Hibari is racist. Just thought I should warn you, he hates Italians, Italy, etc. and he isn't shy about it. Though that has nothing to do with this story. Another thing that has nothing to do with the story is the fact that I think I might be writing Hibari a little differently than usual . . . ? But that might be a product of the story, anyway.
I've realized that sometimes it's difficult to place at what point in his life I'm writing Hibari in each piece of mine, unless an obvious clue is given, so let's say he's around eighteen or nineteen in this. And yes, at eighteen or nineteen I'm pretty sure he's still spending a large portion of his free time at Namimori. Maybe that wouldn't be the case in different circumstances, but in this case, Namimori is still his nest that he refuses to leave for longer than necessary.
Some notes now that I've written it: Yeah, Dino taught Hibird to say his name. That one's courtesy of one of my Dino's, Self-Proclaimed Seme. Also I don't know about this ending . . . I was really into the writing, and then my mother came home with my baby cousin and put on Bear in the Big Blue House. Which is a mood-killer :|
It had been a long time since anyone had really smiled around him. He'd never been the type people genuinely smiled around, at least not if they didn't have some sort of death wish, so he didn't see why it would have even come to his notice in the first place, but it had regardless. And, of similar unimportance, he couldn't help but think that it had been just as long since he'd smiled himself. Smiles weren't a very common sight coming from Hibari Kyouya, but they weren't completely non-existent, either. Or at least, they hadn't been before. He really couldn't remember the last time he had-
But that wasn't true. He remembered perfectly. But it didn't matter.
Hibari hated Italy. He hated the sights, the sounds, the food, and of course, the people. He'd never met an Italian he didn't hate, and the tourists were worse by more than he had imagined possible, always crowding pointlessly and taking pictures of every rock in hopes of being able to show off that they were now suddenly culturally diverse, and the worst of it was, Hibari was frequently lumped in with that type of person, due to the fact that he was clearly not an Italian-a fact he was quite proud of, but still an annoyance while visiting this dreaded country. He had made it quite clear that he hated Italy, and yet he still found himself coming back, again and again. Not purely by choice, of course. Those damned Vongola seemed to have a knack for finding opponents in Italy that were just enticing enough to make him overcome his severe hatred for the place for whatever length of time was required to finish off the person-or, more commonly, large group of people-he'd been sent after.
But even the possibility of a good fight couldn't completely eradicate Hibari's hatred of Italy. Every time he had come here, he would be put into a terrible mood from when the plane took off out of Japan until he finally found himself back on Namimori's rooftop where he belonged. He didn't want to have to deal with any more Italian 'culture' than he had to while he was here, so he spent most of his 'free' time when he couldn't work in his hotel room. That was his destination currently, as he'd finished what he could for the day and would now have to waste time however he could until it was late enough to sleep. This was the worst part of being here, the seemingly endless stretches of nothing between pursuing his reason for being there. Such empty spaces of time were usually a positive thing for Hibari, a welcome moment of silence and relaxation at Namimori, but here, there was no Namimori. Still, he disliked the idea of spending the rest of the day staring at the walls of his hotel room, and he equally disliked the idea of actually going anywhere in this area of Italy.
Though he usually walked with a purpose whether he had one or not, today he found himself almost meandering. The streets were relatively uncrowded in terms of tourists-it must have been the off season, though Hibari himself found Italy equally unlikable any time of year-and the bird perched on his shoulder was lightly snoozing as it swayed with his gait. It was almost peaceful, though still not necessarily pleasant. At the very least, it was enough to make him pause, and take in his surroundings a bit further. Something about this area seemed familiar, more so than just another part of Italy he'd been through more times than he cared to. When his eyes found the source of the familiar feeling, an almost imperceptible frown tugged at his lips.
He went in anyway.
