Drabbles. Reborn and Kingdom Hearts/Lion King.

[midnightdiddle]

First, the Lion King/Kingdom Hearts. Er.

All in all, Simba decided, it was not a lion. Definitely not a lion. Simba and Red XIII, totally not bestiality whatever, I swear.

Finding Home

Simba wasn't sure what this thing was. It looked almost like a lion, but it smelled wrong, moved wrong, even spoke wrong. It spoke in sharp, barking sounds, that ended wrong. It smelled almost like the hyenas, but not even like them, not really. And it looked wrong. The thing's mane was too thin, too low on the body, and the entire coat was too dark.

All in all, Simba decided, it was not a lion. Definitely not a lion.

The lionesses had found it wandering through the Pride Lands, and had more or less led it back to Pride Rock. Simba wasn't quite sure why the lionesses had done so, because if Simba had a choice, he would've left it on the Pride Lands, and called it good. Better safe than sorry, and they couldn't be safe with this thing here, because this thing was definitely not a lion, and therefore, definitely couldn't be trusted.

Not to mention that it smelled wrong.

But kinda interesting.

Interesting in the way that meant Simba wasn't going to get closer, nope.

Definitely not getting closer.

Well, maybe just a bit.

Maybe.

The thing made one of those weird, barking noises again, twisting and turning until it was facing Simba, and Simba wondered what was so wrong about saying hello...

And maybe sniffing a bit.

Just a bit.

With maybe...a little lick.

Maybe.

Either way, this thing wasn't a lion, which meant that it was a liability. Which meant Simba should keep this thing away from the lionesses, just to be sure this thing...couldn't hurt the lionesses.

Yes, that was Simba, always looking out for the well-being of his pride. Never let it be said that he didn't take one of the team.

...for the team.

For the team. Right.

'cause he took them for the team. And, uh, the thing. Yes, the thing.

Days went by, much like all the days went by in the Pride Lands, only not. After all, there was a thing that was strange, and weird, and smelled very...interesting.

But not in the good interesting way. In the, uh, bad interesting way. The bad interesting way, which really, really meant that Simba didn't like the thing. Of course he didn't. 'cause...it wasn't a lion. Right? Only its barks were starting to sound more like growls, and that meant that sometimes, Simba could almost pretend he understood the thing.

Until, of course, the day he actually could understand the thing.

"What," the thing said, "are you doing, exactly?"

Simba was a king. Simba was a ruler. Simba was a strong, proud lion. Simba neither stuttered, nor stumbled.

"Umm..."

"Why, exactly," the thing said, "is your nose right there?"

"Uh..."

"That," the thing said, and it really smelled interesting, in the bad-good way, "is what I thought."

At that point in time, Simba cursed ever seeing Nala again, ever returning to Pride Rock, ever becoming king, and ever smelling this thing. But, like all good, proud lion monarchs, Simba dealt with this tragic blow with strength, intelligence, and finesse.

That is to say, he sulked

And while he sulked, the thing wandered through Pride Rock, because the lionesses liked him, and why couldn't Simba like him, too?

Life just wasn't fair.

"His name," Nala said happily, "is Red."

Sometimes, Simba wanted to kill Nala.

"He's a really great guy," Timone said thoughtfully.

Sometimes, Simba wanted to kill Timone, too.

"He said he doesn't even know what a pig is," Pumbaa said fondly.

Sometimes, Simba wanted to kill everyone.

"A real head on his shoulders, that one," Zazu said proudly.

Sometimes, the idea of leaping off a cliff into the Elephant Graveyard sounded like a really, really good idea.

"Why are you here?" Simba asked, not that he was angry. He was just a little irritated, and he wished that thing would go away, 'cause it smelled...like something Simba wanted, only he didn't want it. All he wanted was for that thing, that Red, to go away.

"I'm not quite sure," Red said, in that tone that Zazu called smart, with that face Nala called pretty, with that everything that made Timone and Pumbaa happy. "Why? Is there a problem?"

"Yes!" Simba snapped, and he wanted to just bite something, to grab Red's neck, to bite and twist and tear, snap his neck beneath the too-thin mane, because Red wasn't one of them, Red didn't belong, Red wasn't something that Simba could keep.

Red looked at him, one bored eye, 'cause the other eye was scarred, just like Scar's, and Simba wanted to do something. Like...maybe kill an antelope. Or twenty. Or chase some hyenas.

"You don't belong here," Simba said, because those were the meanest words he could think of, the only thing like poison he could ever taste, the only thing that would hurt him, and so it had to hurt this Red, because Simba wanted to hurt this Red more than anything else in the world, because Simba couldn't actually want this Red.

