Summary: ''There is blood on Giotto's hands; The type you can't scrub off.
The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn't keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach.
(He had been in a haze while killing, but he's certain: He intended to do it)''
Giotto's life: A tale of loss, love, religion, betrayal and learning to love yourself.
Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
So Judas kiss'd his master; And cried—'All hail!' when as he meant—all harm.
- Henry VI., Act v. sc.7
Chapter 3: Judas Kiss
Their enemies have heard of the Vongola's weakness, and like all predators, they swoop in for the kill.
This is war.
Giotto dresses in armour once more. It is heavier than ever.
So much for dying will, as Asari dubbed it, when it is only a fight to keep from dying. There is little will left in Giotto, but for himself and his friends to live.
He can't stand the fire anymore. Every time he uses it, he smells the burning flesh, whether it actually is there or not. But not using his combat skills ended in Elena's death, and there is no room for pacifism when there are people lunging for your throat. Never mind time for panic attacks.
Not using flames means death, but flames are warmth. And warmth, Giotto knows, is the only degree of temperature that exists- there is no such thing as cold.
Like a flash of lightning, like a blessing from above, it comes to him, in the middle of battle.
Zero point break-through.
There is no such thing as cold, but ice does exist.
He swings his fists in a semblance of a prayer.
(The original form was lethal.
He leaves the corpses of his enemies as giant ice sculptures, to be melted into a puddle of blood and broken bones by G.
G makes sure he never sees, but Giotto knows. It is as if G can see right through his mantle, through his clothing, through his façade, into his heart. G, his brother in all but blood, sees it for what it is- as fragile as the wings of a hummingbird, even more precarious than his sanity.
They never speak of it. Some terrors will break in half- just leave them clutching each other, family from the start, family till the end)
Just two weeks ago, he was about to confess to Cozart, and now he is in the middle of a war. He attempts to write him, but the words won't flow onto the paper, and he ends up crumpling the letter.
If it's gone the next morning, then the maid must've cleaned it up. Giotto can't even bring himself to care if she reads it or not anymore, despite the shocking revelations it might bring. His limbs are too heavy, dragging him down, the energy he does have is spend in one way only.
The battlefield.
It is a dark day when Cozart Simon receives a letter, and it is signed ''Vongola Primo,''.
Strategy meetings are terrible these days. Their forces are spread thin, every division is spread far and wide. Hands set on the table, Giotto leans forward, as if willing it will make the colourful blocks of enemy forces on the maps leave the poor wooden Vongola pieces alone.
The heat is unbearable. He rolled up his sleeves hours ago, and still his sweat-dampened hair sticks to his forehead. The bags underneath his eyes only deepen these days.
The warfront at Southern Italy is horrifying. The enemy's main forces are amassing, the dark cloud on the horizon Giotto is so desperate to clear.
There are three other conflicts going on in sync with the main one, and Giotto is about ready to fall to his knees and pray. But he has to believe they are not yet lost. These men believe in him, these men need him, and Giotto must at least try to straighten his posture and help them, like the godforsaken man he is.
He seeks the rosary hidden beneath his collar.
Avé, Maria. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
When Knuckle storms into the room, doors slamming against the wall, Giotto feels like crying.
''Giotto, it's terrible! Right in the middle of the enemy camp, our family is stranded!''
No, no, no. Slamming his hands down on the table, he overturns the inkwell by accident, paying it no mind as the ink flows dark over his fingers. ''Which affiliation?!''
''The Simon!''
Giotto pales, stumbling back. No, it can't be. Not Cozart.
G steadies him, grip tightening painfully on his shoulder. ''What the hell is Cozart doing there?! He isn't supposed to be involved with this war at all!''
It had been the one thing they had unanimously agreed upon. The Simon would remain untouched. Until now, apparently.
Giotto straightens his spine, fists balled at his side. Cozart is the wind, Cozart is the sea, Cozart is the wine Giotto drowns in. Cozart is the very air he breathes, and Giotto cannot lose him.
He turns to his friends. ''I'm going get Cozart out of there. Please take care.''
With that, he stalks towards the door. Daemon steps in front of him, eyes narrowed, shoulders high like a cat hissing in Giotto's face. ''You can't! Your men need their leader, Giotto!''
