【T E L L M E H O W D O M Y L E F T O V E R S T A S T E】

[fic;dsrk] (hopefully)you make no mistakes ; raido kuzunoha xiv

2010-08-31T04:36:07Z

Title: (hopefully)you make no mistakes
Fandom: DEVIL SUMMONER: RAIDOU KUZUNOHA
Character(s)/Pairing: Raido Kuzunoha XIV, Shouhei Narumi. Alternative verse.
Rating: PG.
Word Count: 2218
Feedback: yes please.
Disclaimer: none of the characters/sources are mine.
Summary: He wasn't what Narumi was expecting in terms of an "apprentice".

Maybe he just has an inherently wrong idea about what kids from the country these days are like. Despite the instructions from the Herald of Yatagarasu about the boy being one of Her servants beforehand, when the doorbell actually rings (couldn't he have come a bit earlier?) and he stands up from his chair with a grunt to stomp his way downstairs, Narumi is still somehow expecting to see some greenhorn kid still wet behind the ears -- sparkles in his eyes and the whole shebang about them being Impressionable and Innocent and all that. The one who is actually staring back at him is the furthest thing from what Narumi is expecting. This isn't his dreams-and-imaginations child, this is a flesh-and-blood child all the way down to the bandages around one side of his face still oozing blood, and the one eye that is still visible stares at Narumi from the shadow cast by the low-pulled brim of his hat. The gaze is light and alert shining in the dark like a cat, Narumi thinks, and when he stands back to let the kid in a black shadow steps forward silently. Speak of the devil--

"Shoo," he mumbles, moving forward again to block the cat's path. "Scat! Shoo!"

"His name is Goto." The kid speaks then, and Narumi is surprised again. It isn't because of the voice -- in fact, the kid's voice is the only thing about him that actually fits his age -- it's young, the hint of huskiness in it which means he still hasn't quite gotten used to his voice; sounds like it only just really finished breaking. It's a kid's voice and Narumi finds himself weirdly reassured by it... but no, it's not the voice but the tone behind it, how goddamn tired the voice sounds, tired and angry and sullen as if he'd rather not say anything out of spite but feels it his Duty to inform him, in case it gets him into trouble later. It's not the kind of voice that Narumi is used to hearing from boys that age, and he finds that he's frowning a little as he stands there in the doorway looking down at the uniformed figure.

"Oh." He has nothing to say to that, and during that short moment of hesitation the cat slides in between his feet and darts inside. Narumi whips his head around to look at the dark shape bound its way upstairs, and half-raises his hand to push the glasses further up his nose. "Well, alright then. Why don't you come in, now? It's kind of cold out here so late at night."

The top of the boy's hat comes to just over his chin as he follows suit, and Narumi's eyes move down at the tiny clacking sound as the tip of the katana brushes against the doorframe. A katana, huh. That was pretty old-fashioned, wasn't it? Must not be very good at it, to get a wound like that-- Cutting off that thought, he follows the kid who falls behind respectfully enough as they walk upstairs, and his mouth moves almost automatically -- running a detective agency had its certain influences. Maybe not necessarily benefits, judging from how quiet the kid was, but at least it helped to break the awkward silence they managed put themselves in.

"I've got the spare room all done up for you -- it's not much yet, just a bed and a real nice closet I bought off cheap from the landlady when she was doing her spring cleaning -- but don't you worry about that, it's all cleaned up and everything. And I guess your cat could just sleep wherever. We'll just all have to settle in, right?" A click of the lock opening, and Narumi gestures with not a little pride behind the action -- but it's just lost on the boy, who looks on at the half-lit office inside with an expression that's unimpressed at best.

"Welcome to the Narumi Detective Agency."

---

Later on, when the air is just beginning to be warm again (and the birds are gathered to make a right old racket in the tree outside the window -- what a nuisance, maybe this Goto of his could get rid of a few for them) Narumi wakes up, and as he walks by the kid's room he can't resist opening the door a crack and taking a peek. He's pulled the sheets and the duvet off the bed and onto the floor (Narumi cringes slightly at that; it wasn't even swept before he let the boy in) and all that Narumi can see is the dark shock of his hair against the white of the pillow and the cat laying sedate on top of the duvet, facing the door. Its eyes are open and it shines green with the crack of morning light that Narumi lets in, and as their eyes meet he can almost see the cat's eyes narrowing in return, and the flick of its tail seem like part-disapproval, part-warning.

But maybe he's just imagining all this.

What a strange cat, he thinks as he carefully closes the door and walks down to buy some milk and bread for breakfast.

---

There's something weird about the kid, Narumi can't help thinking. Sure, he's supposed to be a devil summoner and all -- protecting the Capital and other things that Narumi honestly thinks that shouldn't be dumped onto a kid like that -- but even without all that, something smells fishy. The cat -- Goto -- for example. It is cat-like enough alright, but it always seems to follow Raido around everywhere -- and the weird pauses in between the kid's words as he stops to look at the cat, like he's asking him something.

Maybe it's just well-trained, a part of him says, the part that doesn't want to get mixed up in the whole crazy demon talk -- but there's another part of him that isn't quite sure.

"So, your name is Raido, right?"

The boy nods, and stares down at the toast in front of him. Narumi's already finished three and counting, and the next time their eyes meet again he gestures down at it encouragingly. "Come on, eat up! It's no good if the toast gets cold."

He looks as if he's about to speak, but then he does that funny thing again where he looks away from Narumi to stare at the cat and then back again to him, like he is looking for someone to direct him because he doesn't quite know what he should do. After another long pause, during which Narumi gives up and butters his next toast, Raido finally nods and picks up the toast gingerly. Not really a talkative sort of guy, is he? A mental sigh, but Narumi braces himself for the ordeal. Who knows? Maybe with someone stoic like Raido working for him now, this Agency might gain some kind of respect. Even though the said kid doesn't even look as if he should be let off his mother's apron strings yet ...

Raido looks up, and his pale gaze and the bandaged one both stare across the table at Narumi and after a minute of that, Narumi clears his throat. "What happened to your eye?"

The boy's gaze slides over to the cat once more (sitting by the windowsil behind Narumi's left shoulder -- even with his back turned he can still feel the green eyes boring holes into the back of his head) and he busies himself by pouring a fresh cup of coffee.

"A mistake," he says finally, and that's the end of it.

---

"So, how are you liking it so far, boy?"

Goto jumps down lightly from the desk and pads over to where Raido is sitting, cleaning the blade of his katana. Tonight is full moon, and knowing the state of the Capital -- they would be kept fairly busy. He says nothing, but shrugs.

"What's that?"

"--It's alright." Taptaptap the powder against the blade and the boy rests the sword on his lap for a moment to reach for the oil. His eye flickers over to the cat then back again, and although he takes hold of the bottle of oil and pulls it over to him, his hands do not move. Goto's tail flickers, impatient. "The Capital's a big place. You should be alert at all ti--"

"I know that." The tone is sharper than what he intended and Raido grimaces, the line of his mouth twisting ugly though the flesh under his eye remain oddly smooth with thick raised scar tissue. "--I can do it."

Goto doesn't reply, and when Raido moves to wipe the powder off the blade there's a tenseness to his shoulders that doesn't quite go away.

---

It happens about three weeks after the kid first turned up on his doorstep. Narumi wakes up at the crash of the front door giving way and he's up and out of his bed in seconds, and he's got a pistol in one hand and a paperweight in the other when he catches the sight of blood.

