Thick, grayed liquid drips to the unpolished floor of a vacant room, adorned by a lone candlestick placed on a rusty table. It is a place of lost hope, of abandonment, save for the man in a well-refined suit and a lined fedora. Contrary to the dirt that has shrouded the floors, his polished heels have seemingly been shined for all of eternity, clacking against the grimy cement. His steps are quick and decisive,before the room is finally left to itself once more.
It does not take a beat until the room is ghosted upon by cold unforgiving wind. One final gust, and the candle is finally put to rest. Its flames are extinguished, structure melting into oblivion, and with its last drop, the unsuspecting object gives out one last drop of paraffin wax, ultimately serving its purpose to give light and chase away darkness.
Left lying on the floor was a dull gray color, an unnoticeable drop of candle was, comparable to a tear that has fallen shy from the world's eyes.
The autumn sky is a pale violet color, bathed with a tinge of pink hues and the faintest of orange as the sun descends to kiss the day away. Dressed only in light blaze, Reborn feels the chilly Italian breeze greet his skin as he leisurely trots along surprisingly bare streets. Distinct stores catch his pitch black gaze as he discreetly scrutinizes their interior, face remaining in a façade he has worn for as long as he remembers.
His attention is then hooked to a quaint coffee shop that had the strong essence of espresso wafting through air and out the sidewalk. Briefly, he considers taking a step inside, before Reborn finds himself chuckling softly, if not a bit apologetic for making a certain woman wait. That said, a fleeting calm flashes in his eyes as his mind idly drifts to you, presumably sacrificing precious hours of rest for a night with a man who might not even come.
His steps are then stripped off any signs of languidness as he bitterly albeit quietly reprimands himself for doing this to you. He thinks of how rude it was to invite you to dinner, when he knows that he might not make it.
He hates to disappoint women life you, after all.
Yet, even as he tells this to himself a sinister lilt at the back of his minds chants to him of terrible excuses. He hears this taunting voice, telling him, it's okay, the both of you are busy individuals, after all.
He believes this voice for a few seconds or so, taking the demon's bait of deceiving him, of making him think that such is the consequences of being the elite on the world of Mafioso.
On the very few moments when Reborn is bare, accepting of the things that he is unable to do, his mind becomes clouded with doubt, until your lone figure on a booth catches his distracted demeanor. He gives you a hard stare, before getting out of his stupor and slipping on the calm image he has dropped.
Confident strides get him standing before the door to an unnamed restaurant, the sight of dinner candles giving off a mood that elicits memories of romantic dates and sweet deception.
Reborn smirks, and takes hold of the brass handles.
He has entered your world once more, and as he locks his eyes into your lax form, he tells himself that this visit will definitely be worthwhile.
To Reborn, you are a woman of impassive behavior, a gamble piece that has simply chosen to play along. He thinks of you as he does of all, a person who gives him affection for the sake of companionship. He knows that you both hold demons within you, the price of being infamously celebrated hitmen for hire. And he also knows that your presence in his life is only to alleviate the nightmares.
To convince yourself that you are not walking this path alone, that there are others like you that could understand and look at you without disdain for your crimes.
He knows all of this, and he is aware that you are not stupid. You know that this is just a game, as well.
Nevertheless, you choose to devote yourself to him, an ephemeral presence that will abandon you given the circumstances.
In his train of thoughts, Reborn unconsciously tilts his head to your resting form, lying snug on his bare chest. For a few seconds he stares at you, which only serves to bring him nostalgia.
Funny, he thinks, how you can evoke so many thoughts whenever he looks at you.
Funny, how his memories flow to a distant memory, a bland room stacked with papers, and one Vongola boss sitting across him. Observant eyes full of supremacy had swept over Reborn back then, clearly unconvinced of the latter's lack of ability to stop himself from attracting women. He remembers, how he smirked and said, "No strings attached."
Thinking back now, he can only gaze at you, at your long eyelashes, at the calm expression adorning your sleeping features, at you.
He has lost as he now runs his slender fingers across your soft yet tangled locks unable to remove his hand in avoidance of rousing you from your sleep. Ironically, it is similar to how he has put himself into a situation where there is no turning back, lest he break his heart, or yours.
