

And the thing is, maybe you don't really need one. Maybe you don't really give a fuck.

Maybe all you need is the umbrella in your hand, the hard swing of the door when you shove it open - never one to be gentle; you're not the sportive affection of your tutor, or the ceaseless well of compassion that is Sawada Tsunayoshi - and the bottom of your leather shoe hitting the muddied earth.

Maybe all he needs is you; guarding him from the rain he likes to drown himself in, standing by his side with nothing between you but silence and the few meager inches which keep your shoulders from touching (may as well be a fucking chasm, sure as fuck feels like one), like it's trying to make up for that hour you spent covering every inch of his body with your own.

The rain sounds unusually loud against the surface of your black umbrella, like it's mad at you for withholding its prey from its reckless onslaught. Fuck it (if anyone knows anything about being a predator, it's you), fuck all of it.

Like this abstruse curl of possession (first a delicate piece of thread, thin as any lie, now it's fucking cordage) winding its way through your veins; pervading - fucking burning - through your erstwhile impervious steel heart the way Superbi fucking Squalo stole his way under your skin when you should have damn well been looking but weren't.

Your eyes - gelid as the corpses you left to fester in the abandoned warehouse some thirty feet from this clearing, scalding as the intoxicating feel of him tight around you - traverse the meandering trail of bite marks his collar fails to hide, black and blue and blood fucking red, all over his neck, his clavicle, his lithe, gracile frame; visible now through the white cotton fabric of his shirt that's rendered transparent by the ragged, numbing rain.

His eyes - diamond hard orbs of grey tinted silver, sharp like knives digging into your flesh - meet yours; questioning, uncertain. He does this a lot, like he doesn't have all the answers, either; clear-eyed as he often claims to be.

He isn't - hasn't been for fucking ages - but it doesn't matter, cos you're clear-eyed enough for the both of your fucked up selves.

Maybe this is all you need.

Superbi Squalo smiling at you - thin like the veneer of cocksure bravado he so painstakingly shrouds himself in, like the ghost of broken homes he's never been able to emancipate himself from - in a tacit display of what you're almost certain is gratitude.

His smile is another notch on the bedpost, another name crossed off the list, another baby step on this seemingly sempiternal road to recovery.

Even now, you wonder if you'll ever reach the end.

~ The End.~