Though he'd only been there once before, it didn't take long to find what he was unintentionally looking for. When he did, his bird woke from its nap and chirped one of the very few things it had learned from someone other than himself, "Dino~ Dino~"
It was extremely disrespectful to lean against a headstone, of course, but seeing as he had never shown any real outward respect for the man in life, Hibari doubted it would make much of a difference in death, and anyone who had constantly taken the liberty of calling him 'Kyouya' didn't get those sorts of privileges, anyway. Besides, it was quiet here, far back from the busy streets, and almost reminded him of home, in a way. In spite of himself, he found it inexplicably comfortable; perhaps not entirely in the physical sense, leaning against a hard gravestone on the dirt and grass that was somewhat damp, but the feel of the area was, at the very least, not so terrible as the rest of Italy. Secluded and nondescript to discourage those who might have some moronic idea about robbing the grave of a mafia boss, and certainly almost always empty due to the fact that it was only the mafia that buried people here-or rather, people considered important; the mafia was constantly burying people-and naturally, there wasn't much time for those in the mafia to visit their former bosses or friends. The cemetery was deserted at the moment except for himself and his bird, and it was most likely in such a state most of the time. It would make sense, then, that he would be naturally comfortable here. It was no Namimori, but it would have to do.
He wasn't really the smiling type, and when he did smile it was nothing exceptional aside from the fact that he was smiling at all, because in most instances that action was brought on by the euphoria of a good fight, or overwhelming confidence in the face of an equally-confident opponent, or even shameless sadism at the pain of someone else. He had been in fights recently, he had faced confident opponents and known he would win, and he had caused more pain in a few days than most people saw in a lifetime. But the feel of a smile had become foreign to him, as foreign as the street he had been walking down when the cemetery caught his attention and drew him in; he could recall it if he needed to, but details were lost to him. He knew how it was supposed to look when he smiled, but the feeling was impossible to remember.
"I love you, Kyouya."
No, that certainly hadn't made him smile. In fact, the very memory of those words caused a frown to twitch at his features. Why that memory had come to him now was questionable, though he was leaning against the grave of the only person who had ever been stupid enough to say it. There were plenty of other things that the Italian man had done, things that were less aggravating, less idiotic. And there were things he had done that were so stupid it was hard to believe he'd survived so long so close to Namimori's volatile skylark. He had survived Hibari, though, he'd survived Hibari and he'd provided an interesting and incredibly frustrating fight on a regular basis, and he'd been confident because he had every right to be. So long as Romario had been around, the bronco could wear that confident smile throughout their fight, and that sort of confidence only incited the same from Hibari himself, so that by the end of most days they were both left bloodied and bruised, and smiling.
That most likely wasn't what the inhabitant of the grave wanted to be remembered by, but it didn't matter. Hibari had no desire to reflect on the day spent patrolling Namimori with an unexpected tagalong he hadn't ever bothered to kick out, nor his experiences that not everyone had been aware of involving the now-infamous whip, nor any of the memories that might be deemed 'good' by others. Any memory of the Italian was tainted by time and unexpected circumstances, so even Hibari was incapable of knowing if it was accurate, or if he had considered it important at the time. Had he cared when the late mafia boss had fought alongside him and failed to dodge a harsh blow? It seemed he should have in some way or another, disappointment or anger of some variety, but the memory came detached of any sort of emotion. It was now just another event in time, no more significant than any other. After all, in spite of his injury, the man had survived. He had fought a fight worthy of a carnivore, fought through the near-fatal blow and come out of it alive.
He had survived pissing off the undeniably dangerous skylark, he had survived fighting through wounds that would kill most people, he had smiled through almost everything that should have destroyed him, and yet, it was his headstone Hibari was currently lounging against. How long had it been, that this grave had been occupied? How long had it been since he'd been subjected to that insufferable, endless smile?
Maybe a little too long.
The bird, now resting on the top of the headstone himself, chirped another note, a single repitition of "Dino~" Quieter this time.
Hibari offered his bird a glance before returning his gaze to the view around him. It was almost possible, here, to forget he was in Italy. It was more comfortable than the rest of the country as he'd experienced it. The corners of his lips twitched as he repeated simply, "Dino."