oh boy oh
I JUST WROTE THIS IN A BURST ON LAYNE'S COMP IN LIKE IDK LESS THAN TWO HOURS. I don't write much anymore due to my low ego regarding my skills, but gd it, it's fun & I enjoy it. I hope I don't regret posting this aka decide I hate it later.
Title: The Psychology of Normality
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: PG-13, for words?
Words: 3,905ish
Summary: A story about Fran, and not about Fran at all.
Notes: My first finished Varia fic ever, I think? Oh god, so nervous.
The members of the Varia would give different views when asked, regarding what Fran would sometimes regard mentally as his capture by "savages", or his induction as the new officer of the infamous assassin squad.
Fran had heard of the Varia, often in hushed tones or in plain tones given by his master. He adopted his master's stance and was unimpressed by the Varia in turn. Opinions on their existence swung from reverence to fear and back again, with notes pressed on "Varia quality." Which sounded like a slogan for detergent to Fran. When he was kidnapped, as he put it, or invited it as they put it, he wasn't exceptionally flattered. He'd rather knock around with the company kept by his master, as obnoxious as they were.
The Varia were an entirely different breed of obnoxious unto themselves, Fran observed quicky and keenly. He remembered the summer he became the replacement illusionist both well and not at all. That is, in snatches and thoughts that didn't expressly matter. It wasn't that long ago, but he thought about it in terms of great spans of time. It was very hot that summer, unusually so. Fran tried not to sunburn in the loose clothing he wore before the gold-cream and black Varia uniform. He was indifferent to the outdoors, as he was indifferent to many things. Not by conscious choice; if you didn't have an opinion, you didn't.
But it was hot, that was more fact than opinion. The first time he arrived at his new home, he remembered his eyelids sweating and beads forming at the base of his neck, under his vibrant hair. He caught it in a make-shift ponytail with a fist and fanned at his skin with the other hand. He remembered other moments, in bits and pieces. Looking out at the white clouds barely visible through an ivy-covered window, the light blinding on too little sleep, and thinking about Mukuro, briefly.
In the beginning, that life had seemed more real, their training. How ironic it was, considering much of his existence was built on smoke and mirrors; that portion in time had been filled with intangible illusions and things of imagination. It was the intangible, the unreal and strange things Fran had understood. He felt more comfortable with what he understood best. Fran felt, above all, his strength was in the understanding. The seeing through and grasping. It made life easier to adapt.
He also recalled he drank too much bottled Coke that summer.
The first week with the Varia he formed indelible theories and views. One morning he awoke to that blonde guy with the tiara and the permanent grin that veered toward a leer waiting for him with a "present." It turned out to be gigantic, cartoonish frog hat. The mouth fit the head and the eyes sat perched on top, watery and adorable.
"Thank you, sempai," Fran replied. "But it's not my style. Perhaps you'd like to take off your toy crown and wear it instead?"
Belphegor had laughed and insisted. Insisted in the manner that he forced it on Fran's head, Fran's skinny arms akimbo as he tried to push him off, but was met with threats of death regarding its removal. A bit severe, Fran thought. But then that was de riguer here, it seems. Extravagant over-reactions. Was everyone that angry or just bored between killing? He'd humored him, even though the hat was hot and sweaty, even in the cool, dark rooms.
At first he thought it was an initiation rite, like a fraternity hazing a new member. They all seemed keen on him wearing it and relished his humiliation. Then after a few days he realized they were just insane.
Fran didn't know, at first, if Belphegor hated him or hated him for other reasons. He interacted with Bel the most in the beginning, if only because they were both younger and because Fran's propensity for irritation got around quickly. Bel was also irritating to them obviously and the two deserved each other. Fran couldn't help it they found him irritating. That was their own problem, amongst many. People wasted time not being honest. Perhaps it was his extra perception or his ability to decipher reality or because he just didn't like people unless he could get a rise from them.
It didn't occur to him often, but on an idle Wednesday he'd sip Coke through a straw delicately and try to rid himself of pointless navel-gazing. What was the point of that either?
There were numerous reasons Bel could hate Fran and it was obvious. Fran had that thing with finding the exact trait that annoyed someone about themselves and reminding them. Or find self-doubt within or just something that plain irked and repeated it. Fran would question Bel's royal status on the regular, which he realized would be the standard issue.
He wondered after some time if it was because he couldn't become a well-enough replacement goldfish for the closest thing to a friend Bel had, at least as Fran saw it. Mammon had been gone for some time and they had been closer than the others. Fran understood this and oddly, understood the feeling of being uprooted unexpectedly, if only on a superficial level. It didn't mean he had to care, however.