"Raido? What happened? Oh Christ--" The sheets are pulled off and pressed in bunches over his face as Raido coughs, and the inside of his cape is matted with dark patches of blood as he puts an arm out smearing blood on the wooden wall and the cat dances crazy around their heels but the landlady is the last thing on Narumi's mind. The patching up takes a while even with the bandages and things fetched from Raido's room and even though Narumi knows facial wounds always look worse than they are even though he knows how to keep calm and not flinch when he sees the flesh split and gaping open split by something (something, anything; that wound wasn't done by some godforsaken katana-blade he knows what the kid's capable of with that thing) and the kid falls asleep halfway through and Narumi has to prop his head up against his elbow as he wraps the last of the bandage around his head.

"What're you looking at?" Narumi snaps (irritable and tired and worried and man, his shirt will never be the same again) at the cat staring impassively as he carries the boy over to his bed, being careful to not let the shoddy wrapping dislodge. He'll have to call a doctor in, later.

It says nothing; but then, Narumi wasn't exactly expecting it to anyway.

---

Raido blinks.

It's morning and judging by how light it is outside it's more than that, and his head hurts and he should be getting to school, he's late-- but when he tries to sit up there's a hand against his shoulder pressing him back down and then Narumi's face swims into view all concerned looking and just so there that he can't really do anything but stare.

"How are you feeling?"

Narumi has to repeat his question twice over before Raido looks towards him (colourless eyes dark lashes opening and shutting; one eye slower to open he sees that he feels it), and shakes his head. "I'm okay."

"It isn't just okay!" This is the first time that he's heard Narumi's voice like this (loud and angry with his face twisting into something that isn't the usual smile) but it's different from when Goto is angry, and Raido says nothing but blinks again with the bandage feeling scratchy and heavy against his face. He's in the bed, and as he turnes his head away a little he sees Goto sitting curled up against his side over the sheets, and the cat lifts his head up and stares at Raido with eyes narrowing a little from the sunlight.

"This bed thing," he mutters, before beginning to wash his paws diligently, "it isn't too bad."

"What happened out there last night? I know I'm not supposed to go around sticking my nose into your business, but if you're going to come back with your face cut up like that--"

"We were worried." The cat interjects, completely oblivious to the stream of words coming from Narumi. "Especially him."

Raido looks from the cat to the other man for a while without speaking, until Narumi stops to take a breath. "Thank you."

Narumi starts, pauses awkwardly, then clears his throat a bit and pushes his glasses up over his nose again -- he blinks a little faster every time he does that. Raido just stares unblinkingly at him, and it's only when the other breathes a laugh (half relief and half awkward tension) and straightens up that an expression passes over the boy's face all suspicious but more surprised than anything.

"I'm sorry. I'm just-- worried about you, you know? How would people say if I let you run around all over the place like that with no regard? You're supposed to be my apprentice, after all. Right?" He reaches out, hesitates a little then lets his hand fall on Raido's uninjured shoulder, giving him a friendly pat.

"Just take care of yourself, alright? I called the school and said something came up -- you'll have to make up some excuse about that, by the way, I didn't tell them anything specific -- and the doctor will come around tomorrow again to take a look at that."

The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, and there's a moment of silence before Goto speaks again.

"That Narumi-- he's alright."

Raido looks towards the door once more. "--Yeah."

[fic;dsrk|dogs] like an animal in your care ; giovanni x raidou kuzunoha xiv

2010-07-01T21:36:19Z

Title: like an animal in your care;
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE / SHIN MEGAME TENSEI: DEVIL SUMMONER
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni/Raidou Kuzunoha XIV.
Rating: G to R.
Feedback: yes please.
Disclaimer: none of the characters/sources are mine.
Notes: for yoite because I'm horrible and it's been eating away at me today.
Summary: a series of shitty drabbles. from 1am to noon. let's see what happens. game-verse. pwp. writing practice. too much excuses.

[ MORNING ¦ AM ]

[ 01:00 ¦ 1AM ] Focus is on wholeness of self and the banishing of any shadows.

It's not anything. He's not anybody just a shape in the dark in the shadow of the alleyway where the light of flickering streetlamps doesn't quite reach (a blind spot in the rolling retina of the city) but Raidou's head snaps up to attention anyway just a few heartbeats before he walks by the figure. A hand raised in a salute, a greeting, no harm intended, good intentions flowing out like bad smell from the sewers.

(empty hands doesn't necessarily mean innocent)

"What do you want?"

[ 02:00 ¦ 2AM ] Ridding partnerships or relationships of negativity.

The room is stark, bare, devoid of any furniture it's almost spartan as Raidou steps in and Giovanni shuts the door after him. The click of metal sliding into place electric up the spine, stinging needle when a hand find the curve of his shoulder. To get his mind off the fingers pressing hard against muscle and bone through clothing he focuses on what's there in the room. Counting a bed a chair a table a pillow a lamp, it's a play on singularity; there's no room for anyone else here. Some people would call it selfish, some might call it independent, but there's almost nothing in particular going through his head when the other turns him around with slight pressure of those fingers. Face to face now.

[ 03:00 ¦ 3AM ] Determination, especially in matters that seem to hold you back.

Catch of breath, teeth caught on lips against the taut muscle stretched between the ear and the throat curving brim murmuring against the skin there, a laugh that doesn't quite make it out past the hollow of the collarbone. He's stretched between the table and the wall with the other man's weight half on him the other half pulling back to run his hand down the front of his shirt and buttons pop open loud in the dark. Fingers in his hair, the hat knocked off tumbling onto the floor sometime during the struggle (almost like a fight but not quite; there's too much teeth and heat and skin sliding against each other). Amidst all this, he is somehow more concerned about his hair than the copper taste spreading in his mouth (gnawing, more teeth and tongue than lips, feels like he's going to bite them off, rip them right off). It's much in the same way the other's eyebrows furrowed into a vague frown (corners of his mouth turning down) as he slipped the jacket off and draped it neatly in the back of the chair. Tie next. Bed next.

[ 04:00 ¦ 4AM ] Improved luck or victory over a specific set of deterring circumstances.

By the time they make it to the bed, the situation is a lot better and a lot more worse than he thought (they thought) it would be. Even though he is thin he is heavy and he presses his hand against the centre of Raidou's chest and leans his weight down until the ribs strain and crackle air whoosing out with an audible rush but then Giovanni bends leans his head down and catches his wrist with his hand bony thin fingers wrapping around firmly and tightening. Knees and noses and teeth knocking against each other it's sloppy and messy and this really isn't what he'd have liked but somehow it's alright. Heat and air sucked into lungs wet slick flesh against each other they're generally good and all but mostly Giovanni likes the silence the best.

[ 05:00 ¦ 5AM ] Encouraging growth of the psychic self.

It hurts, it's good, it's uncomfortable, it's right, it's wrong, it's strange, it's hot and he's too close hands against hips against bare skin and then something else (breath choking words out of his throat) as the other presses in just right where it feels good this is wrong, he wants to say, it feels wrongrightwrongrightrightyesthereright

[ 06:00 ¦ 6AM ] Tenacity and perseverance, especially with something you have been putting off.

And silence. The springs creak as Giovanni pushes Raidou away and rolls to his side next to him on the bed. Slow, even breaths. That's good. Even is good. Just a moment earlier (even just two minutes earlier) it'd been unstable unsteady frantic but now it's nice and even and quiet and he can hear the other's breathing slowing down the heartbeat thudding from gallop to trot to walk. He can't see anything with the blinds drawn down all the way, and there's no light not with the moon outside like that a pale sliver-nail cut out with a knife. The whole room is wrapped in near darkness and the sun hasn't come up yet, the thin strip of sky he could see over the edge of the blinds are blackdarkgrey like the rest of everything. Giovanni a dark shape outlined against the lighter dark of the sheets.