''But-''
Daemon cuts him off, eyes narrowing dangerously as he moves in until he's nose to nose with his Sky. ''Do you want a repeat of Elena?''
The colour drains from Giotto's cheeks. At the sight of it, Daemon deflates, posture slumping. Standing there, in his black widower's garb, he looks worn out, yet somehow more alive than he has been in months. The huge hall of the Vongola mansion dwarfs him. A single speck of black on the polished wooden floors and the sparkling glass all around them.
Sighing, Daemon rubs the bridge of his nose. ''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.'' His voice softens, a quiet sadness on his face, exhaustion and grief colouring his features like a veil. He takes Giotto's hand and squeezes it. ''Please leave it to me, Giotto. With my elite behind me, I'll try to pave a path so the Simon may escape.''
A wave of gratefulness and affection washes over Giotto. Daemon has been off for weeks, but he is there now, and that is all that matters. Letting go of Daemon's hand, he embraces the man for a single moment. The tightening of his arms around him are the only way Giotto can express this amount of love for his friends, but god, is it there. A warmth, a warmth he must share.
The only fire Giotto can stand, is the sweet, slow burn of his love for his friends.
''May the Lord guide you on your path, my friend.''
Hallelujah, for those we can still embrace.
''Gio,'' Ricardo mutters that night, when Daemon is long gone, and Giotto has retired to the calm company of his son and best friend, ''He smiled as he walked out of the hall.''
There is no question as to who is meant.
Giotto hums, playing with Rica's long, soft hair, leaning back against the sofa. ''Our goodbye must have touched him.''
He smiles up G over Rica's head. Meeting his gaze for a second, G averts his eyes.
Nothing more is spoken on the subject, but the silence says enough.
(Giotto tells himself it was a comfortable quiet, but he can taste the ash of lies on the tip of his tongue and knows it was not.
But then again. This is not the time for mistrust.
Daemon cares for the Vongola more than anything. Giotto has faith his friend will do right by them).
G shakes his head when Giotto isn't looking. Ricardo bites his lip, and clenches his eyes shut. The smell of smoke is heavy in the air, but the hearth's not burning.
In the distance, a rooster crows.(1
''Giotto, there is a traitor in our midst.''
''I refuse to believe it's Daemon, G. It can't be!'' Giotto's voice cracks.
Leaning his forehead against Giotto's, G laughs mirthlessly. ''I wish I could say so too.''
Though it is not dawn, the cry is heard. A rooster crows at night.
My dearest Giotto,
To my deepest regret, the Simon are dead.
Dead silence reigns the halls of the Vongola.
Expressionlessly, Giotto stares down at the letter within his hands, Daemon's name signed at the bottom with a flourish.
Shifting from one foot to another, Asari reaches for Giotto's shoulder, his fingertips grazing against the suit. Giotto's voice comes down on the heavy silence like the crack of a whip.
''We'll move out.''
Only once on his horse, the wind razing past him, the sky obscured by the trees around them, Giotto's mask falls. There are no tears on his face.
This morning, a quiet knock has resounded on the glass doors of his balcony. A slip of a girl was behind it, dark hair drawn back in a ponytail, pale skin grey in the little light the overcast sky let through.
Her red eyes made it unmistakable. Magi Simon, Cozart's niece.
Giotto had opened the door, and without saying a single thing, the little girl had taken his hand, put a piece of paper in it, and folded his hands around it. Staring up at him, her gaze solemn, she had reached out as quick as a hummingbird, touching the rosary that had slipped from his collar as he bend over to greet her.
A silent blessing, though for whom, Giotto had no idea.
He hadn't had the chance to ask either because she'd turn around, hoisted herself up on the balustrade, and nimbly climbed down along the ivy vines. Silent as a ghost, she disappeared, as if she had slipped through reality altogether.
Her limbs had not breathed single melody.
Giotto had taken a moment to mourn a Simon walking in silence, instead of dancing to the wind, crossing himself for their sake. Then he had turned to the crinkled paper in his hand, smoothing it out in order to read the note.
Not dead. Traitor found. Meet me at the cradle's bound.
- C.S.
