Drabble dump
Also, lol sorry for spamming the f-list tonight. XD; But anyway, half-assed Reborn drabbles that I had to write down somehow because of this. Watch it. It's so creepy in such an awesome way. <3333
Tied
Mukuro is an ageless being in the body of an aging boy, and as much as he hates to admit it, he thinks his fate might be tied to the Vongola’s. If it falls, he falls. His first life was spent with the Primo after all, when his mind was still a blank slate and there had been no name to define him.
Mukuro, he said, but Giotto had refused to call him that. Chrome. Not Mukuro.
But even that name had been denied him when the Primo died, and so he transferred it to that guileless sweet girl who now belonged to Mukuro, body, heart and soul.
Blood Bet
“I’ll keep the blood from his hands,” Gokudera had sworn once, eyes blazing as he stared Mukuro down. “I’ll fucking keep the blood from his hands even if it takes my fucking life.”
Tsuna had paused at the door, raised fist soundless above the wood.
Mukuro had laughed, that irritating laugh that Gokudera had never quite learnt how to tolerate.
“Kuu…” A heartbeat sounded long and loud, and then, “We’ll see, Vongola Storm, we’ll see.” Chrome’s surprised ‘ah’ had broken the conversation then, and Tsuna had left, the knock never landing on the door.
He remembered that moment now, when Gokudera was absent, on a mission he himself had sent him on, and his fists clenched on the oak table. The blood was destined to stain his hands after all, and not even the storm could wash it away.
“Well, Vongola~?” Mukuro looked at him- and Tsuna had to force himself not to lean backwards, away from that terrifying red-and-blue stare. His jaw tightened, and he picked up a pen.
“There,” he said, as the ink dried on the paper. Mukuro picked up the sheaf, leafing through it slowly.
“The first drops of blood, my dear Tenth,” he whispered, smiling triumphantly, and Tsuna’s face turned pale, but the illusionist was out of the room before Tsuna could even raise his head to look at him.
*insert title here?*
It had taken years, but Gokudera no longer collapsed to the floor, trembling from Pavlovian stomachaches whenever he saw Bianchi’s face. Somehow, it trumps even the memory of knowing that he'd gotten his beloved Tenth to swim the entire length of an Olympic-sized pool.
Piano-playing
“I don’t understand you,” a twenty-year-old Gokudera growls, as he leans his elbows on the wrought-iron railing of the balcony and refuses to look at Bianchi. The woman eyes her recalcitrant brother, but does not say a word.
She looks out at the darkened estate of the Vongola instead, looks at the land that belongs to the family Reborn is so loyal to.
After a while Gokudera continues, as if he thinks Bianchi doesn’t comprehend his words. “Why come looking for me? Why tell me about that man? I don’t need shit from him, I’m perfectly happy in the Vongola and-”
Her sigh stops his tirade, and he wonders why.
“It’s just selfishness, Hayato,” she says, and her smile is a little sad. “I’m not Vongola after all, and well. I haven’t touched the piano in a long while either.”
Tied
Mukuro is an ageless being in the body of an aging boy, and as much as he hates to admit it, he thinks his fate might be tied to the Vongola’s. If it falls, he falls. His first life was spent with the Primo after all, when his mind was still a blank slate and there had been no name to define him.
Mukuro, he said, but Giotto had refused to call him that. Chrome. Not Mukuro.
But even that name had been denied him when the Primo died, and so he transferred it to that guileless sweet girl who now belonged to Mukuro, body, heart and soul.
Blood Bet
“I’ll keep the blood from his hands,” Gokudera had sworn once, eyes blazing as he stared Mukuro down. “I’ll fucking keep the blood from his hands even if it takes my fucking life.”
Tsuna had paused at the door, raised fist soundless above the wood.
Mukuro had laughed, that irritating laugh that Gokudera had never quite learnt how to tolerate.
“Kuu…” A heartbeat sounded long and loud, and then, “We’ll see, Vongola Storm, we’ll see.” Chrome’s surprised ‘ah’ had broken the conversation then, and Tsuna had left, the knock never landing on the door.
He remembered that moment now, when Gokudera was absent, on a mission he himself had sent him on, and his fists clenched on the oak table. The blood was destined to stain his hands after all, and not even the storm could wash it away.
“Well, Vongola~?” Mukuro looked at him- and Tsuna had to force himself not to lean backwards, away from that terrifying red-and-blue stare. His jaw tightened, and he picked up a pen.
“There,” he said, as the ink dried on the paper. Mukuro picked up the sheaf, leafing through it slowly.
“The first drops of blood, my dear Tenth,” he whispered, smiling triumphantly, and Tsuna’s face turned pale, but the illusionist was out of the room before Tsuna could even raise his head to look at him.
*insert title here?*
It had taken years, but Gokudera no longer collapsed to the floor, trembling from Pavlovian stomachaches whenever he saw Bianchi’s face. Somehow, it trumps even the memory of knowing that he'd gotten his beloved Tenth to swim the entire length of an Olympic-sized pool.
Piano-playing
“I don’t understand you,” a twenty-year-old Gokudera growls, as he leans his elbows on the wrought-iron railing of the balcony and refuses to look at Bianchi. The woman eyes her recalcitrant brother, but does not say a word.
She looks out at the darkened estate of the Vongola instead, looks at the land that belongs to the family Reborn is so loyal to.
After a while Gokudera continues, as if he thinks Bianchi doesn’t comprehend his words. “Why come looking for me? Why tell me about that man? I don’t need shit from him, I’m perfectly happy in the Vongola and-”
Her sigh stops his tirade, and he wonders why.
“It’s just selfishness, Hayato,” she says, and her smile is a little sad. “I’m not Vongola after all, and well. I haven’t touched the piano in a long while either.”