long overdue for wifey
Glittering Stone
it is an immortality of a sort
For dumplingyum
The Bovino family, with their rather timid mascot, has never been too fond of the full moon and hairy lunar superstitions, but ten years later, Lambo cannot help but wonder about the brilliant cool rays falling across Reborn’s slumbering brows. Squinting his eyes in the half-hearted darkness, Lambo wiggles under the shared covers in an effort to catch a closer look at his, well, unlikely companion beneath the August moon.
It is almost as if Lambo waits for Reborn to start sprouting fur on the back of his palms or for the grown up baby to begin dripping saliva from overgrown canines. But the signs, neat and orderly as the scientific method, have always been there. Five days earlier, Reborn emerges from his baby form and reflexively shoots anyone who mentions the word “butterfly.” Three days earlier, he can be seen punting Tsuna across the fence and occasionally grabbing a very startled Dino’s ass. Yesterday, and as of two years ago, he begins to whisper in Lambo’s ear, searching for the depth of the moon.
Of course, let’s not have any delusions of romanticism here. Those whispered words can, for the most part, be summed up as, “Get your goddamn ass in bed, dumb cow.”
And although the cow is indeed dumb, he can also be absolutely accidental, especially after having his brain cells, one by one, fucked away through the sweat that drips down his back as Reborn grabs his thighs. Lambo now struggles so close to Reborn that his black curls tickle the smooth forehead of the assassin ever so gently-
--but irritatingly enough to force the assassin to roll over and grunt in his sleep.
“Are you remembering?” Lambo wonders quietly under his breath and closes his own gaze. He tries to mimic his unlikely companion and figures that the first thing on the dinner plate are blond curls. Or-wait. The dumb cow frowns. No, that is more like Dino and Reborn certainly does not dream of any of his pupils. Thus, the Thunder Guardian allows those curls to straighten out, to brighten. His mind wanders lower to the brows, to the relaxed, yet daring brows, and then to the sparkling eyes of a challenger.
During the last October moon, Reborn had, draped in a borrowed yutaka from Yamamoto, briefly mentioned, “Colonnello was always the idiot among us. That dumbass just didn’t know when to stop; when it went too far. Even worse than Viper. I knew him as a kid, sort of. He tried to jump off a roof and onto his pet eagle because he thought that he was such a runt-he could ride that thing. Dumbass.”
Lambo tightens his hands underneath the cover. Perhaps Reborn must be dreaming of Colonnello’s scars, like the deep one which ran across the blond’s stomach and pooled out like the Red Sea. It had, or Reborn claimed, greatly diminished since Colonnello had become an Arcobaleno, and his eyes always shifted slightly further upon that reminiscence.
“At first, he kept on wanting to get to Lal on purpose. Like, he’d purposely dive off into a lake on the shallow end just to get her lungs and heart going. Once then, he nearly did buy the farm. Lal was too shocked to even punish him, so I stuck a bullet into his thigh for her. That women never thanked me.”
Or maybe it must be Colonnello’s easy smile which has entered Reborn’s head. The hitman has always complained of the wobbly corners of Lambo’s mouth, the obnoxiously fawning urges in Gokudera’s lips, the brick wall in Yamamoto’s teeth, and the luxuriousness in Dino’s laugh. It has always been something, one or another, like the time when Tsuna tried to bark out a mafia boss laugh and Reborn buried him alive. Or the time when Hibari crinkled the side of his mouth and the baby Arcobaleno whipped out twin pistols. Something or another. But Colonnello-the blonde was a reckless fool for sure, but he had always preserved his merriment in mint freshness, sharp like the morning crisp of apples. Reborn had always enjoyed the relish.
“Apples are the best under full moons,” Reborn once randomly mumbled in his sleep.
Lambo’s nose twitches and, horrified, he sneezes. The hitman’s eyes slam open. Squeaking, the dumb cow backs away as far as possible, but his newfound instinct for survival only causes him to crash onto the floor, butt first. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the manifestation of near certain rage, but only the floors burst into creaks as Reborn steps over Lambo’s curled figure and out the door.
The dumb cow, gathering the covers around his bare body, slowly straightens up onto his feet. He creeps out after his capricious and unlikely companion, only to wind up outside on the porch. Briefly, he wonders if he should inform Reborn that public nudity is a crime, but the dumb cow keeps his lips zipped for once.
Through tousled black bangs, Reborn glances up at the full moon and then whistles sharply.
This is a loop hole in the scientific method, but as stated before, Lambo is just so accidental. Gradually, as a strong breeze begins to stir Lambo’s mop of hair and tawny feathers glide down like molting angels, the Thunder Guardian accepts a prediction which will never blossom, a prediction too late.
He could have been an angel, of course.
Reborn extends his lean arm around and Colonnello’s eagle descends onto the sturdy perch. Golden raptor eyes fixate on Lambo for just the briefest second before dropping and closing, and the eagle’s head rubs against Reborn’s wrist.
