Beta'd by the lovely Luminescent Ashes

The Length of Hair

Squalo did not like Mukuro. Mukuro did not like Squalo. These two concepts were not mutually exclusive. You didn't need to sit and run probabilities to realize that the sum of these two was imminent destruction. So why didn't Sawada Tsunayoshi understand that you simply do not put Mukuro and Squalo together?

Virtually any other combination could have worked out better than this, especially considering that Squalo now harbored the same 'kill illusionist on sight' tendency that the Hibari of five years past so avidly adhered to.

It had been a little while after the Inheritance Ceremony when the Varia had to stay over at the Vongola HQ in Namimori for a week. After leaving some fresh tuna in the nightstand drawer where the Varia Rain assassin's lube was usually held, Mukuro had grinned upon hearing an ear-splitting, "VOOIII!" coming from the bedroom a little past midnight. Squalo was later discovered banished in the kitchen with a tuna shaped impression on his face, limping just barely noticeably. Xanxus wouldn't talk for the rest of the morning, other than occasionally demanding more alcohol from Levi.

While Mukuro had decided that pranking Squalo was endlessly amusing, he remained slightly wary of trying anything particularly cruel. Tsuna was, at last, going through the all hailed Puberty Phase. There was some argument from the growing boy that using the Flames had stunted his growth up 'til now, but regardless of the reasons, the Vongola Don gained some uncharacteristic irritability and a new set of balls. Not quite ballsy enough to challenge Xanxus and stop the man from brooding all that morning, but ballsy enough to deign to hold him, Rokudo Mukuro, for a rather biting lecture.

He had found the half pouting, half angry face amusing; up until Tsuna had threatened strip him naked, shove him on a helicopter and toss him into the Siberian wilderness, with the welcomed assistance of Reborn. While Mukuro had no doubts as to his survival if such a doubtful thing were to occur (Tsuna had guaranteed was possible with a strange gleam in his eyes) it would not exactly be fun. Accordingly so, Mukuro had grudgingly left Squalo well alone for the next few days up until the Varia's departure, entertaining himself with Hibari instead.

This is where he had expected the whole incident to end, quickly forgetting about it.

Of course, amongst Mafioso, things are never that simple. Every month on that day, for the following year, he would find a blank white bakery box delivered to his apartment door. The first month had been a surprise: dead tuna fish, freshly sliced, as well as a short sword polished like a perfect mirror. It had a note written with scrawling handwriting, barely readable, taped on the inside.

You should die. I saw this sword and thought it'd be perfect for you to commit seppuku with.

Ahaha. Funny. Very funny. The next month he had been sure to return the favor. He had sent a simple envelope with a business card and a short letter.

This card has a phone number on it. It's a relationship abuse hotline based in Italy. If you ever find you're pregnant and can't run away from your boss, maybe you could call them for some counseling?

Much to his delight, the next package had been an explosive that destroyed half of the apartment building's lobby when he tossed it out of his window. The overdue bill for the cost of repairs was sent to Squalo (he was tempted to lace it with anthrax) the next month, of course. No notes were necessary to say that the battle was on. If Squalo was the one provoking him, then Tsuna couldn't blame him if he played defensively, right?

The two rivals had quickly realized after the first couple packages that explosives and other booby traps were never enough to kill, instead going for things that bordered more towards humiliation of the other. As a result, for the next year they had simply exchanged more and more ridiculous items, until eventually Xanxus had the unfortunate luck to pick up and open one such package out of drunken stalker-like interest. He promptly had his fur and feathers blown off him, as well as being covered with a splattering of pink tie-dye accompanied with the scent of skunk. After enduring Lussuria's snickers for around two seconds Xanxus declared that Mukuro had caused enough havoc, punishing Squalo in his stead, since the illusionist had long since escaped.

From then on, all parcels and mail were to be picked up by Squalo, opened by Squalo, read by Squalo and Squalo only. Including all the disgustingly mushy fan letters Lussuria received on a daily basis.

The Varia assassin never did get past that.

