(no subject)
Title: For the Bones of the Dead
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Dino/Hibari
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700
Notes: For theburningempty, a prompt from loooong ago, but she makes me adore this pairing, so here it is. ♥ This icon is so very inappropriate for this fic. *needs more icon space*
It's always like this. The fight first, before anything else--the sweat and swift feet, the sharp eyes and shared panting breaths. No greeting, even after months of separation, after an ocean, a continent. Just Hibari's sense that Dino is near, closer, right behind him like a sharp noontime shadow. And then the attack.
Not this time. Please, calm down.
Hibari's got him like ESP, this sizzling thing which lives inside that vicious brain, and the fight can go on for hours, for as long as Dino wants to keep him going. Matching footsteps, countering swings, and Hibari's hungry eyes locked on him like two dogs trained for such a confrontation by a cruel and greedy owner, by swift kicks to the ribs with heavy boots, by days and nights of scarcity, guts screaming out for blood to fill the void. Dino shouldn't be excited for the coming onslaught. He should be sickened by it. He isn't.
Kyoya, relax, will you?
This time, the war zone is Hibari's half of the Vongola complex, this painfully neat place smelling of harsh chemical cleaners and, beneath that, green tea and chrysanthemums. Dino doesn't bother to knock; Hibari always leaves the door open for him. He doesn't know how Hibari even anticipates the visits. But he always does, always senses the fight from across the ocean, so Dino does not bother to knock, just pushes in. He still has one foot in the hallway, and Hibari already has a weapon jammed up tight under his chin. The cool steel finish is a shock against the throat when he swallows.
Hey. Hey Kyoya.
A greeting and a warning, and he can see the fight burning in Hibari's eyes, even now, even in mourning. And he doesn't want this, even if the familiarity of it is a hideous, comforting thing. He doesn't want to spar, to carry out this ritual like courtship. They have things to talk about--Hibari fucking should have things to talk about, even if, to them, the concept of talking is something as strange and alien as the way Hibari wraps his tongue around Dino's foreign name, as the way Dino does it to Hibari's. He'd finished up Cavallone business as quickly as possible to get here. So, "Hey," he repeats, reaching up one hand to Hibari's cheek, "hey, I heard. You okay?"
Don't fight me. Or do. What's better? I don't know.
His Japanese is as clumsy and stilted as ever, a breath of impediment to the concern he wants so desperately to offer. It is so new; it's like the first time he split Hibari's lip, the first time the stubborn kid swabbed up the blood with his tongue and charged after him, a fierce instrument of destruction on the rooftop of Namimori Junior High. It's all so new and uncertain, and then Hibari's elbow jerks up and catches Dino's jaw.
Dino curses in his native tongue, words that Hibari's heard before, but in a different context, in strange and hitching breath, usually in what follows their battles which serve as welcoming. "Fuck," he says, rubbing his jaw, taking in the sight of Hibari in traditional dress, not the tailored suits he usually wears.
I'm here to console you, asshole. Relax.
And Hibari doesn't say anything. He just stares, eyes dark and pregnant as bullet chambers (Pull the trigger, baby.); then he drops his weapon, one flicker of eye contact like he's asking--asking--so Dino does the only thing that makes any sense. He presses lips to lips, fingers tight in the hair at the nape of Hibari's neck. Dino couldn't stop this if he wanted to. He's not sure why he started it.
A thousand years earlier in this thing, this is what came second. This is what came after the fight, after neither of them had any breath of their own left in their lungs, so they tried to steal it from each other. After their hearts were beating hard enough for them to press their chests together to muffle the noise. This usually came later and this premature arrival--this demonstration of stress and bravado--throws Dino off his guard. It's too easy. Too pedestrian. But not enough to stop him from shoving his hands deep into Hibari's hair and keeping his face close. Because a Kyoya who surrenders so easily--who surrenders at all--terrifies him.
It's like you're dying, too.
