Reborn fic: La Principessa
Title: La Principessa
Author: me, ansibs
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: D18
Rating: I say R. There is one 100-word sex scene that is unnecessary and skip-able.
Notes: done for yamikakyuu for the reborn_flashfic challenge.
M. La Principessa
She clapped her hands over her ears, but the sounds echoed even louder when she did that. The rest of her was perfectly still - not a single thread in her skirt moved from where she was, hunched in the corner of an empty cabinet - only her eyes moved as she squeezed them tight. Her lips pulled together, refusing to make even the slighest squeak. Like a good girl she ran through the day's lessons in her head - "ta chi tsu te to", the "to" like a cliff with a pole on top for a bird to fly away from in her Papa's strong and even voice - barely breathing.
The noises outside, first loud with screams and angry yells of men, the rat-tat-tat! of gunfire and the slick crunch of bones and flesh as explosions shook the entire floor, slowly died away. The numbers of attackers grew less, until there was only ragged breathing and the crunch of one less breathing windpipe in this world, and then nothing.
She waited patiently.
Don't come out until I tell you to.
Patiently.
But finally like all little seven-year-old girls, she couldn't wait any longer to go to the bathroom. Ever so slowly she lifted her hands away from her head, turning towards the thin crack of light filtering from between the cabinet doors. And still slowly her little hands slid it open slightly, pressing one blue eye to the growing light, looking left and right for movement, before sliding it open the rest of the way. Legs untangled, and with a rustle she stood in the afternoon sun, a vision of white lace and green trimmings, messy golden hair and blue eyes, complete with flower-embroidered shoes.
She took one step. Then another. The third step disturbed a little pool of red; she retreated, and then tiptoed on. A maze of fallen weaponry, blinded men, stagnant puddles of blood that dotted the carpet, zigzagging forever down the hall - a swamp of bodies, in her seven-year-old imagination. Hesitantly she sifted through them - blonde-haired, brown-haired, brown-haired, blonde-haired feet finding paths through outstretched arms and blood-speckled loafers departed from their masters. It seemed like forever before she stood in front of one leaning against the wall, white shirt now red, black eyes unseeing, tonfas finally at rest.
In her seven-year-old mind doubt trembled like a sudden storm. Licking her dry lips she tried: "Hibari-san?"
He lay where he was, head tilted a little sideways, hand still clasped around an empty gun. A sea of enemies surrounded the two of them, a dizzying labyrinth of endless, faceless peons. Bitten to death. In her head she conjured the image of the wicked smile he'd shown her before when he faced their enemies.
He made no such expression now. His lips were slightly parted, eyes dulled, face slack and empty. His tonfas were so crusted with blood they might as well be black.
"Hibari-san?," she ventured again, voice wavering. The distant toll of a grandfather clock answered her from downstairs. In this scene of carnage the only thing that moved was her, hands clenched to her chest where the tip of a clear crystal prism peeked from between her fingers.
"...Papa?," she relented desperately. Don't call me that. Your father is already dead. Tears gathered delicately at the ends of her eyelashes. Reaching out one hand, she lightly fingered the tips of Hibari's dark hair, matted here and there, but still soft, almost alive.
Almost.
--------------
Sheets toss as bodies flip underneath. The light from the blinds rake, bend with the movement - shuddering with a groan as a black head shakes into view, tilted back. His mouth is red. From the first glance it seems colored from a simple kiss, but closer inspection shows a trail rubbed away hastily with the back of a hand, smeared over pale cheeks. Not lipstick, not makeup. Blood, Dino's blood.
The blond chuckles where he is, hands clenched around the sheets. The sound rumbles through his chest, vibrating against steel-scented hands. Hibari pierces him with a stare, lowers his neck - and then Dino moans, because the other is lapping delicately at the tear above his heart. Black lashes fall closed; breath rasps raggedly in the air of the hotel room. Outside the red sun slowly falls prey to the incoming night.
