Blood spilled everywhere, blood spilled every time.
It was in splatters on the ceiling, trailing down the walls, in puddles on the floor. Blood dripped down his face, his hands. It stained his clothing.
There was no way to escape bloodshed in the world he was born into, so he embraced it, took every chance he got to spill another's blood.
In this world the blood on his hands wouldn't be seen as a crime, he realised when he'd first set foot in his father's mansion. Here, the layers of suffering inflicted would be seen as a show of power, and power was very important.
After all, he was to become the next Vongola don.
A don needed all the power a don could get.
So he spent his days surrounded by blood and fire, revelling in it, making sure those that passed him in the spacious hallways of his childhood and future home knew he did.
He wanted them to fear him. He wanted them to whisper behind his back, to be unable to hold his gaze head on. People would do anything to save their own skin, so that fear meant loyalty. It meant he could quickly get rid of anyone that challenged him, too.
If a person was willing to spill blood for him – both others' and their own – he'd keep them around. If a person paled at the sight of blood, he'd shrug and spill theirs. There wasn't much use for weaklings in this world, after all.
In the end it was all the same though. There was always blood.
Blood was precious because blood was life. Yet his blood was far more precious than others' because the blood of the Vongola ran through his veins, gave him life.
It gave him a reason to be, a reason to do what he did. Sometimes, even an excuse. Sometimes was enough.
And then there came the day when he found out that no, his blood wasn't that of the Vongola.
His flames weren't the same flames that obeyed his father's hands. They weren't the same flames that danced on the forehead of the man whose portrait hung in the main hallway of the place he had called home. They weren't the same flames that danced in the hands of any one of the Vongola bosses. Because they weren't Vongola flames.
He wasn't ever meant to be the next don.
It fucking hurt. An unfamiliar feeling. A feeling he didn't like.
A feeling he didn't want to feel anymore.
So instead he raged at all around him, within him. He raged at the man who had dared call himself his father. He raged at the subordinates that followed him to the death like flies. He raged at the blood that ran through his own vessels, gave him life. He raged until it turned black with hatred, until his flames did the same.
He raged on, and on, and on.
He raged until that cursed blood turned to ice.
He raged as his mind swam in frozen circles, revisiting every hateful moment of the life that had been a lie, over and over until he was sure he'd lost it.
Then he awoke. To find that in his absence he had been replaced.
The feeling he didn't like prickled at his senses.
So, he let that darkness fill his blood and flames again, and he raged on.
After all, rage was familiar.
A drabble on my take on Xanxus. I love this asshole.
Review please! I'd like to hear thoughts and maybe what you think of Xanxus too! :3c
Inspired by the songs Bloodflood and bloodflood pt 2 by Alt-J.