[ 07:00 ¦ 7AM ] Hope, improved insight and perspective.

Birdsong.

Dim light.

Turning his head away.

It's warm.

[ 08:00 ¦ 8AM ] Personal change aimed toward the conscious mind.

Light. It's bright. That's what he thinks when he wakes up, opens his eyes. He's back in his own room. Slept in. It's bright.

He's late.

That's what he thinks. But it's not, because as he sits up the mattress dips in an odd way that definitely isn't the way he's used to in his own room and there's a hand that rolls, falls from his shoulder onto his lap with the sheets all bunched up that's very male and very alive and very not his own. Raidou stares down at it uncomprehendingly until the other shifts, blinks awake (yellow eyes in the dark, green in the half-light now; reminds him of something) and there he freezes.

His hand still on his thigh.

After a minute's silence, Raidou silently moves it away.

[ 09:00 ¦ 9AM ] Assistance for others, focusing on concrete matters.

Eggs on frying pan, Raidou realises that he'd been staring down at it for three whole minutes before he remembers to turn the heat down. Sunny side up. Bright yellow faces turned towards him. A pair of eyes floating against the dark of the pan. Yellow like Giovanni's eyes. He erases that thought from his head, turns to get the plates.

Ten minutes later, sitting at the table. Giovanni sits on the only chair, Raidou at the edge of the bed. The table is dragged over. They both avoid meeting each other's eyes, which is almost equally as strange for both of them. A tiny clink of fork-metal against plate-ceramic, Giovanni looks down at his plate. He likes his eggs scrambled, but he says nothing to the breakfast.Raidou stares, keeps his eyes fixed at eggs yellow like the other's eyes resting on the plate. Eyes on the plate. Watching.

"--So." Giovanni begins, stops himself, looks uncertain for all of two seconds. Raidou picks up the fork.

[ 10:00 ¦ 10AM ] Improving personal convictions and resolutions.

"What's your name?"

Pausing at the doorway. Hair neatly combed back, hat on his head. Usual clothes, usual hair, usual facial expression (as far as he could tell; his face feels somewhat numb) and Giovanni shrugs. Why did he ask? A spur of the moment. So unlike him. Wasn't like he needed to know. He had no reason to know. Hands in the air, much like last night (how they met -- but Giovanni doesn't stop to think further; dangerous territory). Should he say something? He isn't used to being stared at, not in a way like this. Giovanni smiles tightly across the threshold at Raidou, one handed grip on the doorknob making it creak.

(nevermind)

"Just go away."

[ 11:00 ¦ 11AM ] Energy directed toward transformations which may have seemed impossible.

Giovanni closes the door and leans his forehead againt the cool surface for a moment, smells the rust and the coldbitter tang of metal. Breathes in. What a stupid thing to do. So unlike him. He makes up his mind to move. Immediately. Find another drunk, kill him, blood on his shoes, blood on the keys. Messy. Breakfast is untouched, still there egg congealing white onto the plate. Brains. Eyes. Giovanni takes one look and picks the plates up, forks and all, and quick step threefourfive he opens the window and throws them out.

[ 12:00 ¦ 12PM ¦ NOON ] But remember, what I give I expect back ten-fold.

The doorbell rings. No, he doesn't have a doorbell. Knocking on the door. Hard knuckles rapping against the door rusted shut. Giovanni was- what? (sitting there staring at the rumpled unmade bed like it was going to come alive any moment and eat him whole all the stupid childhood nightmares coming back but he'd never had them, no. is this (ab)normal second childhood flashbacks bloodbonecrunchsmokeredwhite

black).

It's that person from last night. Giovanni opens the door. Their eyes meeting, then Giovanni's gaze slides down the length of the other's cape.

Yellow and white.

Eggs.

He opens his mouth.

"I like mine scrambled."

[fic;dogs] thinking very much of nothing ; giovanni/heine

2010-06-02T10:22:01Z

Title: thinking very much of nothing.
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE / BLACK BLOOD BROTHERS.
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni/Heine. (hinted) Giovanni/Zelman. Badou. Einstellsehn.
Rating: R.
Word Count: 2419.
Disclaimer: none of the characters/sources are mine.
Notes: AU-verse. I DON'T EVEN KNOW, OK.
Summary: Normal family life---or maybe not. Maybe in the movies. There is nothing to pull away; it's just a bad movie with no crying.

Giovanni is wearing that t-shirt again, the fabric so worn and threadbare that Heine can practically see the soft jut of shoulderblades when he leans down to pick up a dropped pen, the shift of muscles of his back when he stretches. His collarbones seem strangely delicate, breakable (fragile, even; and that isn't a word that he associates with Giovanni, most of the time) peeking out from the stretched neck of the shirt.

The professor is out for the night (another extended overnight shift at the hospital; another urgent case that needs to be monitored, another child to be saved) so they have the house to themselves. Giovanni is at the table, poring over some textbook or other (criminal justice, of all things; hah, sometimes the world doesn't make any sense) and Heine is lying on the couch counting the silver studs embedded in the ceiling like so many stars. As if Giovanni is a shrink that he came to see.

In truth, he does see one, but only on Tuesdays. The man, short, potbellied. He punctuates his sentences with a sharply pronounced exhale huh.

Huh.

Occasionally Giovanni makes notes, lead scratching against paper, the soft schick of post-it notes coming unstuck, pads of his fingers smoothing down the edges close against the paper. Heine closes his eyes.

There's only one reason that Giovanni would forgo his usual pristinesharp button-up shirt for plain cotton and Heine knows even before the doorbell rings down the corridor that it's him.

He opens the door and Zelman grins widely at him with his fake fangs (sharp canines bleached white) visible, a greeting that Heine returns with a grunt that only barely scrapes above prehistoric courtesy. They had never been very comfortable with each other, playing the roles of the disapproving older brother and the confident boyfriend with remarkable accuracy. Heine merely opens the door wider for the redhead to come in after a brief pause, mostly because there's the soft sound of bare feet on the carpeted floor behind him (and Heine wants to have nothing to do with this).

Giovanni smiles at Zelman, the greenyellow eyes narrowing slightly in amusement behind the thin tinted reading glasses.

(weak eyes, she said. too weak for anything. while heine and lilly stood behind and watched--)

He doesn't understand how a pale skinny bookworm like Giovanni (with his slender violinist's fingers and Strauss and the smell of coffee and old crumbling books clinging to him) can possibly have a (go on, say it) boyfriend who looks like a delinquent. Probably is. And a drug addict. Could see the needlemarks like bug bites all in a mottled line down the pale line of his arm. But it's none of his business. Heine never asked. He didn't care. Doesn't.

But then, the important question was, did he really want to think about Giovanni's supposed sex life?

Heine looks away and scowls as Giovanni leans closer, pressing his lips against his temple in a way much like how Einstellsehn does before she leaves (always him, never him), an enigmatic grin curving at the corners of his lips. Heine thinks he caught a little glance (a quirk of lips here, a twist of an eyebrow there) passing between Giovanni and Zelman, but he can't be sure because he's roughly pushing Giovanni away. He doesn't care though, and regains his balance soon enough with that shit-eating grin of his as if he knows more than you do and they're not talking about who is on their way to taking a bar exam in a year and a half and who is going to end up half-drunk and stoned in a concert gig again.

"Going out, Heine?"
"I'm not staying."

And a shrug, as the blond reaches out and pulls Zelman (by the hand, Heine notices, and there's another twinge of disgust in his gut). "We'll be upstairs." His voice floats down, a murmur of inaudible words following, maybe a laugh or two (at him?) as Heine clicks his tongue in irritation and snatches his jacket from the hook by the entrance.

