(no subject)
Title: Speaking without Tongues
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Hibari/Kusakabe
Rating: R (for brief sexuality)
Word Count: 2000
Notes: Oh god, I've written them so married. I'm sorry. ;_; I, um, I hope this characterization works. I mean, it's Hibari -- he's tough! And I'm trying to show a slightly different side of him. Enjoy! :)
Nobody else will ever know this, but Hibari Kyoya makes these little, snoring noises in his sleep. Delicate, bird-like noises, dull as the flap of wings. His mouth hangs just slack enough for his lips to touch but not press flatly together. His eyelashes rest relaxed on his cheekbones. Kusakabe thinks it's just about the cutest thing he's ever seen. Especially the way Kyo-san's right hand is still gripped tightly around his tonfa.
Of course, Kusakabe finds him to be very cute in general, like a little bunny rabbit that needs attention. Oh, he finds him fearsome, too; he's seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He knows about harmless little bunny rabbits. But Kusakabe has never feared for himself around Hibari. Just others.
Nearly a decade has passed, but they still sleep on two single mattresses, the edges approximately six inches apart on the floor of their shared quarters. Hibari likes his space. Kusakabe is mostly okay with this, save for the occasional slip of his hand: resting casually on a hip or scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. Then those slick black eyes catch his -- a warning -- and Kusakabe will slip back into his public role. Hibari makes another small noise, rolls his head to the other side. Kusakabe watches on.
It's almost like there are two Hibaris in the world. Maybe a thousand. All of these legendary Hibaris, creatures of myth and sharpened teeth and wild, wild eyes. Kusakabe, in all the years he's known Hibari, has never met these alter egos. He doesn't know them, save for the local folklore. The Hibari that he knows is this quiet one sleeping beside him. He knows the Hibari that presses a kiss to his forehead in the morning, the one that makes tea for him, the one that looks at him gently with warm eyes.
Hibari's eyes frighten others. They are cold, piercing bullets, sharp like razors, and others scatter in fear. Others never read deep enough; they rarely need to. But Kusakabe reads deep, and he's learned to do it with the briefest of glances. And he understands. Somehow, some luck, Hibari's eyes are written in Kusakabe's native language.
Hibari's eyes are the first memory Kusakabe has of him. He remembers a tiny Hibari, small for his age even in primary school, still short and thin for a grown man. He remembers a ten-year-old Hibari pressed against the brick wall of Namimori, surrounded by a handful of big, upperclassmen. One was thumping his thick fingers against Hibari's chest. Another was holding his head back against the brick.
And Hibari's eyes had caught his. They were frantic and frightened and dark. But more than anything, when they found Kusakabe's, they were embarrassed. Humiliated that he was seen being pushed around.
So what else could Kusakabe do? He sighed and stepped into the fray. Already tall and strong for his age, he'd easily scared away the upperclassmen (if punching one in the mouth and the others running away counted as "scaring"). And Hibari, rescued and red and wiping clean his Namimori uniform, didn't thank Kusakabe. He challenged him to a fight.
Beside him in the dark, Hibari snuffles again, and rolls to one side, his back to Kusakabe. It's a restless night, Kusakabe notes with some concern. Things have been so intense lately, especially with the kids stuck in the wrong decade. He rests one huge hand on Hibari's back, feels his breathing slow down. And, without waking, without words, Hibari's message is clear: All is well.
Between them, a lot is communicated without speaking. So much is in the body language, in the eyes. A subtle but complex language of blinks and shifts and penetrating stares. There's a syntax in there, a hard-wired, inherent structure that they haven't really worked on, but has developed naturally, all on its own.
Kusakabe remembers it, can identify its existence as far back as that first fight. Hibari didn't challenge him with words; his eyes did it. Then his fists. One quick punch from each of Hibari's small hands to either side of Kusakabe's face. It had hurt and he'd shoved the smaller boy away. Clouds of dry dirt billowed up around the path of Hibari's slide, and he'd charged again. They ended up on the ground, tangled, trying to swing but getting in each others' way. Kusakabe tried to pin him; Hibari bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. And they had stopped. Somehow, it was enough and, unspeaking, they agreed to stop.
