Fic: The Other Vongola Family
Sawada Iemitsu had long come to expect and accept the Ninth Boss’ only son’s rudeness; with cordiality, he would be met with distain, with sincerity, he would be met with scorn, and with seriousness he would be laughed in the face. Generally Iemitsu wouldn’t tolerate this type of ill-manners, being a Spartan sort of man about such things, but Xanxus didn’t generally show it, and instead ignored him like he ignored anyone (excluding a few, certain people; his father, one of the Varia members who he seemed obsessed with causing constant physical harm to). And besides, Iyemitsu understood where Xanxus was coming from, if he would not condone it. It all boiled down to this; Iyemitsu was from the First Generation line, pure and unadultered; Xanxus was nothing, ironically, but gutter trash. In a way, Iemitsu could not help but feel very sorry for such an obviously conflicted young man.
It usually helped him in not bashing Xanxus’s brains out on the nearest concrete wall; and, little did Xanxus expect or know, this was something Iemitsu could do, which was eat little shits like Xanxus for breakfast (well, provided he had the drop on Xanxus, and a good hiding and recovery vantage should his initial attempt at breaking Xanxus’ skull be unsuccessful; it also helped that he carried about what could be used easily as a deadly weapon).
But, that aside, Iemitsu tried to be polite, because it was easier working with your family when you weren’t gnawing on each other’s arms, and he always kept in mind Xanxus’ knowledge. It didn’t always help that the Ninth felt that Iemitsu (his most trusted advisor) was perfect for the job of babysitting Xanxus. And, honestly, Iemitsu couldn’t argue. Not many people could handle the youth, and Iemitsu was respected enough so that Xanxus wouldn’t immediately shove a Flame of Wrath down his throat, and then use his body as a footrest at breakfast.
So, on that particular morning, at the bewilderment of the Ninth (“Where is my son?” He had asked, with the sort of sadness only a loving father could unknowingly project. That afternoon was supposed to be a meeting with the Russo Family, and the Ninth had thought he had reminded Xanxus to be at breakfast, so he could present himself accordingly that afternoon. Neither of the men had been surprised at Xanxus’ unruliness, but the Ninth had sent him nonetheless.), Sawada Iemitsu found himself walking down the darkened corridors of the Varia Headquarters, and rather desperately hoping no one would pop out of one of the bedrooms to greet him with his morning’s dose of bloodshed and mayhem. It was at the end of one of the corridors deepest in the mansion that he stopped, clenching and unclenching his hands in front of the reinforced oak doors.
A dangerous man lived inside… No, scratch that, a dangerous boy lived within, but it still made him no less dangerous, having never really learned the distinction between the two, and lived as an adult, brash teenager for most of his life.
He studied the ornately carved oak from a couple of different angles, figuring that one of the most dangerous men in the Italian mafia would probably booby-trap the door. Upon finding none, it occurred to him (past paranoia that kept him alive in the last twenty-four years) that Xanxus himself was an adequate trap, tried the door. Well, whatever.
The latch gave with the sharpness that bespoke its newness, and swung silently inwards on oiled hinges, revealing the room beyond with a sort of abated stillness. The heavy drapes had not been drawn to impede the light from the morning that marched successively and silently in, bathing the room beyond in a deceptively peaceful glow.
Cushions of a dark, rich purple strew across the floor in a haphazard mess, interspersed with sporadic reminders of the man that inhabited the room; a game console newest from Japan was left idling on the floor, laying next to a bottle of whisky with a shattered neck, and a glass tinged on the lip with blood. Antique, breathless overstuffed furniture melded into the atmosphere the room had naturally constructed, littered with leather pants, a pair of heavy, door-kicking boots, paperwork, an incongruous pair of tattered jeans. Cans of barley tea obliterated strategic maps.
It reminded him, almost surreally, that this man should be going to college right now, or just starting off in some major corporation as a fresh-faced, well-intentioned newbie employee. For not the first time in his life, Iemitsu felt a complete, crushing despair at the destruction of a life that might have had more potential. In a few seconds, he was revived of this however, being reminded through nothing in particular of Xanxus’ Flame of Wrath and naturally ornery and bloodthirsty disposition. Perhaps due to the reminder he had yet to approach the bed, and to wake the still-as-of-yet slumbering Xanxus.
The four-poster bed in the middle was, as keeping with the rest of the trappings, of epic proportions; the heavy, red velvet drapes and tall, spired bedposts, however, did nothing to conceal the youth inside, who looked, if nothing else, like a morning-after picture of a fraternity party. Or, rather, his position might have made it seem like such an innocuous scene, but looked significantly more sinister on Xanxus.
He was laying on his front, face only partially emerging from the pillows, but stripped entirely naked, so that the array of scars his father bequeathed (a passage of right, so to speak, and Iemitsu felt a sick twinge) on his body showed prevalently, looping and writing down long, lanky arms and legs. The sheets twined around his limbs, as if suffering at the hands of an insomniac or someone with bad nightmares. Iemitsu stepped closer still, until he was able to see the blood that tinged the thick, surly lips (undoubtedly from churlishly continuing to drink alcohol out of a broken bottle, no doubt because someone had told him to stop doing so), smell the unmistakable scent of strong alcohol, and see that… his eyes were open.