Still, "Baby, are you okay?" Dino says it when they pull apart for breath, says it in part because he knows it makes Hibari angry, makes blood rush to his face like swelling war, and that is better than this confusing complacency. Even now, even close and panting, even with Hibari less composed than Dino has ever seen him before, he can't help the teasing. He can't help it. You're cruel, he tells himself, deep inside, you're cruel. This is half the truth and half a harbor. He'd have to be cruel, he tells himself, to keep confusing Hibari like this. Back then Hibari was too young to know better. Back then he was too young to know that a competent opponent didn't necessarily equal what he wanted it to.
But Hibari confuses Dino, too. And somewhere inside, somewhere beneath the veneer of cruelty Dino wears around Hibari like a shield, he thinks he means all of the embarrassing things he says, the things which make Hibari furious. He feels affection for this kid who isn't a kid anymore, who probably never was. He feels something--something both paternal and seductive. He wants to mentor him, to teach him how to be a fighter. How to be fierce as if he wasn't already. But Dino wants to take him, too. He wants to take him on the floor--right here--always the same position, Hibari's back flat, Dino on top of him, fighting down all of Hibari's strength that resists, always coaxing out the want inside.
It's okay, you know. Kyoya--it's okay to be upset.
Dino had contemplated, once and for exactly a day, the idea of not getting married, of not producing an heir. Of simply remaining unattached, an anomaly, messing around with Hibari as often as the boy was willing to share a bed or a couch of a space of floor. The thought had been a pleasant one. But Family trumps all else and Dino had tossed that thought away like the poison it was.
Here, twisted up with Hibari, a grotesque and mythological beast, he knows he's sick. "Baby" is just the beginning of it. Dino wants to call him a thousand things: pet, kitten, lover. Each some shade of truth; each some hue of lie. He thinks that saying them might make them true.
Instead, they make Hibari's face go red with anger. He shoves Dino down onto the pillows surrounding the kotatsu, Dino's descending head narrowly missing the corner of the low-lying table. And, even before they are undressed, even before Hibari's teeth find the curve where Dino's shoulder meets his neck--even then, it is something beyond savage. They are tight-throated tigers. They are alive in this thing.
Naked. The orange light of a setting sun. Dino panting. Hibari, breath controlled as ever. He whispers: "The funeral is tomorrow. Come. Pay your respects." He says it like a command. Dino hears it like a plea.
Anything, Kyoya.
He doesn't say it. He didn't even know Hibari's parents before their messy deaths at the hands of low-ranking Millefiore grunts. He had only glimpsed one snapshot scene of them as he had passed by Hibari's home one night after the ring conflict. Through a window: a family eating dinner together, chopsticks, quiet small talk. So mundane. He barely even noticed the single fresh cut on Hibari's cheek, hardly a whisper of what the boy had been hoping to receive when he challenged Xanxus. Maybe, Dino remembers thinking then, maybe I'm not the only one who is sick. They were both such boys then, and Dino had kept on walking, hands in his pockets, a smile on his lips which called him a fool.
What slow-changing creatures we are, what monuments to stasis.
In the dim light, Dino lets Hibari take him. This is something rare, something artificial, but they are far past complaining, far past any semblance of normalcy. If Dino had a wife, he could sit beside her at the coming funeral service, hold her hand. If Dino had a wife, he could protect her from the pain which a life in the mafia bestows like baptism. If Dino had a wife, they'd be making love right now. But all Dino has is Hibari, this sharp-toothed beast gripping his shoulders, pressing into him. This angry dog unchained who makes the most veteran mafiosos swear pledges to the Vongola, makes them offer up their firstborns for the privilege of safety. All Dino has is Hibari, and this is what passes for consolation.
Hibari is fierce. He is no sheltered mafia wife. Blood has permanently stained the lines of his palm and Dino likes nothing more than dragging his tongue over them.
The sun has set by the time Hibari pauses over him, barely sweating, barely dissheveled. The silk of his traditional robe hangs loose off one pale shoulder. Dino dares not refuse his eyes when they still. In the dark, streetlights emphasize the shadows, the deep pockets of his eyes. "Come tomorrow," he reiterates, "sit in the back. And leave before the end."
The shifting of bodies: the scrape of logs in a pyre, Dino's flesh a sweaty ossuary. Then.
My flight leaves tonight. You're a big boy, right, baby?
