esoteric_memory

[khr!] Quietly Two Monsters Meet

2009-05-14T15:45:22Z

Title: Quietly Two Monsters Meet
Pairing: 1859
Rating: R for subject matter, nothing explicit though
Disclaimer: Do not own the characters.

Written for masterfranny who introduced me to the awesome world of hitelia.

Gokudera sat backwards on the piano bench, as comfortable on that awkward seat as a hawk would in its favoured perch it has been nearly two decades since he has last rested on that particular breed of a throne. He watches as Hibari approaches with a cruel sort of amusement in those warmth-less eyes. Cruel, Gokudera thinks, but there is none quite as accomplished a sadist as the hitman Reborn.

Alone. The two of them were alone. Cloud and Storm. Nothing could come of this beyond destruction. And the damned baby knew. Of course he did: if there was one thing that he would never be would be a fool. Destruction and destruction with nothing and everything to destroy.

Gokudera did not want to understand a mind that thought they would be a good face of diplomacy. Except sometimes those thoughts are his even before he hears it from the baby himself. That kind of thinking could lead only to madness. And he's run so far for so long...even insanity should have been left behind long ago.

Hibari stops before Gokudera, so close he's forced to look up lest he's faced with something he'd much rather not be acquainted with. A hand, Asian pale and fine like the unsheathed blade that tore Asia into fine slices of still living sashimi, grips a shoulder and pushes until the Italian born is of the precarious position between lying and sitting against dark dark wood dead by the hands of an artist who carves into voiceless corpses and entombs the stolen ivory of murdered pachyderm as keys to a mockery of sublime. It hurts, that hard wood and that awful tension against his spine, of course it hurts.

Nothing about Hibari doesn't hurt.

He leans down and whispers between Gokudera's eyes as though his words were meant to be cold iron bullets and isn't he just the type to empty a whole clip into someone's head just too see the simple beauty of blooming brains and chandelier spray of bone. It was the cold bluntness that had overcome the weak once great China years before that glimmered within his words. And like then, the monster within this Japanese man smiled with no intention to hide his ever slick boots.

“Play me something.”

Too used to the staccato of his Eastern tongue, Hibari spoke Italian as though he were counting corpses – necessary but with a distinct lack of care and infliction that any human should attribute to the task. Gokudera cannot help but marvel internally at how the other could be free from something as staple to the human condition as music. The twists and turns of sound were nothing to the other if they did not come from the bubbling of a wet last breath or sharp sudden cracks that silenced an annoying pest.

“I don't play.”

Gokudera has always heard the inflictions of words spoken and not. Even if he did not showed it if he sometimes ignored it he could feel the meanings hidden and clear. He'd always been very careful of what he allowed others to hear of him. Contractions rough and unrefined he found were a lovely cacophonous symphony like the explosives he once used to force his blood to run and his heart to beat.

Hibari was close enough that Gokudera could see the subtle pulse at the other's neck and wonders if that was maybe the point playing with fire and not knowing that he's playing inside an armoury filled with toys made to be worse than guns by men madder than those who made hats. It has been a long time since Gokudera has sunk his hands into a warmsofthardslick cavity and pluckedpullwrench the beating fruit from its jealous ruby vines. Oh, but he wanted to right now...

Destruction and destruction with everything and nothing to destroy.

A mockery of a priest's kiss of absolution, teeth grazing and the hunger of lips blatant instead of hidden. That hand iron bones and iron blood drags almost sensuously satiated cats play with prey they do not need down his arm until Hibari's hands were entwined with Gokudera's own. White hot pain dark glimmering pleasure laughs screams when the captured hand is slammed back against the piano's childhood lid closed casket.

Backbackback Gokudera falls as his arm is stretched almost too far. Teeth all the sharper for the raw flesh they so often consume skim against skin of blood that has maintained its vicious glory through revolutions of too many crests and emblems until they threaten to break the skin at his ears rip that delicate flesh apart so he may never hear music as music ever again. A smile is hidden by hair both silver and ebony.

“You would play for Sawada.”

Not Vongola, never Vongola – not from this man.

“He would not ask such a thing.”

“But you would offer it up like the so many pieces you have already given to him.”