Hibari digs his teeth in, and Dino bucks helplessly under him from the pain. Their hands scrabble for each other, find, and entwine. A sharp hiss escapes the Guardian's mouth as he comes. Waves upon waves of white, blinding pleasure; they clash again and again, and Hibari grits his teeth, wondering why he keeps doing this when every time they fight he feels less like biting and more like that herbivoric action of making love.
------------
The only reason he does is this because he needs it - there is no other reason. It is enough to satisfy the necessity of touch and someone else simply being there, that's the only reason he consents. If he wants to fight, then they fight. If he wants to fuck, they fuck. Both satisfy the desire to have someone else there.
Dino understands that regardless of form or method, he would prefer to fight when a person worth fighting is there. He appreciates that unspoken truce, that neither hold bruises or bite marks against the other. There is nothing more he can do to show his thanks though, because it is also understood Dino gives all of this for free, as is his way.
After a decade, the unrepaid favor only stings a little.
------------
"Her name's Olimpia.
"She's not mine," Dino lies with steady blue eyes. "I'm just taking care of her, because her father's dead."
Hibari wants to call him on it, but holds his tongue. It isn't his business, he doesn't care, he doesn't care - he stalwartly repeats this mantra. Uncharacteristically he holds himself back from what he wants to do, mainly fatally maiming Dino and then whatever whore cared enough to carry his seed for nine months. And then he snarls, because he's doing it again, giving in to another's wishes.
It's because in that moment, he forgets who or what he swore to do in the face of this person, if only there is something Hibari can do. Soft, he thinks, so damned soft. His hands tighten around the handle of his duffel that holds his tonfas; he thinks of loosening his tie and running at the other full-tilt like he used to. He imagines sinking steel spikes into the other's throat, blood floating in the air between him and Dino's openmouthed surprise. He imagines tossing away that whip on the table, taking a vengeful lighter to it. He imagines taking digging his weapon deep into the other's stomach, sending him like a flightless canary through the fiftieth story window of this hotel. He imagines the blood that will spray out of wounds when Dino dodges with a smile and fearful eyes -
- the wrong kind of fear, the kind that wants to protect what they have together now. Not the kind Hibari wants to inspire: the split-second realization before one is completely and utterly defeated at his hands.
He faces the other as he slides on cufflinks and folds his black jacket over his arm. Somewhere in him desperately wants control back - he didn't sign up for this ride, all he wanted was a good fight - a part of him might actually still believe it. Looking back it isn't surprising he became attached to another physical thing, and thus to the person who offers it to him.
He only needs one thing to be attached to, though. Namimori is enough.
"She's only two, Hibari," Dino pleads quietly, "She's only got me."
He hates them, those things that pile on him so he can't wander without going too far from them. Rings and blue eyes, he hates them all.
"I don't care," he hisses back. The hesitantly heartbroken look on Dino's face is almost worth it; the only thing that holds back his glee is that they both know it's a lie.
------------
"She's really cute," Dino says the next time they meet. "She's got these big blue eyes and that blonde Chiavarone hair. She likes the teddy bears I get her and knocks on my office door while I'm still working to bring me grape juice and keep all of monsters under my desk away."
With age comes restraint, Hibari knows this. It is not something they ever indulged in when they fought (though Dino half-heartedly complains every time You just don't ever take it easy, do you Kyouya?), and similarly Hibari doesn't show the other mercy now.
At one point Romario looks as if it has gone a little too far, but Dino waves him away. Hibari doesn't stop until the top of Dino's head is faintly orange with blood along with the rest of the bruises the Guardian has gifted him with. "That really hurts, Kyouya," the blond says behind gritted teeth, "Really hurts!" Romario steps forward with a wet towel; Hibari steps back to bring tongue to steel, doubly metallic with blood and weaponry.
Don't mention her name in my presence, he wants to say.
