For Fizzy [Reborn]
.La Dolce Vita, Op. 10059.
Even the most miserable life is better
than a sheltered existence in an organized society
where everything is calculated and
p e r f e c t e d
...che fu detto al Principe, che non volevo; rispos' egli il farò volere io.
:: a n d a n t i n o ::
It begins slowly, one's masterpiece.
There is inspiration, and it is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Fickle, fleeting, faithless.
There is then the desire that comes in its wake. It stays, and it is a whimsical creature. It molds your actions, breathes life into them, and it becomes your doll and master.
Byakuran starts at his leisure - patience is always a virtue, especially when one is carving out a soul. Little by little, when the cracks start to show, to ease into the heart that a person jealously guards.
And next, to destroy it. Because the memory of what was matters more than the reality of what is. All the more so for something held so dear, so close and precious that lives will be laid down for it.
What happens then, when it is turned inside out, when that treasure becomes the sacrifice?
Byakuran is virtuous where it counts the most. There is a patience in his steps when he moves to kill. There is a purity in the cruelty of his thoughts, the clarity of an ambition that is neither smudged nor tainted with all the blood spilled by a diligent hand. The charity of a man who dispenses mercy in order to savor the process of destruction in its entirety.
Gokudera is naught but a misshapen creature, a mere work in progress even when he is breaking; right in front of the casket that holds the heart of the Vongola. Byakuran has carved out the heart, and Byakuran - how vain, how absolutely theatrical - had made him watch.
Byakuran privately names him. Gokudera is not a good enough name - all blood and thorns and gristle, and it rolls off the tongue with an unpleasant aftertaste. Even the given title of the Vongola Storm Guardian doesn't fit anymore. And the funny thing?
The funny thing is that Byakuran had not been the one who stripped that away. He enjoys the irony, that the dogs had been left de-fanged by their own master. Byakuran merely drove that point in when he allowed Gokudera to view the assassination, right there in the Millefiore stronghold. The Guardians' glaring incompetence, the resentment that laced the helplessness, buried so forcefully because the dead could do no wrong, and Sawada Tsunayoshi was always, always right.
The grief breaks Gokudera Hayato the first time round.
There is the cloying smell of withering flowers and the peace of an assassinated mafia boss, and the lilies that he brings does not help. The sickening sweetness stains the air and Byakuran's lips. And, he supposes, a lesser person would have already choked on it. He waits, nonetheless - and Byakuran is not alone.
Not anymore.
"Puppy-kun." Playful, poisonous notes that drift in the silence of the clearing, reaching the man who freezes with shock and a dawning rage that entertains Byakuran. Gokudera's new name, a more suitable fit for all that he now is, and all that he had been for the most part of his life.
It is the start of a seamless symphony. A mockery of a melody that is just beginning.Byakuran finds the Vongola Decimo's casket a fitting seat - the wood is too rich for such a ruined family - but it is a perfect start. A flawless catalyst for what is to come.
"Get the fuck out." Gokudera growls, heart breaking and tearing and what a mess it made, right there before the coffin that belonged to the Vongola Decimo.
Before the Millefiore boss's new, comfortable seat.
Byakuran's smile is knowing, smug. He shares a private joke that Gokudera doesn't begin to understand. He crafts an absurd promise that wears the form of a request, says it so bluntly and cheerfully that Gokudera wants to rend him limb from limb and obey at the same time.
"Follow me."
Come to me, said he. And I will give you rest.
(Poor, lost little puppy.)
"Fuck you." Gokudera snarls.
And Byakuran does, right there before the coffin that belonged to Sawada Tsunayoshi.
(This is a measure in the grand composition, a fine, exquisite start for what is to come, and Byakuran begins to craft another.)
:: m o d e r a t o ::
Gokudera is violent when leashed, caught like a wild animal and restrained like one. There is nothing that stands in the Millefiore's way now - the Vongola are ruined, tatters of a once-great famiglia that had long worn out its welcome. And of course, no one thinks to save Gokudera, to launch a daring rescue, proudly sporting the flag of friendship, comradeship, and everything else that Sawada Tsunayoshi had stood for. Byakuran tells him this, of course. Day after day, when he languidly tears down the truths that the Vongola had come to embody.
Thirty four days, six hours, and seventeen minutes later, and Gokudera still fights back. He argues, he spits, and he rails against the one man whose presence comes to be his constant; but Gokudera is only human and is still so very broken.