The hitman does not say a word, but Lambo can see his angels.
it is an immortality of a sort
For dumplingyum
The Bovino family, with their rather timid mascot, has never been too fond of the full moon and hairy lunar superstitions, but ten years later, Lambo cannot help but wonder about the brilliant cool rays falling across Reborn’s slumbering brows. Squinting his eyes in the half-hearted darkness, Lambo wiggles under the shared covers in an effort to catch a closer look at his, well, unlikely companion beneath the August moon.
It is almost as if Lambo waits for Reborn to start sprouting fur on the back of his palms or for the grown up baby to begin dripping saliva from overgrown canines. But the signs, neat and orderly as the scientific method, have always been there. Five days earlier, Reborn emerges from his baby form and reflexively shoots anyone who mentions the word “butterfly.” Three days earlier, he can be seen punting Tsuna across the fence and occasionally grabbing a very startled Dino’s ass. Yesterday, and as of two years ago, he begins to whisper in Lambo’s ear, searching for the depth of the moon.
Of course, let’s not have any delusions of romanticism here. Those whispered words can, for the most part, be summed up as, “Get your goddamn ass in bed, dumb cow.”
And although the cow is indeed dumb, he can also be absolutely accidental, especially after having his brain cells, one by one, fucked away through the sweat that drips down his back as Reborn grabs his thighs. Lambo now struggles so close to Reborn that his black curls tickle the smooth forehead of the assassin ever so gently-
--but irritatingly enough to force the assassin to roll over and grunt in his sleep.
“Are you remembering?” Lambo wonders quietly under his breath and closes his own gaze. He tries to mimic his unlikely companion and figures that the first thing on the dinner plate are blond curls. Or-wait. The dumb cow frowns. No, that is more like Dino and Reborn certainly does not dream of any of his pupils. Thus, the Thunder Guardian allows those curls to straighten out, to brighten. His mind wanders lower to the brows, to the relaxed, yet daring brows, and then to the sparkling eyes of a challenger.
During the last October moon, Reborn had, draped in a borrowed yutaka from Yamamoto, briefly mentioned, “Colonnello was always the idiot among us. That dumbass just didn’t know when to stop; when it went too far. Even worse than Viper. I knew him as a kid, sort of. He tried to jump off a roof and onto his pet eagle because he thought that he was such a runt-he could ride that thing. Dumbass.”
Lambo tightens his hands underneath the cover. Perhaps Reborn must be dreaming of Colonnello’s scars, like the deep one which ran across the blond’s stomach and pooled out like the Red Sea. It had, or Reborn claimed, greatly diminished since Colonnello had become an Arcobaleno, and his eyes always shifted slightly further upon that reminiscence.
“At first, he kept on wanting to get to Lal on purpose. Like, he’d purposely dive off into a lake on the shallow end just to get her lungs and heart going. Once then, he nearly did buy the farm. Lal was too shocked to even punish him, so I stuck a bullet into his thigh for her. That women never thanked me.”
Or maybe it must be Colonnello’s easy smile which has entered Reborn’s head. The hitman has always complained of the wobbly corners of Lambo’s mouth, the obnoxiously fawning urges in Gokudera’s lips, the brick wall in Yamamoto’s teeth, and the luxuriousness in Dino’s laugh. It has always been something, one or another, like the time when Tsuna tried to bark out a mafia boss laugh and Reborn buried him alive. Or the time when Hibari crinkled the side of his mouth and the baby Arcobaleno whipped out twin pistols. Something or another. But Colonnello-the blonde was a reckless fool for sure, but he had always preserved his merriment in mint freshness, sharp like the morning crisp of apples. Reborn had always enjoyed the relish.
“Apples are the best under full moons,” Reborn once randomly mumbled in his sleep.
Lambo’s nose twitches and, horrified, he sneezes. The hitman’s eyes slam open. Squeaking, the dumb cow backs away as far as possible, but his newfound instinct for survival only causes him to crash onto the floor, butt first. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the manifestation of near certain rage, but only the floors burst into creaks as Reborn steps over Lambo’s curled figure and out the door.
The dumb cow, gathering the covers around his bare body, slowly straightens up onto his feet. He creeps out after his capricious and unlikely companion, only to wind up outside on the porch. Briefly, he wonders if he should inform Reborn that public nudity is a crime, but the dumb cow keeps his lips zipped for once.
Through tousled black bangs, Reborn glances up at the full moon and then whistles sharply.
This is a loop hole in the scientific method, but as stated before, Lambo is just so accidental. Gradually, as a strong breeze begins to stir Lambo’s mop of hair and tawny feathers glide down like molting angels, the Thunder Guardian accepts a prediction which will never blossom, a prediction too late.
He could have been an angel, of course.
Reborn extends his lean arm around and Colonnello’s eagle descends onto the sturdy perch. Golden raptor eyes fixate on Lambo for just the briefest second before dropping and closing, and the eagle’s head rubs against Reborn’s wrist.
The hitman does not say a word, but Lambo can see his angels.