But it's more than he could ever do, seeing the satisfied grin creep slowly back onto the other's face. He might tolerate the brat just for that.
-------------
When Dino finally says it, it's bold and big like the other usually is, drawing all the attention in the room with his charming smile and good heart. "She could be ours," he blurts in a spur-of-the-moment confession of a long-standing idea, "She could be our kid, Kyouya!" When the Cloud Guardian doesn't even pause where he's straightening his tie and shirt, Dino continues excitedly, "You could teach her fighting when she older! And you could start on her Japanese lessons early so she doesn't have an accent - like now!"
Nonsense, he wants to say. You teach her. I don't care about her.
A little girl like her needs a mother, not another father. Though - and he thinks this with a glance back at where the other is back to prattling about white skirts and the cutest white shoes over a goblet of wine - the one parent she has right now is more than enough.
"I hope she'll grow up to be strong and smart. She's so little -"
"And take after who?," Hibari cuts in smoothly. Dino's blue eyes blink at him, wide but not at all unknowing. "Her clumsy father?"
"Kyouya -"
The door shuts, and the Guardian moves quickly down the hall to the elevator. He can see Dino running his hand though his hair frustratedly in the darkness of the room, still smelling of their nighttime activities. But all the same the only reason he can say such things is because he knows Dino Chiavarone isn't one to be depressed for long. He'll bounce back up, blond hair flopping across his forehead, smile firmly in place, daughter in hand -
- where would Hibari be in that picture? Nowhere.
----------
Bitten to death, they fall like dominoes in their black suits and white shirts. He picks wallets, sifts through the personal information hidden away there - names and dates and pictures flash, happy ones with yet-alive people, survivors that will curse him without knowing his name - before tucking them back. He leaves the bodies without their trademark spider tattoos; he purges their Venitian family to nothing. They are dead, their families are dead -
- he is dead.
----------
Clear and cloudless skies.
"Dov'è Papa?," the little two-year-old cried to him from the circle of Romario's arms. The once-right hand man of the Chiavarone boss now sported white hair, and red eyes behind the safety of his sunglasses. When Italian didn't work, the little girl added, "Doko papa?"
He didn't move to cradle her, though that would usually be the natural response to such an adorable toddler. With two fingers stuck in her mouth and a lollipop clenched in her other hand, big cornflower eyes the exact shade as his, he wondered too why he didn't move to touch her. Maybe it was because he was afraid of being bound to the earth again, to another foreign yet irresistable, detestable herbivoric urge. The urge to find another, mate, "settle down". Raise a child. Die smiling with his last breath.
"Kudaranu [1]," he hissed, and threw the flowers down on the grave. Pushing past the mourners and the sobbing grandmothers with black-flowered lace kerchiefs over their heads, he vowed to leave this place and everything to do with tattooed charismatic mafia bosses behind. He raged; he wanted something to sink his teeth into, something ugly and empty to reflect the center of his emotions. He wanted to bite someone to death; he ran through names in his mind, Varia and Vongola, reformed Millefiore, yet-alive Calcassa members - someone who wouldn't die even if he came at them full blaze and aiming to kill.
A gunshot rang pregnant in the noonday sun for a moment before people screamed, diving for cover, scrambling pell-mell for their cars or any sort of security nearby. Hibari moved swiftly against them, the handles of his tonfas tight in his grip. He reached the trees where he could see the glint of a sniper barrel, hoping principessa Dina is still where she is in Romario's arms. A second later the man was dead, gone in a spray of blood. Hibari strained his eyes into the distance, heart pounding with frank adrenaline and frigid fear -
- a baby squalled, voice spiralling up to the sky above. Shakingly Romario pushed his sunglasses up his nose one last time before smearing against his boss' headstone, on top of that giant heap of flowers. La principessa tumbled from his arms, grabbing a white rose with candy-sticky hands. As Hibari approached she looked up at him with solemn sky-blue eyes, chubby arm tan from days running outside (ripe for a tattoo) - and then promptly stuffed the flower in her mouth.