There was no doubt about it. Daemon is the Judas among them, betraying them, leaving them to their fate. It hurts, it hurts so much, and for the third time, Giotto tries to deny it.
Twice now, the rooster has crowed. A third cry joins it now.
Tears drip down his face, as Giotto is forced to acknowledge the bitter truth.
With hurt in his heart, he rides towards his love, knowing his friend has betrayed him.
The Cradle's Bound is a rock formation in Southern Italy, located in the Apennine mountains. Rising up against the sky, the valleys walls stretch out as far as the eye can see. Even filled with trees, the perfect shape is easily seen from below. A cradle.
What less people know, however, is that within these walls, cave systems rest. The Simon were not born yesterday. They have survived many an attack before, thanking their lives to the refuge of the earth.
This is the Simon Cradle. The place where they began. The place where Cozart was born.
No one but the Simon call it the Cradle's Bound, which is why it is the perfect place to meet up. Forgotten by time, but not by its inhabitants in their time of need.
The only one who came with him is G, and as he spots Cozart's red hair through the green foliage, he cannot help but grin, forgetting his plight for a single moment.
This is what it comes down to. Three boys in the middle of a war, a blonde with a redhead on either side. Ready to love, ready to fight. Fists clenched, hearts full of hope, sadness and anger all around. This, this is the Cradle's Bound.
They left their horses behind a while ago, trudging on foot through the forest. Now, seeing Cozart sitting on a tree trunk up ahead, Giotto flies. Red hair, red eyes, broad shoulders, narrow hips, a quiet melody on his lips, god, Cozart is the most beautiful thing on earth and the world must know it.
It reminds Giotto of days by the sea, of three boys sitting in the sand, of working side by side in the shipyard, the burning sun on their backs. Of before it all began. And perhaps even of a little after, on the nights they huddled close and laughed at juvenile jokes in the dark.
Throwing his arms around him, Giotto holds on so tightly that he has to let up or fear Cozart suffocating. Cozart huffs into his hair, leaning against him, thumbs rubbing circles on his back. G is laughing behind them.
Giotto is home.
''It's been years since the three of us have been together like this, isn't it?''
''Yeah,'' Cozart smiles. Then his shoulders slump, the energy slowly draining out of him, as if thinking of the why of that equitation, and how it endangered his people.
Even when they were just boys, Cozart and Giotto were dreamers, visionaries. G has always differed from them in that aspect. Not that Giotto and Cozart were alike in their execution of their visions, that was. Unlike Giotto, Cozart did not have the tendency to speak up loudly. Where Giotto attracted eyes with his every step, Cozart drew it away from himself, content to sway to the melody of the wind and just watch as he walked. Cozart notices everything.
Where Giotto's grand visions inspired people to follow him, the shining sun breaking the dawn, Cozart is moon-like. The Simon follow him as if it is the gravity itself that pulls them, attracted to him because he is not as bright, softer, less likely to hurt one's eyes than Giotto, who burns himself alive in his attempts to ignite. Cozart notices everything and knows exactly what his people need.
Knows exactly what Giotto needs. Because Cozart does speak up, but only when it counts. It is simply not in his nature to confront directly, which is exactly why this whole situation is so fucked up. Cozart… Cozart ferreted the traitor among Giotto's ranks out.
He went to lengths so great G can barely believe it.
Cozart cannot pretend to be mafia the way Giotto can. He cannot be harsh, he cannot be commanding, he cannot… appear like that, the way Giotto can. Cannot rise like the sun above, the sky G had to guard when all the man could was cry.
Cozart is a family man, a leader, but not a fighter. Not like G, who felt the destruction in his hands, the power in his veins, the blood that painted his features and had, at one time, even relished in it.
Cozart fought for the Vongola anyway, and Giotto looks like he longs to be in Cozart's veins, carved into his bones, walk through his mind and live in his heart.
Watching Giotto stumble around Cozart is something G is used to. In his every childhood memory, Giotto was there, right next to him. He has seen him at his highest, carried him at his lowest, but always, always together. Shoulder to shoulder, striding forward.
Once Cozart was part of that unit. Still is, because some things do not die even after they ended. G has seen the rise of this empire, and his stomach clenches at the thought of its fall. Ridiculous Giotto, steadfast Cozart, laughing G.
