AN. Please note that there will be a New Year's countdown that requires everyone's participation. Since I missed my countdown by seven minutes, I was hoping that I could do it again with you readers out there, even if it would be too late. The countdown would be bolded, italicized, and underlined, but also part of the story. I trust that you would not miss it.
Also, because of lack of time, I had to cut this short at five. I lengthened Xanxus's one just to make up for it.
Reminder: I would be going on a two-month break because I will not be writing anything for Fuuta and Dino's birthday. I shall be working on the Harry Potter fanfiction, which would be posted when finished.
Finally, Happy Dragon Year to all of you!
If there's anything else wrong, feel free to tell me. Flames will be used in the fireworks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Katekyo Hitman Reborn. All belongs to Akira Amano apart from the plot.
FACTS OF THE VARIA THAT NOBODY KNEW BEFORE CERTAIN THINGS HAPPENED
A series of (rather hilarious but also unfortunate) events retold by Corvino the VII.
All responsibility for received injuries and blackmail messages to members of the audience disclaimed due to bankruptcy and inner ear diseases.
Fact I - Xanxus
Victim(s): Superbia Squalo
Witness(es): Everyone who is subscribed to Vongola's own personal blog
An irate swordsman was stalking down the corridors of the Varia mansion on one apparently very rainy day, sword arm tense and a vein pulsing dangerously on his forehead. The usually proud and elegant uniform was torn and sliced up, especially around the edges, probably due to some bad sword control, and the left sleeve was completely torn off.
Upon reaching an intersection, he ran into a bored-looking Fran, who took one look at him and asked bluntly, "Bad hair day, Captain?"
"Mission. Accomplished." Was all Squalo managed between gritted teeth.
Apparently it didn't take a genius to know that the Shark wasn't in the mood to chat. Fran took one more mildly amused look at his hair and then went his way, heading towards the East Wing.
Squalo growled something under his breath that started with something sounding suspiciously like 'Son of a', continuing down the corridor.
Finally, after some solid minutes of walking (honestly, who made the mansion so bloody big?) he finally reached his destination – a set of oak doors that led to a large living room. Kicking open the two offending pieces of wood, he finally remembered that he had not 'prepared' himself yet. A few days in the wild and three months on a mission does that to one – they usually tend to forget about everyone else at home.
Regardless, the usual glass of wine sailed through the air, heading point-blank to his forehead. Squalo dodged – just barely, mind you, he was still in tip-top shape – and the delicate crystalline glassware, which must have offended Xanxus in its past life, sailed past left ear and shattered somewhere down the hallway.
"What do you want, trash?"
"Reporting." Squalo forced out, teeth clenching so hard they might have shattered under the pressure had they been made of anything else. "Mission accomplished. Target sliced and disposed of accordingly. No other victims. No witnesses."
Xanxus opened his eyes to glare at his captain but immediately wished he hadn't. One side of his lip twisted into a smirk as he surveyed the Shark's rather… rusty appearance as he set down his glass of wine. Interesting.
"And why had you taken so long?"
"Idiot traitor of a driver decided to cart my ass into a tree. Diced him up good, no witnesses, but stuck in the middle of nowhere with no signal. Had to find civilization before flagging down the next flight to Italy." Squalo gave a brief jerk of his head and crossed his arms (quite a feat for anyone with a sword as an arm), as if daring Xanxus to object on his appearance.
The boss inwardly shook his head. Honestly, Squalo was the only person in the whole entire firkin' universe who could come into his office with half his uniform torn into ribbons, shorts (which had apparently once been part of the Varia uniform trousers, but someone had torn off the hem and made a rather huge gash to the knee), a hand-sword stained with several different colored liquids (most of which are brown and red), mud in his hair, barefoot and stillmanage to keep his dignity intact. That's Superbia for you.
"Pray tell, trash… did anything of that sort had to do with the rather obvious knot in your hair?"
Was that amusement? "Yeah, so what?"
Xanxus was clearly amused now. "Leave."
Squalo spun on a bare heel and started across the carpet, muttering under his breath that sounded pretty vulgar. However, he never managed to get to the door, for one second he was walking, and the other, he was having a mouthful of Arabian Carpet.
"VOOOOOOOOOOOI!" He yelled into the material, only to inhale more of the offending colorful fur that had started sticking to his lips and find that his trademark loud (intended) and bossy (intended) and manly (intended) yell was muffled (not intended) and unclear (not intended) and not at all manly (not intended).
His boss, who is currently kneeing the swordsman in the small of the back, reached down and tugged at the knot in the Shark's hair. Squalo emitted a strange noise when he did. Xanxus raised an eyebrow as he examined the mess.
"There's the center knot – probably a variation of a Celtic knot. I really wonder how you got that. Then it branches of here," he tugged mercilessly, and Squalo squawked like a chicken. "Into an incomplete sheet bend and forms some kind of ball."
"What – VOOOOOOOOOOOOOIII!"
"Then here is what I call a complete dead knot. That'll probably take a few hours…"
Squalo almost whimpered.