"I know," Red said.

Simba hated feeling guilty. He hated feeling like he'd let someone else down, like all he did was let others down. He hated the way Red's tail had twitched at the words, and he hated the way Red had stared back at Simba, not happy, not angry, not anything except disappointed, just like everyone always was.

"Then why," Simba asked, plunging ahead in a desperate attempt to fix things, even though it never worked, he could never fix anything, "don't you go home?"

"I don't know the way." Red's tail lashed, tuft flickering.

"Oh," Simba said dumbly, and it was like he was standing on the edge of the gully, the edge crumbling beneath his paws. He hesitated, then muttered something about the lionesses, and antelope, and escaped, escaping the guilt that walked around in red fur.

He took particular care to avoid Red for the next while, and he thought he was doing well. It was nearly the rainy season, and he hadn't run into Red yet, hadn't stumbled over his words and hadn't said anything to stupid he wanted to die. And maybe he could avoid Red until the next rainy season, and the next after that, too, until he couldn't even remember what this Red was. At least, that was Simba's plan before Nala cornered him in Pride Rock, bristling and snapping like Simba had pushed one of their cubs down a cliff.

"I don't know," Nala said snarled, "what you said to him, but you better fix it right now."

"Umm," Simba said, trying to edge around Nala. He jumped back when she snapped at him, teeth catching and pulling at a few of his mane hairs.

"Red," Nala said, like Simba was stupid and never understand anything she said, and really, he never did understand what she said, but he wouldn't ever actually admit it, "is moping, and he doesn't have a home, and I can't believe you would try to force him out of the Pride Lands, and if you don't fix it right now, Simba, I will make your life so--"

Simba found Red sitting near the furthest edge of the Pride Lands, his tail curled around his paws. Simba edged close, then sat nearby, looking steadfastly at the horizon. It wasn't, of course, as though he was here because Nala made him come. Simba made his own decisions, and he most certainly wasn't bullied into things by Nala's teeth. Or Nala's words. Or any part of Nala, actually.

"The lionesses," Simba said after a while, because Red was so quiet, and it wasn't that Simba was nervous, but he hated sitting there, not knowing what someone else was thinking, "want you to stay. Not that," he said hastily, "want you to stay, because I don't, because you smell different--" here Red looked at him strangely, and Simba looked away quickly, "--but they want you to stay, and they'll throw fits if you leave, and it's bad enough when they're just mad, but when they're mad and don't get their way, they're insufferable, and--"

"I see," Red interrupted, and Simba bit his tongue, swallowing down the rest of his words. "And that is why?" Red asked.

"Oh, shut up," Simba mumbled, "and come home already."

"That," Red said, and he was standing, stretching, turning with Simba towards Pride Rock, "sounds nice. It sounds very nice."

And Reborn drabbles.

Mama stopped smiling years ago, when Papa and Tsuna both walked out the door, and never walked back in. Lambo stopped smiling, too. TYL!TYL!Lambo. That is, the twenty-five year old Lambo. Vague Lambo/World. Or rather, vague Lambo/Tsuna's Family.

The Happy Man

The world's a lonely place, and Lambo's a lonely man. Ten years is a long time to live without a Boss, and twenty years is even longer, to live without friends. Still, he stays in Japan, because Japan is where he felt he had a home, and because Japan is where everyone is buried. And someone (and someone is always Lambo, because Lambo was always the youngest, and Lambo was always the one left behind--) has to take care of the graves, to talk to the monks and light incense once a year.

Ipin's in Japan, too, in the next district over, and sometimes Lambo meets her on the streets. Ipin has her own life, though, a life that screams distinctly not mafia. She's married, has a baby nearly a year old, and a quiet smile that looks like Tsuna's mother's. Except Tsuna's mother doesn't smile anymore.

Mama stopped smiling years ago, when Papa and Tsuna both walked out the door, and never walked back in. Mama washes the dishes, cooks meals too big for only two, and drinks tea with Lambo, quiet and sad and somehow strong underneath it all, stronger than all the mafioso could ever hope to be.

Lambo's sitting on the porch, flicking a lighter, when he feels a strange twist in his gut, before-- And ah, it's like that, like when Lambo was young and surrounded by friends, and lovers, and turned himself inside out, a cry-baby through and through. And Lambo opens his eyes, and sees the school roof, and ah, it's like this, all over again , and maybe this time--

Tsuna's face is bright, and young, and still round with baby-fat. Lambo's shocked for a moment, because the only Tsuna he could remember, the only Tsuna he thought about, was the Tsuna that died when he was twenty-three, in the midst of a fight. And this Tsuna is twelve, almost thirteen, with his clumsy feet and sweaty hands and puppy-love crush on his classmate. And this Tsuna is the Tsuna that's so happy to see him, to see Lambo all grown up, like Tsuna never got to see before.