In all the years since, Hibari has never challenged Kusakabe again. Instead, Hibari took up several martial arts and practiced incessantly. Then he started hanging out at Kusakabe's house after school. Kusakabe hasn't been Hibari's equal since that fight, but neither ever brings it up. And Kusakabe suspects that Hibari keeps him around for more than just his fighting ability (though he is formidable and it does help.)
Over the years, Kusakabe has noticed Hibari's habit of paring away superfluous acquaintances. Not that he ever had many, mostly just Kusakabe and those who would become the Disciplinary Committee. But even that had grown smaller as they had grown older. And, at some point, it was just Kusakabe. He'd felt sorry for Hibari at first, before he realized that Hibari really only needed one other person. All those years had been something like an audition, or like training. And, even though being somebody else's One Person was quite a daunting task, Kusakabe rather liked the feeling of winning that competition he hadn't known he was a part of.
Next to him, Hibari shifts and rolls into the narrow space between their mattresses. He usually ends up half-draped over Kusakabe's mattress, but Kusakabe doesn't mind. Kyo-san could have the whole thing if he wanted it.
He doesn't remember the shift: when Hibari became Kyoya, and Kyoya became Kyo. He doesn't remember when or how it happened, but it doesn't matter. It was maybe inevitable, he supposes, with all the time they spent together, with how Hibari had chosen him for this position. What he does remember are the awkward teenage years. The way he felt like a puppy, the way he began to find Hibari more cute than frightening.
He found himself sneaking glances in class. Watching that stern mouth as they broke up crowds of loiterers. Examining those dark eyes that said so much as they walked home from school, long after everyone else to ensure that Namimori had a peaceful night. It was getting out of control. Loving Hibari Kyoya was a dangerous thing. Even then, when he knew that he had Hibari's only trust, he feared detection. He knew that something was violating about this unspoken desire, and Kyoya hated all things that violated code.
And that's how Kusakabe found himself in the dark of Hibari's bedroom after a long afternoon of studying, after a reluctant decision to sleep over as he had done so often. His hands shoved down the front of his pajama pants. It would be quick, he'd promised himself, just enough friction for relief, and no one would know a thing. Just a few quick jerks of the hand and it would be over.
Then he'd felt Hibari watching him.
Now, Kusakabe remembers their trembling classmates, the terrible rumors of Hibari's murderous reaction to disturbed sleep. And even though Hibari had shown him remarkable patience over the years, Kusakabe still had the near instinctual reaction of fear when he saw Hibari's eyes glittering there in the dark.
Here in the present, Hibari snorts and slides one knee over Kusakabe's thigh. Kusakabe laughs softly in the dark; Hibari does not stir. This is the Hibari that Kusakabe knows. He'd never be foolish enough to claim that this is the "real" Hibari, but he knows that it's a fair sight closer to the truth than the monstrous myth that keeps their classmates from loitering too long, or in groups too large.
Back then, in that compromising position on the floor, it had been the gentler Hibari who looked back at him. Hibari didn't smile, not really, but his eyebrows were relaxed. His face was cast with shadows from the dim streetlight outside. Then, still staring boldly but his hands teenager-clumsy, Hibari had reached across the space between their mattresses and had rested his fingers on Kusakabe's stilled, tight fist. Then his palm, his whole hand.
And that black space in Hibari's eyes shifted -- barely perceptible to most, but a vast and rumbling fault line by Hibari's standards. Awkward like a boys, they moved together. And Kusakabe, brave like a man, refused to break the eye contact that Hibari had created. He refused to indicate that he was afraid by this new, scary thing. So, with the courage granted by darkness, Kusakabe guided Hibari's hand. And after mere minutes, when Kusakabe groaned his completion, Hibari looked momentarily unsettled. Then he frowned down at his sticky hand, glances at Kusakabe in embarrassment, and wiped it roughly against his own pajama pants.
They never mentioned it again, but it happened countless more times, each a little bolder, a little more intimate. They don't need to talk about it, because nothing else needs to be said. They understand in their own way.