"Hayaku hake![2]," he commanded, hands beating unmercifully on her small back. "Pronto!"
She did, blue eyes baleful. To occupy her he shoved the first thing that wasn't a pen, pencil, or weapon into her curious hands: the fruit of one of I-pin's middle school science projects about sunlight and colors, a prism. As they made their way to the car, he watched as she clutched it, held it up, giggled at the colors and reflections within with crossed eyes. Her happy gurgling rumbled against his chest as he jogged.
Olimpia, he remembered that voice telling him. Olimpia is her name.
And the last Cloud departed.
----------
Not that you couldn't guess these, but:
[1] Kudaranu: This is ridiculous
[2] Hayaku hake!: Spit it out!
Well, if you want angst, you get angst.
This challenge was really hard - I don't write 100 (barely know him) or 69 (can't get in his head). I can't see 1859 in any shape or form (which is why when people do it realistically I really go @.@ Why didn't I think of that?), which only leaves D18. Hence, MAI FURST D18 fic. Well, other than those little snippet things I write sometimes.
Seriously though, I'd be more successful at writing D27 than at D18, though D18 is everywhere. I just can't get the sense of their relationship right. Still, good to try new things and go out on a limb once in a while.
--------
On the other hand this fic took me freaking forever. I debated for *so* *long* whether to use Olimpia or not. But then I didn't want it regular!depressed, and this whole idea of Hibari dying for Dino's kid has stuck with me for as long as...however long ago I read about it on hitman_reborn.
Thus this fic was born. Personally I'm still torn over it. Hibari feels too clipped in some places and too long-winded in others. So I'm still unsatisfied - might tweak later, but for right now I NEED TO ACTUALLY DO WORK. *ficc'ed instead*
-------
I've noticed a pattern in my fics. There is always: 1) a physical motif (in this case, a prism), 2) a regular motif (like in this case it was Hibari talking/thinking back), 3) in the case of Reborn, usually some sort of foreign language (Italian or Japanese), 4) some sort of set writing format (in this case, 2 current-day parts frame a series of flashbacks). Formulaic? I think so too.
I'm still alright with it, though. I don't feel the need to give my writing style a massive overhaul just yet. Though I do look at my long sentences and shake my head at times too, just like everybody else does. XD Oh yes, if you want to read my stuff, beware...
T.T And people don't want to do reborn_flashfic because it's too rushed??? That makes me sad...but at the same time I want to join reborn_exchange. BUT THAT WORKLOAD WOULD JUST KEEL ME OVER DED, yes. So maybe it'd be better if I didn't. *nodnod*
[EDIT: I'm changing the name, I hated the first one. I don't particularly like this one either, actually. ARGH I can never name these things.
Looking back over this while I'm actually awake helps. I hate it even more than...a lot of my other ones, actually, because it feels so halfhearted. The beginning was good, and then all the D18 interaction actually made it terrible. It would have been find if I'd written more on Hibari and Olimpia...but I didn't want to make her intrude any more than she already had. In the end the decision to bring in an OC...I *still* don't know whether it was the right thing to do or not.
WELL I'm too tired to possibly be able to pound out another D18 fic, if...ever. I just plain *can't* write Hibari, it's impossible for me. *gives up spectacularly*]
[EDIT 2: ....this is the 4th time out of 6 that I haven't gotten a fic out of the reborn_flashfic challenge. I feel so incredibly unloved...why don't I ever get things? Am I really that scary and intimidating??? *SOB*
Basically, I'm the only one stupid enough to take the challenge enough to write something every single month that I've joined. I...just wanted others to feel the joy when I got my first fic, that's all... Am I stupid for thinking that? For following it for 6 months?]
[EDIT 3: This really sucks. I feel like deleting it. It's all choppy and UGH, I just can't write Hibari. At least this time the prompt for reborn_flashfic isn't as hard as last time's...]
