Title: Flickers

Rating: PG-15 for swearing and passing mentions of smex

Summary: Gokudera and Hibari across five instances.

Beta: Shiary

Written at Snowflake97 's request.

Whorls -Raised parts in a fingerprint that form complete circles.

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[Connoisseur]

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Gokudera's fingers weren't built like a pianist's.

They were long, yes, and pale, certainly, but with joints so painfully pronounced his hands could only be called, at best…gangly (Because Hibari Kyoya knew better than to voice certain comparisons to arachnids). They didn't show the benefits of any care either. Burns, stamped from a time when they hadn't learned the weight of a dynamite, and nicks from cooking. At a closer range, he could see the parts of skin raised in whorls faintly chaffed. Flaking.

(Yet he knew how they collapse, soft and pliant, into the valley between his thumb and forefinger; he knew the meticulous, mathematical way they studied and applied pressure to his body; how they had strained, as close as the bomber's personal bubble allowed, towards Hibari's.)

Gokudera's fingers weren't a pianist's. Then again, a musical instrument wasn't the only thing they could play beautifully.

[Pandora's Box]

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They used to call this shell-shock. Now it's PTSD. Either way his past had enough holes to shame Swiss cheese.

So he didn't remember the one sun-dappled vacation his half-Japanese mother took with him across her homeland (heartland), just one week. How they'd stopped in that little town by accident, and stayed for a single night by the beach. Where Gokudera Hayato, six years old, had walked the sands by sunset and caught a glimpse.

(Of his future)

But that's alright. Hibari Kyoya didn't remember either.

(Not the soft cream of seashells or the innocent words, much less intense eyes that could't decide between lime and forest green.

Those were asleep with Gokudera's memories.)

[Purgatory]

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It would always start from nothing. After all, it took a few minutes to shed their clothes, their names and everything that came with it.

(Including the things those words–"Gokudera", "Hibari"–struck between them.)

Then, just as suddenly, everything would build, would rush to form the only window in time where this was possible. Where he could keep every strain, every secret he could only feel (but not say) uncovered on his face, and assume everything he wanted in the other's.

(Only sometimes, those sentiments didn't seem like a figment of his imagination.)

He would almost dream then. That when he woke up the next morning, it won't be–

Then he woke up, and the man next to him was "Hibari" (again) and he was "Hayato" (again). The luxurious bedsheets beneath them stank of low-grade porn.

(Of them.)

He liked to smoke (had to smoke) at this part. Nothing like nicotine and its free side-serving of slanted-eyed contempt to chase down the scream of his spine, the way his body burned with angry satisfaction.

(The way it had curled, invited and shaped the space around Kyoya while his companion slept, when he himself couldn't. He often found himself wanting to drink in the way it lay there then.)

They would shower, with Hayato dressing up in dirty clothes (it was now Hibari's part to ignore him and pretend not to see another man in his apartment). Everything would be locked up by seven.

(Including their agreement.)

(And the thoughts each was only allowed to have when impossible things happened.)

[Boundless]

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"Look," the fair-haired one snarled, panting. "This isn't working. They're too good with defensive spells, dammit! Even you have to admit your stupid tonfas aren't doing shit."

His companion gripped the offending weapons tighter and mustered as dignified a glare as he could above the restrictive collar. "Then what would you suggest? Binding myself to you? I'd rather bite myself to death before that."

"Like it'd be a walk in the park for me! Of all the people I could've shared names with, it had to be y–watch out!" Both leapt out of the unnatural gust's trajectory, but not before a peripheral slash solidified into another band on Hibari's wrist.

"Tch."

One of their opponents laughed. "This is too pathetic! Hey, are you two really even a pair?"

His Fighter smirked. "Well, that is the famed Hibari Kyoya…"

The boy addressed bared his teeth. The woman's smile said she knew the most delicious joke in the universe. Knew Hibari's humiliation.

In which case, he no longer had anything to hide. And neither of them could be allowed to live.

"Oi," he stated, unwilling to name his greatest bane.

"What?" The silver irritation turned, at once intrigued and suspicious. Good. He hadn't missed the sudden deathly calmness that had settled over the prefect. At least his supposed sharpness hadn't been all rumour.

"Just this once."

Finally he sees the light! Gokudera rolled his eyes. Damn bitch didn't need to take forever. "Deal."

The two faced their attackers as Gokudera began intoning. "Denying limitations to victory and defeat. Strength ruled only by determination.

We are–"

[End of the line]

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In Namimori, there were certain plots of land where the reputations of their previous owners lived on, and left monsters on the eaves for those too young to remember them. In Namimori, the winters would occasionally blow fierce enough to offer discretion, and usher one of these infamous sons home.

Not that anything else recognised him for who he was, save the sky and the old shrine, his faithful, patient maiden–where his eyes now perceived a matron, stately and elegant.

He still frequented it though. There were certain partnerships you could not replicate, even if you had travelled, both chronologically and geographically, far and wide.

One other, he also relived regularly. Paid tribute to its ghost every morning, even when no one else did–come rain or shine, his carafe of sake was always the earliest and most steadfast offering on the stoop of Kasukabe's grave.

The third, he would only visit last, around eleven o' clock. As if his obstinate show at taking it for granted could prolong their present, breathing connection.

"You're earlier today," the man stated. Age had bestowed on him more emotional control in the same stroke it had sheathed his own bite.

"Hn."

The hair, though, had always been silver.

(*Owari)

Note: Except for 'Boundless', a Loveless AU, the rest are all canon-based AU settings. Frankly, I'm not too interested in Loveless myself–Ritsuka is way too young to be in a relationship with anyone legal–but I was quite taken with the battle sequences. And the concept of Gokudera, with his brains and G-script, as a Fighter proved too good to pass up.

As to where that leaves Hibari… (*laughs)

(For those who don't know what I'm talking about, please refer to Loveless's Wikia on 'Fighters' and 'Sacrifices'.)

PTSD– post-traumatic stress disorder. Basically, the after-effects a person may suffer if they do not adjust well to a traumatic experience (Plenty of chances for these in the canon of course). PTSD doesn't always set in immediately after the trauma, though the impact gets worse the longer it takes. Symptoms may include depression, self-destructive tendencies, low self-esteem and long/short-term memory loss.