What has become of them?
Just one moment more, something inside of him whispers. But he has no time for love affairs. Has no time for reminiscing. Not right now. Not when everything he has worked for is at stake. Not when everything Cozart cherishes is on the chopping block, hiding here, in the cave systems of the Cradle like an animal trampled in the crowd licking its oozing wounds.
The Simon are not dead yet. So he speaks up.
''What are we going to do about Daemon?''
He can see the warm bubble around Giotto and Cozart burst.
Cozart takes a deep breath, his arm falling back to his side. ''Daemon believes the Simon were killed in battle. What if we let that be the truth?''
He is dead serious.
''WHAT?!'' Giotto stumbles back, ''What- what are you saying, Cozart?!''
G can feel a headache coming up.
''Gio… If anything, this proved we're your weak spot. You publicly send Daemon, commander of one-seventh of the Vongola's army, to rescue us personally. If we'd be out in the open, we'd have a target painted onto our backs for the rest of our days. And my family can't handle that. They aren't trained for combat. We'd be slaughtered within a week. And you certainly can't spare the manpower to protect nearly hundred defenceless people at the moment!''
Cozart sighs. ''Besides, I have a feeling Daemon won't be so easy to defeat. Look at him. He's insane and that's not even everything! His power is incredible! There would be so much sacrifice involved in taking him down.
Tell me honestly, can you lose another friend?''
Leaves fall down, but no answers comes.
Watching the breeze ruffling Giotto's out-of-bounds hair, G knows already. There is only so many times you can console someone when they cry their eyes out before answers like these become a given.
''So if we disappeared from this world, went into hiding in a place where nobody would ever find us… It would be fine, right?'' Cozart's voice is so soft it dies in the wind.
G wants to hit something. He doesn't care if he breaks his hand doing it.
It's not even fucking self-deprecation on Cozart's part. He genuinely believes he's doing the right thing.
Giotto bursts, yelling with clenched fists shaking. ''Do you even understand what you're saying, Cozart?! Disappearing from the world, to continue living only in the shadows, what's so grand and heroic about that?!''
Cozart smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. ''You need not worry. We're pretty reclusive people, after all!''
Is it okay to throttle your friends?
Giotto throws his hands skywards. ''What about the children?! You just expect the future generations to carry that burden?! To never feel the sun, to stay hidden in the deep sea?!''
Compass eyes stop spinning, and Cozart looks them dead in the eye. ''I do.''
Giotto's mouth falls open.
Seconds tick by, the tweeting birds the only thing heard.
''…Our family is not so weak.''
''Cozart…'' Giotto's shoulders hunch.
Goddamn these idiots. For Giotto's sake, Cozart would withdraw himself from the mafia world, and from the view completely.
G did not understand self-sacrificing idiots and certainly did not like them. Approving of it would mean this dark chapter in the history of the Vongola would be buried forever, right along with the Simon, shrouded in mystery.
But however much G disagreed, it did not matter. Because looking into Cozart's eyes, it was clear he wasn't backing down.
Perhaps Giotto could convince him? …No. Watching Giotto, G could see the conflict in his posture, the war in his mind clear as day. But Giotto had never been able to stand up to Cozart, because when Cozart spoke, it mattered. Because Cozart, in Giotto's world, was the very earth his feet walked upon, and he would be lost without it.
In the end, he had to admit defeat. ''Fine.'' Clenching his jaw, Giotto gave.
G kicked a fucking tree.
Giotto held a finger up. ''But, I want you to swear to me that as long as the Vongola exist, the Simon will be there in the shadows, supporting us.'' Closing in on Cozart, he took his hands.
…Was G intruding on something private just by being here?
They better not get married without him present, damn it!
Giotto's heart was beating in his chest like it was about to stage an escape from his ribcage, pounding in his ears.
This was it. Cozart was leaving.
It was now or never.
Still, the right words did not come. He spoke anyway, infusing them with everything he had. ''I want you to swear to me that as long as the Vongola exist, the Simon will be there in the shadows, supporting us.'' Closing in on Cozart, Giotto took his hands.