----

"You gotta get out of that house, man."

Clang, click, rattle as Badou flicks another pebble at the empty beer can lying a few feet away from them. They're at the usual place, under the bridge with a murky body of water not three metres from them and eight-hundred tonne trucks rumbling past not ten metres above their heads. Wonder if this'll break he asks and Heine replies who cares.

Who indeed cares.

This is the place they come to hang out when there's nowhere else to go (no shitty band playing music for a dollar entrance with all you can drink, all you can smoke all you can think; not on Mondays). It's so dark that the water doesn't even seem to be flowing. Just an even darker blackness to the left of Badou if he squints his eyes just so.

That's his blind side, he knows. Underwater monsters, he wouldn't even see them coming. But not in this river, they won't.

"Pass me a light," he says instead.

Plop, goes the beer can as it finally escapes Badou's assaults and rolls into the river.

Badou looks at him, briefly illuminated in the glow of the cheap cigarette lighter. All pale skin and dark freckles and scraggly wisps of red hair with a hoodie pulled right over his head to keep out the cold, all you can see is his nose and the cigarette sticking out. His words are remarkably unslurred even after alcohol and the fact that there's a cigarette burning itself out in his mouth. Burns his lips, sometimes. Blisters smoothing out the cracks.

"You're seriously not going to stay there forever, right? That bitch is--"
"Yeah, yeah."

He feels the shrug more than he sees it as Badou does exactly that, twisting his head back to stare overhead as another truck roars over them with headlights blazing.

"Whatever."
"Whatever."

----

It's late when he comes back, neither of them having watches to speak of, but they both decide it's time to go (home? the word rings odd in his mouth and Badou feels it too) when the trucks stop coming. Badou shoves the rest of the cigarettes in his pocket and Heine says nothing, and slouches on down the street after a cursory nod.

The key misses the hole once, twice, and third time (un)lucky, sending Heine spilling into the hallway with a curse barely muffled. No worries; that woman's car isn't in the driveway. Guess it's not as late as he thought, then. All the lights are off, though. Giovanni must be asleep.

No, he isn't.

Heine only realises that something's wrong when he slides under the covers of his bed and the mattress dips in an odd way that makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up and prickle down his spine.

"Giovanni," he hisses out, reaching out a hand to roughly shake him by a shoulder. Normally, he hates physical contact. Flinches away whenever people try; handshakes are a nuisance, even a touch to his shoulder to draw his attention haves him scrambling away. Germophobia, people think. But it's not. The only person who touches him with any regularity and intent is Einstellsehn, but with her it is more out of duty(fear) than anything, and even then his jaws ache by the time those six-fingered hands let him go (you're such a good boy, Heine; you wont leave me like your father, will you).

Speaking of Giovanni's shoulder, though. It's bare, smooth, warm (thin paperskin barely covering the bones buried underneath) and the touchfeel of it giving a little under his fingers makes Heine grit his teeth tighter but it's worth the effort if(when) Giovanni mumbles, blinks awake and smiles up at him. "Welcome home."

"Are you kidding me? Why are you--"

Not finishing the sentence. Even in half-light it's obvious. A sudden lump in his throat that Heine wills away as just annoyance. Maybe anger. Giovanni isn't worth it though. But the lump is still there, pressing against his windpipe.

Wait, that's just Giovanni's hand.

"You're so late," he breathes against Heine's ear, other arm moving to wrap around his neck and pulls him down closer. Goosebumps on Heine's skin, he can feel it. Compared to him Giovanni feels warm, warmer, each heartbeat slowing down pushing the drug around his bloodstream (or maybe it's his ears going) and he laughs, soft and quiet. He feels like he could fall asleep any minute, just floating in that spreading warmth burning just under his skin in the back of his eyes pooling in his gut but he can pick out the slightest change in Heine's breathing, hear the crease of bedsheet as he curls his fingers tight in the material. If he concentrated, he could hear the creaking of joints of his knuckles.

"Was it him?"

Heine's voice is flat, but there's the flutter of breath (a rattling of chains) in his chest when Giovanni just laughs like everything's fine and dandy and they're just having a simple conversation (but nothing about them is simple, nothing about them calls for a conversation) and that Giovanni isn't naked in Heine's bed with a needlewelt swelling in the crook of his arm like a bite. There's a faint sheen of red beginning to start on the inside of his elbow but he isn't sure if that's just the drugflush or not; he's always bruised easily. That this is an everyday occurrence, nothing to worry about.

Wasn't he supposed to be the irresponsible black sheep of the family, here?

Cut off my tail and bring it home, why won't you.

"Isn't this nice?" Giovanni asks but he isn't looking for an answer, at least not in what Heine could ever speak out loud. He looks for them in other places, and Giovanni lets his fingers stray to the back of Heine's neck, short nails scraping across the rough scars left where his neck meets the slope of his back. They are rough, unsightly, ugly, stretching the width of his neck like someone tried to slit his throat open but did it backwards instead. Giovanni's only seen them once, when they were (children, no, Giovanni was a child then, Heine was more than that)

a long time ago.

Now the scar's healed over and nothing comes off red half-moon under his nails as he drags them down to the front again, presses against the hollow of Heine's collarbone until he lifts a hand to bat the hand away. The way his sickly blond hair strays over his forehead and spills onto the pillow and the way his teeth flashes when he smiles up at Heine reminds him of (someone else beginning with an elle and ends with a whywhywhy).

"Get out."
"I don't want to sleep alone."
"Where's your boyfriend."

(that gets a smile, a crooked grin hidden in the curve of Heine's shoulder) and he mouths he isn't here. He went home. He isn't here.

Thinks that he should just say he isn't my boyfriend just so he could see how Heine would react because he isn't, they're just

there.

But he is here now.

"Go away."
"But I want to stay."

(fingers in his hair now, a decided press of skin against skin an arm holding him in place pulling him down)

Heine flushes, glad of the darkness, the light that shines through the window behind him and casts a silverdark shadow over Giovanni's face.

"You're sick."
"You are, too."

(how nice of her, how brave, to bring up three children on her own -- pity that the youngest --)

Giovanni shifts under him, drags his hand down the length of Heine's back and there, see Heine stiffening electricshiver up his spine and hear the clench of hands on the sheets on either side of his head hear the sharp intake of breath a huff of laughter (sicksickeningsickened). He knows (and Heine knows that he knows) that given half a chance he would punch his face in to next week but all the other does is

(legs on either side, now. lips at his ear, but not touching. fingers gripping the sheets tightly. a shift of hips against hips (against the hand, down there, yeah, just like-). forehead against throat, but not touching. only his breaths, hot and moist and clammy against the side of Giovanni's neck and he almost

laughs, but doesn't.

he'd just end up making him angry.)

He comes embarrassingly fast but Heine does too, a warm stickywet spatter on his belly and even before it registers (either disgust or something else, he can't really think right now) Heine rolls over and pushes him off the bed.

"Get out."

His voice is tight, strained, the frantic heartbeats still thumpthumping under his skin Giovanni hears it but he's too busy laughing with the simple euphoria that comes from just having jerked off and oh god, he just did his brother --

All in all, it's just too much for one night. So he leaves, stumbling down the corridor back to his own bed with his blood slowly going cold and flat like a can of coke that's been sitting on a windowsill for far too long. Curls his fingers under the pillow, breathes in the coolclean smell and he's out like a light.

----

The morning after is always the most awkward scene in the movies. Why should real life be any different?