Author: me, ansibs
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: D18
Rating: I say R. There is one 100-word sex scene that is unnecessary and skip-able.
Notes: done for yamikakyuu for the reborn_flashfic challenge.
M. La Principessa
She clapped her hands over her ears, but the sounds echoed even louder when she did that. The rest of her was perfectly still - not a single thread in her skirt moved from where she was, hunched in the corner of an empty cabinet - only her eyes moved as she squeezed them tight. Her lips pulled together, refusing to make even the slighest squeak. Like a good girl she ran through the day's lessons in her head - "ta chi tsu te to", the "to" like a cliff with a pole on top for a bird to fly away from in her Papa's strong and even voice - barely breathing.
The noises outside, first loud with screams and angry yells of men, the rat-tat-tat! of gunfire and the slick crunch of bones and flesh as explosions shook the entire floor, slowly died away. The numbers of attackers grew less, until there was only ragged breathing and the crunch of one less breathing windpipe in this world, and then nothing.
She waited patiently.
Don't come out until I tell you to.
Patiently.
But finally like all little seven-year-old girls, she couldn't wait any longer to go to the bathroom. Ever so slowly she lifted her hands away from her head, turning towards the thin crack of light filtering from between the cabinet doors. And still slowly her little hands slid it open slightly, pressing one blue eye to the growing light, looking left and right for movement, before sliding it open the rest of the way. Legs untangled, and with a rustle she stood in the afternoon sun, a vision of white lace and green trimmings, messy golden hair and blue eyes, complete with flower-embroidered shoes.
She took one step. Then another. The third step disturbed a little pool of red; she retreated, and then tiptoed on. A maze of fallen weaponry, blinded men, stagnant puddles of blood that dotted the carpet, zigzagging forever down the hall - a swamp of bodies, in her seven-year-old imagination. Hesitantly she sifted through them - blonde-haired, brown-haired, brown-haired, blonde-haired feet finding paths through outstretched arms and blood-speckled loafers departed from their masters. It seemed like forever before she stood in front of one leaning against the wall, white shirt now red, black eyes unseeing, tonfas finally at rest.
In her seven-year-old mind doubt trembled like a sudden storm. Licking her dry lips she tried: "Hibari-san?"
He lay where he was, head tilted a little sideways, hand still clasped around an empty gun. A sea of enemies surrounded the two of them, a dizzying labyrinth of endless, faceless peons. Bitten to death. In her head she conjured the image of the wicked smile he'd shown her before when he faced their enemies.
He made no such expression now. His lips were slightly parted, eyes dulled, face slack and empty. His tonfas were so crusted with blood they might as well be black.
"Hibari-san?," she ventured again, voice wavering. The distant toll of a grandfather clock answered her from downstairs. In this scene of carnage the only thing that moved was her, hands clenched to her chest where the tip of a clear crystal prism peeked from between her fingers.
"...Papa?," she relented desperately. Don't call me that. Your father is already dead. Tears gathered delicately at the ends of her eyelashes. Reaching out one hand, she lightly fingered the tips of Hibari's dark hair, matted here and there, but still soft, almost alive.
Almost.
--------------
Sheets toss as bodies flip underneath. The light from the blinds rake, bend with the movement - shuddering with a groan as a black head shakes into view, tilted back. His mouth is red. From the first glance it seems colored from a simple kiss, but closer inspection shows a trail rubbed away hastily with the back of a hand, smeared over pale cheeks. Not lipstick, not makeup. Blood, Dino's blood.
The blond chuckles where he is, hands clenched around the sheets. The sound rumbles through his chest, vibrating against steel-scented hands. Hibari pierces him with a stare, lowers his neck - and then Dino moans, because the other is lapping delicately at the tear above his heart. Black lashes fall closed; breath rasps raggedly in the air of the hotel room. Outside the red sun slowly falls prey to the incoming night.