"Don't be so happy for me," Lambo murmurs to himself, because they're all idiots, all of them, so happy with the smallest things. So happy, and so stupid, and with no idea of what's to come. But Lambo's happy, too, because it's been so long since he's stood so close to Tsuna, or Gokudera, or Yamamoto, and he thinks he can feel their heartbeats.

He closes his eyes, feels his body race, and it's not the lightening, it's them, his friends and lovers and Family, with him again, and for a few minutes, he can be happy. For a few.

"Stop," Takeshi says one night, pulling a cigarette from Hayato's mouth, and Hayato says, "I can't." Sorta-future fic? Hayato, the Tsuna Family, and cancer. Hayato/Everyone, with particular Hayato/Takeshi and Hayato/Tsuna. I think.

Cigarette Love

Takeshi's waiting for him outside the building, leaning against the sidewalk guardrail. Hayato takes a breath as the doors slide shut behind him, then taps out a cigarette, palming his lighter. Takeshi frowns and Hayate shoves the pack back into his back pocket, slouching.

"What'd they say?" Takeshi asks, and Hayato follows him down the street, lighting his cigarette with a careless flick.

"Not much." There's a pang in his chest, real or imagined, he doesn't know, and he flicks the lighter again, just to watch the flame blow out.

"Will you tell Tsuna?" Takeshi asks, and Hayate shoves the lighter in his pocket, too.

"Not much to tell him," he says, and he takes Takeshi out drinking. The beer's bitter, and the cigarette smoke in the bar clouds the air. Hayato breathes it in, and imagines that death tastes sweet.

The Tenth's not as naive as he used to be, and he figures that something's wrong in a couple days. He hounds Hayato, well-meaning eyes and worried mouth, and Hayato smokes cigarette after cigarette, sitting on the porch.

"Hayato," the Tenth says, and Hayato's out of cigarettes. He pats his pockets, wonders if he has enough change to go to a vending machine.

"Hayato," the Tenth says, sharper, and Hayato swallows, feels something in his throat and chest. He thinks it might be regret.

"Please--"

He's not sure who says it, but he bows and runs, because he's always been good at running away, from Shamal and Bianchi, Italy and Japan. When he reaches the vending machine, he's out of breath, and the cigarettes taste sour in his mouth.

"Stop," Takeshi says one night, pulling a cigarette from Hayato's mouth. Hayato sighs, falls back onto the porch.

"I can't," he says, stretching out his legs. He feels Takeshi sit next to him, close enough to bump him, and sighs again.

"You've lost weight," Takeshi says mildly, and his fingers are light on Hayato's skin. Hayato closes his eyes, turns away.

"Not hungry. Get me a cigarette."

"Tsuna--"

Hayato grabs Takeshi, pulls him close enough to slam a hand over Takeshi's mouth. Takeshi's eyes are narrowed, but his lips are still behind Hayato's hand, and it's quiet for a moment.

"Come drinking with me," Hayato says after a moment, pulling his hand away. He feels fever-bright, breathless with excitement and life, and he wants to burn. "We can find girls to fuck, someone to fight."

"Hayato," Takeshi says, and Hayato kisses him, hard, and wonders if Takeshi can taste cigarette smoke and blood.

"Come with me," he says again, and Takeshi's eyes are cold.

He coughs up blood in the morning, bright red and sticky. The Tenth's face is pale, and his hands are shaking, and Hayato wants a cigarette, needs a cigarette, because he can feel his life shaking away.

"Hayato," the Tenth says, "you need--"

"Nothing." Hayato presses the back of his hand to his mouth, curls the stained tissues in close to his chest.

"Please," the Tenth says. Hayato can feel himself shake all the more, because he can't say no, can never say no.

"I don't want to know," he wants to say, but the words are stuck, and they taste like iron on his tongue.

"They said," he says days later, sitting on Shamal's table, "a few months."

Shamal is moving around the room, dark head bowed against the white coat, and Hayato watches him, leaning back on his hands. He breathes, coughs, then taps at the table with his fingertips.

"Why are you here, then?" Shamal finally asks, still turned away. Hayato scratches at the table, then taps again, looking stubbornly across the room.

"No reason."

"I can't," Shamal says, "do anything."

"I didn't--" Hayato begins, but Shamal's arms are around him, and Hayato leans forward, lets his forehead fall against Shamal's shoulder. "I don't--"

"I can't," Shamal says again, "do anything."