In any case, Giovanni barely turns his head when Heine comes into the kitchen, a cup of coffee and half a buttered toast as he sits with the newspaper spread out on the counter in front of him. The world's tragedies, the nation's scandal all spread out blackwhite in the morning sunlight for everyone to look at. Heine feels that the secret's written on his face just like that newspaper for people to read. Like the touches with his hands his breath his fucking laugh it's a brand burning on his skin and he says nothing. Just walks back out. Bumps into Einstellsehn on the way to the front door (smiling welcoming perfectly made up pristine not a nail out of place) but he brushes past her before she could (leave me alone), out the door and off.

It's a Tuesday. He'd be getting his week's worth of medications, which he'd sell to blow the money away on life's real necessities. Another week so begins.

"Really," she says, ignoring Giovanni's greeting and pouring a cup of water for herself. Taking a sip, she gives a distasteful glance at the cup of coffee in front of Giovanni out the corner of her eye. "I really don't know what the matter is with him. Not even saying good morning (here is a convenient situational deafness in motion) to his own mother-- (and a little sharply) --Don't you have classes to go to, Giovanni?"

Eats shoots and leaves.

There isn't anything to say.

[fst;DOGS] giovanni : side B : LAPDOG

2010-05-17T14:45:32Z

❝if i can find my way through the darkness...❞ natural snow buildings
-instrumental-

❝hekkushun❞ radwimps
today i have a story to tell you about you tell me too
sustain yourself to disdain myself and so i hate you
compensates are crawling to your skin and under attitude
say, never say well i do, i hate you
i'm never gonna like you, look upon you like you did to me
mama told me not be like you just beat’em and to lose’em free
you're not even a human

❝orestes❞ a perfect circle
gotta cut away clear away
snip away and sever this
umbilical residue
keeping me from killing you
and from pulling you down with me here
i can almost hear you scream
give me one more medicated peaceful moment

❝skip divided❞ thom yorke
yeah you are a fool, you are a fool
for sticking 'round, for sticking 'round
when you walk in the room everything disappears
when you walk in the room it's a terrible mess
when you walk in the room i start to melt
when you walk in the room i follow you 'round like a dog
i'm a dog i'm a dog i'm a lapdog
i'm your lapdog, yeah
i just got a number and location
i just need my number and location

❝the past is a grotesque animal❞ of montreal
it's so embarrassing to need someone like i do you
how can i explain, i need you here and not here too
i'm flunking out, i'm flunking out, i'm gone, i'm just gone
but at least i author my own disaster
do i have to scream in your face?
i've been dodging lamps and vegetables
throw it all in my face, i don't care
let's just have some fun
let's tear this shit apart
let's tear the fucking house apart
let's tear our fucking bodies apart
but let's just have some fun

❝she walks on me❞ hole
she walks over me
hold you close like we both died
my ever pressing suicide
my stupid fuck, my blushing bride
oh, tear my heart out, tear my heart out
don't, don't you touch me, don't you dare
we look the same, we talk the same, we are the same, we are the same

❝fine young cannibals❞ wolf parade
i know i called out to you
something is haunting these four walls
you know it's true
i will crawl right back to you
under the smoldering summer sky
i'll be there soon

❝lisztomania (alex metric remix)❞ phoenix
so sentimental
not sentimental, no!
romantic, not discussing it
darling I'm down and lonely
when we're the fortunate only
i've been looking for something else
follow, misguide, stand still
discuss, discourage
on this precious we can end it

❝PDA❞ interpol
yours is the only version of my desertion
that I could ever subscribe to
that is all that I can do
you are a past sinner the last winner i'm breaking all around me
until the last drop is behind you
you're so cute when you're frustrated, dear
you're so cute when you're sedated, dear
i missed you
you are the only person who’s completely certain
there’s nothing here to be into
that is all that you can do
you are a past sinner, the last winner and everything we've come to
makes you you

❝keep the streets empty for me❞ fever ray
memory comes when memory's old
i am never the first to know
following this stream up north
where do people like us float?
there is room in my lap
for bruises, asses, handclaps
i will never disappear
for forever, i'll be here
whispering
morning keep the streets empty for me

❝joga❞ bjork
all these accidents that happen
follow the dot
coincidence
makes sense
only with you
you don't have to speak
i feel
all that no-one sees you see
what's inside of me
every nerve that hurts
you heal

❝when the world ends (oakenfold remix)❞ dave matthews
i'ma rock you like a baby when the cities fall
we will rise as the buildings crumble
float there and watch it all
oh you know when the world ends
i'm gonna take you aside and say
lets watch it fade away, fade away
when the world's done, ours just begun
it's done, ours just begin

❝the outsider❞ a perfect circle
lying to yourself again, suicidal imbecile
think about it, pound it on a fault line
what will it take to get it through to you, precious?
why do you wanna throw it away like this
such a mess, why would i wanna watch you
disconnect and self destruct one bullet at a time
what's your rush now?
everyone will have his day to die

❝hate❞ cat power
half of it is innocent
the other half is wise
the whole damn thing makes no sense
i wish i could tell you a lie
hey, come here
let me whisper in your ear
i hate myself and i want to die

❝alpha shallows❞ laura marling
and his heart was full of fire at the man he had become
and his soul was seldom higher with the falsities of fun
but the grey in this city is too much to bear
the grey in this city is too much to bear
and i believe you are meant to be seen but not to be understood

❝son of a widow❞ mewithoutyou
i'll ring your doorbell
until you let me in
and i can no longer tell
where 'you' end and 'I' begin
the son of the widow
you raised from the dead
where did his soul go
when he died again?

[ ❝download❞ ]

[fst;DOGS] giovanni : side A : FAULT LINE

2010-05-17T14:04:56Z

❝die fledermaus❞ matsuo hayato
-instrumental-

❝return to energizer❞ enter shikari
you look like you rented a smile
from someone but you rented the wrong size
we still have the element of surprise
defence shields DOWN
and all hell breaks loose, when you're here

❝porcelain heart❞ opeth
i said that i loved (eternal schemes)
i cling to my past (like childish dreams)
i promised to stay (and held my breath)
i went far away
icy roads beneath my feet
lead me through wastelands of deceit
rest your head now, don't you cry
don't ever ask the reason why

❝talons [phones rip mix]❞ bloc party
when it comes it will feel like a kiss
malevolent and without thought
did you ever give up
i have been wicked

❝the common cold❞ the paper chase
i've done so many bad things
i never seem to get clean
no pecking order please
i've done too many bad things
would you sleep where i sleep
here with the bed bugs and bad beliefs
i don't mean to make it seem
like we're salmon upstream
but are you afraid of me?

