Hibari seemed to plague Kuroko's life after the Incident, whether during his free time—at school, no less—or being stalked—no better word for it—after school's end, especially around the time of basketball practice. Even more strangely, no one so much as took a gander at the impossibly obvious presence of the (in)famous man, as if a veil of transparency had been purposefully draped over Hibari's frame. It was strange, to say the least, especially when, occasionally, a glint of perception struck those cerulean eyes and an impressively oppressive flare of pure ire and vexation as a sudden thought appeared to flitter through Hibari's mind; shoulders hunching up in tension and delicate fingers curling into a straining grip, so wound and tight blood would fleck. But, just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed.
As if he doesn't know he was there—much less why—and the realization strikes but fades as much as it comes.
"…I have seen it occur often, as well," Kusakabe admitted slowly, peering around the room with apprehension; for what, Kuroko could not say. Eventually, his gaze fell upon the other occupant of the room, warm hazel softening a tad bit when he noted the curl of clothing under Kuroko's fist; he understood the feeling all too fine. "I would approach him on the subject, but I know how well that'll bode."
Annoyance furrowed his brow. "You have a fickle man for a boss." The how do you put up with him unspoken between them.
Kusakabe laughed, low and light, almost a breathy chuckle. "There's no getting used to Kyou-san." He shrugged easily and mentally wondered why he was confessing his life's problems to a kid he knew but two weeks. "But you get used to it after a while." A while being near two decades.
Kuroko shifted, the movement doing nothing to ease the tension of his shoulders. "I don't mean to be rude, Kusakabe-san, but I do have a home I must return to, even if there is no one there awaiting my arrival."
"I understand," he sighed, "but there really is nothing I can do until whatever occurred that night you met is resolved, and even then I cannot assure you of anything—being subjected to the ways of Kyou-san tend to be like that."
And so, life went on.
…
"Hmn," Shamal hummed, pocketing the flashlight in his lab coat, and scratched at the stubble on his chin; "I don't see anything abnormal—your wound is healing properly; the infection is nearly gone. The nose-to-chest bump manoeuvre thing you did incited some droplets of blood, but that's about it. If your brain's what you're worried about, don't bother—it's already too fucked up to jumble back together." Really, he should have foreseen the glower that followed that last statement, but Shamal was nothing if not provocative.
Relenting his glare, Hibari's brows fell into a contemplative frown, something in his chest bubbling uncomfortably. No, he decided, something was definitely amiss—he knew of Possession all too intimately (no thanks to Rokudou), and the strangle flutter discarded after the strange spells he had continuously befallen upon encountering the Phantom was familiar enough not to ignore. If he was being utterly honest with his self, it was concerning. Whatever—or whoever—faulted in this, one way or another, had a connection to Kuroko Tetsuya, connoting the manner in which his body had been reacting to the Phantom: protectively, apparently, going as far as housing the Phantom within his home, in a room disturbingly too close to his own.
Stronger than the steel-reinforced-with-titanium he passionately wielded on a scheduled daily-basis he had constructed his mind's walls within half a year, arduously training to materialize the thick barrier protecting his psyche—for naught, it seemed. The thought of such immersed and muddled his composure in a heavy penumbra of pure irk and raw fury, rumbling quietly at the base of his stomach yet positioned to burst at the given bout.
Seeing as the appointment was done, he reached behind himself to shrug on his button-down and suit jacket as he stood; his eyes never straining away from the doctor. "Sawada Tsunayoshi is where?"
Barely blinking at the change in demeanour, he huffed, slouching back against the desk. "How should I know? 'Not his nanny."
Hibari merely kept his gaze levelled, if not slightly more narrowed at the obvious lie.
Shamal's brow twitched in irritation, but he conceded, grumbling, "Doing somethin' or other with the Thousand Blossoms in Paris," the city's name rolling off his tongue in fluent French. "'Dera is still here, though, along with Takeshi doing some informal business with some lowly gang just on the outskirts of town." The bloodthirsty curl of the lips that come only to an assassin was there, wretched and all the more exciting to those familiar with the pattern of the spray of blood upon certain impacts or the sickening crunch of bone under a too-hard blow.
