Author: D. Gelyn
Rating: Somewhere between K+ and T, but I'll go with the higher one just in case.
Characters: Dino Cavallone and Hibari Kyoya (D18)
Warnings: Mild violence/ blood; If you're looking for some hardcore yaoi, sorry search elsewhere, this fic barely touches on shonen-ai.
Disclaimer: I don't own KHR, much to my displeasure.
Summary: For Hibari Kyoya, it takes an ambush and a near-death experience to realize what matters most.
AN: Well, I haven't uploaded in almost a year, but I've been writing plenty. This D18 drabble is entirely the fault of my roommate who demanded I compose her a fic that was not based in the Kingdom Hearts or TWEWY fandom, which is all I usually dabble in. Enjoy! All reviews are greatly appreciated.
Find
He's cold.
But his hands are warm, the air stifling.
He is cold, but on the inside, not the exterior.
The dark-haired boy realizes this with numb certainty, black eyes glazed and staring blankly.
He's unbearably cold, but how can he warm what lies beneath his skin?
There's blood.
His own and other's, mixing in dark pools on the deceivingly frigid concrete beneath the cracked rubber soles of his boots.
The fierce youth lives in a frozen moment of lucidity, although his gaze has dimmed to near blackness. Hibari feels as though he is standing at a safe distance, unhindered by his physical form and staring in sudden understanding at the dark-haired boy seated calmly on drenched concrete. It almost appears the very ground is bleeding, he muses, the splits in the concrete becoming morbid scars and slashes in the earth's flesh, a river of red pouring through the seams.
It almost appears that way- and it might pass, if not for the bodies strewn unmoving and breathless on all sides.
The sedate and silent young man imagines for a moment he can reach out and touch one of the motionless forms, that the limp and lifeless man will rise and seize his prodding fingers, angry to be awoken from slumber. Hibari toys with the strange idea that perhaps he can breathe life back into the bloodless limbs of these fathers, these brothers, these children. For a brief instant his heart falls prey to his incoherent daydream, and he reaches toward the closest figure, as if to revive with a touch alone.
The ebony-haired boy wonders at these thoughts and allows his imagination to run wild with its senseless conjuring, even as he draws his hand back. Hibari would normally smirk at the absurdity of his own contemplations- may have even given one of his rare sardonic laughs, but he can hardly muster ragged breath, lungs straining beneath his shredded chest.
Nothing can return life once it's lost, Hibari knows and he does not care. This isn't what plagues him- this is not the thought that berates and grasps at him with icy claws, shuddering his limbs and settling into the secrecy of his mind.
Hibari has observed them all- with cold metal and clenched fists serving dually as his single offense and defense, he's forced to see them up close and watch them fall. With nothing more than a whisper, a silent prayer of good fortune from solid steel, he crushes ribs, lungs, dreams, and futures in one fatal swing. And he watches- for he must, in morbid fascination and final respect- as set after frightened set of bright eyes burn with stubborn will, one last struggle to remain, before dimming entirely. He walks these ill-fated adversaries into the arms of death, and he is close, almost on friendly terms with that inevitable, all-consuming darkness. Death has been a constant companion, and though he has never been touched by its coils, Hibari has delivered many an extinguished soul into that endless, unforgiving, yet inescapable night.
The skylark youth's hands are stained eternally with that blood- the rived lives of more than a dozen men. They were enemies, granted, but they were men all the same; men who once stood, believed, and fought for whatever shallow hope they held dear.
And it is this blood- this unfeeling, frigid liquid that is so pertinent to existence, yet meaningless when it is spilled across the ground-it is this blood that surrounds Hibari again. Red, a color that has become so ordinary stains his skin as it always will, try as he might to rub it away.
But that is alright, livable, for he is accustomed to blood, and he thrives off the violence that comes with it. Hibari does not regret- after all it was either his life or theirs, a simple decision. He feels no remorse, as heartless as it may be, for taking a life that endangers his own.
Nevertheless, Hibari finds himself shocked into silence by how close death lingers, clutching at his skin like the scraps of torn and bloodied cloth against his shoulders. Not just to him, but to his allies- and to that single person closer.