That's what they are, Kusakabe knows, the only two speakers of a dying language. So they use it often to keep it alive for as long as possible. Kusakabe can't imagine a more perfect system of communication. He's wondered before if that's why Hibari hasn't fought him since their one fight. That maybe he'd read Hibari a little too clearly, or that Hibari would read him. It could take some of the sport out of it. He's never asked.
These days, he watches Hibari fight with zeal and blood on his lips. He watches him spar with Dino, with Tsuna, Ryohei, even Gokudera once, though that one was more like a real fight than a sparring session. Hibari has grown into a man of grace and strength. He wears his competence on his body like religious artifacts. Kusakabe watches the shifting hips, the steady eyes, the quick feet. He watches and wonders what it would feel like to fight him again -- to feel those sharp eyes on him, evaluating him. He thinks he'd like it, but he'll never ask.
Instead, he contents himself with the quiet moments he's allowed to share with Hibari. Waking. Eating. Showering. Dressing. Going about their day as a unit. Hibari still has dinner with his parents twice weekly. Often Kusakabe goes along; sometimes he stays back at headquarters. He doesn't know what Hibari's parents think he is -- just a good friend from high school still hanging around, a coworker, the man who sleeps beside their son -- but they always welcome him with the same warmth they did when they were children and he'd come home with Hibari after school.
Now mostly flopped on Kusakabe's mattress, Hibari groans and his gentle wheezes get louder. Kusakabe frowns and tucks Hibari's long bangs behind his ear. They're all feeling the pressure these days, with Tsuna's death, with the Millefiore, with the kids and this crazy time travel. Everyone feels the toll. Even Hibari, though the others would never believe it, not that Kusakabe has any plans to tell.
When Kusakabe pulls his hand away from Hibari's cheek, Hibari is staring at him, like he had so many years ago, like he had when he'd started this, whatever this is. And Kusakabe stares back, a long, quiet gaze, and so much passes between -- so much history, so many plans, so many things that can't be tied to a single place or time. They stare for an extended, silent moment; then Hibari rests a warm hand on the side of Kusakabe's neck and they fall asleep.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Pairing: Hibari/Kusakabe
Rating: R (for brief sexuality)
Word Count: 2000
Notes: Oh god, I've written them so married. I'm sorry. ;_; I, um, I hope this characterization works. I mean, it's Hibari -- he's tough! And I'm trying to show a slightly different side of him. Enjoy! :)
Nobody else will ever know this, but Hibari Kyoya makes these little, snoring noises in his sleep. Delicate, bird-like noises, dull as the flap of wings. His mouth hangs just slack enough for his lips to touch but not press flatly together. His eyelashes rest relaxed on his cheekbones. Kusakabe thinks it's just about the cutest thing he's ever seen. Especially the way Kyo-san's right hand is still gripped tightly around his tonfa.
Of course, Kusakabe finds him to be very cute in general, like a little bunny rabbit that needs attention. Oh, he finds him fearsome, too; he's seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He knows about harmless little bunny rabbits. But Kusakabe has never feared for himself around Hibari. Just others.
Nearly a decade has passed, but they still sleep on two single mattresses, the edges approximately six inches apart on the floor of their shared quarters. Hibari likes his space. Kusakabe is mostly okay with this, save for the occasional slip of his hand: resting casually on a hip or scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. Then those slick black eyes catch his -- a warning -- and Kusakabe will slip back into his public role. Hibari makes another small noise, rolls his head to the other side. Kusakabe watches on.
It's almost like there are two Hibaris in the world. Maybe a thousand. All of these legendary Hibaris, creatures of myth and sharpened teeth and wild, wild eyes. Kusakabe, in all the years he's known Hibari, has never met these alter egos. He doesn't know them, save for the local folklore. The Hibari that he knows is this quiet one sleeping beside him. He knows the Hibari that presses a kiss to his forehead in the morning, the one that makes tea for him, the one that looks at him gently with warm eyes.
Hibari's eyes frighten others. They are cold, piercing bullets, sharp like razors, and others scatter in fear. Others never read deep enough; they rarely need to. But Kusakabe reads deep, and he's learned to do it with the briefest of glances. And he understands. Somehow, some luck, Hibari's eyes are written in Kusakabe's native language.