"Perfect," the singsong of his tone matching the mirrored, cruel twist of a pretence of a smile.
…
When Hibari entered a battle, the change was obvious; the ebb of enemies taking a patterned turn towards one direction, futilely, to attempt to overwhelm a force too strong to be recognized as anything human, and the numbers, subsequently, sharply descending whilst severed flesh and blood—'cause that's what Hibari's new, precious toy did: maul bodies ever-more bloody to make up for the restriction of the No-Death Policy—splattered every surface till the place resembled a gory depiction of hell, the air stale and metallic; the cries and groans of the unlucky to still be conscious echoing throughout.
Yamamoto quietly laughed, a ghost of his usual vivaciousness, the glint of battle retaining in the pale bronze of his eyes. "Having Hibari around really gets the job done more quickly, huh?"
Gokudera growled, face pinching into his usual scowl, gaze locked where Hibari was slowly approaching them, the squelch of blood loud in the suddenly silent parking lot. "I don't like the fucking bastard—never have, never will."
Yamamoto's responding laughter was higher, more genuine. "You say the same thing about Ryouhei, 'Dera," he pointed out, but the glance he gave to the shorter man spoke volumes.
The Skylark had morals he respected, but Hibari was just too…feral. More often than he was comfortable admitting, he often wondered what Tsuna saw in Hibari. But, being that it was Tsuna, perhaps, under all of that murky, dark, pitch-black, shadowed, closed-off, temperamental, whimsical, ephemeral, and-more self, there was inherently good that merely needed that (extremely) extra push to blossom through the (extremely) small aperture in the man's (cold, steel-hardened) heart.
Maybe.
Huffing, Gokudera crossed his arms. "Whatever."
Appearing into view, Hibari greeted the other Guardians with a curt nod, tonfa twirling in one hand while the other he licked off a splotch of blood from its surface, the burst of intense metal clashing with the subtle taste of water flooding his mouth; and openly drew pleasure from the disgusted scowl of Gokudera Hayato and the falter in the ever-pleasant expression of Yamamoto Takeshi.
"Sick bastard," Gokudera scoffed in Italian, the native tongue clipped and snarled.
"Enchanté," he countered. Then, with quick, harsh flicks of his arms, he stored away his tonfa and regarded Yamamoto, choosing to ignore the load of expletives being thrown his way by the silver one. "I have a message for Sawada Tsunayoshi," he informed and instantly Yamamoto stood at attention in the usual formality when something concerning the latter's superior was concerned; "'the deal is off. I will continue the investigation on my own and will not regard kindly any interference—the Phantom is under the Foundation's oversight and protection.'"
"Message received and to be delivered." Going by his Yamamoto's draw of his brow, the confusion was clear. "What—"
"It is not your place, Yamamoto Takeshi." Hibari glowered, daring defiance.
His mouth opened in protest, but his words died on his tongue upon the heightened intensity of the Skylark's glare; spurring forth an internal debate:
Hibari was an extremely valued asset to the Vongola, and it did great to have the notorious man on their side. Once upon a time, the Foundation had fallen in arms with an opponent—to make matters short, they had not fared well. At all. Since then, Tsuna had made it his personal vendetta to keep Hibari as much as possible on good terms; Yamamoto had no stance to ruin the crumbling, careful bond between the Foundation and the Vongola, and Reborn would not see to it kindly—just the thought of such sent a shudder down his back—if he broke this, especially if he somehow clawed and tore irreparably the gashes already present.
But he couldn't bury the concern bubbling in his chest when the possibility of the unknown they were facing retained its uncertainty (Hibari had found the special note the same night as the Incident buried near the roots of a tree in a park not far from the burger place, with no owner in sight; it looked too much like a set-up for anyone's tastes).
