Disclaimer: I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
AN: I wrote this story a while ago to entertain a friend as a birthday gift. It is not meant to be a serious fic, in case anyone couldn't tell. It was meant to be humorous—in an odd way—more than anything.
The Love of a School:
With all my years as the Namimori Middle School, I have seen every student and instructor come and go through my corridors. The stomping sounds of the students' trampling feet have become a familiar rhythm upon my polished floors. The instructors make a click-clack sound against the hard linoleum as they make their way to the classrooms. Not a single one has ever captivated my attention such as him. In fact, from the very moment he first stepped within my corridor, he has held my undivided attention.
Hibari Kyoya is the embodiment of perfection in each and every way. His silken hair flows from his head to lay atop the stone of my building. Every inch, every centimeter it lengthens fills me with delight, for it means more of my ground is covered by the strands that surpass even the softness of satin. From the vantage point of my higher structures, I admire the way the shining glosses accentuate his locks of darkest night. Even the sun acknowledges his beauty and seeks to enhance it by casting its glow upon him—but of course such a glorious creature deserves no less. His hair creates such contrast against his pale, flawless skin that his beauty is heightened even further. His beauty surpasses that of even heavenly beings. And, hidden beneath the strands of his raven hair that perfectly frame his delicately pale face are his eyes.
I have witnessed this glorious being's eyes send such chilling glares that the recipients are rendered immobile as if frozen in ice. Upon me, however, he imparts a warmer gaze. My inner fixtures stop functioning as I swoon from every gaze cast my way by those steely gray orbs. It warms the stones of my being that he reserves this gaze of love solely for me. The lights in my classrooms and corridors go out; the water flowing through my pipes stops running as I shut down, overwhelmed by the intensity they emit. It is through those mirrors into his soul that I know he truly cares for me.
His lips... Oh, his lips! They curl into the most wondrous smiles! Those smiles upon that angelic face melted my heart until it was no more—an absolutely astonishing feat, not the least of which is because I do not have a heart to melt. But that is beside the point. Those smiles make me glow from within—so brightly that the fixtures emit such blinding light that the rooms' occupants must squeeze their eyes shut. Behind their closed lids, still their eyes protest against the brightness. Even his scowls heighten his beauty. Those lips are so suited to uttering threats on a daily basis and sending shivers in the forms of minor tremors down my frame. To feel the touch of that smile... Oh, how I wish to be the delicious morsels of food that are pressed against his lips before passing through.
His voice, melodic. It is as beautiful as a choir of angels, as dangerous as a siren's song. It lures one in with taunting words for a deadly fate. His favorite phrase is spoken, then those who try him fall. That voice that can switch from being as soft as the feathers of angels' wings to more cutting than the deadliest blade. It is a voice that makes even threats of the grimmest nature into the most alluring sound in the world.
He has arms that are strong despite their appearance. They befit his superbly lithe frame. They extend down into his wrists which are capable of switching the position of his weapons with the slightest twist. They are thin to the point that someone could wrap a thumb and forefinger around the wrist and have them touch. Below the wrists are his hands. One would never expect such slender hands to wield weapons to such a degree of deadliness, or for those same hands to be capable of inflicting such damage upon others. It is with those hands that he protects me from the vandals and delinquents who would otherwise trash my exterior with graffiti, bludgeon me with bats, and impale shards of glass in my grounds.
Most look forward to the evenings, for that is when school is let out and they are free. I look forward to the day, when the rising sun brings with it that dear boy. The majority of his time here is spent resting upon my rooftop. Time and again he lies down on the asphalt floor, worn smooth by his daily visits, and so I keep my rooftop meticulously clean lest his clothes are dirtied. As a reward, I am allowed to admire his lithe frame stretched out along the floor, watching the muscles ripple across his trim body—of which even the slimmest females are envious—with every movement. The feel of the boy's firm buttocks sitting upon my rooftop make me ecstatic with joy. The heat from the boy's human body warms me more than the rays of the sun on the hottest summer's day.
His legs, they are long and slender. They carry him from one place to another, one stance to the next, with such fluidity it is as if he is gliding. They are strong enough to hold their ground against any enemy, no matter how powerful. They know his mind, his dislike for defeat, and even higher dislike for retreat. As such, they carry him forward in battle, always forward. Forward step, swing, kick. Always moving forward, always by my side. His movement is a form of art in and of itself. A masterpiece. Perfection.