commandment no. 8
So I was in bed, about to fall asleep, when I suddenly realized that it was already October and I have not even finished half the challenge. So I lurched out of bed and threw myself at the laptop. This piece had been sitting around on my hard drive for a few weeks, and I finally made myself finish it at 4 in the morning. Hence it being long and rambling.
Also, yes. The Mafia!AU is back. I regret only very little.
Title: commandment no. 8
Theme: party (#6)
Claim: Sanji
Words: 1511
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief mentions of violence.
Disclaimer(s): Not mine, but I promise to play nice.
The one they call Demon is called Demon for many reasons. He is ruthless and he is fearless. He is tall and lean with dark hair and dark eyes and a mouth like a knife wound across his face. There is a whispered rumor going around that he never sleeps; it’s probably true.
He can name every bone in your body before he breaks it, makes you repeat the names after him, three times so you’ll always remember, three times so next time you’ll know better.
He can smash your head open faster than you can level a gun at him, can drop your still beating heart in your hands so that you can clutch at it in your last moments, feeling cold, feeling empty, then feeling nothing.
And when he says things like “sleep with the fishes,” he means it, honestly means it, and no one dares laugh and everyone takes him very, very seriously.
There are many ways he’s earned the name Demon, and he’s okay with what he does. He’s okay with many things, but right now, he’s not sure he’s okay with this. He doesn’t know why he agreed to this, but then he remembers the Don smiling and saying, “You’ll do this for me, won’t you,” and then he knows exactly why. He’s always been honest with himself.
He makes a turn onto the main road. He feels uneasy, watching the manor shrink in the rearview mirror, tries his best to ignore it. Orders are orders, even if the order is to baby-sit.
It’s not so bad, he tells himself. He doesn’t dislike the kid, who is sixteen and a genius, coming to age in a world where he stands at the right hand of one of the island’s three great Dons. The kid’s alarmingly good at his job, steady hands and measured breath, as quick with a scalpel as he is with a gun. And the kid’s good company, unlike some of the Don’s other men (Pattione and Carneone come to mind, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens).
The kid is one of two people who call him by his real name. The kid asks him, “How are you today?”
He remembers the Don’s voice, low and smoke-roughened, coming to him through a haze of pale blue cigarette smoke. “Take care of him,” the Don had said. Definitely an order, and who is he to refuse?
So he shrugs and answers, “Good.”
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t like leaving Boss alone.”
The kid sounds young and wretched, so he shrugs again and grunts, “He’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry,” the kid says again. “I wouldn’t have, except, um. Well, thank you.”
“Boss’s orders,” he says bluntly. And then, because he feels a little bad, he adds truthfully, “Can’t be too careful.” The kid’s valuable, and the Don needs him.
The kid is quiet for a long moment before he brightens and chirps, “Let’s play a game! You’ll like this one. I’ll start. Clavicula.”
If he were not the one they call Demon, he would have rolled his eyes. But he is the one, the only one, and so he answers simply, “Os magnum.” Os magnum, os magnum.
The kid laughs. “That’s a good one!”
The rest of the drive into town is spent naming metacarpals and vertebrae and all the rest, and he lets the kid win by pretending to forget the last bone in the middle ear. “Incus!” the kid crows, and does a weird wriggle dance in the passenger seat of the car.
“You know your stuff,” he says.
The kid punches him in the arm and screeches comically, “I don’t need to hear that from you, asshole!”
The one they call Demon thinks, absently, good kid, this one.
When they finally get back to the manor, it’s early evening and the sea is rosy with the setting sun. It takes two trips to get all the books from the car to the kid’s room, and by then it’s almost dinnertime.
“Uh,” the kid says. “Thanks again. Um. Sorry about the mess.”
He glances around at the overflowing shelves and towering heaps of books on the floor. There once was a desk and a bed somewhere in the room, but they’re lost beneath piles of handwritten notes and heavy medical tomes. He picks one up and remarks, “You could kill someone with this.”
The kid says, “You could kill someone with anything.”
That’s true. He shrugs and puts the book back down on the armrest of a chair. He turns to go, to find the Don and report back, to make sure everything’s all right-he’d been gone for a long time.
“Wait!” the kid calls out at the same time he opens the door to the hallway.
He pauses, blinks, and says, “Boss.”
The Don is grinning at him, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. “Hello. You’re back.”
“Yes,” he says, knuckles turning white around the doorknob.
“Good trip? No problems?” the Don asks the kid, who has joined them in the doorway. The kid shakes his head emphatically and the Don tousles his hair. “Glad to hear.” The Don turns back to him; his one eye is inquiring, blue-grey in this light.
“Didn’t mean for it to take so long,” says the one they call Demon. “There were a lot of books.”
“Just long enough.” The Don grins at him again and asks, “Got a light on you?”
He produces a lighter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, clinks it to life and watches the Don lean in, breathe in, slow.
