A/N: Once again thanks for anyone who reviewed! Unfortunately I can't answer to anonymous readers but I still appreciate your comments. :) Please note something: in this chapter there's a scene of young Bel talking with Mammon. I've seen quite a similar scene in the fic Lights Out by UniversalOverlordess. I have no memory of reading the fic before writing my scene but it might have happened since I read a lot of fics – and sometimes writers just subconsciously adopt things they've read. So I credit her for it just to be on the safe side.


Act VIII – If the Homo sapiens were in fact 'homo' sapiens… is that why they are extinct?

~o~

In the small hours of the night Fran finally falls asleep. When a slight snore bubbles from the froggy's mouth, Bel raises his hand to scratch at his temple that's been itching the last fifteen minutes. He's been lying completely still, pretending to sleep and apparently Fran fell for it hook, line, and sinker since the tension emitting from the boy finally dissolved. He turned his back on Bel, sighed and sort of just decided to succumb to the sleep.

Bel's got it harder. The need that's been pestering him the last days… no, weeks, has not faded in the slightest and in his mind tonight the torment was supposed to end. Instead the gnawing has increased, delved deeper, as he managed to graze the finish line and is now forced to lie next to it, at an arm's reach and yet too far, like a marathonist stumbling on a last meter.

He has no idea why he allowed Fran to have his way. Maybe the frog has woken a primitive instinct within him; something that's been buried beneath the conscious person – that is now guiding him to achieve the target of his interest. Or maybe it's just the voice of Mammon, nagging in the back corner of his brain, lecturing him of the rules of human interaction.


"Bel, one day you'll meet someone that will become more important to you than anyone else before that, and you'll want them to like you as well. Then you must remember you can't hurt them. You won't get them to like you if you hurt them."

"But what if I want to hurt?"

"Then you are unable to reach your goal."

"What if my goal is to see their blood?"

Mammon sighs, mumbling to herself about the inadequacy of her fee. "Then you'll never get to do with them things you want more than cutting."

The ten-year-old prince is staring the Arcobaleno, head slightly tilted. Such things exist? Then something clicks.

"Oh, you mean sex now?"

Mammon is just about to choke even though her mouth is empty. "Ahem, well, that too." Then the little illusionist tentatively adds: "Levi hasn't left any of his… eeh, private videos lying on the living room table, has he?"


Bel is fairly sure Lussuria paid Mammon to give him 'the talk'. What Mammon didn't foresee was the prince to be aware of the reproductive behaviour of human race, which was indeed a bit naïve, after all they were living in the 1990's and Bel was housing under the same roof with four potty-mouthed teenagers.

What Mammon couldn't tell either, was that the person who'd finally snake his way under Bel's skin would be so annoying that he can't decide whether he'd prefer to strangle him or have steaming hot, kinky monkey sex with him. Perhaps both and at the same time. The problem is just that if he strangles Fran, the boy dies and future sessions of steaming hot, kinky monkey sex would become slightly difficult. And he's not Lussuria who, according to the lore, has a basement full of male candidates with breathing disabilities.

Suppose he prefers Fran alive after all. Besides, as annoying as the froggy is, slaying his colleagues without an extremely substantial reason would throw him in front of the in-family discipline committee. And neither Vongola IX nor his snot-nosed successor considers the annoyance of a colleague as an extremely substantial reason.

Reluctantly, Bel has to admit that for the first time of his life he might be interested in someone romantically. Urgh, the mere word makes his hair stand on end. But it doesn't seem like he just wants to screw Fran. Yes, he wants that too, several times a day and a few months in a row, thank you very much, but furthermore, he is troubled by a need to hover in the vicinity of the young illusionist, communicate with him, and make him react. Make him notice the prince.

Because nothing irritates him more than getting ignored.

He deems he's done the right thing tonight. Mammon would be proud. Fran's usually so blank face shone a clear alarm, when he understood which way their little encounter was heading for, and Bel felt like this time waiting outdid forcing. Let the frog come to the prince.

He had already guessed the boy to be completely inexperienced. You can actually see it from him – of how he's only interested in books and the Discovery Channel. But the best way to infer it is from the way he reacts to a touch, at the same time intensely and timidly. Fran is living the years when your body likes to mess with you; when it's the hardest to understand. It's only a matter of time when Bel has the young illusionist breaking.

