Rated: G to NC-17 for language, violence, and sexual situations
Steve's Notes: These drabbles were written in celebration of Yamamoto's return in ch. 325.
Disclaimer: Katekyou Hitman Reborn! © Amano Akira
the pledge, the turn, the prestige || PG-13 || 441 || FtM!Julie/Chrome || for faorism
The first rule of illusion is that deception is only as good as the deceiver.
(This is how he started: a pair of scissors and a hank of his long hair in his fist. He cut it all off, the red strands like pools of blood across the white tile of the bathroom floor. His mother screeched like a harpy when he came out, his long waves now shorn strands, but the lightness was like being born anew. When she asked him why he cut off all his beautiful hair, he rolled his shoulders and said, "Because I felt like it.")
The second rule of illusion is that deception can only be as real as the deceived believes it.
(Next he took some gauze and wound it too tight around his chest. Tighter and tighter he pulled the gauze, until the line from his throat to his belly button was as straight and gaunt as the rest of him. His mother had stared at the flatness beneath his white t-shirt and the plaid button down until her disembodied voice asked him why he felt the need to look so different. He rolled his shoulders and said, "Because I wanted to.")
The third rule of illusion is that deception can never be the truth.
("You are not my little girl!" his mother shrieks when Julie tell her that he is a boy. Her eyes linger on his short hair and his flat chest, his wiry strength and the small soul patch he wears proudly on his sharp chin. "You were never her, you killed her, you transvestite!")
Illusion only has three rules. There are many more clauses, loopholes, and shortcuts, but the rules remain solid and unbreakable. Even illusion, a game of deception, has unshakable foundations. They cannot be changed, cannot be removed, cannot be conquered.
(She looks at him, sees him. She peels away his carefully constructed illusions—the physical ones and the ones of Dying Will—and knows him as sure as he knows himself. She cannot be deceived and he hates her for it.
"Julie?" she murmurs, a blush blooming across her pale and pretty cheeks. She clutches at the trident in her hands as though a life line, a crutch.
"Yeah," he grunts, his own hands fists in his pockets.
"You—" she begins, but falters. It is a long time before she picks her shy gaze from the floor and continues, "I don't care."
"Yeah?" he barks, harsh. "Well, I don't fuckin' care.")
Illusion is a truth wrapped in lies.
(A terrible truth, so it is a good thing, perhaps, that Julie is a terribly good liar.)
the string || PG || 536 || Shitt P., Luna || for melissa_42
Shittopi has been many places and met many people. She has seen and done many things. An information broker for the Shimon famiglia—and, by extension, the Vongola—she refuses to deny her curiosity and the opportunity of experience. To say no is a great tragedy for Shittopi, and she allows the beauty of coincidence to take her where it will.
How she ends up in Luna Lovegood's kitchen, in the cold, barren, and beautiful highlands of Scotland, Shittopi cannot precisely say. She taps her full bottom lip when Luna asks. "There was this broken necklace," she muses. "I think my mother called it a Portkey, in her stories."
Luna waves a hand, her tiny fingers easy on the pale wood of her wand. The cracked, earthen teapot ambles to the old gas stove; the mismatched teacups and wire teaballs arrange themselves on the messy counter. Shittopi watches sharply from behind her rose-colored lenses.
"There is no magic in your family?" Luna asks, tucking her wand absently behind her radish-adorned left ear.
"My grandfather was a wizard," Shittopi replies. "A bad one, too. All his spells were either weak or back-fired spectacularly. He blew his head clean off his shoulders when I was four. But he told my mother all his stories, and she told them to me."
The teapot begins to whistle. An invisible hand picks it up from the stove and pours hot water into each mug.
"There is enough left in your blood," Luna says as the tea steeps, her smile settling in the not yet permanent lines around her gray eyes. "I mean magic, of course. Luck too—did you know that lucks runs in sevens down families? You must be the seventh of a seventh, to have enough dormant magic within you and find my Portkey before it activated."