His second notion regarding Bel, Bel's mannerisms, his irritation and the resulting idea that they were thrown together to get rid of them was based on his interactions with other Varia members. The guy was clearly not a teenager anymore, but acted with an almost child-like disregard for anything. Maybe that's how royals were; Fran didn't doubt it.
Fran had come on to an argument -- hard to ignore -- between Squalo and Bel. In so much as Fran could gather, it was about fig gelato. Not just that, but in the scheme of things, Bel's disregard, this time for property. Or maybe it was just about dessert.
"Voi, that was my fucking gelato, you little shit and you knew it. I didn't buy it for you!" Squalo had, or to that effect, said. Or similar. But it involved the words "little shit" and "my gelato", give or take fuck or voi a few more times, which peppered his sentences more than catches for breath between yelling.
I'm a prince, was all Bel said. Which impressed Fran a bit, because such a dumb explanation was so simple and effective. The result was beautiful: Squalo looked blind with rage, then realized how useless it was to argue, obviously. Fran knew Bel had been a member since childhood. If Squalo didn't know how to deal with him by now, he never would. And he seemed to. He threw away the carton -- which Bel had placed back in the fridge empty -- and muttered something vile.
In fact, he said if Bel ate anything of his again he'd make him puke it up and eat it. Which was said almost as an aside, without much conviction. This was Squalo.
Fran had watched Squalo brush past him, out of the kitchen and he wanted to smile, comrades-in-arms with Bel, united over amusement. But it wasn't meant to be at that moment. Bel did seem proud of himself, though. The moment he saw Fran, his mouth twitched as though he tasted something unpleasant and Fran expected this and was not offended.
Starting useless arguments with Bel on slow days was ideal amusement fodder as well. Bel wasn't stupid, but neither was Fran. It usually ended with Fran stabbed somewhere and it was worth it. Fran didn't know why, but the best fun came from uselessly making Bel doubt himself when they talked, if only for a second; Fran ignoring everything Bel said until he found just the right moment.
At dinner, Bel mentioned something to do with America, specifically Michigan in America and Fran, out of the conversation, had questioned whether Michigan was a city or a state in the US.
"Ushishishi, it's a state, you stupid frog."
"Is it really?"
The look was incredible. There for a split second and gone the next.
Bel was also one of those people who thought peanut butter belonged in the fridge and Fran didn't know how to handle that. Like everything else in their lives, even their peanut butter was wonderful-- "Varia" quality. This would never not amuse Fran.
"Oy, sempai, that's a pantry food, don't you think?"
"It'll melt in the pantry." And so the struggle began.
Another good target was Levi, who worshiped the ground their boss walked upon. A very easy target, but Fran knew that. However crude the thought was, Fran knew he'd get on all fours for the boss if the boss felt peckish. But he also knew that even if Levi's lips were the last on earth, boss wouldn't choose them to pleasure him. Levi knew this too. He would never be good enough, simply, and his struggle was classic and enduring: he would never reach the standard he had set. It was sad. Levi had power ... the least in the Varia, however. Levi was just blinded by Xanxus' power. Fran didn't feel he could blame him. Xanxus cut an amazing figure, fit to blind those who couldn't stand on their own without his approval.
Levi was a good target for the others. He seemed at times over-conscious of himself. It was obvious, or at least to Fran. Once at a meal, he'd gotten angry and mixed up two words in his rage and before he could correct himself, Lussuria began to laugh and everyone else began to laugh, save Fran and Xanxus. Levi looked like could spit nails and took out his fury on Lussuria, who'd started it. And by that token, started threats.
Fran felt like an anthropologist send to study a strange culture, in these first times together. Or like that woman, the blonde on TV who he'd seen on old animal shows who knew so much about monkeys.
Not much later, Bel had gotten angry himself and pulled knives out of who-knows-where on his body, and still smiling, had threatened everyone at the table and Squalo had yelled at him to sit down and shut up. Xanxus remained impassive, and Lussuria had sighed, lamenting his "children", ruining another of his good meals, only to be cut off by Levi's insinuation that he, Lussuria, had started it all. Fran definitely felt at the end like Jane Goodall and her chimps.
Xanxus' ability to remain stoic was one of his two settings, Fran would think of it. He had off and he had on. He had in between, of course, sometimes. Xanxus was not a simple man. Xanxus was an insane man and insane men were never simple, no matter what outward appearances suggested. Fran knew this because every man he knew was insane, starting wth Mukuro who was as simple as a star map.
Xanxus had not caring and he had rage. Sometimes you didn't know what was coming, Fran figured, very early on. Placating him didn't work. Much like Bel, he had a tendancy toward what Fran thought of as childish demands. But that had nothing to do with age. Bel was in his twenties, Xanxus was thirtysomething. Being spoiled was an incurable disease that didn't get better with age.
