[A/N]
What's up my XS fans. I said I quit, but after reading the last couple of chapters (398/399) I figured I had to do something as a tribute to this pairing.
Basically, this is a collection of XS one-shots that I will be writing. They may or may not be connected/related to each other, and they are by no means in chronological order. It'll just be a group of short stories.
I hope you enjoy it because it's different to the usual planned-plot/serious type stories that I normally like to write.
Chapter 1 - His name is Xanxus
Screwed.
Doesn't even begin to describe his current situation.
Not that Squalo cared.
Eyeing the oaken doors carefully, he stood outside Xanxus' office deciding how to make his entrance. At this stage, he only had three choices.
One: kick the door open for a nice dramatic effect.
Two: kick the door off for a nicer dramatic effect.
Three: Use the handle for no dramatic effect.
Option one was the usual way-to-go, option two Squalo's personal favourite and option three the one he never used except under dire circumstances. Although option two seemed very tempting, the situation at hand required the execution of option one (option three was out of the question). As a Mafioso, he must always act according to what the circumstances necessitated, for the sake of good business.
Squalo knew that a professional like himself should never ever ever under any circumstance ever place his own preferences before business. He remembers what the mafia school taught him: "Business is the first commandment in the holy book of mafia dictation. Business is the ultimate objective, the sun and sky of the underworld, the principle law of all action, purpose and event. Business governs the forces of nature, the elementary fundamentalist components of Mafiaism. Business creates life and death, the sole purpose of human existence. A true Mafioso never opposes Business."
So in other words, the professional approach would be to kick open the door without kicking it off. For good business.
Squalo kicked the door off anyways. Fuck business. Fuck professionalism. Fuck Mafiaism. He didn't believe in that shit.
The only laws he conformed to were the laws of Xanxus.
Written by none other than Squalo himself. Edited and published by himself. Evidence accumulated from years of quiet observation and personal experience. Engraved deeply into the walls of his mind.
It goes like this:
Xanxus is absolutely flawless and perfect.
Xanxus is always right.
Whatever Xanxus wishes must be accomplished.
Xanxus is destined to rule all and is ruled by none.
Xanxus is the definition of life.
The five commandments of Xanxusism. It was like his religion.
No, fuck that.
It was his religion.
Anyone who openly believed otherwise must be killed mercilessly. No exceptions. Squalo was good at enforcing that.
These laws functioned as the centre of his universe, the utmost priorities in his life. Nothing, absolutely no-fucking-shit nothing would ever change that.
Not even the glass that collided with his head after the door came crashing down from the kick.
His head jutted sideways abruptly as the object scattered into dangerous fragments, lodging themselves painfully into his scalp. Squalo analysed the characteristics of the throw: force roughly four hundred Newtons, thirty-three pieces of crystal scattered, range of projectile fifteen metres, angle of launch sixteen degrees to the horizontal, antique but relatively cheap glassware thrown, currently drinking –Squalo sniffed – four year old bourbon. Target area ten centimetres above his eyes, one centimetre below his hairline, four centimetres to the left. No blood sighted.
Conclusion: Xanxus was in a good mood.
Stepping over the fallen slab of wood, Squalo silently approached his boss and prepared to announce the news that would most likely remove all trace of mirth currently dwelling inside Xanxus.
'Bester fell in the river,' Squalo announced, attempting to strike up an intimidating pose in front of Xanxus' desk.
Xanxus spat out his drink. 'What?' He growled, glaring upwards at the shark.
If Squalo did not believe in Xanxusism, he would have retorted something along the lines of – 'don't fucking 'what' me you piece of shit boss'- but unfortunately for him, a more respectful reply was appropriate especially when addressing the supposed 'god' of his distorted universe.
'Don't fucking 'what' me you good-for-nothing-spoilt-motherfucker,' Squalo snapped, irritated. Maybe not.
Xanxus' eyes flared dangerously at Squalo's capriciousness.
'How the fuck did he fall into the river?' The raven hissed, deciding not to backhand Squalo for his rudeness.
'He was hungry apparently.'
'Shit…'
Oh Squalo recognised the tone in which this 'shit' was uttered. That specific pitch, that unique frequency, that prolonged stress on the 'sh' and the abrupt finish of the 'it' told him two things. One was that his boss probably gave two shits out of five about the fate of his box weapon (a pretty significant fact considering Xanxus gave no shits about anything). The other was that Xanxus would be hungry again in approximately one hour's time.
'He's being treated by the best vets in the country,' Squalo explained, abandoning his moan-bitch-whine demeanour upon realising Xanxus was even slightly concerned about Bester's condition, 'he'll be fine in a week I'm sure.'
'Scum, I don't give a fuck about the stupid cat,' Xanxus rolled his eyes, 'how much do those doctors want?'
'Ten thousand –'
'We're not paying those fuckers,' Xanxus sneered with ringing finality. With that, he lowered his head back down and went back to doing whatever the fuck he was doing before Squalo arrived, that is…nothing at all.
'Sure,' Squalo shrugged.
