[Fic] As Close As It Gets
I didn’t intend to post anything today, but khr_undercover round 2 has ended, so I can as well upload my entry for it.
Title: As Close As It Gets
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
ID khr_undercover: [crotone]
Word count: 1444
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, gen
Character(s) or pairing(s): Shouichi Irie, mentioning various members of Vongola family and Byakuran.
Beta-reader: bifacial_ler
A/N: Actually, I had written this before all “parallel worlds” affair has been revealed recently, and am rather shocked that it turned out to somewhat concur with actual canon.
Shouichi Irie hides in his cave of a research lab, filled with papers and peculiar devices all over the place and air full of condensed vapor, suffering from a breathtaking stomach ache. Hands wander around absently, searching for pills that long ago stopped having any effect, for his glasses that he doesn’t really need right now, and, with even less success, for any comfort that will stop the terrible, inside-eating tremble he's so accustomed to.
He haven't asked for it, for never ending labyrinth of pristine shinning walls around him, days crammed with commands and constant disturbing feeling of someone, everyone watching, waiting for him to take one wrong step. Trapped within his personal high-tech hell, among faceless Millefiore pawns, flat but threatening, and soft terrifying Cervello women that follow his every step.
Shouichi remembers blissful, aimless days, the scent of his mother's cooking flowing in the air and himself, concealed in his small room, little unnecessary parts of something he haven't finished yet on the floor, scratching at his feet.
First employment for Gesso family - the Gesso corporation, he thought back then, when he was overwhelmed with sheer ecstasy of hungry mind, overflowed with ideas, ideas that were met with delight, gratitude and acknowledgement, countless nights spent thinking, scribbling, typing, gasping in prolonged awe at uncovering reality of things that he thought never would come real. The ultimate multitask robot. Time machine, and he still can feel the trace of delicious throat tightening at the mere thought of it.
He started rising, barely registering it at first, and then there was a slowly growing group of subordinates under his hand, under his command, and so what if it kept giving him cramps? As long as it was convenient for research, his head-in-the-clouds experiments, he could manage.
He remembers meeting Byakuran for the first time, soft cotton of white noise within his head that followed, flirty smell of flowers and utter inner shock at such dominating presence. Smiles and gentle words, and, somehow, first prick of fear - unreasonable, primal terror - he was so inexperienced with.
Byakuran approves at him, puts his faith in him, gentle squeeze of fingers around his neck, more food and more flowers and more promotions, and more plans revealed.
Sleepless nights continue, but science gluttony is now punctuated with wary, cautious investigations, crumbs of knowledge he wasn't supposed to obtain, parts of puzzle he wasn't allowed to know about, let alone to solve; and bone-wrenching feeling of danger, of something going utterly wrong.
The mist eventually got thinner, boxes of pills multiplying in the table with even more computers gathering around, anything to be comfortable with, last straws of innocence fading away. But something is amiss, and then one silent night, bottomless mug of a tar-like coffee in his hand, he understands.
That shrieking boy back when he was fourteen, plain and stuttering; indifferent lavish woman in bikini on a front lawn he was gaping at; ridiculous toddler, whining and juggling deadly weapons as if they were beach balls; middle school boys with out-of-place faces and speeches that didn't make any sense - it all interchanges, and his brilliant mind contracts with a sudden and new perspective. Lingering, ever-present touch of danger finally finds its reason, and he falls on the floor, feeling urgently sick, stomach twisting in pain, mouth full of saliva.
Few more sleepless nights, and he sits carefully composed, pleasurable picture for the surveillance cameras in every corner. He's not an idiot, so he taps, something vague and probably senseless on his favorite laptop, thoughts twirling in directions he'd better not to go.
He wasn’t born to be a hero, no loud words and frantic movements, no vows and peace-saving routine. Why him? He doesn't want to be one. Fear engulfs him with dashing ease, and he has to do something, as generic and stupid as it might sound.
Shouichi, the one who had once trapped himself inside reinforced concrete of the hideout, remembers hasty explanations, calculations, evidences he, mortified, had brought with himself - how brief visits into the Vongola headquarters had started. Distrust, doubts, acknowledgement, and then he is on some sort of a crazy schedule. Tangling traces, taking care of every possible and impossible tail, nearly turning inside out just not to be found out, and still - he doesn't believe a single glance he receives from strangers. He doesn't trust a single word any Millefiore member is saying anymore, thick glasses and stern look as an offer, steady dread inside, tingling his cheeks and whipping up his mind.