❝ready willing cain and able❞ the paper chase
any day now i may find my faith to axe that door
cause you've gone and done it motherfucker
they're coming, they're coming, they're coming to get you
i'll turn this car around and take us home you'll be sorry
don't make me come down there little brother
so where's your love song now?
your cookie has crumbled you sang very soulful thumbs down
so where's your four part Bach chorales?
your melody's dying it's bankrupt and lying down
heaven for climate hell is for conversation

❝howl❞ florence + the machine
if you could only see the beast you've made of me
i held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
screaming in the dark i howl when we're apart
drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart
my fingers claw your skin try to tempt my way in
you are the moon that makes the night for which i have to howl
like some child possessed the beast howls in my veins
i want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness

❝hunter❞ bjork
if travel is searching
and home has been found
i'm not stopping i'm going hunting
i'm the hunter
i'll bring back the goods but I don't know when
you could smell it
so you left me on my own
to complete the mission
now i'm leaving it all behind

❝i'm not done❞ fever ray
so i lost my head a while ago
but you seem to have done better
is it dark already? how light is a light?
do you laugh while screaming? is it cold outside?
one thing i know for certain
oh i'm pretty sure
it ain't over
i'm not done

❝the prayer❞ bloc party
is it so wrong to crave recognition?
second best; runner up
is it so wrong to want rewarding?
to want more than is given to you?
tonight make me unstopable
and i will charm, i will slice
i will dazzle i will outshine all

❝song for clay (disappear here)❞ bloc party
i am trying to be heroic
in an age of modernity
i am trying to be heroic
as all around me history sinks
so i enjoy and i devour
flesh and wine and luxury
but in my heart i am lukewarm
nothing ever really touches me

❝i wish i was someone better❞ blood red shoes
made a mistake, i made a mistake
i wear the scars to show my shame
what should i do, what should i do
when i'm the one who can't get through?
i can't see past this chance
for us to reconcile these doubts
they've all gone on for far too long
just not built for this role
and all the time much better spent

❝the outsider❞ a perfect circle
lying to yourself again, suicidal imbecile
think about it, pound it on a fault line
what will it take to get it through to you, precious?
why do you wanna throw it away like this
such a mess, why would i wanna watch you
disconnect and self destruct one bullet at a time
what's your rush now?
everyone will have his day to die

❝it's personal❞ the radio dept.
-instrumental-

❝for the wars❞ clinic
christ oh christ all in their rows
christ they're in their rows
come and watch and lap it up
christ they're in their rows
in one and out one come my love
in one and out one now it's safe and warm
and long before
you're all made up for the wars

❝evil friend❞ deadboy & the elephantmen
it never ends at the death of things
love will swing burn everything and sing
ah ha, evil friend
there is starlight in your blood
it seems that our shadows are wearing us
you knew rebirth but died again

[ ❝download❞ ]

[fic;dogs] rise with me;run away from your grave ; giovanni

2010-05-10T05:43:44Z

Title: rise with me;run away from your grave
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni-centric.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: not mine.
Feedback: yes please!
Notes: One drabble per duration of one song. Meme. *if possible, listen to the song while you read. youtube links in (*)
Summary: Series of drabbles. Giovanni-centric. Vague RP-verse in some parts. Mostly canon-verse.

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble;
you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

#1; MONSTER HOSPITAL (*)
giovanni sometimes(mosttimes) doesn't really feel like himself. he can't feel himself, his handsfingers are like rubber coated ceramic (ceramic coated bone) and when he walks when he talks there're times when he stumbletumbles down like a tower of babel. there are times when he has nothing when he finds himself staring down at his hands the prints worn smooth with gunfire and smoke and he can't remember. nothing of himself remains. nothing of what he was before is left except in pieces hidden away with seven locks and seven keys (seven and seven makes forty-nine rowan and oak and ash and bone), and it aches and itches deep inside his gut sometimes. these borrowed eyes and borrowed memories burning his blood dry down to the marrow of his bones the boy feels like he could break (brittlesharp teeth flashing in the halflight i am home) but this is not home

they all in pieces falling broken glass crunching like teeth and bones under his shoes and he calls i'm home

#2; SING ME SPANISH TECHNO (*)
the towel hangs around his shoulders awkwardly like it doesn't quite belong there but nor does the slightly apprehensive look on his face, the curl of his lips strangely hesitant. standing there like that, giovanni looks somehow younger than he is (younger than he's made). he cautiously takes a step into the water looking down at it lapping against his ankles and underneath the water his feet are thin and whiteblue. giovanni looks back up, eyebrows furrowing behind his sunglasses at the sunlight and he takes a step back but it's not because he's afraid, no, it's just that his feet are getting cold the toes are getting numb he doesn't like this one bit. but he's not nervous.

and then he looks across the stretch of water sparkling like so many broken glass (it looksfeelstastes like it too, cold and numb and biting and salty he can taste it when he bites his lip chapped from the sea-wind). and there she is she waits looking like she's made of sunlight warm on his back and sand soft under their feet because she doesn't seem to feel the cold standing waist-deep in the crystal-cut (finger-snapped) water.

and he steps in.

#3; KISSING THE LIPLESS (*)
lets the telephone hang there. is the ringing inside his head or outside the air he doesn't know. it jarrs his teeth ring ring ring the constant noise he has to grit his teeth tightly and lean back on the wall. the cubicle it's too small closing in caught in the jaws of a beast her six fingered hands wrapped around the phone twisting knots into the cord caught like a fish the phone jumps under into his hand and the thin faint voice echoing wheedling giovanni and one six four zero two zero three to the power of hello professor

#4; PAPARAZZI (*)
a wild goose chase around twisting maze of the city inside and out under and over snapping at your ankles if you're not careful; gonna tie up your shoestrings and watch you fall, pull the chair out from under and see you bruise fireworks over palewhite skin (have you never what did you find why did what was the point of being here when was the point i don't know). one time was outside the slaughterhouse hahahah reminds you of home doesn't it why won't you. second time nothing more than a disembodied hand pushing a scrap of paper towards him in the crowded train we're still waiting scrawled chicken-feet words crumpled distorting third time is downtown (downtime) you were sitting kicking a heap of rubbish a can rattletattleratatatatata gunsmoke and fire burnt feathers in the air (i'll bite watch the bones crackle watch my eyes you changed so quickly this time let's play a game)

(let's play a game)

(winners first)

#5; LOVE RHYMES WITH HIDEOUS CAR WRECK (*)
mirror images white gold red green black and red splashing on yellow and blue and orange (the difference is marrow-deep beauty matters not when teeth drags against your heartbeat would dig my fingers in to hear you better)

my dearly hated brother how are you? we are all worried about you we wonder how you're doing are you

he is skeletal ghost of a forgotten past dead and buried. all that remains is bloated bluewhite corpse-skin and eyes like dead fish shiny and glazed you killed me again you kill me again always (forever and never only in your dreams but who knows what's real and what isn't). love borne of hot molten iron and frantic heartbeats it's not you i'm shooting at we both i never meant to fire, you know. but i could tell you always did.

#6; READY, WILLING, CAIN AND ABLE (*)
sometimes all he wants is just a little conversation (not inasmuch as a joining of hearts but to a brief respite in between hellfire and poisonous smoke). sometimes the words bleed black and blue and the burnt out coals of heine's eyes burn redcold, and sometimes giovanni smiles like he can't choose between tearing heine's heart out and eat it or let it trample in the funeral dust of his room (one or the other or maybe he'd string his intestines up on the walls welcome home brother).

the words come in fits and starts much like their actions (an abrupt thrust of a hand knocks a lamp over clatterclangshatter and silence) and sometimes there's a long silence where neither of them speak but stare red into orange into red again and their shortsharp breaths they could have been words stuck like flies to a trap in the back of their throats and then it's time for the next game (clickclick)

#7; I MISS YOU (*)
the sky is bluegrey heavy with clouds and almost even before he opens his eyes he can hear the barelythere drops of rain falling like they've fallen in love with the ground, no matter that they will die a pitiful death as a puddle on badly-paved sidewalk and the hard cold embrace of concrete. how stupid, he thinks, staring outside the window and eyes following a trail of watery fingermarks left on the windowpane (screeching creek of wooden frame bent out of shape with age). breathes in. it smells like damp paper and wet grass and the hint of salt from the sea-wind blowing in and the cold drops spatter on the back of his hand as his fingers curl around the windowsill.

how perfectly pointless this all is. how stupid.

nevertheless, he goes out. tells himself that this is for a hot cup of coffee (yet hesitating at the sight of the umbrella propped in the hallway by the door). the rain forms a fine down on his jacket shoulders, his arms, his hair, fogs up the orange lenses of his sunglasses until he has to step into an awning to wipe the water off them.

the light filtering in through the clouds, it's nothing like heaven; can never be, because he can't imagine ever having (but if he could).