Shittopi will tell Luna, in a letter carried by a small owl named Phoebe, that she had the beads for weeks. She found them in an antique shop, amid broken jewelry from the seventies, and fell in love with the green and cloudy glass beads, their smooth surfaces chipped by time and carelessness. She will tell Luna how she bought them for a euro and kept them hanging long around her neck, how she let them fall across her skin and between her breasts. For now, however, Shittopi is silent.
"You're the first," Luna continues. "I've been leaving these Portkeys around since the war ended, maybe fifteen years ago? My father used to do it all the time; we'd get the most interesting strangers, you see. The beads must have just enough magic and just enough luck in them, like you Shittopi-chan. The necklace was my mother's, you know."
"We burned my mother's house when we left Italy," Shittopi replies, her fingers touching the deformed glass beads. A pair of mugs float down in front of them; a chipped deer on Shittopi's flicks a velvety ear as it sniffs the grass about its hooves. "The only thing I kept was her eyes."
"Eyes are a wonderful gift," Luna says sagely. She holds up a little pot, painted yellow and black like a bumblebee. She asks, "Honey?"
Shittopi smiles and answers, "Yes please."
ghosts || PG-13 || 564 || Byakuran/Yamamoto || for pectus_pectoris
His spine is sinuous length between the paleness of his wings, the feathers soft and strangely warm as they brush Takeshi's naked calves. His smile is slashed oddly across his mouth, as insubstantial as a cloud in the sky, and his thighs straddle Takeshi's waist, but he weighs little more than air. Though his lips do not move when he speaks, fingertips light against Takeshi's breastbone, his musical voice comes from everywhere at once.
They are in danger, the man with wings tells him. His nails scratch pink lines down Takeshi's torso, down to equally pink gauze. But here you are.
Takeshi's own smile does not waver, even as his fists tighten imperceptibly in the starched hospital sheets. They are so coarse compared to the softness of the wingtips caressing his naked skin.
You haven't even woken up, he continues. Eight days since the Shimon were tricked, eight days since you were so agonizingly disposed. You're stable now, but the doctors think you will never open your eyes. Even if you do, they believe you will never walk again. With such a terrible wound, you will never play baseball. You will never be Tsunayoshi's Guardian. It's an awful tragedy, don't you think?
The soft, lyrical tone is at odds with the serious words; the gentle touch that meanders down to the mess that was once Takeshi's abdomen contradicts the snag of fingernails on the airy, stained gauze.
There is a way to make is go away. Ethereal violet eyes, no pupils in the irises, stay eerily focused on Takeshi. I can make it disappear.
"You?" Takeshi laughs, his smile stretched too thin across his face. "What's the catch?"
There is no catch, the winged man promises. He tilts his head, lavender hair brushing his bare shoulder; a pink tongue wets his nearly bloodless lips. We will be symbiotic for a time. My thoughts will be your thoughts, your thoughts will be my thoughts. We will have one body. We will be closer than lovers and the intimacy may drive you mad—it's been known to happen.
"That doesn't seem like a good deal," Takeshi replies, his grin mostly teeth. "I can't even wake up."
With me, you can do anything, the man murmurs, leans forward. He is so close his hair tickles the sharpness of Takeshi's hungry jaw. When I am with you, your body will be new. It will be as if you were just born. Of course, when I leave, your body will be weak again. Your wound will return. You may fall back into this dream. You may never wake up. It's a risk, but is it really better than the alternative?
"What will you get from this?" Takeshi asks.
Freedom, he replies so simply that there must be more, that it can only be the truth.
Takeshi leans back against the flat hospital pillow. He tries to move his legs and fails. Already he can feel his body giving into atrophy and it hollows out the remains of his stomach. Panic rises like bile to the back of his throat, but instead of vomit, a strangled, "Okay, " comes forth.
You were always so brave, Yamamoto Takeshi, the apparition whispers, his motionless mouth in the parody of a kiss against Takeshi's. Foolish and idealistic, perhaps, but brave.
Then Byakuran drives a hand into Takeshi's wound, and the world goes
white.
the seventh round || R || 675 || Dino/Squalo || for pollinia
They inhale the pilfered bottle of Chianti with little regard to its subtle taste—tonight, their blunt aim is senseless inebriation. Sprawled like broken dolls across the kitchen tile, they lean against the cool, modern stainless steel and slowly shed their layers as the alcohol heats their blood. Squalo removes his leather jacket without his usual grace; he flings his prosthetic left hand into a drawer, barking in laughter at the thought of the cook finding it come morning.