Dignity sounds like a door. The door is shutting.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Dino/Hibari
Rating: R
Word Count: 1700
Notes: For theburningempty, a prompt from loooong ago, but she makes me adore this pairing, so here it is. ♥ This icon is so very inappropriate for this fic. *needs more icon space*
It's always like this. The fight first, before anything else--the sweat and swift feet, the sharp eyes and shared panting breaths. No greeting, even after months of separation, after an ocean, a continent. Just Hibari's sense that Dino is near, closer, right behind him like a sharp noontime shadow. And then the attack.
Not this time. Please, calm down.
Hibari's got him like ESP, this sizzling thing which lives inside that vicious brain, and the fight can go on for hours, for as long as Dino wants to keep him going. Matching footsteps, countering swings, and Hibari's hungry eyes locked on him like two dogs trained for such a confrontation by a cruel and greedy owner, by swift kicks to the ribs with heavy boots, by days and nights of scarcity, guts screaming out for blood to fill the void. Dino shouldn't be excited for the coming onslaught. He should be sickened by it. He isn't.
Kyoya, relax, will you?
This time, the war zone is Hibari's half of the Vongola complex, this painfully neat place smelling of harsh chemical cleaners and, beneath that, green tea and chrysanthemums. Dino doesn't bother to knock; Hibari always leaves the door open for him. He doesn't know how Hibari even anticipates the visits. But he always does, always senses the fight from across the ocean, so Dino does not bother to knock, just pushes in. He still has one foot in the hallway, and Hibari already has a weapon jammed up tight under his chin. The cool steel finish is a shock against the throat when he swallows.
Hey. Hey Kyoya.
A greeting and a warning, and he can see the fight burning in Hibari's eyes, even now, even in mourning. And he doesn't want this, even if the familiarity of it is a hideous, comforting thing. He doesn't want to spar, to carry out this ritual like courtship. They have things to talk about--Hibari fucking should have things to talk about, even if, to them, the concept of talking is something as strange and alien as the way Hibari wraps his tongue around Dino's foreign name, as the way Dino does it to Hibari's. He'd finished up Cavallone business as quickly as possible to get here. So, "Hey," he repeats, reaching up one hand to Hibari's cheek, "hey, I heard. You okay?"
Don't fight me. Or do. What's better? I don't know.
His Japanese is as clumsy and stilted as ever, a breath of impediment to the concern he wants so desperately to offer. It is so new; it's like the first time he split Hibari's lip, the first time the stubborn kid swabbed up the blood with his tongue and charged after him, a fierce instrument of destruction on the rooftop of Namimori Junior High. It's all so new and uncertain, and then Hibari's elbow jerks up and catches Dino's jaw.
Dino curses in his native tongue, words that Hibari's heard before, but in a different context, in strange and hitching breath, usually in what follows their battles which serve as welcoming. "Fuck," he says, rubbing his jaw, taking in the sight of Hibari in traditional dress, not the tailored suits he usually wears.
I'm here to console you, asshole. Relax.
And Hibari doesn't say anything. He just stares, eyes dark and pregnant as bullet chambers (Pull the trigger, baby.); then he drops his weapon, one flicker of eye contact like he's asking--asking--so Dino does the only thing that makes any sense. He presses lips to lips, fingers tight in the hair at the nape of Hibari's neck. Dino couldn't stop this if he wanted to. He's not sure why he started it.
A thousand years earlier in this thing, this is what came second. This is what came after the fight, after neither of them had any breath of their own left in their lungs, so they tried to steal it from each other. After their hearts were beating hard enough for them to press their chests together to muffle the noise. This usually came later and this premature arrival--this demonstration of stress and bravado--throws Dino off his guard. It's too easy. Too pedestrian. But not enough to stop him from shoving his hands deep into Hibari's hair and keeping his face close. Because a Kyoya who surrenders so easily--who surrenders at all--terrifies him.
It's like you're dying, too.