(maybe he can).

#8; HANDS OPEN (*)
one two three four fivesixseveneight the clock keeps ticking and he cannot sit still. days pass with every breath growing shallower and tighter sometimes he wonders (how long have i been sitting here?) his fingers still remember the bite of the cold steel, the strangely alive warmth of skin and there are times when he just sits for hours staring at his hands every whorls and grooves etched into his fingers (they cannot scar but they can bleed) and he thinks he just might be going it's

day-- whatever (nineteneleven thirteen) it's getting easier. there are times when he can go for a whole minute without thinking of (one or the other, he cannot decide). should he consider that an improvement? maybe. there are times when he can't tell if he should be awake or he should be asleep but what is asleep when the instant he closes his eyes it's (redblueorangeyellowpale glitter of water but he doesn't dream there is nothing to)

it rains a lot now.

#9; HAPPY & BLEEDING (*)
sometimes i wonder how you're doing, you know. only sometimes (but always it's a sometime somewhere).

sitting here under fluorescent lights that burn and crackle like how your eyes used to, i still remember, you know. i remember everything, dear brother. my dearly hated grievously beloved brother did you crawl up there to burn under the sun like a bug i wonder sometimes when the light gets too much how is your collar? hurting like the usual i hope it hurts like hell, brother.

last time i saw you coloured in red and black and white outlined against the sea of torn pieces of faceless nameless they want you back, brother. they are all of me all of you of us all the same (can't you hear them calling?) i wonder when you'll come back i wonder if your eyes are (because they changed so quickly last time the last time we) there is always

why did you do it

it's a sometime somewhere always.

#10; EULOGY (*)
sometimes he can't sleep. what was the point of sleeping? it's a time for reflection it's for imagination it's for what could be and what could have been but there is no what if, there's no such thing as a possibility. they live in the future but time machine still hasn't been invented and anyway, he is a man who believes in fate more than anything. no freaky coincidences, no luck no chances all that happens (who is killed who gets to walk away) depends on how fast how strong how better you are (and he is nothing but).

you killed me again, heine

the broken glass shards sting his eye with acrid smoke (one dark one white the blood looks brighter when he squints his eyes just so) and the trail of blood drying on his face sticky and heavy reminds him of that time just like this when with onetwothree taptapping of beautiful slender polydactyl fingers on reinforced glass you stopped feeling less and less it's so loud (blood pumping poison it won't stop).

face to face again, you've always been better (but that's not the end of it, tearing my fingers breaking my claws dragging the bricks chipping the marble to pull you down) don't you fucking lie. would you die for her but not for us what is so special about

because it's not okay

it still hurts.

[fic | dogs] AMOKLAUF ; the blood that's been pumping(STILL HASN'T MET YOU) ; giovanni+heine+lilly.

2010-03-01T10:08:08Z

Title: AMOKLAUF : part one : the blood that's been pumping(STILL HASN'T MET YOU)
Fandom: DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE
Character(s)/Pairing: Giovanni, Heine and Lilly. Child-arc.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 2470.
Disclaimer: not mine.
Feedback: yes please!
Notes: Part One of child arc "AMOKLAUF".
Summary: Just a personal sort of headcanon for Giovanni and Heine. How they became who they are now. And Lilly.

"My name's Heine. What's yours?"

Cold feet, skinny calves, bony knees, dirty smock, thin neck, pointy face -- in that order.

Neither of them look very different, until you get to the face. Heine is pale, even more so than anyone else here (or maybe the crackling lights of the institution bleaches him and drains him of blood more cruelly than anyone else, the twelve fingers and full smile of those cyanide lips rob him of the colours that he may have sported). His hair is pale too, but beneath the scraggly bangs his eyes burn red hot coals and fire but with none of the heat, only listless shifting of pupils.

(the place was always cold)

In turn, the boy turns his face down awkwardly back to his sketchbook, but he needn't have bothered; the pale milky-blond locks cover his eyes completely and most of his face too, only leaving a parting for his nose and mouth so that he doesn't choke on his own hair. From this angle he look like a puppy abandoned in favour of other more exciting and pliable toys. You can't do much with an animal, after all. They bleed and break and die and there's nothing you can do about it.

(become stronger, i will make you become stronger than you could ever have imagined. i will give you steel and bolts and thick metal coverings of armour that you will be invincible, you will never be hurt or feel pain ever again. just do whatever i say and everything i say. just be good children.)

(now stand up and fight.)

"Don't you have a name?" The boy presses, takes one step closer, and the blond's fingers tighten convulsively around a crayon. It is red, like his eyes.

"--No." He answers, almost cowering under this boy who stands over him. Heine's bearing is confused, like everyone else here but something is different; that's right, there is confidence. He is confident like no-one else can be, the kind of self-assurance that only children can have, the certain tilt of the head and the straight line of his spine that only boys his age can have (pampered by the Woman and fawned over by scientists; he hates them but praise fills him up like a warm drink).

Heine blinks, tilts his head, and beginnings of a frown creases his pinched pale face. "Why not?"

"I haven't got one." His hands tighten around the sketchbook, the papers turning clammy under his grip. Heine considers this, but shrugs after a moment. There were a lot of kids -- kids who rocked back and forth in a corner, kids who had jagged crying fits that sounded like the tinkering of broken glass shards, kids with wide eyes and grinning mouths who sank their nailsteeth into you whereever whenever you weren't looking --- compared to that, this tiny, quiet kid with his sketchbooks and broken crayons was nothing.

"Whatever." (indicating with one hand) "That's Lilly."

His eyes follow Heine's arm (elbow stretching wrist extended fingers breathing life into one bright figure on the other side of the room, lighting her up like a christmas tree). She is little, like him, but seems bigger for the energy (the life) bursting out from her, seeping out through her skin and bright blonde hair and wide smiling blue eyes and shiny white teeth. The boy sees all this but doesn't quite register it, his attention still fixed on the other boy in front of him.

"Lilly..." He silently mouths the name, the tags on his wrist jangling as he hugs the sketchbook to his chest (the crayons forgotten tumbling onto his lap).

"Are you gonna get one soon?" Heine asks, doggedly keeping to the topic and breaking the short silence that lasted between them. He scratches where the collar meets his neck, flinches a little, and lowers his hand so it hangs limply by his side. "What do I call you, then?"

The boy doesn't answer. Only shrugs a little that is more like a twitch than anything else -- he is sixty-eight, he is a failure, he is rubbish, garbage, nothing more than useless here.

He does not like it here.

"Well," Heine starts, a bit lamely, then a little annoyed (it's not because of him, but because of the silence, because he doesn't know how to deal with a boy when he can't even see his eyes). "I hope you get one soon. I 'spect they haven't gotten around to giving everyone one yet. Don't worry about it."

Don't worry---

He looks up (the mass of matted hair moving along with it) and studies Heine for a long time, watching the thin pale fingers clench and unclench, scratching at his elbow. "Yeah," he finally answers. "I won't."

(then the nightmare comes around again, all blood and screaming and words that don't make sense, and there's the strong fingers gripping at his shoulders hissing Stand up, trash and he's screaming--)

It's the screaming that wakes him up. The blood-red eyes burn him with a mix of emotions (sleep, confusion, worry, annoyance, and bewildered panic) and Heine slowly relaxes his hold on the boy's shoulder. "You okay?" He mutely nods, as if all the screaming in the dream has robbed him of his voice completely. He can still hear the echo of it in his ears, feel it in the way that the other children shift and roll in their sleep. He reaches up under his hair to shakily rub at his watering eyes. His neck hurt. His everything hurt.