He does not really now which is worse, and Reborn always knows. In muted frustration he accidentally takes a sudden grip on the lock of hair that he is holding, and this causes you to stir.
Ever so slowly do your eyes open, revealing mesmerizing [e/c] orbs.
"…Why are you up?"
You stifle a yawn as you give him a look that says you know yet you ask anyways.
He simply smiles and coos you back to sleep. For a while you remain defiant, trying to see what hides behind his murky eyes.
You know that he will lie with his words regardless of what you say, and so with a sigh of your own, you turn your back away from him, clearly unimpressed, and close your eyes back to sleep.
Reborn can't help but frown.
The orange autumn sky and pale grayness of winter have long since gone by from the time you last met Reborn, your schedules all too keen on making sure that you do not have any sort of expedition together. It is sad to think of how you are very much affected by this single mind, your mind flashing to his smirking face.
Oh, how he would have been delighted to hear that you've been missing him.
Yet you will not admit this, for to do so would admit submission to the ever-so-charming Mafioso.
You let out a sigh, clearly exhausted from entertaining such thoughts. However, as you overlook the greens and blooms greeting you as the aircraft comes to land, you can't help but feel giddy at what is about to come.
This time, you have received a request from someone you acknowledge, unlike those rich famiglias who hire you without giving you a sense of companionship. All business, nothing more.
You hear the familiar beep of the aircraft systems signaling that it is safe to remove the seatbelts and disembark. An annoying sound, you muse, but akin to this high-pitched tune is the feeling of excitement thrumming in your heart.
You have received a message from the Vongola, asking of your service on a certain matter.
It meant that you were going to see Reborn again.
And so, it takes not more than a few days after your arrival to meet up with an acquaintance from Vongola, who hands over a folder to you. The stranger, like so many people in your life, only leaves you to ponder alone. You eye him curiously as he hurriedly leaves the coffee shop, head down.
With a shrug you set your attention on the folder he has given you, and open it.
Your trained eyes skim through the files as brief as you dared, taking in as much information as you can in the short span of time. Within seconds, you have finished reading the vital details of the job, and you are reaching for the cup of coffee on your table.
The aroma is strong, hypnotic, and oddly enough, reminiscent of Reborn.
"This is the boss of the Vongola, yes?"
There is the sound of rustling papers and steady breathing, a slight grunt from the other end of the line before you receive a curt response.
"Ms. [L/n]."
You blink, unfazed by the sheer authority lacing his tone. For a second or two, you contemplate how you will voice out your concern to the respectable man on the phone, until you take a long drag of car smoke in the air. "Affirmative, sir. I called to confirm the details you sent to me the week ago...?"
"Ah, of course. Had they been too vague for you?" he asks. You hear a screeching sound, and presume that he has stood up from his working chair, the cliché image of a busy Mafioso buried behind stacked papers in his office briefly passing your mind. As you imagine the don doing so, you hear him add, "…They must have been, Ms. [L/n]. I would apologize, but this is necessary to ensure the anonymity of the famiglia."
You left a soft chuckle slip past your now-chapped lips, exposed to too much wind from waiting out on the windy streets, and merely shake your head in response. "It's not that at all, sir. I completely understand the terms of this mission. I was just going to inquire about my designated partner, Reborn. Is he…" You trail off the question hanging in the air. In a haste, you add, "We were supposed to meet at this coffee shop to discuss tactics. I don't see him anywhere, though." As though to emphasize your point despite the man's lack of presence, you crane your neck to check for the umpteenth time, wary and apprehensive. Upon doing your sweep, you notice how the sky has gotten relatively darker, the sun beginning its descent from the sky. As you await the busy man's response, you notice how much alike your predicament is to what happened a few months back, where you were in Reborn's current situation, granted that he waited for your arrival. You mentally scoff at yourself, feeling ever more guilty of making a respectable man like Reborn wait.