'Now get the fuck out of my sight.'
'Get the fuck out of my sight' really meant 'come back in an hour to deliver my steak'. Squalo turned and exited the room.
He knew Xanxus like the shit written on his sword manual. He knew his actions, his habits, his rules, the hidden meaning behind his gestures, his living style, his favourite everything, what he classified as decent or shit or killable-on-sight, what he classified as worthy of existence, his pulse at any given moment, the concentration of iron in his blood, the number of oxygen atoms entering him with each breath, the pitch of his snores and its relation to the dream he was having that night, the rate at which he needed to visit the bathroom along with his metabolism speed and much much more. For all he knew he could write a fucking book about Xanxus. Boy would that sell.
And no, he was not a fucking stalker thank-you-very-much-Bel.
And those who claim that his knowledge was downright creepy are just jealous. Really fucking jealous.
Observant was the correct word in Squalo's humble opinion. As was dedicated. It was his primary duty as a devoted worshipper of Xanxusism to at least know the basic features of his god.
And hell he didn't fucking care if they whispered behind his back saying shit like how he was wasting his life serving a man to whom he was as significant as a speck of dust. Or how pathetic he was for submitting to someone who was not only born in the slums but also possessed slum blood. Or how he was now mad beyond hope and virtually brain-dead from the objects that found his head everyday and that probably being the reason why he continues to serve a hopeless boss, because he's too stupid to know any better.
Like he gave a fuck what those trashes told each other when he wasn't around. He was the goddamn sword emperor, he could sell their asses anytime and anywhere.
But deep down amidst Squalo's vulnerable areas, those words hurt. He never explicitly showed it, but they hurt. They hurt like the ache in his heart when Xanxus made him feel unneeded, like the emptiness and disappointment those times he failed to save him, like the piercing sting in his stump whenever Xanxus was in danger, the venomous burn in his eyes whenever he came to the sad realisation that he still wasn't strong enough to fulfil the promise he made ten years ago. It hurt. So much.
And he tried to prove them wrong. He tried to prove that Xanxus fucking cared as much as he refused to show it, and that he too could feel emotions like the rest of them. That Xanxus was not hopeless and slum-blooded but the most beautiful, captivating being to ever grace the surface of the planet. And the reason why he still, after all these years of abuse, unrelentingly followed him was not because of his stupidity, but because of the inconceivable power of human emotions and the phenomenal strength of a promise waiting to be fulfilled. Xanxus was the sun in his system, and Squalo's world would never cease to revolve around him. Not in death. Not ever.
They just didn't understand him. Working under Xanxus meant understanding him. Knowing him. Vigorous persistence and most of all, conforming to his rules.
Rules involved a wine-filled glass to the head if he was too slow in completing a mission, two glasses to the head if he returned too early, a cheap glass if he returned in decent time, a rose vase if he returned late and a glass thrown softly if he returned injured. How soft depended on the extent of his injuries.
To Squalo, a mission was only half complete after the target eliminated and the objective accomplished. A mission was only truly complete after he successfully makes it back to Xanxus' office to give the report. With a boast-able success rate of 99% (self calculated), Squalo can only recall a few times where he failed to give a coherent report.
Those times he remembers being severely injured and hovering over the murky clouds of death as he kicked open the door to Xanxus' office. He remembers blood dripping and himself collapsing onto the dark red carpet of the room before a single word could be uttered. He remembers blackness flashing with phosphenes behind his eyelids, the disorganisation as he alternated between oblivion and consciousness. He remembers thinking of death and failure.
But those times he also remembers feeling strong warm arms wrapped around him, lifting him gently in his oblivious state. He remembers smelling that hearty mixture of alcohol and fire that was all too familiar, so much he later deduced that his senses must have been lying to him. He remembers leaning against a muscular body, his instinct reassuring him that he was safe and fucking alive, inducing a sense of safety that negated the ache from his wounds. He remembers being washed, cleaned and fixed up all whilst he was unconscious yet aware of his senses. He remembers a large scorching hand holding his own tightly and calmingly whilst nightmares replayed themselves in his sleep.
And Squalo remembers waking, not on the floor of Xanxus' office where he thought he'd be but in a place where he never dared imagine. He remembers waking in a soft white bed, bandages cleanly wrapped around his injuries whilst pain was non-existent. He remembers the odd shape of his blankets and the noticeable imprint on the covers that clearly indicated that someone, someone had been staying at his bedside during his recovery, sitting by his side, sleeping next to him through the pain. And the faint burning scent hovering in the air along with the few scattered strands of pitch-black hair on his bed made him think immediately of a one person.
Squalo never mentioned those moments in case they were simply figments of his imagination, lies that his mind told him during his pathetic state. But those periods afterward when Xanxus continuously kept him by his side until he had fully recovered were definitely not part of his imagination. They were as real as the pride that swelled inside him whenever he thought of Xanxus, as real as his resolve to remain beside that man for the rest of his life. Those gestures convinced him, made him almost positively fucking certain that he was worth more than just a few shits to Xanxus, that he in fact held a piece of Xanxus' world no matter how small it was.