The entire rest of the Varia watched outside the door as the boss proceeded to keep Squalo in his room to untie the knots, the former ignoring the hyperventilating swordsman currently making noises at the back of his throat as Xanxus exclaimed the knots with (almost worrying) interest and almost disturbing concentration.
Superbia Squalo had taken to bed the next five days, his spine probably not ready to handle the stress his boss had inflicted upon him. Seriously, he would take a wine bottle to the head any day!
Oh well, at least his hair was in tip-top shape.
Conclusion:
Apparently, Xanxus was an expert at knots. The fact didn't comfort Tsuna by the least.
The video that Fran got of the duo, as well as the several pictures taken to be pinned up in their respective rooms, made everyone's day.
Fact II – Squalo
Victim(s): None, except for those who fainted on the spot
Witness(es): Everyone who had dinner at the Vongola mansion the day Nana cooked
Dear WEIRD
That stood for WhoEver Is Reading This. Yamamoto still held onto the delusion that someone had sneaked peaks into his diary now and then, despite the fact that nobody bothered to read a 'diary' that had been smothered with baseball doodles and theories that never make much sense in the first 183 pages. The actual 'diary' started with three words every day, which lengthened considerably to ten after seven and a half months. Now, it ranged from one ('happy') to full-detail reports over three thousand words.
The baseball nut had been a nut, was a nut, is a nut, and will forever and ever be a nut.
I have found out something really new today about Squalo when we were having dinner with Tsuna's mom. Well, two somethings, really, since it's cause and effect.
When Yamamoto first saw Squalo, the first thing he noticed about the swordsmen was, duh,his sword. It was a long, tough piece of metal that glinted with a sharp, straightforward light.
Apparently, the sword reflects the master.
In fact, now that the baseball-nut thought about it, he had learned quite a lot in his first encounter with Squalo, despite the teacher being someone who had wanted to slice him up – who still wanted to slice him up. Squalo was a straightforward, loud and conspicuous man, as was his sword and skill.
In the battle with Squalo, the list of adjectives reflecting sword and master lengthened. Under Yamamoto's sushi-knife-trained eye, he noticed that the sword was extremely well kept, sharpened regularly and kept with great precision. Thus, below 'conspicuous', appeared 'precise', 'proud', and 'brash'.
'Sly' was added after a few minutes of pondering.
Tsuna's mom was finally notified about the mafia and had taken it well. I think she had suspected for a long time. Haha, well, that's kind of good right?
Only Yamamoto would write 'haha' in a diary.
She made us food that night just because she felt like it. Fourteen-course dinner. Starting with salad, soup and bread, and such, but then branched out well. I forgot what I ate, really, but there was roast chicken and beef, salmon and tuna salad, and broccoli and cheesecake… well, yeah. There was ever ice cream at the end!
Squalo and Xanxus hadn't been arguing, nor had Gokudera and Yamamoto, Mukuro and Hibari, Fran and Bel. Everyone was too busy tucking in. In fact, it was the one time everyone showed their etiquette and manners at the table, with Nana humming as she served.
And Squalo ate with one hand, since the other was too long to cut the steak. He even said 'please'!
So right down on the old list, written in hesitant ink, was 'polite'.
That's one fact.
I pointed out the rare show of politeness to him, and his mood swung crazily. He started picking things up and throwing them. In the end, we ended the meal with a food fight and licked off the remains – they were still good, despite being remains.
The second fact was how much butter knives hurt, even when being thrown from all the way across the long banquet table.
Conclusion:
Even sharks can be polite in the presence of Nana. It is no wonder nobody had thought to kidnap her to bring in the Decimo of Vongola. The kidnappers probably fell all over themselves to lie out the red carpet as she walked to the market.
Fact III – Levi
Victim(s): Lambo and Gokudera.
Witness(es): Everyone who was looking out the window during this unfortunate incident.
"Geh, do I have to?" Gokudera muttered around an unlit cigarette, which was currently being ground to tobacco strands between his unrelenting molars.
"Yes." Reborn replied. "Now get on with it before I shoot."
And thus Gokudera was stuck with the job of getting a snoring Lambo home while the rest of the Guardians stayed back in the Varia mansion to discuss some random family clearly not worth their time but seemingly insisted on trying to join the Allied Forces of the Vongola. Why he was chosen, of all the people, was unknown. Perhaps Reborn thought him responsible enough.
At the mere thought of it, Gokudera unconsciously puffed out his chest a little more, and his gloomily dropping cigarette immediately perked up at the shift of his jaw. Amazing how such things made him happy so easily.
Gokudera grabbed the sleeping cow as gently as he would bother to, because he certainly didn't want Lambo to wake up and start demanding sweets and stuff.
After several minutes of walking, he finally located the main door and opened it. The sky was dark grey and ominous-looking, and the rain was falling like knife-sharp strands of glass, strung together and seemingly determined to soak everything in their reach with Italian rainwater.
Now how was he supposed to get the stupid cow down the hill?
Well… he could roll him, but then Gokudera can't really be sure he himself can escape from the Varia mansion without being soaked.