“I would not.”

“It is there. He knows it is for him to have.”

“There are things.” Gokudera does not turn to look at his companion, though he could smell the memory of green tea and sakura and blood woven into the other. “That are mine and mine alone.”

“You scared him, that man who complimented what you were when you were a child. You scared him as though you were some moth and your brittle and thin wings with their fake eyes could actually protect you. Nothing of you is yours.”

“Careful Kyoya you sound as though you give a damn.”

Lean and shift and agony paints a lullaby behind Gokudera's eyes. He smiles unable to deny because it was his oldest and dearest friend. He could have moaned, loud and obscene as the gutter trash he had once tried to become. He could have, just as he could have laughed and he could have cried.

Despite what the kindly cruel would say, no one is good at one thing. All talents have their families even if the talented don't always acknowledge the other skills they that could have. It is almost amazing how close music and acting could be, one need only realize that they are two grapes in the same bunch. A musician rarely feels the emotions they imitate in their music, and an actor rarely feels the emotions they allow to twist their being. Rarely has never been never.

He hasn't been acting so much as he has not been not acting. No lies to tie to music, he could only allow facades to flow as though his life were some river quiet and deep in its misery. His smile grows, though not in warmth as though he actually knew what that was or in sincerity the closest thing that has ever twisted his lips was sin.

His was a false flaccid and this the other knew quite well. Hailed feared as the living embodiment of the cruelty that the Tenth of Vongola did not though really should have, he has managed to tie his master as an equal to any that has come before or is. His symphonies were no longer in the fantastic base of the percussion – there was something nearly sublime in conducting destruction to a Bach melody that drowned the whimperingscreaminghystericallycrying of those he must teach some fact of life that they just did not seem to understand without a stern lesson.

Hibari hmmed, a soft tremor that traced a shudder deep into the side of his neck.

“Not even an herbivore. How disappointing Gokudera Hayato.”

“It's good then that I do not live my life according to you.”

The hand that was not acting as a torture device found its way into Gokudera's hair. It grasped the silver strands and twisted tightly. The pain, it danced round and round with the intensity of losing one's virginity while still dry and tight.

How nostalgic. The eyes that now bore into his were rather reminiscent of that forced detention as well.

“You exist at my whim.”

Gokudera really had to laugh at this, but all that he allowed himself was a rather sardonic tilt of his head away. “I really don't.”

“I could kill you.”

“Probably. But it would not be worth the trouble.”

“More of your games Gokudera Hayato?”

The grip in the captured man's hair tightened, but he just grinned. “More suggestions that really should be heeded.”

“You're almost as bad as him.”

“Flatterer.”

“You hate him.”

“I hate you.”

“Play for me.”

“It's not enough that you're the only one who has ever heard me play the violin?” Gokudera leaned up slightly to press fully against the other. “I've met a lot of fucked up people in my life Kyoya, but I still can't figure out if you're over controlling or just sadistic.”

“There is something that you cannot figure out?”

“You really do resemble the devil when you use sarcasm.”

A knee shifted until it pressed painfully between Gokudera's legs. “You enjoy it.”

“Can't help that I'm a masochist.” The storm guardian's free hand reached down and ran ring cooled knuckles against the constrained flesh. “Which you enjoy.”

The knee crushed Gokudera's hand against his own groin. Hibari bit harshly into the spot behind the pinned man's ear before he moved his mouth to gnaw at the flesh between the other's piercings. He jerked his head, eliciting a low groan, before releasing the reddening ear and moved back to the neck. He scraped his teeth down and down and down until he reached the barely crisp collar of the other's shirt.

He has yet to see anyone wear Italian silk with quite the same ease as his current toy. The pearl grey was almost fetching against the bite reddened white. He nipped at the bared clavicle and moved up to brush against the other's lips.

He breathed against the opened orifice.

“Do I?” A bland mocking inquiry.

“Who knows?”

“Play for me.”

“Is your Italian really so bad? I don't play.”

“For me you will.”

“No.”

“Not tonight.”

“Never.”

“But you will.”