Xanxus, for days before and after his arrival, had been built up mythically in Fran's head. If Satan himself had walked down for breakfast, Fran would have only been surprised for a moment. The man before him looked more normal than the rest of them: a tall, dark-skinned and dark-haired Italian man. Normalcy, even in looks, was absent in the Varia: Squalo with his sheet of white hair and missing hand, Lussuria's penchant for feathers and mohawks, Bel's tiny tiara and Levi's stupid mustache. Even with those scars, Xanxus just looked bored sometimes.
Despite what their thoughts on the matter, everyone served and placated boss. Squalo, a fierce man in his own right, was boss' personal whipping boy. Sometimes Fran wondered if Squalo just existed to be Xanxus' living stress ball. Instead of a bean bag to squeeze for anger, Xanxus would just hit Squalo. Squalo didn't seem to mind and for that, Fran found him stupid. Stupid -- and scary, Fran would concede.
He didn't read too deeply into the relationship of his boss and the shark, because it was shrouded in years and too much complication. Fran decided if he personally couldn't figure it out, it was pointless or dull, except in this case. There was nothing dull about either of them and it was obvious, at least to Fran, that Xanxus regarded Squalo with some modicum of respect. It didn't make sense in regards to his treatment of him. Fran didn't want to see how Xanxus would treat someone he loved. (Considering this a possibility. Fran simply didn't know.)
Facades placed by people were an every day occurrence and even the extraordinary people were no exception. Fran couldn't exactly peg Xanxus and that fascinated him. That was exciting and new. There were few people like this and he called one master.
At times Xanxus seemed almost comically inflated with legends and stories. Even after finally meeting him, a disinterested look affixed to his face, a seemingly normal man, he still radiated with something different. It rose from his like an aura and if anything, that was reason not to abandon this venture, the Varia, Fran decided on the spot. That and the fact that he was technically a prisoner and employ. Didn't they call that a slave? Indentured servitude?
Fran had once mentioned the concept of Stockholm Syndrome and chased it quickly with the comment that he didn't like any of them, so that wasn't it. It was said flatly and in jest, but if there wasn't some shred of truth to it, in some way ... at least in the respect of Xanxus. The others could come and go, and there was something to him like an impenetrable stone fortress. He could somewhat understand Levi's passion, Squalo's devotion and the others present and before him: why they served this man, despite their own skills. It was strange and not in the sense of an illusion: in the sense of a real human way.
Lussuria commented once that they seemed united under one flag, just for that man. It had surprised Fran because of the lack of gyration and flowery speech, but Lussuria wasn't unintelligent either. He was both harmless and not harmless. He didn't bother Fran besides the colorful mannerisms, which were enough to provoke rage in anyone. Lussuria was harmless like a carnivorous tropical fish, which was fitting of his appearance. Flashy and bright, but if provoked could devour the other tiny fish without thought. Fran didn't like being called "dear" or "love" and didn't like the kind of music Lussuria listened to. That was all.
Fran didn't collect his thoughts like this coherently, but rather impressions came in a rush. He wondered if one day he'd write an autobiography and this would be the theme: cohabitation with beasts. He could see the opening line in his head: I was appropriated one day.
Outside the window on this June night, he was thinking about the future from lack of sleep and how the year had come full circle. It was a hot night, even after the sun had gone down. It'd been a long year that had seemingly passed quickly, but taken bit-by-bit, blow-by-blow, was stretched like taffy across the expanse of time.
"I was appropriated one day ..." he said to himself again and bit inside his cheek, because he didn't know where to go from there. Simply because that was as far as he'd gone at this point. What else was there to say? I live in an insane asylum with murderers and very good food.
Fran hadn't even considered the possibility of fear in himself until that very moment when he rolled on his stomach, then sat up, adjusting the pillow to the cool side. He knew for a fact he was a skilled illusionist and taught by the best. Here he was with the best, "appropriated" by the best. Yet at the point of this year, what else was there to it? He didn't know these people or care for these people.
In the moonlight from the window over his head, the frog hat sat mocking him. That frog hat wasn't anything more than a symbol of his lowliness here. They said jump, he jumped, but not without difficulty swallowing the command. Fran had decided he'd keep jumping, but only because at the helm of this ship was Xanxus. Without him, what was the Varia? They had survived, many years ago, for a time without him.
But they -- this group -- were born from a mutual respect, fear, reverence, hatred. The fact that one man could wield this power ... Fran himself felt compelled and Fran didn't feel compelled, simply. It was hard for him to get passionate and he was far from declaring love for his boss, but there was that bit of devotion, growing like a flame on the wick of a candle. Fran didn't understand it.