Hibari digs his teeth in, and Dino bucks helplessly under him from the pain. Their hands scrabble for each other, find, and entwine. A sharp hiss escapes the Guardian's mouth as he comes. Waves upon waves of white, blinding pleasure; they clash again and again, and Hibari grits his teeth, wondering why he keeps doing this when every time they fight he feels less like biting and more like that herbivoric action of making love.
------------
The only reason he does is this because he needs it - there is no other reason. It is enough to satisfy the necessity of touch and someone else simply being there, that's the only reason he consents. If he wants to fight, then they fight. If he wants to fuck, they fuck. Both satisfy the desire to have someone else there.
Dino understands that regardless of form or method, he would prefer to fight when a person worth fighting is there. He appreciates that unspoken truce, that neither hold bruises or bite marks against the other. There is nothing more he can do to show his thanks though, because it is also understood Dino gives all of this for free, as is his way.
After a decade, the unrepaid favor only stings a little.
------------
"Her name's Olimpia.
"She's not mine," Dino lies with steady blue eyes. "I'm just taking care of her, because her father's dead."
Hibari wants to call him on it, but holds his tongue. It isn't his business, he doesn't care, he doesn't care - he stalwartly repeats this mantra. Uncharacteristically he holds himself back from what he wants to do, mainly fatally maiming Dino and then whatever whore cared enough to carry his seed for nine months. And then he snarls, because he's doing it again, giving in to another's wishes.
It's because in that moment, he forgets who or what he swore to do in the face of this person, if only there is something Hibari can do. Soft, he thinks, so damned soft. His hands tighten around the handle of his duffel that holds his tonfas; he thinks of loosening his tie and running at the other full-tilt like he used to. He imagines sinking steel spikes into the other's throat, blood floating in the air between him and Dino's openmouthed surprise. He imagines tossing away that whip on the table, taking a vengeful lighter to it. He imagines taking digging his weapon deep into the other's stomach, sending him like a flightless canary through the fiftieth story window of this hotel. He imagines the blood that will spray out of wounds when Dino dodges with a smile and fearful eyes -
- the wrong kind of fear, the kind that wants to protect what they have together now. Not the kind Hibari wants to inspire: the split-second realization before one is completely and utterly defeated at his hands.
He faces the other as he slides on cufflinks and folds his black jacket over his arm. Somewhere in him desperately wants control back - he didn't sign up for this ride, all he wanted was a good fight - a part of him might actually still believe it. Looking back it isn't surprising he became attached to another physical thing, and thus to the person who offers it to him.
He only needs one thing to be attached to, though. Namimori is enough.
"She's only two, Hibari," Dino pleads quietly, "She's only got me."
He hates them, those things that pile on him so he can't wander without going too far from them. Rings and blue eyes, he hates them all.
"I don't care," he hisses back. The hesitantly heartbroken look on Dino's face is almost worth it; the only thing that holds back his glee is that they both know it's a lie.
------------
"She's really cute," Dino says the next time they meet. "She's got these big blue eyes and that blonde Chiavarone hair. She likes the teddy bears I get her and knocks on my office door while I'm still working to bring me grape juice and keep all of monsters under my desk away."
With age comes restraint, Hibari knows this. It is not something they ever indulged in when they fought (though Dino half-heartedly complains every time You just don't ever take it easy, do you Kyouya?), and similarly Hibari doesn't show the other mercy now.
At one point Romario looks as if it has gone a little too far, but Dino waves him away. Hibari doesn't stop until the top of Dino's head is faintly orange with blood along with the rest of the bruises the Guardian has gifted him with. "That really hurts, Kyouya," the blond says behind gritted teeth, "Really hurts!" Romario steps forward with a wet towel; Hibari steps back to bring tongue to steel, doubly metallic with blood and weaponry.
Don't mention her name in my presence, he wants to say.
But it's more than he could ever do, seeing the satisfied grin creep slowly back onto the other's face. He might tolerate the brat just for that.