Surprisingly enough, the next item was not from Squalo, but in the unexpectedly masculine hand writing of Lussuria. Mukuro opened it, read the first five lines, and had started laughing to the point of tears. Lussuria had apparently recorded the drunken confessions of Squalo. There was some lovely blackmail information involving Squalo being dressed in tutus, boas and high heels, even all at once, with many thanks to a certain Xanxus.

Once Squalo had finished complaining about his boss, he started up a rant about hair care, of all things. He had noted with a hint of irritation that much of it was directed at hairstyle people seemed to have taken up calling 'the ridiculous pineapple'. His 'ridiculous pineapple'.

His reply had been scathing and immediate.

Squalo had sent back some pink hair dye, used white extensions and a hair straightener. Mukuro had tried on the extensions, out of pure curiosity, taking a picture of him with them on and posting it to the Varia HQ, international express.

The next message had been short. Long hair suits you better. No barbs, no bombs.

Mukuro never did think of reply.

So, despite their 'it's complicated' relationship, four years later, Mukuro stood in front Tsuna's lavish oak desk, with a frown on his face. "Perhaps once wasn't enough for you to understand, Tsunayoshi. This creature you have summoned here, I refuse to work with it."

Squalo apparently agreed. "YOU BRAT! WHAT WAS THAT NON-EXISTENT BRAIN OF YOUR'S THINKING?"

Tsuna eyed them both coolly. "Xanxus and I had discussed this. I-ahem-We felt that—"

Squalo's face deadpanned. "Voi. What was that just now? Did I hear you JUST SAY 'I'?" His movements suddenly became exaggerated, stalking up and slamming his hands down on the wood heavily enough for a creak. Tsuna's eye twitched slightly but otherwise didn't give away much discomfiture.

The Vongola leader opened his mouth to try and bluff an explanation, but Mukuro quickly cut him off with his trademark. "Oya, oya. Has this become a farce now, Sawada Tsunayoshi-kun? Are you mocking me?" Tsuna felt the familiar feeling of panic settled in his stomach, beginning to be worn down by the simultaneous attack of the two overwhelming individuals. If Gokudera had been there, things would be progressing much more smoothly, Tsuna mused despondently.

Unfortunately, the Vongola had fallen into yet another crisis, stretching their human resources and leaving no one left for the undercover mission, save the two most capable individuals of each branch. Perhaps it was time for Tsuna to replace some of the management.

"No, I'm not stupid, nor am I mocking you, Squalo, Mukuro," Tsuna replied levelly. "This isn't a difficult mission, but it stations both of you somewhere that's close enough to the battle if we should need you." He put his hand up to prevent the two from arguing with him before he even finished. "But also, it's the prime location to gather intel. It's critical, and you two need to cooperate."

Squalo swore loudly before launching into "VOI~ WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?"

"Now you're just being difficult, Squalo," he replied sourly, the swordsman no longer daunting like before, but still making him wish he had a pair of earplugs.

Mukuro sighed, bringing a hand up to massage his forehead, running over any creases that may have been marring his face while he wasn't paying attention. "Suppose we were to accept this mission." Tsuna perked up at the statement, listening intently for the second part. "Only supposing we do," Mukuro reaffirmed quickly, noticing the boiling anger radiating off the Shark. "What would the mission detail be?"

Happy that some progress, no matter how hypothetical, was being made, Tsuna hastily obliged. "Well, Mukuro, you'd be a college student, and Squalo would remain on standby for you."

"Voi," Squalo breathed. "Define standby for me, now."

Tsuna hesitated. This moment could determine the outcome. "Standby is where you, umm, do whatever you want?" Not quite dictionary definition, but definitely closer to the truth.

The assassin leaned against the back of the couch behind him. "Heh, that sounds better, you little shit." Tsuna thought sadly about the supposed respect a boss was to receive.

The illusionist also seemed somewhat placated, but not before one last inquiry. "What about living arrangements?" Tsuna remained silent, and his eyes narrowed.

Squalo looked confusedly between the two. "VOI? WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? IT'S NOT LIKE I'M GONNA LIVE WITH THE SHITHEAD, RIGHT?" Tsuna continued to remain silent, this time tapping a finger on the desk with so much focus, his life could depend on it.