You had agreed to meet up at the very spot you were standing on, where you would plan for the mission on gathering Intel due several days hereafter. However, a call from the organization of assassins- or highly-skilled hitmen, as you liked to call it- had come up, prompting you to stay at your hotel for longer than you would like. With a dismal reply, you had cut off the call, clearly displeased at having your schedule constrained. This was Reborn that you were talking about, after all. It's either you arrive a little too early into the scene, or you end up unable to catch his shadow. Quick and lithe, like how he always was with the people around him.
You are broken out of your trance when you hear the low rumble of the older man's voice from the other end. "Reborn is not in the castle," came his business-like tone.
With a barely audible sigh, you thank him for his time and bid him farewell, displeased at Reborn's sudden disappearance.
Of course, he was gone.
Wracking your exhausted brain of his possible whereabouts, your tired eyes pass along the depressing environment, a reminder of your failure to catch a certain man, until you finally decided to flag down a cab. Quietly, you state the address of the flat that Reborn frequents on a busy night.
As the cab begins its journey to the northern part of the town, you see blurs of lights passing by and you can't help but scoff at the pace that things were moving at, figuratively and all. Like the bursts of color refracted on the window, your memories of the said man are hazy yet wondrous, erratic but significant in giving beauty to your dull life of crimson red. Given how much time you've spent around inhumane situations, you are no longer affected much on what sins you have committed or whose blood you got on your hands.
Still, on some days like this you find yourself walking down memory lane and questioning where your morality has gone off to.
It brought about no good memories, not a single flashback of something that you were fond of, only those which caused you to poison your heart and made you seek false companionship.
Having thought of your so-called companion, you ponder on how he fared through this as well. On days when the clouds were dark and the rain threatened to fall on him, did he do the same and sought your presence? Someone else's, perhaps? On the last night you have had with him, had he craved for your presence as you rode on through the storms of the night?
Of course, not. This was Reborn, after all
Distracting yourself from your unhealthy presumptions, you heave a sigh and quietly pay the bill for the cab as you open the door and look up at the sky.
It was dark, gloomy, pleading.
Tears were about to fall from above, you mused out as you hurried inside the building to greet the clerk and ask for Reborn's room.
"He's here, ma'am, but he's not picking up," the clerk apologetically states. With an amicable smile and a shake of your head you tell him it's fine, and that you have you access to his room.
The room was yours anyways. Long before you had began to fly around the world to answer you your duties demands, you had owned the small flat, until it got too tasking and you had to sacrifice living in one area. From that day onwards, you and Reborn had began to use the room for yourselves, constantly surprising each other when you find yourself at the same part of the city, ready to collapse on bed and sleep away.
Lightly bouncing on your steps, you make your way into the elevators and destine yourself to the seventh floor, where your past room was. Gradually, the mechanism shifts upwards, and to pass time you languidly search through your messy handbag and fish out the files that were delivered by the Vongola.
Knowing Reborn, he probably hasn't done his homework; if it was you he was working with, then he would turn into sloth-like being until you prodded him and coerced him into fulfilling his duties.
The thought brings a chuckle to come out of your lips, and as you hear the familiar ding of the elevator you remind yourself to treat the man to another dinner, despite him disappearing from tonight's date. Not that you could blame him, since you were late to arrive.
Hey, he was late himself the last time, too, so your lack of promptness took the mistake fair and square, right?
Ah, you were really going to make it up to him tonight.
Arriving late to Italy and having to answer that stupid call, you could only blame yourself for losing Reborn at your supposed get-together after months of not contacting him. Perhaps, some other form of meal would appease the man with ever-devouring eyes.
Most likely, he is fast asleep on your couch, clearly displeased at your absence.
And so, you can't hide your surprise when you set your numb hands on the doorknob and hear the unmistakable groans of the wooden headboard creaking against the walls, the breaths and pants of lust echoing behind the oaken door.
You thought he would have waited.
You thought he would have.
Ah, it hurt like hell whenever you caught him in that act, with some other woman underneath him instead of you.
He could have waited. It was your night, after all. Not someone from his list of potential victims. Not them, but you. He would have waited, right? This trip wouldn't be leading your hopes up, right? It was worth it, right?