And then he spotted a huge black umbrella leaning against the wall.
Long story short, he took the umbrella and went out into the rain with the idiot cow. Then they were fried.
Conclusion:
Do not, under any circumstances, take a black umbrella out of the Varia mansion on a rainy day. It probably belongs to Levi, who had the tendency to leave his umbrellas lying around. It's the reason why he is always late to battles.
Fact IV – Belphegor
Victim(s): Squalo
Witness(es): Anyone and everyone who had seen the video, which had been recorded via security camera.
The blond prince concentrated hard. One wrong angle, one teensy weensy mistake, and he would be doomed.
He ran his hands across the smooth surfaces the remaining merchandise, selected one and sandpapered it so that it was all furry. And then very, very carefully, placed slotted them into the two remaining holes in the masterpiece.
Thirteen-year old Bel stepped down from the ladder as he looked at his latest masterpiece. He'd done it. The blond felt a bubble of his insane laughter in his throat, and he didn't stop it. He laughed, a little dazed. He'd finally done it. Nine hours of planning and thirty-six hours of building, and this was the reward. It was a magnificent spectacle of nighty-eight different shades of grey, a hundred and fifty shades of red/crimson, one shade of white and one shade of black.
He went over to the door and unlocked it. Immediately, Squalo ran inside to bash up the brat for taking the training space of the majestic Superbia Squalo, then tripped over a trip wire.
"Tsk, tsk, too predictable, captain." The prince had a grin that stretched from ear to ear, and maybe even further than that.
"VOOOOOOOOOI! What the hell took you so long, you" he launched into a long string of swear words, most of which don't really make sense but sounded pretty bad.
And then he saw it, and abruptly shut his mouth.
"Did you… build that?"
"Ushishishi… what do you think that prince has been working on for the past four days?"
"… How much glue did you use?"
"None!" Bel announced gleefully.
Squalo gaped like a fish.
For lo and behold, in front of the shark's very eyes was a grand 3D image the size of a dozen full-length limousines stacked on top of each other. Of a skull. A human skull, balancing precariously on the chin. It about as detailed as any real-life sculpture made of…
"Are those Macbooks?"
… Painted iMacs could be.
Conclusion:
It was apparently possible stacking together almost 10000 macbooks into a skull.
It was also possible to knock down the entire perfectly balanced sculpture with a single extra touch.
It was apparently also possible to piss of a prince so much he had killed the next man who broke the world record of card-stacking before said man had alerted the media, so that it was never recorded in history.
Fact V – Fran
Victim(s): Anyone who can hear him cheer above hundreds of other people
Witness(es): Anyone who can see through his illusions
Without a doubt, the best New Year he ever had was when he was on a mission in New York.
Fran jogged down the dark alleyway; towards the direction he had left the Varia motorcycle. Passing a garbage bin, he snagged a relatively clean tissue, blew his nose in it, and dropped it in the next one. Years with the Kokuyo gang had obviously slackened his expectations for life and luxury.
He heard people. He sensed people.
He turned out of the alleyway and almost cursed.
Thousands of people, packed into a small square at exactly 11:57 p.m. Smack in the way between him and his beloved Suzuki.
He wanted to get on with it. He wanted his Suzuki, wanted to ride it to the LA, where he would be staying for a few months on holiday. And yes, for a Varia member, it is possible.
So he waded into the crowd of people. It was hard, with the extra people coming in from all directions and the already packed square. In his hurry, he accidentally stepped on someone's foot, but kept going. The edge of the crowd was less than a meter away, and his Suzuki was sitting, leaning against the tree he had parked it against, just a few meters beyond that.
A hand grabbed the back of his jacket, and he was face-to-face with an ugly man about as stocky as Levi but uglier than Lussuria.
"Hey kid. You haven't apologized." He said in English. He had the breath that stank of onions and booze.
Fran muttered something back in Japanese.
"Wha'ddya say, punk?"
He muttered something in Italian.
The man turned to his friends. "Hey, I think we caught a foreign cockroach."
That did it. "I'm not a cockroach." Fran snapped back in perfect British-accented English. "See the hat? It's a frog, maggot-breath. F-R-O-G. Frog. So you bloody take your apology request and stick it in the garbage can with my tissue."
He slid from the man's grip just as the crowd started to chant.
Ten!
He was out of the crowd.
Nine!
He was on the motorbike, the neon lights of New York glinting off the polished metal beautifully.
Eight!
His hands worked furiously at the anti-burglary alarm.
Seven!
His engine ignited.
Six!
The green and indigo helmet was over his green hair.
Five!
The engine roared to life.
Four!
THREE!
TWO!
ONE!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
And the fireworks exploded.
Fran looked up as the flowers of fire blossomed to life overhead. He was cruising down the dark alleys, the vibrating engine purring like a pleased tiger beneath his fingers. His hair was whipped out of his face, the sharp winds stinging his skin and piercing through his thin Varia uniform.
Best New Years ever.
Doesn't that tell you something about him?