Anyway, now the boy is sleeping more or less peacefully beside him. He budges again, testing the waters, but Fran is fast asleep and Bel dares to turn towards him. Fran smells like a grass drying in the sun, summer days, clean, and inexperienced and… Bel nuzzles the green hair, inhaling deeply, and with an uttermost care, with the skill of an assassin, lowers his arm across the lean body, experimenting how they'd feel against each other. How it feels to hold the boy. Fran fits perfectly against his chest. Bel listens to his breathing, phasing his own with it.

He's totally out of his mind. Completely lost it and he doesn't give a crap. Let the brat be seventeen. Let him an infuriating frog. Bel doesn't care. He wants Fran. Completely, naked on his bed, submissing, committing, feeling.

And the prince always gets what he wants.


Mammon is floating in the empty hallways, content that even in this circus it's quiet and calm at six thirty am. Occasionally it irks her to get tired so early in the evening but with the years, the memories of living in a grown-up body have faded, and the plus sides include the peace of mornings. She is able to enjoy her breakfast in silence and in the best scenario she manages to flee before the first nuisance, usually a certain white-haired human megaphone, emerges to spoil the view.

This morning she's not so lucky. The lights are on in the kitchen, a thick smell of coffee fills the air and she spots a tall figure sitting at the granite island.

Lussuria. Mammon sighs to herself. Of choices at hand Lussuria is next to the best. He doesn't know how to keep quiet but he's not going to rage or threaten others. The mohawk lifts, as the man spots Mammon.

"Oh, good morning, Mar!"

"Why are you up so early?" the illusionist asks, gliding to the larder and picking up a bag of biscotti.

"Need to leave for an assignment soon," the Sun Guardian tells her and sips his coffee boosted with cream and a busload of sugar. He's fully dressed aside the uniform coat and sparklingly pink boa resting on the chair next to him. "It's a two-hour drive to Bologna anyway."

"You're going alone?"

"Yup. A routine gig."

Mammon shakes biscotti on her plate and pours some orange juice in her glass before moving to sit on a barstool opposite to Lussuria.

"Mar," the Muay Thai master begins. His spoon is stirring the foam stuck in the bottom of the cup. The furrow between the brows deepens. "I've wanted to talk to you about something but there really hasn't been an opportunity and at some point I already forgot it."

"Mhm?" Mammon raises her brows though Lussuria is unable to see it.

"About Bel."

A sparkle of enthusiasm presents itself in the chest of Mammon, as she wraps her fingers more tightly around the glass. She's also wanted to broach the subject but she hasn't had a chance to be alone with Lussuria, and the show behind the scenes isn't that juicy that she'd purposely gravitate to his company.

She collects her coolness, takes a sip from her glass and returns it onto table before opening her mouth. "Yes, what about him?"

"Don't you think that lately he's been behaving oddly?"

"In what way do you mean oddly?"

"Well, you're the one who knows Bel best," Lussuria notes, trying to throw the ball into her court, but Mammon is not seizing. "It's been going on for a while now, several weeks even. First of all, he's kind of like forgetting himself into his own world. Then those mood changes. I know he's always been short-tempered but lately he's either gone uphill or downhill at full speed, nothing in between. I was already considering ringing Dr. Shamal. Just because we know Bel's history…"

"You don't need to ring," Mammon assures. "It's not that kind of problem."

Lussuria straightens his back, the spoon halting its stirring. "Oh, so you know something?"

"I might know something."

The Sun Guardian lets out an extremely feminine squeal. "You've got gossip? Mar, you have to tell me!"

Mammon ponders the situation, munching her biscotti and ignoring the Gaylord's enthusiasm. She could ask Lussuria to pay for the revelation, but he might not necessarily take the bait. A good old betting on the other hand...

"You must promise not to tell anyone."

"Who the hell would I tell in this house? It's not like somebody cares."

Don't say. They might care about this.

"Promise first."

"Alright, I promise. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"Okay, it has to do with Fran."

At first Lussuria looks like he's totally surprised by Mammon's words, his brows catapulting to the hairline and mouth hanging open, but then he claps his hands together and releases a new high C. "I knew it! I knew Fran had something to do with it!"