Byakuran is patient with him, gently cruel and affectionately unforgiving - watching as Gokudera slowly unravels in the guilt, sorrow, the resentment, and the helplessness. Pride can only fix so much, and pride is useless when a serpent's words twist and corrupt.
Byakuran's words are absolute perfection, when he sits there on that piano bench; when he addresses his prized animal, filling the emptiness left behind with his own presence. He tears out a little more of Gokudera with every meeting, day after day, and he fills that with himself. It doesn't fit, not quite yet, when Gokudera screams and curses and fights back. But it doesn't matter - no one fights forever.
Not when there's nothing sustaining that crumbling facade.
The keys are perfectly tuned - but the chimes of the grand piano echoes in the large room, disgustingly discordant. The player is a stain upon the refined instrument, Gokudera thinks spitefully, yanking on his chains again. He loathes the inexperienced pecking of the keys; they were jarring in the deafening silence of the room.
They make that venomously seductive voice sound almost irresistible in contrast, and Gokudera wishes that he would desist. A novice has no place on the grand piano, an upstart shouldn't ruin such a beautiful object, Byakuran should not have had a place in the mafia world, Byakuran shouldn't ruin the pride of the vongola, the vile upstart that destroys years of pride and ancestry and -
Byakuran hums.
C G D G F D there is no method to this madness, you see.
"They haven't come for you, you know. Not once."
They had.
"Liar. You fucking liar."
"It makes one wonder, doesn't it? If you had been so important to them, why are you left here? I've sent missives informing them that you were captured."
He hadn't.
F G E sharp sharp - ah, I forget this key. What is this called again, Hayato-chan?
"They're planning something to kick your damn ass with, you fucker. You'll see." Stop it stop it stop ruining everything.
"Do you think you're worth that much to them, you who betrayed them by letting your Tenth die?" A laugh. "Do you really trust them to do that?"
"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up." (Come for me. Come for me, damn you.)
Byakuran does.
And his silence; his satisfaction lingers in the room, even long after he's gone.
Sixty eight days, twelve hours, and nine minutes later, Byakuran fucks him again.
Seventy two days, three hours, and forty five minutes later, Gokudera lets him.
:: f o r t i s s i m o ::
Gokudera has lost count of how many days it has been, how many foiled escape attempts under his belt. His isolation from the others was absolute; and no one was allowed to speak or interact with him under any circumstances. The guards were less than friendly - and often, such escape attempts end with him being broken and bloody. The message is clear: the Millefiore sees him as nothing more than an errant toy.
But always, always, Byakuran was there when the remnants of the Vongola weren't. The man has become a constant - a presence gradually tolerated. It's become a norm, when Byakuran enters his room - his prison - with a first aid kit, soft words, and deceptively gentle fingers. Of course, Gokudera doesn't know that he was the one who provided both the deliberate opportunity for him to slip out and the harsh punishment that followed.
Byakuran's poison seeps deeper, erodes the ties that bind him to the Vongola. They haven't come for him, not once. They had abandoned him, the weak link of the family. And look, doesn't he think that they are celebrating now? Byakuran tells him that, day after day after day; the lost, stray puppy that the Vongola familiglia were now too good for. Months pass, and Gokudera learns not to hope - never to trust, because families break all too easily, and families lied in order to maintain their unity. Hadn't his done so, all those years ago? With the nucleus gone, Byakuran commented, once, what is left to hold it together? The Vongola had tolerated him because of Tsuna. With him gone, what purpose does he serve, what use does he have left?
If Gokudera had ever made an effort to seek the answer before, he won't be able to, anymore.
Byakuran lets him out, one day. Guides him along a sterile corridor - it reeks of formaldehyde and death, and everything that a morgue should smell like. Byakuran's smiling, with all the air of a master indulging in his pet's whims; and Gokudera wonders, irrationally, if he should just cut loose and escape -
- to where?
The bodies of Sasagawa Ryohei, Bianchi, Lambo, Chrome Dokuro are laid out before him, lesser beings on a steel gurney than they were in life. Then again, death always had the habit of taking that away from a person.
"Look, Hayato-chan." Byakuran murmurs in his ear, sweet and gentle, hands on his shoulders and warm breath against his skin. "Presents."