Screams broke out and Tsuna ended up threatening to place them both in a solitary confinement cell in the Vendicare as an alternative location. The two Mafioso ended up boarding the small jet, bound for their wayward destination in the Pacific, a mere two hours later. Both were in a stupor where orange fire still danced across their eyes.

"Just for the record," Squalo finally said as the plane began to taxi towards take-off, "I didn't agree to this. And I still want to kill you."

Mukuro eyed him equally steadily from the seat beside him. "Don't worry. I feel the same exact way."

There was silence for the next leg of the flight, only interrupted by Mukuro's trek to the back, presumably to throw up. Squalo followed soon him into the restroom, shooting a dirty look. Neither spoke a word.

It quickly became an unseemly contest where both men competed to see who could fill more barf bags as time went on. Squalo had turned an interesting shade of green, and Mukuro looked the same as always, albeit if one looked carefully they could notice a light sheen a sweat that led his pineapple style of hair to stand on end. Landing wasn't fun at all.

Gripping the armrest hard enough to crack it, Squalo groaned and grit his teeth, refusing to complain aloud. Airplanes were a despicable mode of transport, nothing like the pristine beauty of a vessel on the sea, and the Shark strongly preferred the latter. Still refusing to voice any of his discomfort, his hooked the left side of his hair behind his ear and reached for the fourth bag the same time Mukuro reached for his fifth. Glares lasted for several seconds before both surrendered to the overwhelming nausea.

The terrible shaking finally stopped, and both men sighed loudly in relief, complexion recovering slightly.

"Tch," was all the manliness the assassin could muster at the moment before stumbling off the plane. Mukuro would have been amused if he hadn't been trying so hard to regain his sense of balance and not trip gracefully down the metallic stairs onto the tarmac.

The trip to the hotel was equally miserable, Mukuro mentally comparing the feeling to that of finding oneself lying in a pool of their own vomit in an alley the morning after. Gradually recovering from the horrors of the flight, he also salvaged his dour sense of humor. "Say, Squalo. What did you think of the flight?" The other man's gaze bore meaningfully into the tinted taxi window, indicating his disinterest in him.

Trying a different tack, Mukuro mused aloud, "What would happen if there was only one bed?" The assassin was cursed to be unable to keep his mouth still for longer than ten minutes at a time, and the only reason he was silent for the duration of the flight was because dry-heaving counted as a form of speech. However, now that he was not ludicrously disoriented, Squalo couldn't stay quiet. "VOI! DON'T TELL ME YOU RENTED AN APARTMENT WITH ONLY ONE BED!"

Quietly chuckling, Mukuro never did answer.

Staring at the single king sized bed in the center of the bedroom, Squalo groaned and muttered furiously at the blue-haired man, "You're taking the couch, you fucktard. Now, I'm gonna go take a shower so I won't have to see your face for at least twenty minutes." Mukuro watched him vanish angrily into the small bathroom, slamming the door.

Twenty minutes for a shower? What the hell did Squalo do with all that time?

The answer became apparent when he stalked out of the bathroom screaming at Mukuro for his hair straightener. He had on an expression of impasse which quickly cracked and turned into desperate laughter at the curly white locks the Shark currently sported. "What hair straightener?" was his intelligent reply.

"THE ONE YOU FUCKING TOOK FROM THE BATHROOM." Obviously.

Mukuro sighed. "I did not take any such thing from the bathroom. You must have misplaced it." This answer was not taken at face value whatsoever, and normally with good reason, but this time the illusionist was not lying. He honestly didn't see, touch or take a hair straightener from the bathroom during the time he was taking a shower.

"Look, you moronic shark. It's probably just in a box that you haven't unpacked yet and you just think you had it because you're used to having it there."

"Oh, and I suppose that tuna had materialized out of nowhere as well?" Squalo retorted.

Still a sore spot, it seemed. "No. That was entirely my doing. Your face did look so wonderful with that tuna shaped welt though. It actually made you look tolerable."