-------------
When Dino finally says it, it's bold and big like the other usually is, drawing all the attention in the room with his charming smile and good heart. "She could be ours," he blurts in a spur-of-the-moment confession of a long-standing idea, "She could be our kid, Kyouya!" When the Cloud Guardian doesn't even pause where he's straightening his tie and shirt, Dino continues excitedly, "You could teach her fighting when she older! And you could start on her Japanese lessons early so she doesn't have an accent - like now!"
Nonsense, he wants to say. You teach her. I don't care about her.
A little girl like her needs a mother, not another father. Though - and he thinks this with a glance back at where the other is back to prattling about white skirts and the cutest white shoes over a goblet of wine - the one parent she has right now is more than enough.
"I hope she'll grow up to be strong and smart. She's so little -"
"And take after who?," Hibari cuts in smoothly. Dino's blue eyes blink at him, wide but not at all unknowing. "Her clumsy father?"
"Kyouya -"
The door shuts, and the Guardian moves quickly down the hall to the elevator. He can see Dino running his hand though his hair frustratedly in the darkness of the room, still smelling of their nighttime activities. But all the same the only reason he can say such things is because he knows Dino Chiavarone isn't one to be depressed for long. He'll bounce back up, blond hair flopping across his forehead, smile firmly in place, daughter in hand -
- where would Hibari be in that picture? Nowhere.
----------
Bitten to death, they fall like dominoes in their black suits and white shirts. He picks wallets, sifts through the personal information hidden away there - names and dates and pictures flash, happy ones with yet-alive people, survivors that will curse him without knowing his name - before tucking them back. He leaves the bodies without their trademark spider tattoos; he purges their Venitian family to nothing. They are dead, their families are dead -
- he is dead.
----------
Clear and cloudless skies.
"Dov'è Papa?," the little two-year-old cried to him from the circle of Romario's arms. The once-right hand man of the Chiavarone boss now sported white hair, and red eyes behind the safety of his sunglasses. When Italian didn't work, the little girl added, "Doko papa?"
He didn't move to cradle her, though that would usually be the natural response to such an adorable toddler. With two fingers stuck in her mouth and a lollipop clenched in her other hand, big cornflower eyes the exact shade as his, he wondered too why he didn't move to touch her. Maybe it was because he was afraid of being bound to the earth again, to another foreign yet irresistable, detestable herbivoric urge. The urge to find another, mate, "settle down". Raise a child. Die smiling with his last breath.
"Kudaranu [1]," he hissed, and threw the flowers down on the grave. Pushing past the mourners and the sobbing grandmothers with black-flowered lace kerchiefs over their heads, he vowed to leave this place and everything to do with tattooed charismatic mafia bosses behind. He raged; he wanted something to sink his teeth into, something ugly and empty to reflect the center of his emotions. He wanted to bite someone to death; he ran through names in his mind, Varia and Vongola, reformed Millefiore, yet-alive Calcassa members - someone who wouldn't die even if he came at them full blaze and aiming to kill.
A gunshot rang pregnant in the noonday sun for a moment before people screamed, diving for cover, scrambling pell-mell for their cars or any sort of security nearby. Hibari moved swiftly against them, the handles of his tonfas tight in his grip. He reached the trees where he could see the glint of a sniper barrel, hoping principessa Dina is still where she is in Romario's arms. A second later the man was dead, gone in a spray of blood. Hibari strained his eyes into the distance, heart pounding with frank adrenaline and frigid fear -
- a baby squalled, voice spiralling up to the sky above. Shakingly Romario pushed his sunglasses up his nose one last time before smearing against his boss' headstone, on top of that giant heap of flowers. La principessa tumbled from his arms, grabbing a white rose with candy-sticky hands. As Hibari approached she looked up at him with solemn sky-blue eyes, chubby arm tan from days running outside (ripe for a tattoo) - and then promptly stuffed the flower in her mouth.