Endless plans, kaleidoscope of possibilities composed together with a confident young man with Vongola Sky ring on his middle finger, flashing with mirth here and there, a ghostly reminder of that shrieking boy, keeping track of everything, any pieces of information, never letting anything slip past him. Byakuran looks obviously pleased, and Shouichi pales, trepidation twisting his guts at the thought that somehow he knows. He has been at Millefiore basements, has seen Byakuran's seamless smile as life was crashed and taken before him , tasting something delicious with both his mouth and his eyes.
He remembers a cabinet in Italian mansion, with a taste of power and tradition, and Hibari’s threatening presence in the corner, himself, points and explanations and Tsuna’s trembling hands, and then he watches in owe, how with a single breath they stop, steady and confident. We’ll follow this plan. This where the point of no return is passed.
He’s in no sense world savior and would never be. The whole world just slips out of his mind, too vague and nothing attached, diminishing him to a state of a frightened teenager in a shell of Millefiore captain, so he just thinks of people, people made of blood and flesh and soul, in the huge castle somewhere deep in the middle of Italian spring.
He remembers Gokudera’s company, waiting for Tsuna to arrive, sitting heads buried into drifts and calculations, Uri done biting fingers, napping at the end of the table. Suddenly a tanned hand sets on the guardian’s shoulder, Yamamoto warmly smiles from behind, and for a moment Gokudera’s face visibly brightens back. The obligatory snap follows - we’re busy, moron, sit down and be quiet - and Yamamoto wordlessly obeys, sliding into the next chair. He makes a sound, something indecipherable, and Uri crawls lazily up his hand, settling on his shoulders, while seemingly not even waking up. Yamamoto perches his chin onto his long hands, like a middle schooler, and they are barely twenty, and peacefully watches Gokudera - who makes an effort not to look back, but the small talk sprouts every other minute.
He remembers doors opening, the Tenth Vongola stepping in quietly and utterly without fuss, Sawada Kyoko beside him, weightless steps and clever hands set on smooth swell of her stomach, almost ready - and cigarettes are thrown away in haste, a seat is offered and possible curses are bitten back. While she sits, fragile figure in lemon silk, her brother marches in, with razor-sharp confidence and content professionalism reports that the assignment is complete, for three seconds while Tsuna nods approvingly, and then he explodes with triumph in his eyes - the bastards got their ass so kicked - until they all start shushing at him, instant pause and easy shameful blush at another second. He kneels carefully, delicately before his own sister, embarrassed smile with a tint of pride. Presses his ear to her belly, and she nods and smiles.
He remembers himself and Tsuna before the big screen, Squalo casually angry on the other end of the line, plans transferring and strategies being discussed. On the left part of screen, next to snarling swordsman, Lussuria almost melts on the floor while cooing expertly with Kyoko about pregnancy process. He asks beaming Kyoko about something hypostasis, Squalo moodily snaps about getting their own communications channel, Tsuna asks Squalo how Xanxus is going, and then something is broken in another room, choir of scolding voices and mumbling of a child.
This is crazy, thinks Shouichi, the one sitting halfway through this charcoal night in booming and wide metallic room, the one suffering from terrible stomach aches - completely, hundred percent crazy, they are not his family, not his famiglia even, but that is as close as he gets to saving the world, and somehow, that’s enough for him to blindly find a pill somewhere inside the table, shove it down his throat, bitter and dry, and, even if it doesn’t make him less nervous or scared, it’s as better as it gets, and he wipes uncertainties off his face and presses a button on his laptop.
“Good evening, Byakuran-san.”
A/N2: Gosh, I’m changing styles like gloves. This one isn’t my usual, I sometimes experiment with it and usually feel odd in the end.
First time writing Shouichi Irie, first time writing pure gen. Irie gets painfully not enough attention and understanding, in my opinion.
And yes, I love the Vongola together (it shows) and think that they should become even more amazing and amusing with age.