Wrong, wrong, wrong again.
He just had to choose the night when the storm was brewing, ready to unleash its lament given any time.
With a dangerous fire in your eyes and clenched teeth that barely contained the screams within your shattered soul, you slap yourself from reality, and shove the papers under the door unceremoniously. You make sure to kick the door hard, hard enough to be deemed noisier than the gasps that the faceless woman on your room was making.
If this was how it was going to be, then so be it.
You should have never thought high of yourself.
To him, you were just one of his collection of whores.
Sickening.
Your shoes splashed against the muddy streets, rainfall be damned.
You were taking on this storm, and you were taking it alone.
Leave it to him to see his mistakes.
Distant sounds of gunfire echo throughout the eerie hallways of the mansion whose owner was yet another nameless famiglia to you. Quietly, you press your back against the blood-splattered wall as you reload your gun, breath held in concentration at what might possibly jump at you and end your life.
Sidestepping a lifeless body sprawled to your left, you grit your teeth and propel yourself forward, the barrel of your gun aimed to hit anything that moved. In your haste and panic, you only see the quick blur of a moving shade and suddenly feel cold metal on your forehead.
You barely have time to register what has happened, before the sudden chill of death leaves you. Reborn is now standing before you, studying you with his mysterious charcoal orbs.
"Cleared," came his words. With relief evident on your sigh, you lower your gun and avert your eyes from him, still displeased at what you find out several days ago.
Clearly, pairing you up with someone you weren't comfortable with did no good, as it only made you jittery and nervous. And this wasn't unknown to Reborn.
However, a man like him would always put his pride before anything else, and so he had not apologized to you, not when he saw the papers crumpled on his doorstep, and certainly not when he met up with your team and saw your disheveled state. Knowingly, your subordinates had offered to take you somewhere else while the others stayed to discuss plans with Reborn. You had declined though, determined to finish this job despite the fact that inside, you were crying and tearing apart.
Reborn is perceptive, not once oblivious to his team's behavioral patterns, and so he knows that you would not do well on this mission.
Brave you were, he knew well enough that the fire that ignited in your eyes was not enough to keep you grounded to your goal; no, your flames would extinguish and vanish into thin air.
Your present condition would get the best of you.
And so, as the team allocated the tasks of each member for the job that was to take place two days from now, in his subtle way, Reborn managed to take ahold of the chains and gears that would mobilize this group of hitmen.
He would control the events on that very day. He would be the one to turn the tables, to deceive the enemy, to gain the necessary information that Vongola seeks, to save you from oblivion.
Granted, the two of you were the most effective candidates for initiating the main objective of the mission, which was to retrieve Intel and destroy any opposing member of the other family. It was only natural that you two would be the ones to penetrate deep into the interior of the mansion to fulfill your duties and live up to your names. Infamous talents of the mafia, as people had coined it.
Reborn, for what as long as he remembers, will prove to the world that he is the best of the best. However, as he walks in grace and dances across dangerous waters and possible grudges, he will be sure to look out for you.
The least he can do to apologize for his sins against you was to ensure that you did not make a blunder of yourself as you played with your enemies. No, Reborn has specifically stood up to pull the strings on the marionettes of this game; he will be by your side, until he reaches the pot of gold on the end of the rainbow.
And so now as he ascends the stairs leading to the next floor, he makes sure that his strides are silent yet fast. You will never back down from a mission, so he will take the lead and rid the floor of unnecessary lives before you do. Be it the only way to help you and apologize discreetly.
He shoots several bodies, cold eyes sweeping over the room that he has entered. Awaiting several seconds, he reaches over for his communicator on his left ear. "Mr. Analyst, if you please," he purrs in that deep voice of his. There is static and a few beeps before he hears the data analyst's voice confirming that he has started hacking into the files of the gadgets located in the room. After an agonizing five minutes of waiting, he hears the annoying static again. "Information not found. Proceed to the next room."
It is all that takes Reborn to move out of the room, gun first. Making a beeline for the next door that he finds, he kicks it open and swings his gun amok. Your crouched figure visibly stiffens and turns. In a flash Reborn swears, your slender form standing not a few feet away from him.