He's a frenzied man as he attacks Byakuran. He fights like a man possessed, and Byakuran finally restrains him, pressing the other's cheek against the linoleum, a knee against the other's back. He holds him down while he wipes the blood off a split lip, and the Millefiore commander thinks that this one still has spirit - is still worth conquering. Gokudera lashes out and struggles - you motherfucker filthy bastard piece of shit son of a bitch - and Byakuran laughs, leaning down and shifting to kiss his cheek, leaving a smudge of blood on his skin.
"Weren't they the ones that abandoned you first?"
This is the second time Gokudera breaks.
Six weeks later, there is an empty look in Gokudera's eyes when he sees Dino Cavallone, Lal Mirch, and Hibari Kyouya's bodies. The last one was mangled, broken beyond the telling of it, but unmistakable. Hibari - like the other two, had gone down fighting, at least. He's distant, unable to grieve, unable to find the connection that had linked him to them, however tenuous it had once been. And he finds that he doesn't really care. They were formidable fighters in their own right, but in the face of death, they are nothing.
And they are beginning to rot.
Three months later, and there is no recognition in Gokudera's face when Yamamoto is brought in - struggling for life and minutes away from death if medical aid was not supplied in time. The bullet wounds in his chest, conveniently a hairsbreadth away from vital areas, the sheer amount of blood.
Gokudera doesn't see the flash of recognition in bloodshot eyes, the choked sounds of his name from dry, chapped lips. He doesn't see Yamamoto reach out for him even in his agony - Thank God you're all right, we were so worried, we tried to rescue you so many t -
Liar. You fucking liar.
Gokudera feels nothing for this man; only the cold weight of the revolver pressed in his hand, the hate of one who had been abandoned and forgotten, and the choice that Byakuran had whispered in his ear. Press the button beside him, and Yamamoto Takeshi can be saved. Or pull the trigger and exact his revenge on the one man who had disappointed him the most. The one man Gokudera had believed who would never have abandoned him. It's frightening, this feeling - but right. There is logic in the most twisted ways, tainted by bitterness, despair, and resentment - Byakuran had not allowed him time to heal, after all, digging into the wounds so deeply that there was no other way but to allow it to fester and become something else.
This way, no one would leave him behind again, right? Not when Byakuran's the one who cares for him the most now - who has always been there. With the last of the family gone, his revenge would be complete, wouldn't it? The ones who had used him relentlessly all those years, only to throw him to the side when the Tenth died.
Gokudera, wait, what are you -
"You abandoned me first."
And Byakuran smiles when he hears the single gunshot on the other side of the door.
:: a c c o m p a g n a t o ::
"I should be a pianist." Byakuran announces one day, after he finishes fucking Gokudera. He pokes at the keys again, and Gokudera doesn't wince at the way the erratic, choppy chords grate on his nerves.
"Don't kid yourself. You're shit at playing." There is no venom in his voice, despite the words. Not anymore.
"Ah, am I?" Byakuran abandons pecking at the keys, in favor of the package of marshmallows that lie on the seat beside him. Gokudera thinks it's sickening, when the sweetness lingers in his mouth and there is powder on his lips. But he doesn't look away, not when he's come to depend on Byakuran the way he has. "Maybe you should teach me."
Gokudera's fingers shift, thin sheets covering his nude frame. He lies back against the pillows and closes his eyes.
"Maybe later."
Gokudera wakes to a familiar song, the smooth, dulcet chords melding into each other with a rare talent. The grand piano echoes with the sentiment of the player, resonates with its owner; the pace and the romanticism of the piece slowly bringing him to complete consciousness.
Byakuran is playing, long, elegant fingers dancing over the keys with all the air of one who has long mastered the fine, intimidating instrument. It's almost hypnotic, the way he played, and Gokudera wonders if he's still dreaming.
He frowns - the other had done a perfect job of mangling the piano for the past couple of years; he hadn't thought that Byakuran was even capable of carrying a simple tune, much less this, considering his earlier ineptitude. So how did he manage to play with such remarkable finesse all of a sudden? "I thought you didn't know how to play."
"Ah - " Byakuran says pleasantly, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before. "I suppose I lied about that, didn't I?"
1. English translation "The prince was told that I did not wish to go; he replied that he would make me want to" - Bartolomeo Cristofori, the inventor of the piano, on memories of his conversation with the Prince.