Hibari moved back, allowing Gokudera to rise from his uncomfortable position. And the other did so with movements that resembled those of his grown box weapon's more than he would admit. There were a great many things that Gokudera Hayato still refused to admit to.

Chief amongst those denials was this simple fact: whatever loyalties he has chained himself with it was to Hibari Kyoya that he belonged.

[khr!] Beneath the Veils, R

2009-05-02T22:08:54Z

Originally written for </b></a>violinistbaka for the Christmas Exchange.

Title: Beneath the Veils
Pairing: 1859
Rating: R for subject matter, nothing explicit though
Disclaimer: Do not own the characters.
Personal Note:sorry it's so short and vague, but I think it works ^-^

Sometimes Hibari Kyouya wonders what it will take to break Gokudera Hayato. Because he knows that Gokudera Hayato has buried himself so deeply that it would be quicker to reach the centre of the Earth on foot, because the rare glimpses of who he should be exist only because his many thin veils shift and flutter in the ever changing winds. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it has never in all of history been able to fall a bird. Not that Hibari Kyouya is curious, it is merely that Namimori and all within it are his and he has the right to know.

Gokudera Hayato reeks of blood in ways that only a fourteen year old with a reputation in the dark world of hit men could. Well, blood and the lingering cloying of quake inducing explosives. Hibari knows of the stories, of the things that Gokudera has done without a bat of his eyes. He knows the stories and sees the predator, the murderer, that lurks about like some waiting wolf in beyond the flimsy veils.

The Italian borne plays the part of a relatively harmless middle school boy well, but sometimes when his self imposed master has been far enough for long enough he forgets that he is no longer a living bomb. A weapon of mass destruction. And sometimes Hibari watches as Gokudera looks into frantic eyes and gives no reaction to pleads for lives to be spared, he watches amused and maybe just a little irritated as Gokudera slips.

Gokudera Hayato is an herbivore by choice, Hibari thinks, and that is just unacceptable. Because Hayato does not cry when Kyouya enters him, with no preparation but the blood that wells from flesh stretched too far too fast. Instead he bares his teeth and snarls like some exotic snow leopard, some primitive unvoiced demand for morehardermoremakemefuckingbleedmoredamnyou because no human word could ever such a message convey.

If he had not known of the lineage of bloodshed in the other's veins, Kyouya would have thought it odd. For one as pale and thin as he was, Hayato has never once made his subjugation easy. Each time Kyouya pins Hayato, it is with twisting wrists within his hands or taut sinew throbbing with the fighting boy's pulse against his tongue and caged in the vice of his teeth.

And it is never quick. Not really. Hayato knows how to break holds in ways only those who have grown up with tales of murder plots and gifts of children's limbs could. And he knows how to rip someone apart without the uncouth splatters that commoners know not how to avoid. His gaze throughout their games are of a noble savagery, a vicious heat that incinerated only what Hayato wished.

When the former pianist smiles in bone splintered and blood drenched mirth, an amusement borne of pain beneath a predator's notice, Kyouya wants to break this younger boy. Wants to shred and burn those veils to ashes and make even those tiny pieces disappear. Because Gokudera is a fool who does not know how to live his own life, and to break him would only be for his own good.

Gokudera does not know what he needs. But Hibari knows, and each time the foolish boy plays some sharp violent sonata on his violin – some ancient thing that the younger caresses with possession and calls it his Strad – he wonders if he must snap each string holding the other's sanity until not one is left. Gokudera had buried himself so very deep that whatever fondness he had inherited from his mother for the piano has long since died. But, Hayato breathes music and his soul laughs with madness each time his stiletto fingers dances on silver wire.

Kyouya wonders because he knows Hayato never does and that Hayato really has no idea what is best. He knows though, and wonders how long his patience will last before he does break Hayato. Break him down so far that Hayato may only snarl and hiss and claw and see only Kyouya. Shatter him into so many pieces that he cannot speak in false tongues, only in the dagger cruel melodies of his new instrument's esoteric voice.

Kyouya wants Hayato to have no lies to cling to. He wants all that cover the boy to cease. Kyouya wants Hayato to no longer be able to hide what has been buried so far so long. He wants. And because he never wants, he will have.

After all, an herbivore is just not fitting.