Title: Gemini Syndrome
Summary: She was... I am… We are... different.
Genre: Family, Friendship
Word Count: 1,303
Characters: Oregano, Iemitsu, Xanxus
Slightly OOC, rushed.
…
Her name was Ilaria.
Another beautiful girl stowed away from prying eyes. Groomed by the head maids and trained to be sold away as a negotiation reward. A daft puppet that had no qualms against anyone, her smile as bright as day and her laugh like the song of angels.
She was the only daughter of the ninth Vongola boss, a joy as a young child. Her name given only to those who smiled like the sunflowers, claimed his mistress. She was their joy. The joy of the family. The whole family.
Her name was Ilaria.
Another mindless puppet that was given a smile and a gun amidst this crowd of twirling gowns and noble suits; a girl, a young lady, a debutante that walks down the cobblestone path with pride. Hanging off the arm of one of her older brothers, she smiles and waves like there really wasn't more to her than just that.
She was destined to be a trophy bride after all; everyone could probably hear her heart racing as she left the protective circle her brothers had formed around her and ventured through the sea of piranhas doing what was expected of her.
Her name was Ilaria.
Another princess with a prince that swept her off her feet. Beautiful people went hand in hand with beautiful people. Her prince was beautiful. She was beautiful. It was perfect.
So she was told… he was the son of the Russian Mob. She was the daughter of the Italian Mafia. Their marriage union would join two underworlds, their riches would flourish and they will prosper. She only thinks of the good things as she let his dry dry lips glide over hers in the veranda of her party.
The good things, she tells herself over and over again, only the good things.
Her name was Ilaria.
Gone was the freedom that she used to have, bond by a ring and paper, she waits in her brothers room like the good girl she was. The air smells like the expensive wines he spoils himself with, his bloodied jacket thrown on his bed lazily and his mirror still shattered from the last tantrum he threw.
She feels misplaced, like a marble statue left in a landfill. No words escape her glossed lips as the door is thrown off its hinges and her brother storms in angrily.
He sees her almost immediately, sitting quietly on his leather couch, taking as little space as possible. He lets out a small growl as they exchange glances, the angry look on his crimson eyes softening only a little.
He doesn't give her a second glance after that awkwardly tense moment as he throws his revolvers at her and stampedes his way to his private bathroom, used to this unusual routine ever since the first time she confronted him.
The cold metal against her fingertips is all it takes for her to calm down. Its jet black coat sets her at ease, erasing all the troubles from the past few days.
The shower turns on and she leaves as soon as she came.
Her name was Ilaria.
Like the princesses she once adored so much, she waits for her prince at the altar. The snow white silk dress only seeps more into her sides the more she waits. Her heels pinch painfully as she waits like the good girl she was.
Under all the lace and ribbons, is her brother's gun. Tied securely to her thigh, the metal calming her with each passing minute as the wedding march starts once again and the groom sprints down the aisle with a small apologizing smile.
Her name was Ilaria.
The daughter. The debutante. The murderer.
…
She was only thirteen.
Thrown into the streets, with no food and water. No parents to love her, no home she could return to. She's cold. Oh so cold.
She faints as the blood finally rushes back to her head with a crash, hoping to never wake up from this nightmare again.
Never again.
She was only thirteen.
Her pockets are filled with the street vendor's best apples and breads, it's enough to last her a week at most. She's running as fast as she could.
But he's faster.
She falls and is about to get back up when he places a knife to her throat. Don't get up, he tells her, a brat like you should be punished.
She kicks and punches, bites and before she knows it, the knife is in her bloodied fingers. The food long forgotten, she glides the sharp blade over waxy flesh.
A loud course of giggles fill the air like that day long long ago.
She was only thirteen.
So cold.
She feels like she's dying.
Her throat burns.
Her head is heavy.
Is someone there?
Please help…
She was only thirteen.
She lives in an orphanage now… filled with kids her age. It doesn't feel right though. Nothing feels right here.
No one smiles. They shake in fear when the warden talks to them. They're so quiet. Oh so quiet.
She was only thirteen when she runs away again.
…
"Hey, you look like someone I used to know. What's your name?"
"…"
"Don't worry I'm not here to hurt you. Here, let me get you out of there. Would you like some food?"
"Hahah! You sure eat your fill, don't cha?"
"So where's your house? I'll walk you home. "
"Woah! Umm… don't cry! H-here have some candy… "
"You don't have anywhere to go? That must be real hard for you…"
"You know I have a wife and kid. What about you come with me? I'll make it worth your while."
"So how about it, Oregano?"
…
He slumps onto the chair lazily the minute we enter his office, the papers now thrown lazily on his mahogany desk as he signals me to sit down at the seat across from him. A lone wine glass sits on the edge of the table as I rearrange my glasses nervously. We don't say anything for a long while.
His head is in his hands; his breaths are steady in this room that smells so reminiscent to that one place. Im beginning to think he fell asleep on me.
"How was it?"
He asks, his low husky voice makes everything hard to make out; he raises his head slightly to stare at me with half-lit crimson eyes. He huffs as I frown to myself.
"Hard."
He doesn't say anything as he watches me play with my fingers anxiously, then he slides his revolvers to me from across the table awkwardly, moving some papers while doing so.
Just the sight of them calms my nerves as I gingerly take them into my hands; the heavy weight and cold metal don't even faze me as I carefully check if the safety was on. I don't even remember what I was doing before he starts speaking again.
"Ileria would never have been so fascinated with these kinds of things. Not before then, anyways…" maybe he says it more harshly, maybe he says it in a more insulting way but that what comes through my ears and I couldn't help but smile at that.
"She was…"
I delicately hold the gun in my hand, shifting the weight this way and that.
"I am…"
Checking once more if the safety was on.
"We are…"
I press his X-gun to the side of my head, a wide grin stretching my lips; never before has my eyes felt so itchy, has my head feels so un-natural, never before have I felt so disconnected but happy when he gives me the most sadistic smirk ever.
"Different." I pull the trigger and he chuckles madly to himself.
"Pleasure to work with you, Oregano"
"And I you, Xanxus."