Hibari shudders- he'll never admit it, but he does- at the thought of lifeless brown eyes, void of their cheery light and glazed with the emptiness he has seen strike so many, too many for a boy still in his youth.
Hibari Kyoya is not a docile person by any means, and he is thrown into deep discomfort by such gentle thoughts. But he has fought to subdue them since first he was captured by that amber gaze, and he finds that in his grievously injured state, mind addled by blood loss and pain alike, he has become weak to wage war against himself much longer.
He'll never speak these words, but in the sanctity of his mind Hibari swears with ferocious determination only befitting one with his violent nature, that while his heart still pulses blood through his veins, he will never allow the bleakness of death to touch those eyes.
It is this thought, and this thought alone which Hibari sustains as he is ferried away by exhaustion and pain into rapidly descending darkness.
Minutes, or maybe it is hours later that through half-lidded eyes and a tumult of dreams, Hibari sees a faint figure approach. Believing this apparition to be no more than another fatigue induced delusion, his feathered lashes slide once more over sleek onyx eyes. His senses tingle however, the fine hairs on his neck prickling in warning that this supposed illusion is very much a reality. Trained by years of the sensation that a battle is imminent, Hibari's eyes promptly snap open to encompass once more the bleeding ground and blink away the ink-smudge bleariness.
A hand reaches for him; Hibari sees it with strange clarity through the haze of his vision.
He recognizes those fingers, long and calloused from years of wielding cracked leather. Dark eyes travel upwards from the fingers, to the back of an outstretched palm where familiar designs mark lightly tanned skin.
Cautiously, but without hesitation the hand draws closer, fingers extended almost pleadingly. The gesture carries only good intent, but it serves to ignite simmering animosity.
Enough of that unchecked flame still boils in the charcoal-eyed boy's blood, and it erupts as rough fingertips brush his skin. Hibari leans forward instantly, with viper-like swiftness and sinks his teeth into the large, flat knuckle of the thumb. He clamps down with carnivorous savagery, razor canines breaking skin in seconds. The all too recognizable fragrance of fresh blood consumes him, as thick liquid leaks from the wound he has inflicted.
The older man who had intruded on the younger's solitude does not cringe, does not retrieve his hand from that vicious mouth. For Dino Cavallone is as accustomed to his student's wild compulsions as the boy himself is to the stench of blood.
And so, the towering blond man does not pull his hand from the agonizing embrace of harsh teeth, and instead watches in unflinching silence as his blood gradually drains and slips past his student's parted lips. Dino waits patiently.
The copper tang of blood against Hibari's tongue eventually becomes too much, and a sudden unexpected nausea threatens to evict what crimson liquid he has already swallowed. His jaw slackens, the unyielding grip loosening.
The older of the two, noticing the minute slump of his student's shoulders and the gradual release of his hand, takes the opportunity to slide forward. Dino falls to his knees before the smaller man, fear shining in amber-brown eyes as his coarse yet achingly gentle hands brush carefully over gaping wounds.
Hibari swipes viciously at the intrusive fingers, but with a clatter of metal against concrete, his arms fall weakly to his sides, weapons slipping easily from trembling fists. His head spins, back curving as his shoulders sag.
Those fluttering fingers return at once, seeking out the worst of the damage, and a sharp hiss slides through two pairs of gritted teeth when it is found.
Hibari is supposed to hate this man- this man who bends over him, grazing mangled flesh with hands that are both soft and rough at once. He wants to; he wishes to curse every fault, for there are many. Hibari wants to hate Dino's ridiculous smile- the wide grin that never seems to fade, growing even brighter at his unwilling pupil's irritation and aggression. Dino's hair is too golden, unkempt, and lengthy, yet the darker-haired counterpart longs to curl his fingers into the sunlit strands. He hates the way his teacher's native Italian tongue often fumbles over simple Japanese phrases, but somehow, somewhere along the line those hideous mispronunciations and occasionally gruesome butchering of the language had transformed into yet another strangely endearing flaw. Hibari is irritated to no end by how clumsy and utterly useless Dino- his so-called tutor- becomes without one of his dear underlings in sight. This man with hair of spun gold is a fool- an absolute waste, but when Dino's brown eyes flash, and his sturdy leather weaponry cracks against the air, shivers race unbidden down Hibari's spine.
