Hey peoples another fic for you. I've never written Squalo before... he's realy hard to write. enjoy.
Parings - XanxusSaualo Past SqualoDino
Prompt - Execution
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Ti Amo
A cold wind blows through the city making papers fly from their perches on moulding brick wall into the black seas that line the streets and alleys. The frigid contrast of night and day slowly vanishes in the memories of rain until there is but the grey of twilight. Soon all of these will fall to the same fate but for now there are still those that hang, words clearly visible in the orange world painted by the streetlight.
The inked objects speek of death even as they bleed into nothing, for the truth is inescapable. Not that many want to, not that anyone will object, not that there is a soul who will cry. There is only one side of the spectrum here, the cruel and brutal part of the outside and nothing of the feelings of those for whom he may have mattered. Instead there are slipping sloppily inked letters that can read only one unchangeable italian song:
Esecuzione
A light goes off in one of the high glass windows. The sound of crickets fills the air. The world sleeps peacefully, better than they have in years.
There is only a single golden flicker glimmering in the world now, past the torn and tattered signs hanging over wet cobblestones and into a place more modern where the old world seems to have melted away. The glow of a single lamp is just barely visible in the blackness of the largest building, it's highest window faintly yellow.
Inside a man sits, his silver hair spilling over the chair's dark expanse of leather. A drink is clutched tightly in his pale hand. The ice has already melted into the amber mixture yet he still brings the glass up to his thin mouth, taking another bitter sip.
Squalo doesn't like alcohol, never has, probably never will. It brings back too many memories of his life before he became a member of the mafia. His father had always been a heavy drinker, going into rages where he would speckle the walls with broken bottle glass and swing his fists around wildly. Some of his first and only memories of his mother are of her lying broken and bloody on the cold tile floor, his father's shadow over top of her. He had killed him with a kitchen knife on that day long ago when he was just a small boy of seven.
Normally he would drink to forget, to screw the memories, screw the past, screw the god damned mafia, and screw Xanxus most of all. For it was only when they had both had enough liquor to drown in that the Varia boss would ever touch him and he would ever touch Xanxus. It had happened once as an act of lust, then again as the same. It stayed like this a continuing cycle of lust and alcohol until Squalo grew to want and would feel an emptiness in him until the touches would come again. Not the way he had wanted Dino back in his school days when the golden haired Cavallone would have given his the world and he would have taken it, no, not that way. This was a different matter entirely and he knew that if he had wanted to back then he could have known what the emotion was and stopped before it had gotten serious. Before he would miss him.
That is why today he drinks, the burning liquid running diluted down his throat, reminding him of the taste on a tonge in the middle of a heated kiss. Tonight he drinks to remember and remember he does.
The day before had been cold and dark, clouds covering the sun so that in the darkness even the rainbow hued birds played the parts of vulture and ravens at their posts on black wires. There are many people here to watch and a murmur travels up the streets, quiet then steadily louder and then quiet again as the man is lead up to the rotting wooden podium. This is what they have come here to watch, this is the end of the terror, this was the beginning of their lives.
Xanxus is still proud, even now when he is covered in scars and too weak to even fight, so he keeps his head high even as he is lead up for the world to see.
Squalo's grip tightens around the carved crystal so that the sharp design will linger on his palm even after the liquid inside the glass is gone.
His metal hand hangs limply by his side while flesh and bone leave crescents on his skin
The drink is taking over now and he can hear him self screaming, flailing, breaking, yet it all feels like he's still in the remnants of a far off dream and should be waking up any moment now to the sting of sunlight and the warm body of his boss.
The Axe lifts, a shining silver in the muted light and Squalo can only think of it as a object of beauty.
Tighter and tighter, stronger and stronger, weaker and weaker.
Their eyes connect at some point in that endless moment and Squalo's mouth moves on it's own.
The shards are the only things left and Squalo's hand burns like fire, burns like ice.
Ti amo.
Red drips down his hand, soaking slowly into the floor boards.
You're trash, Squalo.
Maybe he is.
And the world sleeps peacefully.
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Esecuzione - execution
Ti amo - I love you