That knowledge was worth more than any kind of acknowledgement from others around him.
That knowledge was the source of his motivation to retain his fucked-up vow.
Kicking open the kitchen door, Squalo strode toward the tabletop where a few plates of steak were displayed for inspection.
Inspection meant applying a combination of advanced mathematical, instinctive, automated, scientifical and metaphysical calculations to determine the edibility of the meat. Xanxus standards of course. The end result of those calculations would provide a value out of ten that defined the shittiness of the meal. Only Squalo was skilled enough to accurately obtain a rating from just looking at the steak.
Holding the first plate on eye level, Squalo scrutinised the steak with meticulous care. He studied it carefully, amalgamating elements from the turbulent swirls of information that entered his head before putting the plate back down.
On a shittiness scale from one to ten, Xanxus would probably give it a seven. In other words very shitty, even shittier than normal shit. There was no way in hell Squalo would give something like that for Xanxus to eat. This one went to Levi.
He moved on to the next plate that contained a plumper piece of meat and gave it the same treatment as the other. Two out of ten, Squalo thought silently before moving on. A little less shitty than shit but still shit.
The third steak took a little longer to calculate but resulted in a negative value. Squalo would call it a success, something worthy of Xanxus' digestive system. Without hesitating, he took the plate and made his way to deliver the meal.
As a man who epitomised pride, Squalo felt true to his title as he carried the steak on his fingertips. It was the burning satisfaction that only he in this whole universe managed to discover the secrets of Xanxus. Yeah fuck, he heard about those rumours Bel spread of him having a shrine dedicated to Xanxus in his room. It was about time they got their facts straight before making false claims.
It wasn't a fucking shrine, it was a fucking miniature temple with his statue goddamnit. There was a fucking difference.
It was a place where he knelt every night and prayed to whatever entity up there for three and only three requests. He wished for them to keep Xanxus beside him, but not safe, because keeping him safe was his job and not theirs. He wished that nothing like the aftermath of the cradle affair would ever occur again because as strong as he was, he simply could never endure that another time. Most of all, he wished for strength to support Xanxus, because he could never forgive himself if he couldn't even meet Xanxus' expectations.
Cheesy as fuck but Squalo didn't care, because those deep dark fears he would do anything to prevent.
Balancing Xanxus' dinner in one hand, Squalo strode inside Xanxus' office for the second time, taking care to step over the fallen door he kicked off earlier. Not hesitating to smirk, Squalo placed the plate on the desk, marvelling his perfect timing. Exactly one minute before Xanxus' stomach would do its habitual scream for food.
Upon seeing the meal, Xanxus paused in action. For a moment he stared at the piece of meat. Squalo laughed inwardly as he recognised the symptoms of Xanxus silently calculating the respective shittiness of the steak. Been there. Done that. Any moment now, he would come upon a negative value and respond with a nod of approval.
However what Squalo wasn't expecting was Xanxus suddenly grabbing his hair and dragging him down. Without warning, the other man pulled him into a kiss, ignoring Squalo's yell of surprise.
When he let go, Squalo struggled to work out the boundless implications behind the kiss. Perhaps it was Xanxus' way of thanking him.
Whenever Xanxus made such a gesture, the ending result had always been heavy confusion for the swordsman. It was one side of him Squalo couldn't work out, despite his competency understanding all other aspects of the raven.
But it was also those actions that made him feel warm even in the harshest of times. They made him happy, a different kind of happy. A different kind of pleasure. Like those cold winter nights when Xanxus would make a visit to his bed, just to hold him as he fell asleep. And those afternoons when Xanxus would fall asleep on his lap without giving fucks about what Squalo needed to do.
Each moment gave him a piece of an infinite puzzle that only deepened his devotion to his boss. It was those memories that removed any hint of regret that might have sprouted inside. Those times only reinforced the certainty that yes, this was what he was born to do. And fuck he didn't even care about that lame-ass position.
Because the title of Vongola was not and had never been his true reason for following Xanxus.
On the surface, it was just a convenient excuse to inform outsiders. To Squalo, such a title was irrelevant to his loyalty.
He had no hesitations in saying that he honestly, truly, genuinely did not give a fuck whether Xanxus was true-blooded, slum-blooded, descendant or not. None of it mattered because none of it changed the way he was and will be.
He served Xanxus for Xanxus. Not for his potential to inherit a prestigious Mafioso family, nor for the shared fame that came with working under the infamous individual.
Because as long as the world exists and there was the two of them, Squalo will bend his knee to one person only. He will live, breathe, kill and fight for that person. He will give his life for that person. He will stand by that person no matter what future was coming, or what the past presented. If death was the answer, he will die for that person. Because that person is the reason for Squalo's very existence.
He is the oxygen that Squalo breathes. The oasis in Squalo's desert. The star in Squalo's orbit. Without him, life is not life but hell. A world without colour. Without him, Squalo is lost.
His name is Xanxus.
.
- END -
[A/N] - Hope you enjoyed it, reviews both good or bad are appreciated.