Between passes, as Squalo swallows the red wine, Dino slowly strips. He abandons first his rust-colored whip, then his dark silk tie. His cufflinks tumble like old, small bells across the floor and his jacket is tossed carelessly aside, perhaps into the sink. It is almost like their days back in boarding school, when they would get drunk off cheap wine in Dino's single, waiting until they were intoxicated enough to forget that they couldn't press together and suck the sharp taste off the other's tongue.
"Fuck," Squalo hisses as Dino pushes away from the support of the cabinets, crawls on unsteady hands and knees to straddle Squalo's sharp pelvis. "Those bastards."
"Mmmm," Dino hums, plucking the empty bottle from Squalo's hand, thumb against the gallo nero label. He does not know if Squalo is talking about the rival mafiosi they just took care of or the Vongola Nono, whose orders left little room for misinterpretation. With a battered body and a heart that aches less than it should, Dino agrees either way. He lowers his head, presses gentle kisses against the searing column of Squalo's throat, before he sinks his teeth into the meat of the other man's shoulder. It is satisfying to feel Squalo arch into him, to let the taste of his blood and stale skin mingle with the expensive Chianti.
"And you—" Squalo snarls. The fingers of his right hand dig cruelly into Dino's hip; the stump of his left arm is hard against Dino's side. "So loyal. Fuck, does that trash even know what you would do? Anything, like a dog. Shit, scum like you would kill me, if they ordered it."
Maybe it's the guilt, men dead against a concrete warehouse floor. Maybe it's the dredges of adrenaline, still brittle in Dino's veins. Maybe it's the wine, which always strips him of his human veneer. Maybe it's because the truth always nettles, especially when Squalo bares it as easily as he does his pale skin. Maybe it is all these reasons or maybe it is none, but as Dino sucks on the sensitive flesh behind Squalo's ear, he pulls his Beretta from its holster and places the barrel against Squalo's temple.
"Trash," Squalo slurs as Dino nips his jawline, tugging once on Squalo's bottom lips with his teeth. "Simple trash."
Dino unlocks the safety.
"You would make it quick and clean," Squalo goads. He never shuts up, sober or drunk, safe or threatened or otherwise. "You couldn't fucking strangle me—you wouldn't have the balls. Just a bullet to my brain and you'd dream about the mess every night, till you made one of your own."
"I already dream of you every night," Dino murmurs in reply, his words soft and at odds with the hard metal of his gun. "Squalo—"
"Liar," Squalo hisses, but he licks his lips and looks at Dino from underneath the pale blades of his eyelashes. "There are no bullets in that gun."
The last six bullets went into their target family's consigliere, stuck him like a pig and bled him like one. Dino tries to imagine Squalo in his place, light hair spilled out further than the dark of his blood, and he pulls the trigger just to see if he can. When the hammer hits and the flint ignites, and all that comes out is the dull click of a loosened spring in a hollow barrel. Dino feels a terrible relief flood through him and thinks, Never you.
"See?" Squalo smirks, all teeth, as Dino tosses the gun away. "All gone."
best served cold || R || 158 || Hibari/Mukuro || for mochalatt3
The tea has gone cold in the untouched clay pot, but the saké Kuskabe heated has no such opportunity. The sleeve of his yukata in hand and the paleness of his wrist exposed, Kyouya rudely pours his cup first. The steam curls in the air like the herbivore's ghost, and Kyouya swallows it without hesitation.
"What will you do now, Kyo—u—ya?" Mukuro teases without his normal malice, his deep voice oddly subdued, his own cup concealing the contortion of his mouth. He is dressed in a plain black suit, the straight and unadorned shoulders as foreign as the plain knot in the hollow of his throat. His unbound hair is a dark river down his torso and there is directionless, hungry beast in his mismatched eyes.
"Wait," Kyouya replies, and sets his empty cup down. His fingers capture the loose ends of Mukuro's hair and when he brings the strands to his lips, he swears, "Revenge."
