Squalo was masochism incarnate. The training he undertook was more punishing than anything the Varia could throw at him, and he loved it. The missions he always saw through to the end were the worst of them all, he sought them out purposefully. If he could be killed, let them try! But as long as his sword was made of steel, he wouldn't back down from the price. Even if he paid it in blood, even if he paid it in limbs it didn't matter much to him. The prices were always worth it. Every cut, down to the paper cuts he got filing away request forms were proof of his ability. The blood he spilled was his verification, all the confirmation he needed that he was indeed the Emperor of Swords, the greatest swordsman alive.
This masochism followed him beyond his swordsmanship and work though. When he cooked, he stood as close to the flame as he could, relishing the twinge of pain from the lapping fires. When he wrestled with Bel, he'd always punch hard and kick ferociously, because that brat may be little but he sure as hell gave as good as he got. He liked the pain, because he could remember when he couldn't feel it. When he had been a child on the frozen streets of Northern Italy, shivering in the numbing cold, there had been no feeling. No guilt, no regret, not even pain when his parents killed each other in a fight over him. The snow stole everything, greedily, it even seeped into his hair and dyed it in its own image. Logic would give the simple answer that his malnutrition and stress caused his body to stop producing the pigment for his hair, which was an unnecessary expense when it was eating itself just to keep him alive. But that didn't explain why it didn't come back once Squalo had been adopted by the low-level Superbia family from Belluno. It was a life he liked, much better than the frozen hell he lived on the streets of Trepalle, where nights got into the negative Celsius and even the ice would shiver. But his brown hair never came back.
That was why he liked pain, because the first time he ever felt it was when the underlings of the family picked him up out of a snow drift and sat him down inside the hood of his car, near to the running engine so he could warm up quickly. The pain from the burning metal amazed him, fascinated his dulled senses. It was hot, scorching hot, even in the snow and ice of Trepalle. The metal was sharp, too, and he stared in morbid curiosity at the trickle of blood that welled up from a cut. He never knew why the mooks of the Superbia family decided to take him in, but he made good use of their kindness. Within months of being under the family's care, he'd honed his knife-fighting skills and picked up an old spatha he'd found in a shed. He'd go up against the strongest members of the family, even loudly challenge visiting families when he got the chance, and after many miserable defeats, he began to win. It would only be a match or two every week, but it was much better than his flat-zero win count before. By the time he was 10, he was winning matches consistently against opponents far older and more experienced than himself. His family was amazed and delighted by their charity case, he soon became the pride of the Superbia clan. They sent him off to school, where his skills and fame only grew.
And so even to this day, Squalo does not steer away from pain, he runs into it head first with no regrets. Pain means life, life means struggle, and for Squalo struggle almost always means victory. It was a simple equation in his mind. This equation soon led him to the Vongola, the strongest mafia family in the world. It was a long trip from the boonies of Trepalle and the northern frost of Belluno, but the warm rolling hills of Tuscany and Rome offered bountiful opportunities for a pain-happy killing machine like Squalo. He liked the heat of the sun beating down on his shoulders, he enjoyed peeling away the sunburns he got from long hours training without sunblock.
And when he arrived at the swanky garden soiree the Nono had held for his son's 16th birthday, he saw the greatest attraction ever. Standing in the far corner, dark and brooding was a man Squalo needed no explanation for. Even his name didn't matter to the swordsman, because it was something like love at first sight, except without the love part. He was attracted to this man, like a magnet to its polar opposite. Here was something that could utterly destroy him, and it was intoxicating. The man before him was the ultimate in pain, suffering, life. So he walked straight up to him and introduced himself. The disgruntled glare and punch to the face he got merely sealed the deal. He would follow this man until he died, because Squalo had never met someone who made him feel so alive. It was better than the feeling of a worthy opponent, superior to the euphoria of battle, altogether more than anything he'd ever experienced. The power of the Vongola no longer mattered; the Superbia clan was left behind. He was only beholden to this man now, to Xanxus. And he liked it, by sweet God did he like it. Even after the Cradle affair, he could remember the burning warmth of that man, now incased in ice. It pained him to think that the heat of his world was now trapped in the thing he hated most, but he'd made an oath. So every day, he came down to the basement and checked for signs of melting, no matter how often he was told it was futile. He simply would not accept that a man who burned so intensely could be held long by the chill of ice. It was physically impossible, he reasoned. The years passed, the ice held up, but still Squalo returned. He never cried, most certainly never felt lonely, and his sword could do nothing for him now. The thing he wanted most was taken from him by the thing he most feared and hated. After the seventh year, he began to hear the niggling doubts in the back of his skull.
It's pointless, that ice will never melt. Xanxus is trapped in there forever. You can't do anything. Your sword will change nothing, Squalo. Fuck…Fuck them! What did they know anyway? They had always seen Xanxus' flame as a danger, something to keep at a distance! Pussies, all of them! Fucking cowards! Xanxus was dangerous, yes, but how could they not see how fucking amazing that was? Squalo had never shied away from the heat of Xanxus' existence, he'd embraced it, desired it, kept it close. It was something he treasured, because it kept the cold of his past away and made him feel alive. Even if he had to wait forever, even if his hair grew to touch the floor, he would never stop waiting. Fools, all of them. Let them doubt! When Xanxus came back from the ice, he'd be the one to laugh then! He'd show them with the blade of his own sword that their doubts were meaningless.
Another year later the miracle he'd been waiting for happened. Xanxus was freed, and Squalo happily stepped down from the leader position he'd held in Xanxus' absence. But he always stayed close to Xanxus, wanting his warmth. In the first few days after his release, it seemed as though the ice had stolen his flame straight from his body. His skin was cold, it didn't smell of anything and his eyes were dull and confused. But as the effects wore off, Squalo could see the dragon within his Boss reawakening. His skin began to warm, the scent of alcohol and sweat returned to his skin and his red eyes gleamed with purpose. Squalo's eyes also regained their edge, the pride that held him up flared high. He had been right, and let those fuckers suck his dick because Xanxus was alive and ready for revenge. The guns were aimed at them now! The Varia would stand at the top, no one could possibly stop the bright fire of their Boss' rage. The price of the wait had been worth it. This time, he'd definitely protect Xanxus. Let the world quiver in fear, because this time their flame would never be extinguished. Squalo would cut away anything that stood in their way, he'd personally hack away the ice and snow that might try to encase the inferno that was his world.