And the black-eyed youth feels those involuntary tremors now as strong hands caress his wounded face and chest, long fingers tracing with painstaking tenderness over torn skin. Hibari tries to suppress them, hold in the inadvertent quivering of his limbs, and he thinks perhaps he has succeeded, for his mentor makes no comment or motion in acknowledgment.
But the Italian man is not smiling now, and through the fog that has wrapped around his mind, the younger believes it must be the first time he's seen Dino so serious, so somber.
"Kyoya." The word is a faint gust of breath against his jaw. Black eyes snap open instantly, and Hibari wonders briefly when he shut them, before he is thoroughly distracted by the chocolate brown eyes that are far too close. He growls in warning, ebony eyes narrowing to twin dark slits, gaze meeting and scorching.
"Kyoya," the voice repeats, deep yet melodic, not heeding the threatening glare. "You have to let me help you. We need to get your wounds treated."
The hands are back, heated against his cold skin, inked arm looping around his shoulders while the other slips beneath slender knees.
Realizing his elder's intent, the dark-haired boy shoves against unrelenting arms, his legs flailing pointlessly. Hibari's fists pummel a firm chest, teeth sinking into broad shoulders and an exposed neck.
"Put me down," he hisses fiercely, each word punctuated by another vicious bite, blunt fingernails carving ridged trails into wiry biceps.
All struggles cease when darkness begins to cloud the untamed boy's vision once more, and he goes limp in the other's half-embrace. A groan falls from pale lips despite his attempts to choke the sound back. His body feels as if it has caught aflame, flesh searing beneath numerous gashes still spilling his blood, bones aching from countless bruises blooming gradually in a medley of blues and purples on his skin. Hibari's eyes roll back, lashes fluttering.
The arms encompassing the small frame tense; the fingers that grip the young man's shoulders turn deathly white.
"Kyoya," the voice is urgent now, scared.
Dark eyes open languidly, blinking slowly, and it takes a moment- far too long- for recognition to light the onyx depths.
Dino's heart nearly grinds to a halt altogether, the pulse becoming staggered by fright, and he clutches the smaller body closer to him still.
It's impossible for Hibari not to sense the suddenly faltering rhythm, not when his head is balanced so intimately against his mentor's warm chest. Groggily, yet somehow with every ounce of fiery determination he always seems to possess, Hibari gazes up at the other's brown eyes and presses a tightly clenched fist just above that stuttering heart.
Amber eyes widen, breath catching in heaving lungs, and the older man finds himself caught- staring deeply into black eyes that gaze so intently into his own.
The fist falls away, fingers unfurling, but not before Dino catches a muttered, "It's purpose."
The golden-haired man, unsure as to the meaning of the words, does not speak. But after seeing firsthand the dull, lackluster sheen that has conquered normally vibrant black eyes, Dino becomes all the more certain that some of his student's injuries are imbedded deeper than the flesh. And so, as hastily and gently as he can, the Italian man sweeps the younger boy off his unstable feet and into his arms.
Dino's efforts are met with violent retaliation as expected, and the blond man spits blood when cold steel collides with brutal force against his jaw. The resistance ends with that final struggle, however, and the body in his arms becomes worrisomely docile and still once more, blood pouring from gruesome wounds.
Thin fingers, now void of metallic weaponry, curl around firmer digits, and Dino grips those fingers back almost desperately, whispering a blasphemous mix of curses and prayers beneath his breath.
The Cavallone boss turns, supporting the motionless form against his chest and huddling the slim figure close. He walks swiftly away from the ambush's aftermath and the broken bodies littering the ground, hoping his student will not join those departed souls in the foreseeable future.
Hibari clings to consciousness as he is swept from the dank alley in the arms of his golden-haired mentor. He cannot move- each muscle aching and bidding him remain still, multiple slashes on his arms and thighs throbbing. But he holds on to that hand- perfectly fitted to enclose his own- as if there is nothing else worth holding on too. And maybe, for him there isn't.
He'll bite his own tongue before he utters his thoughts aloud, but for the short time that Hibari is held in those strong arms, a nameless and fleeting warmth courses through his veins.