Janus || R || 828 || Dino/Gokudera || for pectus_pectoris
What many people do not understand is this: Dino Cavallone is a monster.
It is hard to see in the glittering ballroom of the villa, the crystal chandelier hanging low over the polished marble floors. A handsome man, with charm and good manners, a lyrical voice and unshakeable charisma, Dino slowly works his way to the balcony where Hayato stands, rigid and unsociable. He listens to everyone who stops him—the dolled up small children, the simpering and jewel heavy women, the rough mafiosi—and laughs and smiles in all the appropriate places. He possesses an easy and unassuming demeanor that sets Hayato's teeth on edge. These people are so easily fooled.
With a vast, if veneered, knowledge of history and science, literature and politics, sports and entertainment, Dino can spin yarn with anyone. Many strangers, upon meeting Dino Cavallone, feel as though they have reunited with an old, forgotten friend. Those who know him should know better than to trust him with their deeper and darker secrets, but they believe he will keep those secrets safe and hand them to him easily. He is a vault of gossip and rumors and confidences; he wields all of them with grace and cunning.
Hayato saw through the Cavallone Decimo years ago, when he was slumped teenager chain-smoking Mild Sevens and barely making his monthly rent. Dino had smiled gently at him and greeted him in swaggering Italian. Perhaps it was Dino's charm that Hayato mistrusted, or perhaps he had been around enough mafia men since he was born to see through the thickest façade, but there was something subtly and ineffably wrong about the older man, like a translated book or a dubbed movie. He tried to give Hayato a handshake, but when he refused, Dino had firmly clasped his warm, dry hand high on Hayato's shoulder, his strong and callus thumb whispering against the fine hairs on the nape of Hayato's neck.
"Don't touch me," Hayato snarled, squirming out of Dino's hold. "Fuckin' bastard."
Dino had just smiled and never tried to touch him again. Hayato could have forgiven him, perhaps, if he were an idiot. He can't however, because nothing Dino does is not calculated and measured. Hayato admires Dino's cunning almost as much as he resents it.
"You don't trust me?" Dino often asks. His smile is sly in the corners. "What a shame."
This is how Dino greets Hayato when he crosses the extravagant floor and pries himself from the clutches of criminal society. He has a pair of flutes in his hand, filled high with the honey gold of fine champagne. When he presses one into Hayato's hand, Hayato accepts it only because he has already had too many. "I've seen you kill," he slurs, a nicotine-stained finger against the fine silk of Dino's tie. He downs half the flute's bubbly contents in a single swallow. "Nobody else here has."
This is not the truth, but it is close enough to be one. Dino acknowledges it with an angled smile; he clinks his glass against Hayato's. "Scacco matto," he murmurs.
What makes Dino Cavallone a monster, Hayato knows, is how well he hides. Not many have seen Dino lodge a bullet in the brain of a man begging for his life, or seen him wrap his whip around a man's neck and strangle him. Few have seen the steadiness of his hands when he kills or heard the cordial tone of his voice when he tortures information from unwilling tongues. As the Vongola consigliere and frequent envoy to the allied Cavallone famiglia, Hayato has seen Dino as his worst, at his best, and everything in-between. Hayato is sure that besides Romario, he is the only person to have seen all the facets of Dino's personality and live.
"Sometimes I think you are afraid of me, mio falco," Dino says, voice low over the thrum of chatter.
"I told you not to call me that," Hayato snaps.
"Scusi," Dino grins, his white teeth perfect and straight, his skin flawless and olive. He is close enough for the heat of his body and the unidentifiable spice of his cologne to wrap around Hayato like the touch Dino is not allowed and does not attempt. "I always forget that you are fearless."
What many people do not understand is this: Dino Cavallone is a good man, a patient man, and an intelligent man, but he is also a monster. He will listen and he will keep secrets, but he will wield those words like weapons when he can. He knows when to stand down and when to push, when to praise and when to goad. He can wait years for the right opportunity to present itself—for Hayato to turn to him and allow him to press a finger against his pale wrist, where the suit pulls back when he stretches too far, to whisper in his ear, "Come with me, mio falco."
("Fucking bastard," Hayato whispers.)
end.