Iemitsu felt his heart skip a couple of beats; it was just slightly eerie to think of the youth tracking his movements around the room like some sort of twisted predator. And that was when Iemitsu realized Xanxus was, indeed, still sleeping, only that he had taken to recently practicing the deceptive art of open-eyed sleeping. Charming, no doubt. It, oddly enough, gave Iemitsu the impetus to finally step forward, before the Boss’s precious son ruined his eyesight for good.
“Wake up, Xanxus.” The slender figure on the bed jolted, and then groaned like some large, carnivorous animal; scarred palms slid out from under the pillows and ground into eye sockets with enough force to blind. “Good morning.” Iemitsu persisted, throwing chance to the wind by stepping forward further and, taking the sheet that covered the youth on the bed by a corner, whipped it from Xanxus’s pinning body.
“Suck my dick, fucking outlander trash.” It lost none of its intended impact by the fact that it was muffled by cotton and the flesh of his hands. Xanxus felt it was, no doubt, somehow Iemitsu’s fault that his eyes were now in some considerable pain, and was not about to be kind to someone who was disturbing his hangover cure.
“It’s time to get up. You’re going to be late for the meeting with the Ninth.” Iemitsu lost no time in throwing open the bed hangings, tying them to their respective and ill-used posts. Xanxus did not stir from his position, only ground his head further into the mattress. The way his body curled, however, he was in no mean state.
“I said suck my dick, fucking trash. Tell that fucking old man that I’m not coming.” He had rather shouted this, but the fact that his hands were now laced over his head meant he was in some bodily agony. Iemitsu didn’t respond; he had already occupied the bathroom, starting a cold shower, and wondering how he was going to get 180 lbs of pure, scornful fighting hatred into a nine-by-six-by-three shower stall. One did not simply get Xanxus to do what Xanxus did not want to do; simultaneously, Iemitsu knew this meeting was important. He was, perhaps, saved from figuring out the logistics of this mathematical improbability by the Varia Rain Guardian entering the room by kicking the doors open and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“VOOOOOOIIIIII! Get the fuck up, shitty Boss! We still have that stupid-ass meeting to get to with that old geezer!” Iemitsu, trailing his fingers under the lukewarm water (having opted against cold, thinking that the whole of headquarters would be able to hear Xanxus’ shrieking as if tortured), to watch Xanxus suddenly appear in his line of vision (by the look of Squalo’s once bloodthirsty, now wearing a startled expression as if he had been run through), grabbed the back of his subordinate’s head and smashed it promptly into the corner of the desk he was nearest to.
“You’re forever fucking noisy, trash.”While the slender, silver haired youth shook uncontrollably on the floor, Xanxus approached the adjoining bathroom Iemitsu was in, walking as assuredly and ill-temperedly as if he wasn’t completely naked with his business hanging out; despite his lack of clothes and regular accoutrements that usually lent the man his atmosphere, the brownish, flat scars, oddly fine, cloudlike hair that mired his vile expression, and controlledly languorous slouch, Xanxus naked was still a sight to behold.
Stepping up to the shower, he gave only one, rather feral glance that acknowledged Iemitsu’s existence while testing the temperature of the water and, upon finding it satisfactory, stepped in. Iemitsu found it acceptable to be completely ignored now that events had gotten rolling, and went to attend to the fallen (though the youth with switchblade elbows and knees and a disconcertingly wide grimace had already pulled himself over to the healthy supply of liquor in the corner cabinet and was proceeding to drink himself entirely stupid to dull the pain of what appeared, already, to be a broken nose (no doubt intending to set it once the alcohol kicked in); he looked, absurdly, with his banner of well-groomed hair, and his almost feminine body structure and posture, like a battered spouse).
Iemitsu had tended to the younger man’s nose (who had shrieked and beaten the floor with a curled fist when the cartilage realigned), and was quitting the room to report to the Ninth when Xanxus reemerged from the bathroom (now dripping wet and naked, obviously intending to dissipate the water from his skin; Iemitsu wondered where the towels were), and demanding to know where his clean uniform had gone, and if the trash shark had sent it to the dry cleaners again, Xanxus was going to very explicitly murder said shark slowly and leave his body parts for his loved ones to find.
Iemitsu figured this was sufficient answer enough to advise him that Xanxus had changed his mind about not coming, and felt confident enough to relay this to the Ninth. Indeed, thirty minutes later, in the cavernous, airy dining hall, Xanxus had breezed in alone to sit belligerently at the end of the table opposite his father (who had perhaps anticipated this and had chosen one of the smaller tables near the windows to breakfast at) to pick disgustedly at his fruit salad and imbibe great quantities of coffee.
But, all in all, the entire thing had gone over well, and had said as much to the Ninth after the entire day had passed (the Rosso’s seemed delighted, or at least in Xanxus and the Ninth’s presence, to make promises, cut deals, and forge new alliances; Iemitsu wondered if the Ninth’s desire to have his son accompany his was really so altruistic after all, considering the amount of sweat pouring down the Rosso Boss’s face every time Xanxus shifted and yawned). After all, it was another, rather mundane day in the Vongola.