Disclaimer: I do now own KHR
A three part oneshot. The pairings are not connected, but the themes are the same – a loss of something.
Heartaches.
A life spent wondering. [Verde/Reborn or Reborn/Verde]
He had never trusted in love and fate and all things like that, things that were produced from ones heart and belief of greater things. He was a man of science, a man that gave no meaning to feelings and heart and soul. He was a scientist; a human that only trusted what could be explained with cold, hard logic and made with human hands and through experiments.
Verde was neither a believer, nor a lover. Verde sometimes wondered why he had turned out like this – a man who cared not for emotions and morals. Sometimes he came to a conclusion that it had been his past, sometimes the conclusion was the very nature of science – cold and unable to accept things out of the boundaries it had made.
Therefore he could not love another; he didn't know how to love another. Not that Reborn had ever asked love from him or anything other than the physical touch and release of stress. But Verde still wondered whether they would have managed to stay together until this day had he been more human, more open to the foreign concept that is emotions.
With the cigarette smoke his thoughts also fly up to the grey sky and slowly seep away. Yet Verde keeps on wondering about the years he had spent with and without the mysterious hitman coming in and out of his life and home. Was he happy then, when there was a presence in his otherwise empty laboratory, had he been content with a life that was entwined with Reborn's? Had he been in love at some point of their twisted and nameless relationship?
Or had he been as always – uncaring and cold, with no lingering attachment to Reborn, his touch and voice and presence.
This was one of those small things, seemingly insignificant, that he always wondered about in moments of rest. Thoughts that seemed to come back over and over again and left him feeling a bit too empty inside and feeling a pang of pain his cold, cold heart. A curse had been upon his body, now lifted and gone, but the curse over his heart would not be gone until he finds the answer to these questions.
Verde may be a genius but he knew that his genius would not solve these riddles, these questions that left a sour taste in his mouth. He needed to come face to face with his emotions, things that he had long since locked away, to find the answers he was looking for. And he had the rest of his life to do so.
Seven minutes of heaven. [G]
It's a strange thing, a soul that leaves the body and floats around with no aim and reason. It's like a state when you don't know what to do – give up and die or fight and live. He wonders now, as he watches his own body bleed under his transparent feet, had his life a meaning at all, other than the feared right hand man of the young Vongola boss?
Would he be stuck with the nickname of a mad dog even in his death? Not that he minded. And he probably will.
He was always the hot-headed one, the storm that rages in the middle of the fight, the storm that never rests, and the storm that destroys and moves forward no matter the danger ahead. He had been a storm, a storm that protects his boss, his friends and his family. A storm that had a home and a place to belong.
A storm that was loved.
He should feel honored, he should be glad that before his death he had found a place where he belongs, where he isn't judged and thought of as a monster, a child that his mother should have never had. So maybe dying now wouldn't be so bad, maybe dying now would be the best time to die, a time when he had yet to regret a single thing that happened after meeting those that he now loved and cherished.
But what about those that were left? What about those who would cry for him, damn the God and Devil alike that they took G from this world? Would there be any? Surely, now there are. Now he has a home and a family, now there are people who care. Now, only now mattered, after all. Only now was where he existed after all.
His seven minutes were ticking out. G knew it with just one look at his transparent body and the white ashes it was turning into. How funny, a fire that burned out once dead – that is what he was. A flame of a candle that was about to flicker out once cold breath of death blows on it. How amusing. A storm that is so easy to kill, a flame that is so easy to die and burn out.
It was his time to go; G looks up from his bleeding body and those around him that fight for his life. He looks at the sky so bright and vast; the sun that had seen him coming into this world and now sees him out of it as well. It was time to go, time to start life again – this time as someone better, he supposed.
And so he goes, with a smile on his lips and a heart void of worry and pain. It was his time to go, his time to leave and walk ahead. His seven minutes were up, after all.
Slip out of my fingers, my love. [G/Giotto]
They had promised each other that death would not be the one to separate them. They had vowed with their honor and word and blood, in a dark alleyway that stunk of vomit and piss, at a small Italian town where people were poor and didn't care about the world outside their house walls.
They had built Vongola up from scratch, with their own hands and blood and sweat. They risked their lives countless of times, enough to have their names permanently written in the black books of Death itself. They cheated with fate and gambled with their name and soul alike.
And yet a bullet, a simple and stupid bullet was all that it took to steal away the life of the only person that G had held dear. It was all that it took to destroy his life and tear his soul and shatter his heart in pieces in mere seconds. Mere seconds and G's reason to live is gone and turned into dust, bleeding to death and soul slipping into the hands of Death.
The scream that tears itself out of G's throat, a yell of a beast – wounded and hurt and lost, a plea to the God to return his only reason to be and live, was one that sent shivers down the spines of those around them, one that made strong men cry and send their prayers to the boss that they all knew and respected now dead in G's arms.
A life was not worth without Giotto. A life had no meaning when there was not an anchor that kept it in place and at home. G did not see reason to live when his home and love was no more. He was slipping, his love and friend and savior, slipping slowly to Death and out of his hold.
Nothing had meaning, nothing had worth. And so he was left alone, crying and wounded and hurt.