The Vongola, for all it had brought forth both great and terrible things, was his life's work. His magnum opus. The grand masterwork Giotto had built with his very own hands.
To bind that to Cozart's family… It was the most meaningful proposal he could make.
And Cozart understood, his eyes widening in stunned revelation.
This was it.
Like the sun through the clouds, a smile broke through Cozart's surprise, so broad it almost split face in two. ''I see.''
God, did Cozart see, Giotto's bare soul before him, heart on his sleeve, offering it up to his mercy. Just once more, let him have this.
''In that case, I swear the Simon family feels no resentment or bitterness towards the Vongola family for this incident. No matter what, from now until the end of time, our families will always be bound together.''
Cupping Giotto's cheek, Cozart takes Giotto's heart right out of his chest and puts his own in the empty ribcage left behind.
Giotto… Giotto has not lived before this moment. He is coming apart at the seams, pure joy streaming through him as if it is about to explode. It's so much- too much, and it needs an outlet.
He surges forward.
Their lips meet. It's not so much a kiss as a desperate collision of teeth, but they fall into each other, again and again until it's a soft thing, barely a whisper, and so sweet that Giotto aches. For more of this. More of Cozart.
Of Cozart forever.
Behind them, G shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he walks away. Let them have this moment. This one moment, in eternity.
One night only. That's what they have.
It's stumbling into Cozart's room, fingers straying everywhere. It's falling onto the bed on his back, sprawled over the sheets. Giotto's body language is open as it happens, staring up at Cozart as he leans in- and god, Giotto wants to be caught in them forever.
A single night.
It's like the candle in the corner, flame flickering, just enough wax to burn for a little. Burn. Burn up. Great shadows on the wall.
He reaches up, hand caressing Cozart's cheek, drinking in wine red eyes. His expression is so vulnerable and this, Giotto knows, is the most tangled people get. This is the closest they become, for Cozart might still be dressed, but he is bare before his eyes. Naked as the day he was born.
He pulls Cozart down on top of him, burying his nose into his neck, feeling hands running through his hair, fingers gently scratching his scalp.
This is the closest people can become, and he wants to be closer still.
Cozart turns his head and seals his lips over Giotto's, ever so gently, eyes fluttering closed. He kisses back. No tears tonight. Only love, 'till dawn will steal his heart away from him, until the wind will stifle their flames.
There is a deadline to their being together. The rising of the sun, it's first rays tearing them apart, kicking and screaming. But they have tonight.
They break apart, amber meeting red, and Giotto clutches Cozart's shoulders. ''Make love to me,'' he whispers, though it feels like he'd shout it from the rooftops. But there are no rooftops here. No people to shout it at.
Because right now, the only two people in the whole wide world are the two of them. Cozart leans his forehead against Giotto's. ''Let me break your heart open,'' he breathes it against Giotto's lips, ''That that might be ours forevermore.''
With a sob, Giotto closes the distance between them.
Tonight the world does not exist, except for two people, drowning in each other, getting lost in twist and turns, showing the stars beyond the outer reaches of the universe.
A single night.
But it is theirs.
The sun breaks through the clouds, lighting a bed. The blankets still warm. Its former occupants now stand outside, visages illuminated by the break of dawn.
This is it.
They watch as the sun breaks through the shadows, as the shadows swirl and sway, how they whirl like smoke, like thunderclouds. Like the storm come to life- the night within the day.
There they are, trees all around them, green grass full of life peeking through their rotting toes, standing in the middle of the clearing.
The Vindice have arrived.
Last night, they spoke the words. The Vongola and the Simon swore their fate would be entangled forevermore, and when those words are spoken, the mafia law must be upheld.
An alliance is to be made.
Cozart's hands tightens around Giotto's. ''That flame…''
Giotto knows. Flames are strange and wondrous things. They are terrible weapons, have destroyed much he held dear, but have also been the thing that protected his family so many times. He would hold no love for them, but they are part of their souls, and he might be able to hate himself, but never those he loves.
Not even Daemon.
First the flames of the Sky, discovered in the heat of battle. Then, the flames of Earth secreted away within the dance of life the Simon cannot let rest. Now this.