Hibari's eyes are the first memory Kusakabe has of him. He remembers a tiny Hibari, small for his age even in primary school, still short and thin for a grown man. He remembers a ten-year-old Hibari pressed against the brick wall of Namimori, surrounded by a handful of big, upperclassmen. One was thumping his thick fingers against Hibari's chest. Another was holding his head back against the brick.
And Hibari's eyes had caught his. They were frantic and frightened and dark. But more than anything, when they found Kusakabe's, they were embarrassed. Humiliated that he was seen being pushed around.
So what else could Kusakabe do? He sighed and stepped into the fray. Already tall and strong for his age, he'd easily scared away the upperclassmen (if punching one in the mouth and the others running away counted as "scaring"). And Hibari, rescued and red and wiping clean his Namimori uniform, didn't thank Kusakabe. He challenged him to a fight.
Beside him in the dark, Hibari snuffles again, and rolls to one side, his back to Kusakabe. It's a restless night, Kusakabe notes with some concern. Things have been so intense lately, especially with the kids stuck in the wrong decade. He rests one huge hand on Hibari's back, feels his breathing slow down. And, without waking, without words, Hibari's message is clear: All is well.
Between them, a lot is communicated without speaking. So much is in the body language, in the eyes. A subtle but complex language of blinks and shifts and penetrating stares. There's a syntax in there, a hard-wired, inherent structure that they haven't really worked on, but has developed naturally, all on its own.
Kusakabe remembers it, can identify its existence as far back as that first fight. Hibari didn't challenge him with words; his eyes did it. Then his fists. One quick punch from each of Hibari's small hands to either side of Kusakabe's face. It had hurt and he'd shoved the smaller boy away. Clouds of dry dirt billowed up around the path of Hibari's slide, and he'd charged again. They ended up on the ground, tangled, trying to swing but getting in each others' way. Kusakabe tried to pin him; Hibari bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. And they had stopped. Somehow, it was enough and, unspeaking, they agreed to stop.
In all the years since, Hibari has never challenged Kusakabe again. Instead, Hibari took up several martial arts and practiced incessantly. Then he started hanging out at Kusakabe's house after school. Kusakabe hasn't been Hibari's equal since that fight, but neither ever brings it up. And Kusakabe suspects that Hibari keeps him around for more than just his fighting ability (though he is formidable and it does help.)
Over the years, Kusakabe has noticed Hibari's habit of paring away superfluous acquaintances. Not that he ever had many, mostly just Kusakabe and those who would become the Disciplinary Committee. But even that had grown smaller as they had grown older. And, at some point, it was just Kusakabe. He'd felt sorry for Hibari at first, before he realized that Hibari really only needed one other person. All those years had been something like an audition, or like training. And, even though being somebody else's One Person was quite a daunting task, Kusakabe rather liked the feeling of winning that competition he hadn't known he was a part of.
Next to him, Hibari shifts and rolls into the narrow space between their mattresses. He usually ends up half-draped over Kusakabe's mattress, but Kusakabe doesn't mind. Kyo-san could have the whole thing if he wanted it.
He doesn't remember the shift: when Hibari became Kyoya, and Kyoya became Kyo. He doesn't remember when or how it happened, but it doesn't matter. It was maybe inevitable, he supposes, with all the time they spent together, with how Hibari had chosen him for this position. What he does remember are the awkward teenage years. The way he felt like a puppy, the way he began to find Hibari more cute than frightening.
He found himself sneaking glances in class. Watching that stern mouth as they broke up crowds of loiterers. Examining those dark eyes that said so much as they walked home from school, long after everyone else to ensure that Namimori had a peaceful night. It was getting out of control. Loving Hibari Kyoya was a dangerous thing. Even then, when he knew that he had Hibari's only trust, he feared detection. He knew that something was violating about this unspoken desire, and Kyoya hated all things that violated code.