"Fix me--"

"I can't--"

Hibari views Hayato with the same thoughtless disdain he views the rest of the world, and Hayato almost feels happy. He stands in front of Hibari, wonders what he can say to make Hibari hit him, and wonders if he's gone crazy.

"Hey," he says, voice rough. Hibari looks at him, a mixture of rage and boredom, and Hayato bites back a sharp smile.

"You're in my way," Hibari says, pushing past, and Hayato follows along in his wake, the feeling of pressure twisting him inside out, like he's still alive, and the thought that he's alive--

"Hey," Hayato dogs again, death sentence and all, and he doesn't want to think he's desperate, because he hates desperate people, but he might be desperate, because all around, everyone's desperate, and he can't do this, can't be strong when the Tenth looks at him like that, and when Takeshi talks like this, and Shamal weeps like he's lost another son.

"My bird," Hibari says suddenly, and Hayato's caught off-guard like always, because Hibari's like a rabid dog. Look, don't touch, and watch for the teeth. "It died a few months ago."

"Yeah?" Hayato asks, and Hibari's turning, face close to Hayato's, his breath moving Hayato's hair.

"You can't," Hibari says, "find another bird that sings the same. It's hard, to replace the favorites."

"Yeah?" Hayato asks again, and that night he sinks onto the Tenth's floor.

"You'll miss me?" he asks, feeling like a child, and wondering if he's always been a child, only twenty-three and still so stupid.

The Tenth is tight-lipped, eyes shut just as tight, and Hayato wants to reach out and touch him. He pulls out his lighter, flicks it, and wonders if the Tenth's skin is as cold as it looks.

"Will you miss me, Tsuna?" he asks, and the Tenth's eyes open, flicker. Hayato swallows and asks, "will you?"

"Yes," the Tenth says, and Hayato watches him bow to the floor, shaking. He wants to reach out, touch the Tenth, and feel him shake.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he's sorry for so many things. "I'm sorry," he says, and he bows down, and kisses Tsuna.

Italy is far drier than Japan, and Hayato feels his throat tighten, and a pain in his chest that stabs a little deeper. He takes a breath, holds it until the pain is throbbing, and knocks at the door. There are footsteps on the other side of the apartment door, slow then quick, and Hayato takes another gasping breath, biting his lip against the pain.

When the door opens, and Bianchi looks at him through thick glasses, Hayato feels himself let go.

"Hayato," Bianchi says, and her arms are around Hayato, warm and strong. Her eyes are sad, and the eyes of the mother that was never Hayato's. Hayato feels something in him break, and he thinks this might be a place he's always been looking for. "You're back."

"I'm home."

Hayato slits his first throat at seventeen. Hayato/Yamamoto, dead men, close-quarters killings.

Bloodlust

Hayato slits his first throat at seventeen. The blood is hot on his hands, hotter than he expected, and the man convulses in Hayato's arms, limbs loose, then rigid, then loose again. Hayato fumbles, hears the knife clatter on the floor, and chokes back a breath.

He's never been this close before-- Dynamite is something different, something at a distance that takes men out with a roar, bodies strewn in his path. This is-- The man makes a sick gasping sound, wet, like he's drowning, and Hayato's hands slip, slippery-wet, on the man's arms.

"Gokudera?" Yamamoto asks, near Hayato's ear. Hayato jerks, then lets go of the body, stepping back and turning to grab at Yamamoto's shirt. He pushes, and then Yamamoto's pressed against the wall, and Hayato's pressed against Yamamoto, and he's shoving his mouth against Yamamoto's, teeth and lips and tongue.

There's slick wet, and heat, and the taste of blood, and Hayato doesn't know if it's his, or Yamamoto's, or the man's, and the thought is kinda good, in a fucked up way, and Hayato groans, pressing his hips forward, trying to grind against Yamamoto without being too obvious about it, because, damnit, Yamamoto isn't--

"You okay?" Yamamoto asks, mild and bland as always, as if Hayato's hand isn't halfway down his jeans, and as if Yamamoto's hand isn't all the way down Hayato's. Hayato snarls, kisses Yamamoto all the harder, and lets the taste of blood get all the stronger.

He might, he might, he might like this, too much, the closeness and the blood, and it's like dynamite, only more, explosions in his skin and in his blood, and maybe this is why Shamal gave him dynamite, because too close is too much, and Hayato's never been able to control himself.

"I'm fine," he snaps, and he is fine, better than fine, and that's what's wrong, what's scaring the hell out of him, fucking him up inside. He's better than fine, and Yamamoto's better than fine, and the dead men are dead, spread out on the floor, and their blood tastes bittersweet in Hayato's mouth.

Fine has always been a relative word.

So. Like, Gokudera is my new Iruka.