It was frightening.
He kicked off his covers before he realized and was standing on the floor before he realized. It was midnight, and before shuffling to the door, he placed the hat on his head. He could hear music from another room, somewhere down the hall. What would they do if they caught him without the hat?
Fran didn't bother with shoes and except for the distant sounds, muffled behind a closed door, the house was silent and dead. His feet made the only sound on the carpet, then hardwood floor as he padded blearily down the halls. He felt like he'd been asleep at one point, but not any more. Nothing was keeping him up, but he'd think too much if he was up.
He needed something to snack on, or a glass of water. Or an excuse to get out of bed, most possibly the latter. It was chilly towards the center of the house and Fran regretted his decision to not put on shoes, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. A few months ago, this place had felt strange, like a hospital or a hotel in a new city. He felt almost at home, and at least knew where everything was, like the kitchen, outside of which he now slid to a halt, hearing the clinking of cups inside. The door was closed, but someone was up.
Not what Fran needed, which was to be alone. He wasn't in the mood to be bothered with anyone, but grateful for putting his hat back on, may it one day rot in hell. He hoped it wasn't Bel getting milk or sneaking the peanut butter back in the fridge like the perfect picture of a spoiled child.
Fran cracked the door less than an inch and peered inside, to determine whether or not to go back to bed. Levi or Lussuria, he could handle. He might ask Lussuria to cook him eggs -- cooking was a surprising, impressive skill of his. Lussuria cooked eggs in just right way, fluffy, yellow, and --
The figure inside was Xanxus, not even dressed for bed, clad simply in a white shirt and slacks. He was moving around the kitchen alone and Fran was almost surprised he hadn't asked someone to fetch him a night snack. Almost, but not quite. Even a king needed to breathe without subjects. Considering the way some of them stuck to him like glue (Levi, no need to not name names) or just simply annoyed, Fran could see a bit why his boss would just want to be by himself. Fran wanted to be by himself daily and he wasn't the leader of this motley crew.
Xanxus had what looked like a mug of tea, putting milk from the glass bottle in the fridge and some very fine honey inside. That was surprising -- Fran, despite seeing him do away with large quantities of steak, was certain he ran on nothing but spite and tequila. Here he was, a lone figure in the cold kitchen, making a cup of tea. He didn't hear anyone outside the door, or chose not to notice as he sat at the long table.
For a second, he seemed like another man, another person sitting alone at the table, unable to sleep, as Fran was. Craving solitude. It was hard to believe and Fran wrinkled his brow, trying to draw the connection. Xanxus, flames covering his hands, Xanxus and the story of his scars. Xanxus and how he had not quite given up the hope of becoming tenth, in that desperate way people will cling to something they will never receive. He just seemed normal.
Yet, there it was. He wasn't and Fran, for this seeming ordinary encounter -- or voyeuristic encounter, if he was truthful -- could find himself still confused, drawn, complicated, everything when he thought of Xanxus. The facades of people, even extraordinary people and Fran's theories thereof held no proof here. Here was someone Fran couldn't, for all his trying, "figure out" and maybe that was the crux of it all. Maybe there was nothing there but mystery still, finally and forever. Maybe that was the source of the intense longing to know more, to follow him down.
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it wasn't, and Fran was tired of thinking and trying to figure it out. People were the worst and he should stay to things he understood -- surreality and its creation and manipulation. People really were the worst.
Fran watched his boss for a few more moments, Xanxus just sitting at the table, drinking tea -- hilarious in its normalcy and abnormality. Here was one of the insane men, and at the moment, Fran felt totally at ease watching him be mundane.
He decided to leave before Xanxus pushed back his chair and rose to leave in turn -- but was too late, as the moment he thought it, Xanxus was on his feet, walking towards the sink. From his vantage point, he saw Xanxus circle the sink, depositing the cup with a clink and walk towards the fridge, pulling out the jar of peanut butter with a frown. He placed it inside the pantry door on the opposite side of the kitchen and Fran felt a fleeting sense of triumph, before scrambling to hide in the dark shadows outside the kitchen as Xanxus left for bed.
Fran bit the inside of his cheek again once alone and decided not to think any more tonight, if he could help it. It hurt his head which felt heavy from the hat and the feeling of robbed sleep. He wondered if there was any soda in the kitchen or if that's what he needed. Who knew what he needed? Well, sleep for one, he thought. And for another, a less complicated life. Perhaps his autobiography would end with retiring to France, if he lived that long, left with nothing but memories and scars of Belphegor's knives.