"The intel… is here," you whisper, as though you were unafraid that someone might here. With wide eyes, you meet his own, and it is all that he needs to know. He smirks, making sure to lock the door before he walks over to you. "They were weak, after all."
You hum in a dazed response, and tiredly watch him tinker with the software for some Vongola business that you never got to know about. Honestly, with all their secrecy, you began to grow numb of all the mistrust that they placed on you whenever they hired you to do something for them. In dejection you angle your body away from what Reborn is typing up, unable to take in the distance between the two of you.
It had always like this from the beginning, had it not?
Reborn, the Vongola, everyone… the distance between you and them had always been so palpable. Yet, here you were, already admitting to yourself the things that you can and cannot achieve. You can only sigh and sigh, a hundred times, and still, no one would hear your pleas for help. Your lips raise to form a bitter smile as you close your eyes and think, if only closing my eyes would wake me up from this dream.
You are harshly pulled out of your delusions when you hear a distorting boom at a dangerous distance, and previous experiences at the kind of job that you do only serve to alert you and cause you panic. Making haste, you whip your head to the door and throw Reborn a wide-eyed expression.
"We have to go," you breathlessly tell him as you place your hand on the brass doorknob blocking your view from the explosions happening nearby. Listening carefully, you deduce that the cause of destruction is on your left, most likely done by the owner of the mansion itself. After all, security was of high urgency if their land were to be conquered. Best obliterate anything that the enemy might scavenge against the family rather than leave an open mansion full of secrets, as the rule of the mafia dictates.
And so, you can only take in a weary inhale of stale air full of smoke and gunpowder. Behind you, Reborn has taken it upon himself to reload his gun and prepare for yet another game with death itself.
"Seems like the perfect time to run," you mutter more to yourself than to him. Throwing him a look over your shoulder, you meet his gaze as he moves away from the computer systems. His eyes are prideful, with the hint of victory gleaming beneath his deep black vision. "We have it," he coolly says to the people manning the chopper waiting for your team. Shakily, you open the door and begin your run from the exploding building, perplexed at how Reborn can remain calm at this situation. Ill-fitted feelings aside, you were pumped up with adrenalin. You certainly weren't planning to fail this mission right when you have what you needed.
Another explosion, about a few feet from where you stood, suddenly wracked the very floor you were on. Around you, a rain of glass and wooden frameworks burst into bits, but you willed yourself to speed up even further, to escape this slaughterhouse. Smoke begins to cloud the bloody hallways that you were running on, and it does not take long for you to lose sight of Reborn's tall form running beside you. Still, you run fast and eventually round the corner, skeptical of the fact that his footsteps no longer echo throughout the hallway. "T-this is [L/n] speaking. I've lost -"
There is a dull throb that consumes your head, and black spots suddenly line your already clouded vision. Mind hazy, your hand loses hold of the earpiece you were using to contact your team. You barely have time to recover until you feel something sharp stab your back, and all you can think of is how it hurts.
Rough, blood-matted digits harshly grab your chin and force you to look into the crazed eyes of the don of the mansion. With his animalistic sneer and dirtied features, you can't help but cringe away, only to find yourself writhing in pain at the injury that he has inflicted you with.
Red and black mix on your vision as the world turns and tumbles, or perhaps it is you that is falling. You do not know anymore, and as you bite back the tears forming in your desperate eyes, you hear him snarl with a guttural voice.
"Return what you took and she lives," his seemingly muted voice says. Behind him, you hear more explosions, and you cannot hear the reply of the voice whom he is talking to. Instead, you can only pray that Reborn has found you, or perhaps another blessed soul from your team that has wandered off into the mess on the upper floors.
You are seeing less color by the minute, and this time, you can feel the ground beneath you shaking with fury, ready to devour anyone that meandered nearby, set to take down the sinners of the day's onslaught. With a gasp, you force your eyes to open and search for Reborn's own, your call for his aid urging you to remain awake.
Suddenly, there is fire spreading throughout your backside, a stinging pain across your abdomen, as you hear the don's clear voice.