Still, "Baby, are you okay?" Dino says it when they pull apart for breath, says it in part because he knows it makes Hibari angry, makes blood rush to his face like swelling war, and that is better than this confusing complacency. Even now, even close and panting, even with Hibari less composed than Dino has ever seen him before, he can't help the teasing. He can't help it. You're cruel, he tells himself, deep inside, you're cruel. This is half the truth and half a harbor. He'd have to be cruel, he tells himself, to keep confusing Hibari like this. Back then Hibari was too young to know better. Back then he was too young to know that a competent opponent didn't necessarily equal what he wanted it to.
But Hibari confuses Dino, too. And somewhere inside, somewhere beneath the veneer of cruelty Dino wears around Hibari like a shield, he thinks he means all of the embarrassing things he says, the things which make Hibari furious. He feels affection for this kid who isn't a kid anymore, who probably never was. He feels something--something both paternal and seductive. He wants to mentor him, to teach him how to be a fighter. How to be fierce as if he wasn't already. But Dino wants to take him, too. He wants to take him on the floor--right here--always the same position, Hibari's back flat, Dino on top of him, fighting down all of Hibari's strength that resists, always coaxing out the want inside.
It's okay, you know. Kyoya--it's okay to be upset.
Dino had contemplated, once and for exactly a day, the idea of not getting married, of not producing an heir. Of simply remaining unattached, an anomaly, messing around with Hibari as often as the boy was willing to share a bed or a couch of a space of floor. The thought had been a pleasant one. But Family trumps all else and Dino had tossed that thought away like the poison it was.
Here, twisted up with Hibari, a grotesque and mythological beast, he knows he's sick. "Baby" is just the beginning of it. Dino wants to call him a thousand things: pet, kitten, lover. Each some shade of truth; each some hue of lie. He thinks that saying them might make them true.
Instead, they make Hibari's face go red with anger. He shoves Dino down onto the pillows surrounding the kotatsu, Dino's descending head narrowly missing the corner of the low-lying table. And, even before they are undressed, even before Hibari's teeth find the curve where Dino's shoulder meets his neck--even then, it is something beyond savage. They are tight-throated tigers. They are alive in this thing.
Naked. The orange light of a setting sun. Dino panting. Hibari, breath controlled as ever. He whispers: "The funeral is tomorrow. Come. Pay your respects." He says it like a command. Dino hears it like a plea.
Anything, Kyoya.
He doesn't say it. He didn't even know Hibari's parents before their messy deaths at the hands of low-ranking Millefiore grunts. He had only glimpsed one snapshot scene of them as he had passed by Hibari's home one night after the ring conflict. Through a window: a family eating dinner together, chopsticks, quiet small talk. So mundane. He barely even noticed the single fresh cut on Hibari's cheek, hardly a whisper of what the boy had been hoping to receive when he challenged Xanxus. Maybe, Dino remembers thinking then, maybe I'm not the only one who is sick. They were both such boys then, and Dino had kept on walking, hands in his pockets, a smile on his lips which called him a fool.
What slow-changing creatures we are, what monuments to stasis.
In the dim light, Dino lets Hibari take him. This is something rare, something artificial, but they are far past complaining, far past any semblance of normalcy. If Dino had a wife, he could sit beside her at the coming funeral service, hold her hand. If Dino had a wife, he could protect her from the pain which a life in the mafia bestows like baptism. If Dino had a wife, they'd be making love right now. But all Dino has is Hibari, this sharp-toothed beast gripping his shoulders, pressing into him. This angry dog unchained who makes the most veteran mafiosos swear pledges to the Vongola, makes them offer up their firstborns for the privilege of safety. All Dino has is Hibari, and this is what passes for consolation.
Hibari is fierce. He is no sheltered mafia wife. Blood has permanently stained the lines of his palm and Dino likes nothing more than dragging his tongue over them.
The sun has set by the time Hibari pauses over him, barely sweating, barely dissheveled. The silk of his traditional robe hangs loose off one pale shoulder. Dino dares not refuse his eyes when they still. In the dark, streetlights emphasize the shadows, the deep pockets of his eyes. "Come tomorrow," he reiterates, "sit in the back. And leave before the end."
The shifting of bodies: the scrape of logs in a pyre, Dino's flesh a sweaty ossuary. Then.
My flight leaves tonight. You're a big boy, right, baby?
Dignity sounds like a door. The door is shutting.