He didn't know if he'd understand Xanxus then either, but at least knew for a fact that he was on his side regarding the peanut butter. That was important.
/breathes!!!
Title: The Psychology of Normality
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: PG-13, for words?
Words: 3,905ish
Summary: A story about Fran, and not about Fran at all.
Notes: My first finished Varia fic ever, I think? Oh god, so nervous.
The members of the Varia would give different views when asked, regarding what Fran would sometimes regard mentally as his capture by "savages", or his induction as the new officer of the infamous assassin squad.
Fran had heard of the Varia, often in hushed tones or in plain tones given by his master. He adopted his master's stance and was unimpressed by the Varia in turn. Opinions on their existence swung from reverence to fear and back again, with notes pressed on "Varia quality." Which sounded like a slogan for detergent to Fran. When he was kidnapped, as he put it, or invited it as they put it, he wasn't exceptionally flattered. He'd rather knock around with the company kept by his master, as obnoxious as they were.
The Varia were an entirely different breed of obnoxious unto themselves, Fran observed quicky and keenly. He remembered the summer he became the replacement illusionist both well and not at all. That is, in snatches and thoughts that didn't expressly matter. It wasn't that long ago, but he thought about it in terms of great spans of time. It was very hot that summer, unusually so. Fran tried not to sunburn in the loose clothing he wore before the gold-cream and black Varia uniform. He was indifferent to the outdoors, as he was indifferent to many things. Not by conscious choice; if you didn't have an opinion, you didn't.
But it was hot, that was more fact than opinion. The first time he arrived at his new home, he remembered his eyelids sweating and beads forming at the base of his neck, under his vibrant hair. He caught it in a make-shift ponytail with a fist and fanned at his skin with the other hand. He remembered other moments, in bits and pieces. Looking out at the white clouds barely visible through an ivy-covered window, the light blinding on too little sleep, and thinking about Mukuro, briefly.
In the beginning, that life had seemed more real, their training. How ironic it was, considering much of his existence was built on smoke and mirrors; that portion in time had been filled with intangible illusions and things of imagination. It was the intangible, the unreal and strange things Fran had understood. He felt more comfortable with what he understood best. Fran felt, above all, his strength was in the understanding. The seeing through and grasping. It made life easier to adapt.
He also recalled he drank too much bottled Coke that summer.
The first week with the Varia he formed indelible theories and views. One morning he awoke to that blonde guy with the tiara and the permanent grin that veered toward a leer waiting for him with a "present." It turned out to be gigantic, cartoonish frog hat. The mouth fit the head and the eyes sat perched on top, watery and adorable.
"Thank you, sempai," Fran replied. "But it's not my style. Perhaps you'd like to take off your toy crown and wear it instead?"
Belphegor had laughed and insisted. Insisted in the manner that he forced it on Fran's head, Fran's skinny arms akimbo as he tried to push him off, but was met with threats of death regarding its removal. A bit severe, Fran thought. But then that was de riguer here, it seems. Extravagant over-reactions. Was everyone that angry or just bored between killing? He'd humored him, even though the hat was hot and sweaty, even in the cool, dark rooms.
At first he thought it was an initiation rite, like a fraternity hazing a new member. They all seemed keen on him wearing it and relished his humiliation. Then after a few days he realized they were just insane.
Fran didn't know, at first, if Belphegor hated him or hated him for other reasons. He interacted with Bel the most in the beginning, if only because they were both younger and because Fran's propensity for irritation got around quickly. Bel was also irritating to them obviously and the two deserved each other. Fran couldn't help it they found him irritating. That was their own problem, amongst many. People wasted time not being honest. Perhaps it was his extra perception or his ability to decipher reality or because he just didn't like people unless he could get a rise from them.
It didn't occur to him often, but on an idle Wednesday he'd sip Coke through a straw delicately and try to rid himself of pointless navel-gazing. What was the point of that either?
There were numerous reasons Bel could hate Fran and it was obvious. Fran had that thing with finding the exact trait that annoyed someone about themselves and reminding them. Or find self-doubt within or just something that plain irked and repeated it. Fran would question Bel's royal status on the regular, which he realized would be the standard issue.
He wondered after some time if it was because he couldn't become a well-enough replacement goldfish for the closest thing to a friend Bel had, at least as Fran saw it. Mammon had been gone for some time and they had been closer than the others. Fran understood this and oddly, understood the feeling of being uprooted unexpectedly, if only on a superficial level. It didn't mean he had to care, however.
His second notion regarding Bel, Bel's mannerisms, his irritation and the resulting idea that they were thrown together to get rid of them was based on his interactions with other Varia members. The guy was clearly not a teenager anymore, but acted with an almost child-like disregard for anything. Maybe that's how royals were; Fran didn't doubt it.