His delight is so genuine that Mammon simply must take his word for it. And it's not exactly that she hadn't already suspected Lussuria to have taken notice. Bel has been careful but some of them are more observant when it comes to the human relations. Some of them, ergo Mammon, because she knows Bel, and Lussuria because he is, well, Lussuria.

"What do you know, Mar-Mar?" the Sun Guardian persuades. "You've got to tell me! I know you want to. I can see it in your face."

Bullshit, I'm just thinking how to best fleece you.

"Hold on, let me guess!" Lussuria continues. "Bel is… no, Fran is… Nooo, don't say Fran has…" If Mammon was able to see her companion's eyes they'd probably be shining diamonds right now. "..a crush on Bel?"

"No, Bel has."

For a passing second Lussuria is completely lost. Christ, how many options the situation is exactly offering? "Bel has..?" Then Mammon sees the bullet hit its target. "Bel has a crush on Fran?"

"Yep." The illusionist can't resist of straightening her back just a little. She munches her last biscuit, flushes it down with the remains of juice, goes to pour herself some more, and returns to her seat. And all the while Lussuria is staring at her through her tinted glasses.

"Are you shitting me?"

"No."

"Has Bel said it?"

"He doesn't have to."

"But he hates…"

"Tch, he just thinks so."

"Madonna mia! Holy virgin, you don't hear this kind of news every day! Poor Bel, he must be confused out of his mind. Should I go and give him some sisterly advice?"

"You can't say a word to him," Mammon rejects. "He will only deny it and might also back off if he realises we have figured it out." Technically Bel already knows Mammon has figured it out but that the prince has been able to endure. But if he instead realises also Lussuria has found out…

"To Fran then."

Mammon shakes her head. "We are not interfering. We should only stay put and survey the situation evolving."

"Hnngh!" Lussuria wrestles with himself. "Oh, those two fool boys! And Fran is so young! What if I… just a couple of encouraging words… I'm sure he doesn't understand his feelings!"

Fran probably understands his feelings better than Bel. As far as Fran even possesses feelings.

"We are not going to interfere," Mammon repeats. "Instead of that, what we actually can do…"

Lussuria leans forwards, his cheeks burning of anticipation. "Yes?"

"We can make a bet."

A shadow of a doubt flashes on the Sun Guardian's face, as he tilts his head, scanning the Arcobaleno. "About what?"

"Say, for how long it takes Fran to break. Or if he is going to break at all."

"He's going to break alright. Bel knows how to be damn charming when he chooses to. Besides, Fran is…" Lussuria lowers his voice despite the fact no other souls are present and his previous cries have carried all the way up to the furthest end of the mansion. "..gay."

You didn't know that. And you can't say for sure yet. As far as one is able to make something out that brat, he's more interested in nature documents than his own species.

"Okay, so what do we bet on?"

"Just wait a minute, how can I be sure you don't know anything else than you let out?"

Mammon huffs. "Right now the situation is as follows: Bel has a crush on Fran, Fran most probably has no clue, and Bel is about to rip his uniform in his frustration. No more, no less. But from this point on… I reckon Fran is going to turn Bel down first and Bel is going to pursue for as long as it takes the little frog to see there are no other options than giving in."

"And then what?"

"Hard to say. Maybe Bel gets bored after a couple of rounds in bed."

"I don't think so," Lussuria protests. "I reckon they become an item. Shall we bet on it?"

"Too uncertain. I think we should bet on a time limit; how long does it take Fran to submit to Bel's will."

"How will we know the result?"

"I suppose there are ways, but at the latest when their affair becomes public news. Because it's going to at some point. Then we simply need to ask who was right."

"I deem Fran is going to procrastinate for weeks."

"I'm pretty sure he's going to buckle before Christmas."

"Alright, you say before Christmas, I'm going to say after it," Lussuria sums it up. "What counts as giving-in? Kissing? Admitting their feelings?"

"Admitting their feelings is going to take longer and kissing is merely... Bel could plunge into it on his own, and it cannot really be counted as Fran's breaking."

"Sex then?"