And that's how Kusakabe found himself in the dark of Hibari's bedroom after a long afternoon of studying, after a reluctant decision to sleep over as he had done so often. His hands shoved down the front of his pajama pants. It would be quick, he'd promised himself, just enough friction for relief, and no one would know a thing. Just a few quick jerks of the hand and it would be over.
Then he'd felt Hibari watching him.
Now, Kusakabe remembers their trembling classmates, the terrible rumors of Hibari's murderous reaction to disturbed sleep. And even though Hibari had shown him remarkable patience over the years, Kusakabe still had the near instinctual reaction of fear when he saw Hibari's eyes glittering there in the dark.
Here in the present, Hibari snorts and slides one knee over Kusakabe's thigh. Kusakabe laughs softly in the dark; Hibari does not stir. This is the Hibari that Kusakabe knows. He'd never be foolish enough to claim that this is the "real" Hibari, but he knows that it's a fair sight closer to the truth than the monstrous myth that keeps their classmates from loitering too long, or in groups too large.
Back then, in that compromising position on the floor, it had been the gentler Hibari who looked back at him. Hibari didn't smile, not really, but his eyebrows were relaxed. His face was cast with shadows from the dim streetlight outside. Then, still staring boldly but his hands teenager-clumsy, Hibari had reached across the space between their mattresses and had rested his fingers on Kusakabe's stilled, tight fist. Then his palm, his whole hand.
And that black space in Hibari's eyes shifted -- barely perceptible to most, but a vast and rumbling fault line by Hibari's standards. Awkward like a boys, they moved together. And Kusakabe, brave like a man, refused to break the eye contact that Hibari had created. He refused to indicate that he was afraid by this new, scary thing. So, with the courage granted by darkness, Kusakabe guided Hibari's hand. And after mere minutes, when Kusakabe groaned his completion, Hibari looked momentarily unsettled. Then he frowned down at his sticky hand, glances at Kusakabe in embarrassment, and wiped it roughly against his own pajama pants.
They never mentioned it again, but it happened countless more times, each a little bolder, a little more intimate. They don't need to talk about it, because nothing else needs to be said. They understand in their own way.
That's what they are, Kusakabe knows, the only two speakers of a dying language. So they use it often to keep it alive for as long as possible. Kusakabe can't imagine a more perfect system of communication. He's wondered before if that's why Hibari hasn't fought him since their one fight. That maybe he'd read Hibari a little too clearly, or that Hibari would read him. It could take some of the sport out of it. He's never asked.
These days, he watches Hibari fight with zeal and blood on his lips. He watches him spar with Dino, with Tsuna, Ryohei, even Gokudera once, though that one was more like a real fight than a sparring session. Hibari has grown into a man of grace and strength. He wears his competence on his body like religious artifacts. Kusakabe watches the shifting hips, the steady eyes, the quick feet. He watches and wonders what it would feel like to fight him again -- to feel those sharp eyes on him, evaluating him. He thinks he'd like it, but he'll never ask.
Instead, he contents himself with the quiet moments he's allowed to share with Hibari. Waking. Eating. Showering. Dressing. Going about their day as a unit. Hibari still has dinner with his parents twice weekly. Often Kusakabe goes along; sometimes he stays back at headquarters. He doesn't know what Hibari's parents think he is -- just a good friend from high school still hanging around, a coworker, the man who sleeps beside their son -- but they always welcome him with the same warmth they did when they were children and he'd come home with Hibari after school.
Now mostly flopped on Kusakabe's mattress, Hibari groans and his gentle wheezes get louder. Kusakabe frowns and tucks Hibari's long bangs behind his ear. They're all feeling the pressure these days, with Tsuna's death, with the Millefiore, with the kids and this crazy time travel. Everyone feels the toll. Even Hibari, though the others would never believe it, not that Kusakabe has any plans to tell.
When Kusakabe pulls his hand away from Hibari's cheek, Hibari is staring at him, like he had so many years ago, like he had when he'd started this, whatever this is. And Kusakabe stares back, a long, quiet gaze, and so much passes between -- so much history, so many plans, so many things that can't be tied to a single place or time. They stare for an extended, silent moment; then Hibari rests a warm hand on the side of Kusakabe's neck and they fall asleep.