Fran had come on to an argument -- hard to ignore -- between Squalo and Bel. In so much as Fran could gather, it was about fig gelato. Not just that, but in the scheme of things, Bel's disregard, this time for property. Or maybe it was just about dessert.
"Voi, that was my fucking gelato, you little shit and you knew it. I didn't buy it for you!" Squalo had, or to that effect, said. Or similar. But it involved the words "little shit" and "my gelato", give or take fuck or voi a few more times, which peppered his sentences more than catches for breath between yelling.
I'm a prince, was all Bel said. Which impressed Fran a bit, because such a dumb explanation was so simple and effective. The result was beautiful: Squalo looked blind with rage, then realized how useless it was to argue, obviously. Fran knew Bel had been a member since childhood. If Squalo didn't know how to deal with him by now, he never would. And he seemed to. He threw away the carton -- which Bel had placed back in the fridge empty -- and muttered something vile.
In fact, he said if Bel ate anything of his again he'd make him puke it up and eat it. Which was said almost as an aside, without much conviction. This was Squalo.
Fran had watched Squalo brush past him, out of the kitchen and he wanted to smile, comrades-in-arms with Bel, united over amusement. But it wasn't meant to be at that moment. Bel did seem proud of himself, though. The moment he saw Fran, his mouth twitched as though he tasted something unpleasant and Fran expected this and was not offended.
Starting useless arguments with Bel on slow days was ideal amusement fodder as well. Bel wasn't stupid, but neither was Fran. It usually ended with Fran stabbed somewhere and it was worth it. Fran didn't know why, but the best fun came from uselessly making Bel doubt himself when they talked, if only for a second; Fran ignoring everything Bel said until he found just the right moment.
At dinner, Bel mentioned something to do with America, specifically Michigan in America and Fran, out of the conversation, had questioned whether Michigan was a city or a state in the US.
"Ushishishi, it's a state, you stupid frog."
"Is it really?"
The look was incredible. There for a split second and gone the next.
Bel was also one of those people who thought peanut butter belonged in the fridge and Fran didn't know how to handle that. Like everything else in their lives, even their peanut butter was wonderful-- "Varia" quality. This would never not amuse Fran.
"Oy, sempai, that's a pantry food, don't you think?"
"It'll melt in the pantry." And so the struggle began.
Another good target was Levi, who worshiped the ground their boss walked upon. A very easy target, but Fran knew that. However crude the thought was, Fran knew he'd get on all fours for the boss if the boss felt peckish. But he also knew that even if Levi's lips were the last on earth, boss wouldn't choose them to pleasure him. Levi knew this too. He would never be good enough, simply, and his struggle was classic and enduring: he would never reach the standard he had set. It was sad. Levi had power ... the least in the Varia, however. Levi was just blinded by Xanxus' power. Fran didn't feel he could blame him. Xanxus cut an amazing figure, fit to blind those who couldn't stand on their own without his approval.
Levi was a good target for the others. He seemed at times over-conscious of himself. It was obvious, or at least to Fran. Once at a meal, he'd gotten angry and mixed up two words in his rage and before he could correct himself, Lussuria began to laugh and everyone else began to laugh, save Fran and Xanxus. Levi looked like could spit nails and took out his fury on Lussuria, who'd started it. And by that token, started threats.
Fran felt like an anthropologist send to study a strange culture, in these first times together. Or like that woman, the blonde on TV who he'd seen on old animal shows who knew so much about monkeys.
Not much later, Bel had gotten angry himself and pulled knives out of who-knows-where on his body, and still smiling, had threatened everyone at the table and Squalo had yelled at him to sit down and shut up. Xanxus remained impassive, and Lussuria had sighed, lamenting his "children", ruining another of his good meals, only to be cut off by Levi's insinuation that he, Lussuria, had started it all. Fran definitely felt at the end like Jane Goodall and her chimps.
Xanxus' ability to remain stoic was one of his two settings, Fran would think of it. He had off and he had on. He had in between, of course, sometimes. Xanxus was not a simple man. Xanxus was an insane man and insane men were never simple, no matter what outward appearances suggested. Fran knew this because every man he knew was insane, starting wth Mukuro who was as simple as a star map.
Xanxus had not caring and he had rage. Sometimes you didn't know what was coming, Fran figured, very early on. Placating him didn't work. Much like Bel, he had a tendancy toward what Fran thought of as childish demands. But that had nothing to do with age. Bel was in his twenties, Xanxus was thirtysomething. Being spoiled was an incurable disease that didn't get better with age.