“Thanks.” A smile crooked and genuine. “Don’t know why you carry around a lighter when you don’t smoke, though.”
He shrugs, and the kid quips, “Always prepared!”
“So he is,” laughs the Don, and nudges him with a sharp elbow. “Come on, then.”
He doesn’t ask questions. He follows.
The one they call Demon knows the face of every man he has to kill, knows the name of the three little bones in your middle ear, knows when the high tide comes in and when the moon is new, knows how to wrap the night shadows around himself like a second skin.
He knows that the kid was the one who patched up the Don’s left eye when he was fourteen and the Don eighteen, knows how to tell the Don’s mood by counting cigarette ends in the ashtray, knows that the Don wears his watch on the last notch and still it slides down his wrist.
He knows that the Don is newly-turned twenty, still a kid himself, and he knows that the Don has never spent the night where he couldn't hear the sea, and he knows that it was the Don who saved his life, a year ago when he washed up on shore, coughing seawater and bile and blood.
He knows that recently the Don smokes more and more and eats less and less, knows that the Don is so fond of saying, "You have to die of something," and he knows, with a certainty that is unshakeable, that there are things the Don won't die of, a bullet to his head or a knife across his throat, not while the one they call Demon still draws breath.
The one they call Demon knows all these things, knows them to be as true as his own name, knows that right now he would not ask for anything else, would not rather be anywhere else but here, in this manor by the sea, on this island with a history red with blood, behind a man who is inexplicably kind despite the lives he takes.
He knows all these things, but when the Don asks him, "How old are you today?" he realizes he does not know the answer.
There are a lot of people in the dining room, most of them in dark suits, and all of them he knows. The Don's men, his famiglia, are thumping him on the back, a glass of champagne shoved into his hand, and suddenly they're toasting him, an uproarious drunken toast because the alcohol had been flowing long before he got there.
Pattione says, "Here's to you, you bastard," and Carneone chimes in with a resounding, "Hear, hear!"
The kid, who is barely up to his shoulder, clinks his glass and laughs, and everyone else rushes to do the same, the usual reservations towards him banished by the liquid courage diffusing through their bloodstreams. He knows how to disarm incoming threats in half a heartbeat; he does not know how to react to awkward bear hugs and people sloshing champagne all over his suit.
On the other side of the room, over the loud bustle of inebriated mafia goons, awash with the warm glow of the setting sun, he sees the Don raise his glass, cock his head to the side, and mouth the words, buon cumpleanno, Gino.
And the Don smiles, sweet and cunning.
The one they call Demon, Gino, can’t help but smile back.
Notes: The title comes from the Ten Commandments of the Mafia. Good stuff.
Also, yes. The Mafia!AU is back. I regret only very little.
Title: commandment no. 8
Theme: party (#6)
Claim: Sanji
Words: 1511
Rating: PG
Warnings: Brief mentions of violence.
Disclaimer(s): Not mine, but I promise to play nice.
The one they call Demon is called Demon for many reasons. He is ruthless and he is fearless. He is tall and lean with dark hair and dark eyes and a mouth like a knife wound across his face. There is a whispered rumor going around that he never sleeps; it’s probably true.
He can name every bone in your body before he breaks it, makes you repeat the names after him, three times so you’ll always remember, three times so next time you’ll know better.
He can smash your head open faster than you can level a gun at him, can drop your still beating heart in your hands so that you can clutch at it in your last moments, feeling cold, feeling empty, then feeling nothing.
And when he says things like “sleep with the fishes,” he means it, honestly means it, and no one dares laugh and everyone takes him very, very seriously.
There are many ways he’s earned the name Demon, and he’s okay with what he does. He’s okay with many things, but right now, he’s not sure he’s okay with this. He doesn’t know why he agreed to this, but then he remembers the Don smiling and saying, “You’ll do this for me, won’t you,” and then he knows exactly why. He’s always been honest with himself.
He makes a turn onto the main road. He feels uneasy, watching the manor shrink in the rearview mirror, tries his best to ignore it. Orders are orders, even if the order is to baby-sit.
It’s not so bad, he tells himself. He doesn’t dislike the kid, who is sixteen and a genius, coming to age in a world where he stands at the right hand of one of the island’s three great Dons. The kid’s alarmingly good at his job, steady hands and measured breath, as quick with a scalpel as he is with a gun. And the kid’s good company, unlike some of the Don’s other men (Pattione and Carneone come to mind, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens).
The kid is one of two people who call him by his real name. The kid asks him, “How are you today?”
He remembers the Don’s voice, low and smoke-roughened, coming to him through a haze of pale blue cigarette smoke. “Take care of him,” the Don had said. Definitely an order, and who is he to refuse?
So he shrugs and answers, “Good.”
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t like leaving Boss alone.”
The kid sounds young and wretched, so he shrugs again and grunts, “He’ll be fine.”
“I’m sorry,” the kid says again. “I wouldn’t have, except, um. Well, thank you.”