"I guess we can agree on that." Mammon cranes to pick a notebook forgotten on the table and starts to scribble down their conditions. "I say Bel and Fran will sleep together before Christmas, you say after it. How much do we bet?"

"Hundred euros?"

"How about two hundred?"

"Fine."

Two hundred euros isn't an amount to jerk the Varians but Mammon is satisfied anyhow. Thin streams grow into wide rivers: a tiny bet here and there, and soon there will be a notable pile of dough resting on her bank account.

She composes two similar texts in the notebook and turns them around for Lussuria to take a look. "Sign it."

Lussuria is not protesting because a written agreement works for his advantage, too. The Sun Guardian skims over Mammon's scribbling in case of loopholes before jotting his signature after it. The illusionist pulls the leaves off, giving the other one to Lussuria and taking the other for herself. She even detaches the empty page beneath those and scrunches it into a tight ball. Just in case her writing has imprinted into it.

"And neither one of us is allowed to interfere with the events to come. You are not permitted to try to speed up the process," Lussuria remarks.

"It doesn't say that in the contract."

Lussuria snatches the papers to himself and adds a new clause – 'The parties are not allowed in any way to try to have an effect on the result' – before turning it back to Mammon. "It says now."

The Arcobaleno purses her lips as she reads over the new line. "'In any way'?"

"You said it yourself. Any kind of interfering is forbidden. You are not allowed to bribe Fran, agitate Bel or definitely not to use your illusions. As well as I'm not allowed to try to keep them separated or otherwise attempt to tailor the result to my liking." A sweet smile spreads on Lussuria's face as he supports his chin in his hands. "If you'll interfere, Mar dear, I'll interfere too, and I'm fairly sure delaying the events works smoother than accelerating them."

Son of a bleeping gun. Mammon scratches the back of her hood-covered head, scanning the contract one more time but the clause is, in its entire conciseness, absolute. That prancing peacock has just blocked her shortcut up to the money tap. Not much she can do about it. She must settle for observing silently then. She folds the paper and barely manages to tuck it inside her cloak before heavy footsteps at the door announce that their little private meeting is over. Squalo, dressed in a hoodie and sweat pants, trudges past his two colleagues, glancing them through the curtain of hair hanging over his face.

"What are you two scheming here?" the commander grunts, voice still rough from sleep. If somebody asked Mammon, she'd say the Varia's second-in-command required more sleep, but it's like some sort of demon chases him from his bed at seven o'clock sharp every god damn morning, no matter whether the sun is peeking in the horizon or it's raining rancid fish oil.

"We are just chatting. Good morning to you too, my dear Squ," Lussuria answers, hiding his copy of the contract.

The Rain Guardian halts in front of the stove and peeks inside the metallic pot. "Is there some coffee?"

"Unfortunately I drank it all." Lussuria shows his empty cup.

Squalo mumbles profanities under his breath and starts to twist the pot open by pressing it against his chest.

"Not from the handle, Squ! Here, let me."

Still growling, the commander thrusts the pot to Lussuria who opens the midsection and hands the halves back. There are times when Mammon wonders (and she's pretty sure she's not the only one) whether Squalo would have opted to not mutilate his limb if he had known how hard it is to do every-day chores with one hand. She hasn't had the courage to ask it, though; she kind of likes to be able to breath. Oh well, it's only a couple of days before the white-haired commander gets to harness his prosthesis and will again be able to open the coffee pot as instructed in its manual.

Lussuria checks the clock on the wall and announces it's time for him to sit on the leathery seats of Lamborghini and head for Emilia-Romagna.

"Just remember to slack off on your own time," Squalo states, stuffing coffee grounds into the filter.

"I thought of checking the sales on the shopping street but I'll be back for the evening."

"Buy some mortadella, will you?"

"Sure thing, Squ. And one sausage exclusively for the boss."

Lussuria collects his coat and boa and struts out of the kitchen. Mammon checks the table for any signs of their contract before also taking her leave. Squalo has a tendency to start making up new responsibilities and delegating them as soon as the first drops of caffeine have absorbed into his circulation, and she wants to get out of the way.

"Some easy money on its way, Fantasma," the Arcobaleno hems to her animal partner as she floats back to the peace of her own room. Lussuria should already know Mammon only wagers on gambles which result she is 99 percent sure of.