Squalo's eyes widened, as he had expected the illusionist to deny it and toy with him some more, but to outright mock him and admit it, well, that was offensive. Even knowing that the Siberian tundra, or possibly worse would await him, Squalo let off a shark's grin, raising his good arm out of instinct and effectively knocked the lights out in Mukuro for the next hour.

When Mukuro awoke again to a throbbing headache, he found Squalo sitting in the middle of a maelstrom of cardboard and their belongings, calmly straightening his hair. Smiling, the Vongola Mist Guardian said, "I get to sleep on the bed." The shark gave him an unusually apologetic look and agreed.

It was a good start to their mission.

Mukuro went to the first boring day of classes as a transfer student, post-grad in Psychology. Wearing his lengthening hair in a short ponytail, he winked at some giggling girls in the back of the class. After a condescending introduction by the teacher, who had apparently thought by the bruise on his forehead, and 'colored contact' that he wasn't anything good, Mukuro gladly tore apart the inner workings of their teacher within five minutes, leaving the man in the khaki shorts sobbing and blubbering on the ground. This is how the rest of the class learned to leave him well alone.

Returning back to the apartment, he discovered it to be empty, which surprised him. He had expected Squalo to act utterly slob-like while he was gone, giving him good reason to verbally berate him. The Varia assassin returned well after midnight, surprising him even further with some viable intel on the opposing faction the Vongola was currently engaged with.

Squalo was competent. The fact had not occurred to Mukuro before. The other man asked Mukuro if he had heard anything worthwhile, yet. Mukuro answered somewhat defensively that he had not, and Squalo told him roughly that it was okay, since Mukuro could not be compared to his superior standards. But the intention, the illusionist had sensed incredulously, was kind.

Mukuro never could figure out a good response to that.

A week passed by slowly, every day bringing new discoveries that stunned him. Despite his delicacy over his hair and general womanly things, the shark wasn't good for nothing after all. He could clean, somewhat cook, talk, and even sing, albeit gravelly, Mukuro discovered one night of too much illusory booze. Before he knew it, they were falling into a routine—normalcy even. The thought of getting this comfortable with anything unsettled the illusionist.

Squalo seemed unperturbed throughout it all, focusing all his might onto accomplishing the mission basics as per protocol, leaving everything else on the side as simply mild enjoyment, unexpectedly pleasing to be on the receiving end on, as Mukuro found out.

The stream of insults between the two had far from stopped, but it seemed to be growing less venomous by the day, devolving into a simple swear every once in a while, almost ordinary by their standards. It was borderline terrifying.

Things between them were actually going well, for once, up until Mukuro stumbled back into their shared apartment in the middle of the night reeking of perfume, alcohol and smoke. Worse, there was vomit in his hair. "HOLYSHIT, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO YOURSELF, YOU HOPELESS ASS?"

Squalo was livid, Mukuro observed chuckling. Enjoying the careless feeling that being inebriated brought, thanks to the many drinks that night, the illusionist was careful not to slur his speech much and tried to explain. "Well, you see. There was this party. That everyone at class wanted to go to. And I wasn't invited. So I thought that I should go and stir things up, just for some fun. Because it gets boring with you. Why're you so uptight anyways?"

He continued to death glare at the illusionist as he pulled him off the floor onto the sofa. "Anyways, so I went. And I didn't think that there would be much trouble. But I'd never been to one, really. I didn't realize that—." hiccup. Mukuro stopped, groaning and Squalo quickly grabbed a small tub, shoving it in front of him, citing something about 'fucking alcohol'. His time with Xanxus had taught him the signs of impending doom.

Coughing into the bucket he blinked blearily, noting for the first time that Squalo seemed to have an aura of bright white around him, closing in on him like an angel of death. Or maybe that was just his vision doubling. Mukuro couldn't be sure. Seeming to have staunched the nausea temporarily, the assassin traversed all throughout the apartment cleaning up the mess trail.

He was shoved into the shower, doused with the showerhead with his boxers still on, and then left with the company of a pile of clothes. Squalo would never go so far as to dress the other. The shark still had some dignity left.

Mukuro however, was extremely amused all throughout at being babied by the Varia Vice-Commander of all people. He had long since flushed the alcohol out of his system, maintaining his sorry state through the use of a clever illusion. He was curious to see how far Squalo would go to make him feel better. The man really was a hopeless mother hen; it couldn't be denied.