Xanxus, for days before and after his arrival, had been built up mythically in Fran's head. If Satan himself had walked down for breakfast, Fran would have only been surprised for a moment. The man before him looked more normal than the rest of them: a tall, dark-skinned and dark-haired Italian man. Normalcy, even in looks, was absent in the Varia: Squalo with his sheet of white hair and missing hand, Lussuria's penchant for feathers and mohawks, Bel's tiny tiara and Levi's stupid mustache. Even with those scars, Xanxus just looked bored sometimes.
Despite what their thoughts on the matter, everyone served and placated boss. Squalo, a fierce man in his own right, was boss' personal whipping boy. Sometimes Fran wondered if Squalo just existed to be Xanxus' living stress ball. Instead of a bean bag to squeeze for anger, Xanxus would just hit Squalo. Squalo didn't seem to mind and for that, Fran found him stupid. Stupid -- and scary, Fran would concede.
He didn't read too deeply into the relationship of his boss and the shark, because it was shrouded in years and too much complication. Fran decided if he personally couldn't figure it out, it was pointless or dull, except in this case. There was nothing dull about either of them and it was obvious, at least to Fran, that Xanxus regarded Squalo with some modicum of respect. It didn't make sense in regards to his treatment of him. Fran didn't want to see how Xanxus would treat someone he loved. (Considering this a possibility. Fran simply didn't know.)
Facades placed by people were an every day occurrence and even the extraordinary people were no exception. Fran couldn't exactly peg Xanxus and that fascinated him. That was exciting and new. There were few people like this and he called one master.
At times Xanxus seemed almost comically inflated with legends and stories. Even after finally meeting him, a disinterested look affixed to his face, a seemingly normal man, he still radiated with something different. It rose from his like an aura and if anything, that was reason not to abandon this venture, the Varia, Fran decided on the spot. That and the fact that he was technically a prisoner and employ. Didn't they call that a slave? Indentured servitude?
Fran had once mentioned the concept of Stockholm Syndrome and chased it quickly with the comment that he didn't like any of them, so that wasn't it. It was said flatly and in jest, but if there wasn't some shred of truth to it, in some way ... at least in the respect of Xanxus. The others could come and go, and there was something to him like an impenetrable stone fortress. He could somewhat understand Levi's passion, Squalo's devotion and the others present and before him: why they served this man, despite their own skills. It was strange and not in the sense of an illusion: in the sense of a real human way.
Lussuria commented once that they seemed united under one flag, just for that man. It had surprised Fran because of the lack of gyration and flowery speech, but Lussuria wasn't unintelligent either. He was both harmless and not harmless. He didn't bother Fran besides the colorful mannerisms, which were enough to provoke rage in anyone. Lussuria was harmless like a carnivorous tropical fish, which was fitting of his appearance. Flashy and bright, but if provoked could devour the other tiny fish without thought. Fran didn't like being called "dear" or "love" and didn't like the kind of music Lussuria listened to. That was all.
Fran didn't collect his thoughts like this coherently, but rather impressions came in a rush. He wondered if one day he'd write an autobiography and this would be the theme: cohabitation with beasts. He could see the opening line in his head: I was appropriated one day.
Outside the window on this June night, he was thinking about the future from lack of sleep and how the year had come full circle. It was a hot night, even after the sun had gone down. It'd been a long year that had seemingly passed quickly, but taken bit-by-bit, blow-by-blow, was stretched like taffy across the expanse of time.
"I was appropriated one day ..." he said to himself again and bit inside his cheek, because he didn't know where to go from there. Simply because that was as far as he'd gone at this point. What else was there to say? I live in an insane asylum with murderers and very good food.
Fran hadn't even considered the possibility of fear in himself until that very moment when he rolled on his stomach, then sat up, adjusting the pillow to the cool side. He knew for a fact he was a skilled illusionist and taught by the best. Here he was with the best, "appropriated" by the best. Yet at the point of this year, what else was there to it? He didn't know these people or care for these people.
In the moonlight from the window over his head, the frog hat sat mocking him. That frog hat wasn't anything more than a symbol of his lowliness here. They said jump, he jumped, but not without difficulty swallowing the command. Fran had decided he'd keep jumping, but only because at the helm of this ship was Xanxus. Without him, what was the Varia? They had survived, many years ago, for a time without him.
But they -- this group -- were born from a mutual respect, fear, reverence, hatred. The fact that one man could wield this power ... Fran himself felt compelled and Fran didn't feel compelled, simply. It was hard for him to get passionate and he was far from declaring love for his boss, but there was that bit of devotion, growing like a flame on the wick of a candle. Fran didn't understand it.