"Then we both go down to hell."
And you are falling.
Around you, the walls of the mansion are breaking, and your mangled neck shows a peak of the skies beyond broken windows.
Dark, weeping, dead.
Dead, just like you, as you feel yet another burn, except this time, you do not have time to mull over the pain anymore, because you sense a swelling pain in your chest, and everything is just black, black, and black.
The man is there again, visiting the untouched room devoid of anything that might bring beauty to its dull environment, except for a grimy table whose coating has began to chip off, rust eating away at once elegant colors of gold and obsidian. Only a single candlestick stands to adore the room reeking of deteriorating air, yet even that seems too acquiescent to the decaying atmosphere that has begun to hung low on the room as a stick of paraffin wax began to smoke out its last embers.
In all his life, this man has watched different colors of radiance burst into life. He has encountered personalities of different flames, some that barely stood out, others that burned with passion and had no reservations on veiling themselves from the world.
In his life, he has constantly met fire upon fire, has allowingly let himself be consumed by flames, and at the same time, let hinself light others up. People have flickered in and out of his life, and he has compensated for their lost by seeking out a new source of light, until it burned out or he extinguished itself from his life.
On your case, he can't tell which has happened. You are a fleeting flame, burning bright, passionate and daring, able to draw people to your cunning demeanor.
The mafia took notice of you, a young woman with a potential waiting to be spread out throughout the world. And so, you had risen to fame, becoming known as one of the most influential hitmen on certain aspects of the dysfunctional world that you treaded in.
Of course, you would have naturally piqued the interest of a man such as Reborn. Soober or later, your paths would have crossed, and so it did not surprise you when you first met him and things clicked into place, like a puzzle piece waiting to be finished.
It was merely a shallow acquaintanceship at first, involving much physical contact and less of the darker, serious sides that co-workers rarely dared to cross. However, it had surprised him to realize that your simple meetings and brief excursions around the world to hell and back had become significant in molding him as Reborn, the man of many charms and cunning smiles.
Unknowingly, he had given himself the image of a man who would give up companionship for his own good, selfish, greedy, taking everything that he could lay his hands on.
Now, he can only gaze at the candle and wonder yet again, how it has come to this.
If he has so much fooled himself into showing the world of an exterior cold to emotions and closure, then why does he find himself regretting what he has done?
It wasn't supposed to play out this way.
Whether you burned out or not, he can't tell anymore, because you might have left this world hating him for his acts, disdain on your innermost conscience for allowing yourself to burn for such an enigmatic man.
He can't tell anymore what you think, because you are dead, and
he killed you.
So many memories flood on his mind, and it all comes to a stop once he reachea a certain memory once more, the same one he had on the last night he spent with your warmth on his bed.
"Remember, you'll always put the famiglia before anyone else, so if things get out of hand..."
He hears the voice of a man echoing thorughout the empty room, loud and clear as though he were there.
"I want you to kill anyone outside the famiglia who might know anything about us," the voice continued, condescending of Reborn's casanova act.
He regrets his acts, for your flame had brought him warmth and comfort from the cold hands that threatened to bring him down for his crimes.
But like they always say, regret always haunts right after the deed has been done.
He can only look away as the light from this candle burns out, just like you have.
And as he exits the room, the cold wind greets him, serving as a reminder of how he has lost such a valuable flame in his life.
He does not stick around any longer, in fear of feeling the cold air enter the vacant room, yet another reminder of the flame that will vanish into thin air and get dragged down back to the underworld, for the soul to atone for mistakes.
That warmth is gone, the fire that burned out in your eyes gone, and all of you, gone.
And this man had done it, against his will, but then
That wasn't really an excuse
for forgiving himself.
he was the one that put your fire out, after all.
And he will forever regret this, with an unspoken apology and a tear that will remain unshed.
burn out.
And so there goes reader-san! Comments, suggestions, violent reactions for the terrible end that you met? Welp at least Reborn bby is crying for you riiiight? I am such a terrible author ahah. Reviews highly appreciated~ And feel free to point out grammatical errors or typos, lovely reader uwu