Walking out of the shower with a towel lopsidedly hanging off his waist, Mukuro flopped onto the bed, curling up slightly, moaning piteously. Closing his eyes, he continued making needless sound effects that detailed the exact levels of pain he was going through, from whimper to screams. As Mukuro flipped around, Squalo felt a vein pop somewhere, stalking over with his shoulders raised to find that other had fallen asleep peacefully, worn down for no apparent reason. Flushing out the alcohol had taken up quite a bit of energy.

Ready to trudge back to the sofa, the assassin turned to leave before a cold tingle ran up his spine. Something wasn't right. Slowly pivoting back towards the bed, his eyes widened gradually as he spotted the culprit of his discomfort. Mukuro's hair was in a terrible condition and he slapped the illusionist hard. "DID YOU EVEN CONDITION YOUR HAIR?"

It was a shocking way to wake up, but he found himself being dragged by his ear back towards the bathroom by the very irked shark. He barely had the time to rub his eyes before he was assaulted by a stream of commands, masquerading as advice. "One: eat healthy, two: you should wash your hair daily—you have extremely oily roots, three: NEVER BLOWDRY—did I mention to never blowdry?; four: comb it by section every time you wash it, five: condition, six: protect it before going into sea water or polluted air, and seven: WEAR IT IN A DAMN PONYTAIL WHEN YOU SLEEP DAMMIT."

Mukuro winced from the volume and sheer speed, but he allowed the other man to gently massage the conditioner from his ears down and then using lukewarm water to rinse all the chemical out. A towel thrown at his face, Mukuro watched Squalo demonstrate how to properly towel-dry hair, grimacing the entire time. "Put your hair up." The other man handed him a hair tie, glaring angrily.

"God dammit, you do look good with long hair, but you have to treat it well. Otherwise I'll just hack your whole fucking ponytail off the next time I see you." Nodding simply, Mukuro went back to the kitchen to try and dig out some aspirin for the impending headache. It was five in the morning already. Where had all his sleep gone? Retreating back to bed, he found Squalo snoring on the floor. Had he stayed up for him? Mukuro didn't tell him any of his plans for the day, and he hadn't ever been late coming back without first giving some warning.

What was this couple-like behavior? Sighing, he picked Squalo up off the ground.

The next morning, Squalo found himself on the bed. Flipping up suddenly, he dashed out to the living room in search of the illusionist, worried that he had done something stupid as soon as Squalo had fallen asleep. Rampaging through the empty rooms, he finally stopped in front of the dining table, discovering the first note he had received from the illusionist since the pregnancy jab from several years ago.

There's supposed to be someone who knows something meeting up with me after classes, so I won't be back until late. He may be the jackpot we've been looking for. I have the meals for today freeze wrapped in the fridge. Thank you for the hair care advice last night.

~ Mukuro

Smiling, he pocketed the note as evidence to tease Mukuro for his uncharacteristic caring when he returned, unable to let a chance slip by. Even though they would never get past mercilessly ragging at each other, maybe a wordless compromise could be reached?

The next day, Squalo and Mukuro went into the city with their guns blazing, swiftly decimating the opposition alongside their companions with the information Mukuro had illicitly obtained. The two didn't look at each other as their two factions split apart. Farewells were for the weak.

Squalo waited anxiously at the Varia mailbox the following week, wondering if Mukuro even cared anymore, now that they didn't have an overwhelming hatred for each other. It was March after all, and he expected something special if he got anything, just as he had done for Mukuro in the month of June. The pickled pineapple caricature had cost him a fortune.

He wasn't disappointed.

A/N: YAY. FIRST KHR FIC. FINALLY. I've been stalking the fandom for god knows how long, but I've never gotten around to writing anything. This was for a contest, Write and Run, prompt two. It didn't win, but I'm pretty damn proud of it. Heehee. The reason it's 69S is because the bonus requirement was for a crack pairing. My crack muse has been hyper active recently so it worked out somehow.

Thanks for reading~