"Hayaku hake![2]," he commanded, hands beating unmercifully on her small back. "Pronto!"
She did, blue eyes baleful. To occupy her he shoved the first thing that wasn't a pen, pencil, or weapon into her curious hands: the fruit of one of I-pin's middle school science projects about sunlight and colors, a prism. As they made their way to the car, he watched as she clutched it, held it up, giggled at the colors and reflections within with crossed eyes. Her happy gurgling rumbled against his chest as he jogged.
Olimpia, he remembered that voice telling him. Olimpia is her name.
And the last Cloud departed.
----------
Not that you couldn't guess these, but:
[1] Kudaranu: This is ridiculous
[2] Hayaku hake!: Spit it out!
Well, if you want angst, you get angst.
This challenge was really hard - I don't write 100 (barely know him) or 69 (can't get in his head). I can't see 1859 in any shape or form (which is why when people do it realistically I really go @.@ Why didn't I think of that?), which only leaves D18. Hence, MAI FURST D18 fic. Well, other than those little snippet things I write sometimes.
Seriously though, I'd be more successful at writing D27 than at D18, though D18 is everywhere. I just can't get the sense of their relationship right. Still, good to try new things and go out on a limb once in a while.
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On the other hand this fic took me freaking forever. I debated for *so* *long* whether to use Olimpia or not. But then I didn't want it regular!depressed, and this whole idea of Hibari dying for Dino's kid has stuck with me for as long as...however long ago I read about it on hitman_reborn.
Thus this fic was born. Personally I'm still torn over it. Hibari feels too clipped in some places and too long-winded in others. So I'm still unsatisfied - might tweak later, but for right now I NEED TO ACTUALLY DO WORK. *ficc'ed instead*
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I've noticed a pattern in my fics. There is always: 1) a physical motif (in this case, a prism), 2) a regular motif (like in this case it was Hibari talking/thinking back), 3) in the case of Reborn, usually some sort of foreign language (Italian or Japanese), 4) some sort of set writing format (in this case, 2 current-day parts frame a series of flashbacks). Formulaic? I think so too.
I'm still alright with it, though. I don't feel the need to give my writing style a massive overhaul just yet. Though I do look at my long sentences and shake my head at times too, just like everybody else does. XD Oh yes, if you want to read my stuff, beware...
T.T And people don't want to do reborn_flashfic because it's too rushed??? That makes me sad...but at the same time I want to join reborn_exchange. BUT THAT WORKLOAD WOULD JUST KEEL ME OVER DED, yes. So maybe it'd be better if I didn't. *nodnod*
[EDIT: I'm changing the name, I hated the first one. I don't particularly like this one either, actually. ARGH I can never name these things.
Looking back over this while I'm actually awake helps. I hate it even more than...a lot of my other ones, actually, because it feels so halfhearted. The beginning was good, and then all the D18 interaction actually made it terrible. It would have been find if I'd written more on Hibari and Olimpia...but I didn't want to make her intrude any more than she already had. In the end the decision to bring in an OC...I *still* don't know whether it was the right thing to do or not.
WELL I'm too tired to possibly be able to pound out another D18 fic, if...ever. I just plain *can't* write Hibari, it's impossible for me. *gives up spectacularly*]
[EDIT 2: ....this is the 4th time out of 6 that I haven't gotten a fic out of the reborn_flashfic challenge. I feel so incredibly unloved...why don't I ever get things? Am I really that scary and intimidating??? *SOB*
Basically, I'm the only one stupid enough to take the challenge enough to write something every single month that I've joined. I...just wanted others to feel the joy when I got my first fic, that's all... Am I stupid for thinking that? For following it for 6 months?]
[EDIT 3: This really sucks. I feel like deleting it. It's all choppy and UGH, I just can't write Hibari. At least this time the prompt for reborn_flashfic isn't as hard as last time's...]