Of Scars and Flames
The first time had been unexpected, unplanned, unwanted even. G could never forget the maniacal look on that man's face as he pulled the gun out and brought it up to eye level as he aimed it at the back of Giotto's head. Neither could he forget the horror that passed through him as he remembered that even the strongest man could be taken down by a bullet in the brain. In all honesty, he didn't remember gripping his own gun, nor pulling it up – he didn't remember weather his hands shook or not, weather the movement was short and jerky or slow and smooth.
All he remembered was that he had still been unused to the weight of a gun in his hand and the other man had moved. Because he also remembered aiming for the guy's hand in an attempt to knock his weapon away. Yet…
Even the strongest man could be taken down by a bullet in the brain.
That night Giotto and he spent in the house of a tattooist who insisted it was too late and too wet to let them return to their home in the rain. He fed them and shared his bed with both boys, young and stupid and with a wrong idea of the world that surrounded them; yet somewhere after midnight when Giotto had finally exhausted himself to sleep, G slipped out of the bed and went to the man.
It was hard to state the reason for it at the time, weather it was to remind himself of what he had done, or to remind Giotto that he had done it, or simply to repay the pain he had inflicted on another by doing it to himself…
Whatever the reason, the tattooist knew it, maybe even better than G himself.
The first flame was small and hidden under his bangs, burning over his right eye where he could see it every time he pulled his hair back. It was there, bright red and hot and he could never forget the feel of being drawn on for the first time.
The second time was after a long mission. A long and exhausting and hard and important mission that Giotto had told him to use all means necessary on. And he had.
And after it, tired and spent and growing to understand what they were a part of, the young adult had limped to that same tattooist. Five flames flickered on his cheek the next morning, bright and red like freshly spilled blood.
From there on, the numbers only increased. Once the right side of his face had no more room to spare, they moved lower, licking at his neck, sneaking down his shoulder, arm, the entire left side of his body.
Those around him knew of the unnatural habit, but said nothing. Spade had once offered to drop him off after a mission and left him on the door of the tattooist. Alaude had once called him a masochist as directly as he always did. Lampo kept repeating that his tattoo scared him. Knuckle never missed to comment that if he were to repent his sins, they would be forgiven. Asari only ever smiled sadly when he saw him return with a new flame on his body.
Giotto never commented, never made a single movement to show he understood the meaning behind the burning fire etched on his friend's skin.
Not until that day, long after their life as a part of the Vongola had ended and they had retired into the sanctuary of Japan. That one time when there were just the two of them and the burning hot spring and the golden eyes that slipped down the right side of his body and the pain that haunted them all the way.
"Why," Giotto began hesitantly, "only on one side?"
"Because I always stand to your right."
It was the only answer he had ever needed.