It was frightening.
He kicked off his covers before he realized and was standing on the floor before he realized. It was midnight, and before shuffling to the door, he placed the hat on his head. He could hear music from another room, somewhere down the hall. What would they do if they caught him without the hat?
Fran didn't bother with shoes and except for the distant sounds, muffled behind a closed door, the house was silent and dead. His feet made the only sound on the carpet, then hardwood floor as he padded blearily down the halls. He felt like he'd been asleep at one point, but not any more. Nothing was keeping him up, but he'd think too much if he was up.
He needed something to snack on, or a glass of water. Or an excuse to get out of bed, most possibly the latter. It was chilly towards the center of the house and Fran regretted his decision to not put on shoes, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. A few months ago, this place had felt strange, like a hospital or a hotel in a new city. He felt almost at home, and at least knew where everything was, like the kitchen, outside of which he now slid to a halt, hearing the clinking of cups inside. The door was closed, but someone was up.
Not what Fran needed, which was to be alone. He wasn't in the mood to be bothered with anyone, but grateful for putting his hat back on, may it one day rot in hell. He hoped it wasn't Bel getting milk or sneaking the peanut butter back in the fridge like the perfect picture of a spoiled child.
Fran cracked the door less than an inch and peered inside, to determine whether or not to go back to bed. Levi or Lussuria, he could handle. He might ask Lussuria to cook him eggs -- cooking was a surprising, impressive skill of his. Lussuria cooked eggs in just right way, fluffy, yellow, and --
The figure inside was Xanxus, not even dressed for bed, clad simply in a white shirt and slacks. He was moving around the kitchen alone and Fran was almost surprised he hadn't asked someone to fetch him a night snack. Almost, but not quite. Even a king needed to breathe without subjects. Considering the way some of them stuck to him like glue (Levi, no need to not name names) or just simply annoyed, Fran could see a bit why his boss would just want to be by himself. Fran wanted to be by himself daily and he wasn't the leader of this motley crew.
Xanxus had what looked like a mug of tea, putting milk from the glass bottle in the fridge and some very fine honey inside. That was surprising -- Fran, despite seeing him do away with large quantities of steak, was certain he ran on nothing but spite and tequila. Here he was, a lone figure in the cold kitchen, making a cup of tea. He didn't hear anyone outside the door, or chose not to notice as he sat at the long table.
For a second, he seemed like another man, another person sitting alone at the table, unable to sleep, as Fran was. Craving solitude. It was hard to believe and Fran wrinkled his brow, trying to draw the connection. Xanxus, flames covering his hands, Xanxus and the story of his scars. Xanxus and how he had not quite given up the hope of becoming tenth, in that desperate way people will cling to something they will never receive. He just seemed normal.
Yet, there it was. He wasn't and Fran, for this seeming ordinary encounter -- or voyeuristic encounter, if he was truthful -- could find himself still confused, drawn, complicated, everything when he thought of Xanxus. The facades of people, even extraordinary people and Fran's theories thereof held no proof here. Here was someone Fran couldn't, for all his trying, "figure out" and maybe that was the crux of it all. Maybe there was nothing there but mystery still, finally and forever. Maybe that was the source of the intense longing to know more, to follow him down.
Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it wasn't, and Fran was tired of thinking and trying to figure it out. People were the worst and he should stay to things he understood -- surreality and its creation and manipulation. People really were the worst.
Fran watched his boss for a few more moments, Xanxus just sitting at the table, drinking tea -- hilarious in its normalcy and abnormality. Here was one of the insane men, and at the moment, Fran felt totally at ease watching him be mundane.
He decided to leave before Xanxus pushed back his chair and rose to leave in turn -- but was too late, as the moment he thought it, Xanxus was on his feet, walking towards the sink. From his vantage point, he saw Xanxus circle the sink, depositing the cup with a clink and walk towards the fridge, pulling out the jar of peanut butter with a frown. He placed it inside the pantry door on the opposite side of the kitchen and Fran felt a fleeting sense of triumph, before scrambling to hide in the dark shadows outside the kitchen as Xanxus left for bed.
Fran bit the inside of his cheek again once alone and decided not to think any more tonight, if he could help it. It hurt his head which felt heavy from the hat and the feeling of robbed sleep. He wondered if there was any soda in the kitchen or if that's what he needed. Who knew what he needed? Well, sleep for one, he thought. And for another, a less complicated life. Perhaps his autobiography would end with retiring to France, if he lived that long, left with nothing but memories and scars of Belphegor's knives.
He didn't know if he'd understand Xanxus then either, but at least knew for a fact that he was on his side regarding the peanut butter. That was important.
/breathes!!!