“Boss’s orders,” he says bluntly. And then, because he feels a little bad, he adds truthfully, “Can’t be too careful.” The kid’s valuable, and the Don needs him.
The kid is quiet for a long moment before he brightens and chirps, “Let’s play a game! You’ll like this one. I’ll start. Clavicula.”
If he were not the one they call Demon, he would have rolled his eyes. But he is the one, the only one, and so he answers simply, “Os magnum.” Os magnum, os magnum.
The kid laughs. “That’s a good one!”
The rest of the drive into town is spent naming metacarpals and vertebrae and all the rest, and he lets the kid win by pretending to forget the last bone in the middle ear. “Incus!” the kid crows, and does a weird wriggle dance in the passenger seat of the car.
“You know your stuff,” he says.
The kid punches him in the arm and screeches comically, “I don’t need to hear that from you, asshole!”
The one they call Demon thinks, absently, good kid, this one.
When they finally get back to the manor, it’s early evening and the sea is rosy with the setting sun. It takes two trips to get all the books from the car to the kid’s room, and by then it’s almost dinnertime.
“Uh,” the kid says. “Thanks again. Um. Sorry about the mess.”
He glances around at the overflowing shelves and towering heaps of books on the floor. There once was a desk and a bed somewhere in the room, but they’re lost beneath piles of handwritten notes and heavy medical tomes. He picks one up and remarks, “You could kill someone with this.”
The kid says, “You could kill someone with anything.”
That’s true. He shrugs and puts the book back down on the armrest of a chair. He turns to go, to find the Don and report back, to make sure everything’s all right-he’d been gone for a long time.
“Wait!” the kid calls out at the same time he opens the door to the hallway.
He pauses, blinks, and says, “Boss.”
The Don is grinning at him, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. “Hello. You’re back.”
“Yes,” he says, knuckles turning white around the doorknob.
“Good trip? No problems?” the Don asks the kid, who has joined them in the doorway. The kid shakes his head emphatically and the Don tousles his hair. “Glad to hear.” The Don turns back to him; his one eye is inquiring, blue-grey in this light.
“Didn’t mean for it to take so long,” says the one they call Demon. “There were a lot of books.”
“Just long enough.” The Don grins at him again and asks, “Got a light on you?”
He produces a lighter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, clinks it to life and watches the Don lean in, breathe in, slow.
“Thanks.” A smile crooked and genuine. “Don’t know why you carry around a lighter when you don’t smoke, though.”
He shrugs, and the kid quips, “Always prepared!”
“So he is,” laughs the Don, and nudges him with a sharp elbow. “Come on, then.”
He doesn’t ask questions. He follows.
The one they call Demon knows the face of every man he has to kill, knows the name of the three little bones in your middle ear, knows when the high tide comes in and when the moon is new, knows how to wrap the night shadows around himself like a second skin.
He knows that the kid was the one who patched up the Don’s left eye when he was fourteen and the Don eighteen, knows how to tell the Don’s mood by counting cigarette ends in the ashtray, knows that the Don wears his watch on the last notch and still it slides down his wrist.
He knows that the Don is newly-turned twenty, still a kid himself, and he knows that the Don has never spent the night where he couldn't hear the sea, and he knows that it was the Don who saved his life, a year ago when he washed up on shore, coughing seawater and bile and blood.
He knows that recently the Don smokes more and more and eats less and less, knows that the Don is so fond of saying, "You have to die of something," and he knows, with a certainty that is unshakeable, that there are things the Don won't die of, a bullet to his head or a knife across his throat, not while the one they call Demon still draws breath.
The one they call Demon knows all these things, knows them to be as true as his own name, knows that right now he would not ask for anything else, would not rather be anywhere else but here, in this manor by the sea, on this island with a history red with blood, behind a man who is inexplicably kind despite the lives he takes.
He knows all these things, but when the Don asks him, "How old are you today?" he realizes he does not know the answer.
There are a lot of people in the dining room, most of them in dark suits, and all of them he knows. The Don's men, his famiglia, are thumping him on the back, a glass of champagne shoved into his hand, and suddenly they're toasting him, an uproarious drunken toast because the alcohol had been flowing long before he got there.
Pattione says, "Here's to you, you bastard," and Carneone chimes in with a resounding, "Hear, hear!"
The kid, who is barely up to his shoulder, clinks his glass and laughs, and everyone else rushes to do the same, the usual reservations towards him banished by the liquid courage diffusing through their bloodstreams. He knows how to disarm incoming threats in half a heartbeat; he does not know how to react to awkward bear hugs and people sloshing champagne all over his suit.
On the other side of the room, over the loud bustle of inebriated mafia goons, awash with the warm glow of the setting sun, he sees the Don raise his glass, cock his head to the side, and mouth the words, buon cumpleanno, Gino.
And the Don smiles, sweet and cunning.
The one they call Demon, Gino, can’t help but smile back.
Notes: The title comes from the Ten Commandments of the Mafia. Good stuff.