This force that spills from the Vindice's mummified corpses across the matter of the world. Dark, sticky, like ink oozing from a broken inkwell across an illustration full of colour.
He wants to hide away, but he has forgotten the art of hiding, has stood in the light for so long that hiding is… Unnatural. Giotto's business has been all over the streets for more than a decade now, but now his flight instinct awakens again. But he has to stand. He has to face his fears.
But with Cozart's hands in his as it happens? Giotto might just survive.
Cozart's always been good at that; Keeping him together when all he wants to do is shatter. Not like G, who time and time again is left to piece him together again. No, Cozart's different. A simple touch makes Giotto feels like he can fly.
He can hold that hand for only a little longer, but the strength he draws from it is immense. He straightens his spine, standing tall. The ground beneath his feet, the wind in his hair, the sky above him and Cozart next to him.
''It is you,'' he speaks, wind ruffling his hair, eyes trained upon the dark silhouette upon the shoulder of the largest corpse. ''Vindice. Or should I call you Bermuda von Veckenstein?''
The chains upon the ground rattle. Bermuda raises his small head, huge in proportion to his body. He is the corpse of a child, clear as day. The bandages hide his face, but something about the shadows around him swallowing light makes Giotto feel like he is smirking. As if he is looking upon them like a cruel child about to salt a slug. About to raise his foot, and squash them like the bugs they are.
Cozart rubs his thumb over his hand, and Giotto stays where he is. There is still a flame burning to withstand the black hole that is the night.
It is theirs.
Many years ago, the Shaman Sepira told him of this man, and Giotto has not yet forgotten the pain within her eyes as she uttered words of damnation. Has not yet forgotten the prayers he spoke for this name- for the should be none so lost within darkness as the Vindice.
But they are not here for darkness today. They are here to uphold mafia law.
''To finalize entanglement of fate between these two families, I require six keys, each one holding a memory that suits the spirit of your bond.'' His voice is squeaky, slow, yet creeping. There is no shame in him for his childish pitch, only heavy knowledge.
Giotto cannot help but incline his head in respect for that.
Cozart turns to him. ''My wallet,'' he speaks, ''for our first meeting.''
Giotto nods. ''A carnation, for Franco's death and the founding of the Vongola.''
Cozart throws his head back and laughs. ''The flower of coronation? Oh, you beautiful bastard.''
Really, how nobody ever discovered Giotto's homosexuality is kind of a miracle. He grins, eyes almost closing. But he keeps them open, for the light shine so beautifully upon Cozart's face, and by God, Giotto has to drink him in.
The third key is a letter, the fourth his inkwell, the fifth a document, and finally, the sixth is a clear pacifier, for their meeting with Bermuda.
The seventh key, for a memory not yet made, for what comes after this, they will forge. The seventh key is what will bind it all together- what will seal the deal forever.
They choose to forge their rings together- for only the symbols of their families entwined may be privy to the secret of what their heart desires.
Joining their hands together, heads in close proximity, Giotto smiles up through his bangs, smiling as Cozart's broad lips quirk up. This is it. This is them.
Forever.
''This flame is an oath from me to you.'' His flame awakening, forehead burning, hand lighting, his flames flickering over their joined flesh.
Cozart's hand tightens around his, ''And vice versa.''
Earth and Sky, no barrier between them, ignited.
But, eyes fixated on the flame surrounding their hands, they know. They know, that this is the entwining of them. There will be no rings, except the family ones, no waking up next to each other, except in memory, no long life together, except in dreams.
Only this, their souls wrapped around each other in a desperate cry of dying will. Fire, as they've always been. Sky and earthbound together, for whatever short time they have.
This is them. And the world will burn before this love will die.
This confession started and ended with a kiss. A Judas Kiss, of one of his closest. A lover's kiss, here in the end. Both a soft goodbye kiss, never to be seen again.
But however much Giotto had to let Cozart go, he is not finished with Daemon.
Turning back to the Vongola mansion, he takes a deep breath, the midday warmth within his lungs.
Confronting Daemon, it is.
Footnotes
1) The story of the three crows is a reference to Saint Peter, even if it isn't exactly contextually the same.
Other than that, I hope you enjoyed my reasoning as to how Zero Point Breakthrough was made!