Then again, his loyalty to Tsuna surpassed anything.
"Just…be careful? I know of your strength and the Foundation's resourcefulness all too well, and this could very well be nothing we are facing, but the endless possibilities—" He paused, having to force himself past the sudden lump constricting his throat upon the unwanted memory of his father's demise. "I worry, Hibari," he admitted; "and I can't do anything about it if you don't let me." If you keep pushing us away—is a life of Forever Alone really all too pleasant?
Perhaps it was Yamamoto's imagination; perhaps it was the tails of the adrenaline of the recent battle; perhaps it was another of Mukuro's hallucinations—whatever it was, Yamamoto secretly hoped for its truth.
Hibari's eyes softened, swimming with an unnamed emotion, before the blinds were drawn down, never to be seen again.
He hummed noncommittally, and, just like that, he was gone.
…
"Where are we headed, Hibari-san?"
Hibari's gaze flicked briefly to the Phantom seated in the passenger seat, the presence unwanted but there, nevertheless. His body and mind currently had no coordination whatsoever. 'Extreme aggravation' was too weak an expression for the ire brewing silently under his skin with a passionate intensity that itched for the familiar comfort of his tonfa and, preferably, Rokudou Mukuro on the receiving end.
Kuroko took the silence for what it was—that was one likeable attribute Hibari noted.
"Really, dear Alladola, that is no way—"
"Rokudou Mukuro, cease your incessant talking, or I will maul you."
Mukuro chuckled. "Changing your catchphrase, I see. Not very effective, if I may add."
"Do not tempt me," Hibari growled, fingers grinding around the steering-wheel.
"'Do not tempt me,' he says," Mukuro taunted, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval. "Your comebacks are as lame and boring as ever, Kyou—"
"Stop call—"
"I believe we have alrea—"
"I will—"
"'Bite you to death'." He huffed. "So unoriginal. Do tell me when you come up with something more threatening-sounding than the usual innuendo. Really, Kyouya, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you have—"
"Such implications are so foul your anticipated grave curls on its self."
"The only grave anticipated—"
"Your banters are very callow. Has anyone told you this, Hibari-san, Mukuro-san?" Kuroko intervened, giving each an unimpressed glare, clear eyes piercing in a unique manner. "You two are worse than Kagami-kun and Aomine-kun when left for two seconds alone under the same roof."
Red orb glistening under the light unnaturally, he commented, lips quirked up easily but heterochromatic gaze hardened and blazing, "You have courage, Tetsuya-kun, speaking so."
Surprising both Kuroko and Mukuro—and, perhaps most especially, Hibari himself—Hibari warned, "If you try anything on the Phantom, promise of death will be the least of your worries, Rokudou Mukuro."
Hibari managed to catch a strange frown passing through the illusionist's countenance afore Mukuro dissipated in a flare of mist, leaving Kuroko wide-eyed and Hibari relenting somewhat the death-grip he had on the 'wheel.
If Kuroko had any questions, he wisely kept them to his self.
The retained silence was not needed much, it seemed, for Hibari informed, "I am to leave you in the care of Sawada Tsunayoshi."
He couldn't help the concern that flared into a frown. "You are going somewhere, Hibari-san?"
"None of your business, Phantom."
The worry receded for annoyance to take hold. "It is my business, since it is me you are leaving me with a stranger while you go off wherever."
Hibari side-glared at Kuroko, reiterating with a near-growl, "None of your business."
Kuroko scowled piercingly. "Then, where is this Sawada Tsunayoshi?"
"Hokkaido," was all he said.
Kuroko decided he didn't like Hibari Kyouya very much, despite the man's extremely handsome features.
His heart clenched uncomfortably in opposition.
…
Truly sorry for the short chapter! My life is pretty busy, which doesn't allow me much time at all to write, and then I begin feeling an inkling of oppression. So, I am pleading very humbly for a co-writer, pretty please.