There's a blonde mass cowering by Heine, the girl he'd seen earlier -- Lilly. Heine reaches out and gets ahold of her hand and she grips it tightly, her blue eyes not leaving the boy.

And Heine's lips are tight. "Nightmare?"

(not saying that what they're living through right now is one, as well -- awake but not awake, dreaming but not dreaming because just beyond the edge of consciousness they all know that you can't wake up from this one. no-one will bring you hot milk and tuck you back into bed. no-one will wake you up.)

The pale hands gather the blanket thrown off in the struggle and pulls it back over the boy. "Go back to sleep." He yawns, the red eyes disappearing and reappearing in the darkness as he blinks. After a pause, he rolls to his back next to the boy. His body is warm through the blanket. He yawns again. "It'll be morning soon."

So that's how they stay until the lights come on, until the scientists with their clipboards and white gowns come filing in, making their rounds. He curls his fingers around the hem of Heine's clothes, barely brushing his elbow. It is warm.

-----

They've moved onto fighting several of Them a day, now. They are gigantic and heavily armed, but they are quicker on their feet, they're able to (he is able to) tear sinews and chew through the muscles as if it were candyfloss and not livingbreathing human beings. It's easier to pretend that they are not. It's easier to live with, that way.

(and if you thought about it, neither were they)

And he is there as always, there but not there, cowering in the corner by the entrance.

(fight and kill, she said)

He hates it. He hates the change in Heine's eyes, when they grow sharper and fiercer and hotter than the collars they wear shooting electricsharp pain down the spine and back up again fightfightfightfightkill (dis)satisfaction hissing in his ears and he blocks his ears but it doesn't work because it's in his head the Woman is in his head and it feels like She's standing right

She's right behind him, half in and half out of the darkness. It cuts Her face in two like those paintings (one half is a smiling beauty and the other half is a monster) but he can still feel Her sharp gaze stick him helpless on the floor like needles and pins soaked in anaesthetic.

She steps closer, near enough to touch (but She never does, no, he's not good enough for that particular favour) but She stands over him as if She will grab him by the scruff of his neck and shake the Cerberus out of him.

"Why aren't you fighting?" He says nothing, only stares up through the dirty curtain of hair. He daren't raise his gaze any more than up to Her sharp chin, the full lips twisted into a sneer. The stark sterile chemical whiteness of Her clothes hurts his eyes when She bends down towards him, the cherry brown tresses of hair falling down over Her breasts. His neck hurts too. He can't breathe for the gleaming halo tightening and choking his throat, the smell of roses and lily-of-the-valley filling up the space around him.

She lowers her voice conspiratorially. As if to bestow(share) a secret.

(just between the two of us)

"Trash."

The boy chokes on his breath, wraps his arms around his torso and shivers. There's warmth, then-- slowly creeping dampness.

He'd wet his pants.

She turns away.

(and the mouth laughs the smiling riptearkill)

-----

"Why don't you fight?"

Heine asks the boy who sits shivering huddled under a blanket and he settles down next to him before handing over the extra set of clothes that he'd managed to sneak out of the showers. He fumbles with the clothing, fingers unsteady and faltering every time Heine takes a breath.

The boy hastily pulls the shirt over his head, tousled blond head emerging after a few minutes of struggling. The other boy watches him for a few minutes, idly scratching swirling random meaningless designs with a fingernail on his own leg. The question blurts itself out of his mouth like a frog, like something disgusting, slimey, and the boy has to resist the urge to flinch. Feeling the words stick to him filthyslimeshame(shameful like a torn bag of garbage).

"Are you scared?"

"No." He answers but he knows that it's been much too quick of an answer because he can see Heine scowl, the red welts of the circles and swirls darkening on the fleshy part of his shin.

Like all other princes, Heine hates being lied to.

"Don't lie."

He moves to stand up, the bloodred eyes blazing cold and his mouth set into a tight thin railway line. Iron and steel and wood nailed down into the rock.

"I know you're scared."

Heine stares down at the boy for a moment longer, and he looks down at the floor and counts his heartbeats (they grow faster and faster and the boy has to take slow deep breaths because there's the sudden terrifying thought that this is the blackout, this is what everyone else gets this is what he needs this is what would make Her look at him this is what would make him Belong-)

Then it's gone and he's left staring down at his hands with the left index finger smeared greenpurpleblue and it reminds him of

(knife goes in guts come out spilling beneath her feet)

(they are like)

He has a nightmare that night, of hands with razorblade nails (the smiling mouth with the cool double-edged confidence of a cat), and when he wakes up in the morning they are ready.

-----

what he sees is Lilly's little golden brain spilling out from between Heine's fingers

what he sees is a jaw with a row of perfect teeth still attached to it grinning widely from a puddle of blood

what he sees is a finger

what he sees is Lilly's little golden brain

what he sees is the hollow insides of Heine's eyes

what he sees is a torn slash bursting out across the front of his shirt, the cloth fraying whitegrey worms

what he sees are ropes and ropes of shiny glistening greenbrownpinkred spilling out of him

what he sees are his own legs thrown over a boy slumped face down two metres away

what he sees is his own shaking hand, his index finger missing the first two joints (and his thumb is a raw stub of bone with the flesh gnawed off, hanging in tattered strips)

what he sees is Heine's fingers spilling Lilly's little golden brain

what he sees is

black

------

In another minute, his heart jump-starts, kicks like a dying buffalo and splutters what's left of his blood around his body.

And there's light.

The arms the fingers the scalpels come around him inside him, the drips wrap around him like umbilical cords.

And it's warm. It's light and it's warm and that's how he knows that he's not There anymore (because it was always cold There always)

With another bright flash of light his whole body jerks, the ribs almost cracking then caving in on themselves as he takes a huge, gasping breath, coughs out yellowbrown fluid from his lungs. He lets out his first noise, a sort of hiccup that divides itself neatly between his nose and his throat.

All in all, it's almost like being reborn.

There's a frantic beeping echoing down his left ear and beating at the scrambled insides of his brain that matches the rabbit-heartbeat in his right, but there's a hand pressing down on his chest. Six thorns pierce and prickle him like a trap, like a vice, like claws, as the other hand combs his hair back (razorblade fingers like a crown of thorns in his egg-pale hair this is his to bear all the weight of the sins all the death all the blood and he)

The boy struggles, and he's crying bloodless nothing-tears it hurts it hurts but there isn't any more Heine with his stolen clothes and blankets, there isn't any more of anything anymore, there isn't any more of himself anymore either and she lets him know with the needleprick of her fingers (something wicked this way comes) he's only alive because She chose him, gathered all the bloodbonesguts into her arms and fixed him up as good as new, ground the bones into dust and made him in the fire of her children.

If She made me in his image, then he's a failure too.

"My darling Giovanni," Her voice pours thickdarkpoison in his ear as Her arms wrap around his head once more and he can't breathe for the smell the air smells of sicklysweetrank, of corpses piled in a rose garden, a little girl drowned in a lilly-pond

(and somewhere a boy crawls up through the smoke and sulphur of hellfire with nails bitten to the quick; maybe he'll meet the man with a bloody knife and maybe he'll meet the man with daredevil laugh but eyes of a corpse and finally the one who listens to all of their deepdark secrets their sins and their guilt but he cannot listen to god - he should have been born deaf, not blind)

But the boy is not deaf and though he may be blind, though he may not shed tears he stares up into the light into Her eyes. She smiles and puts Her hands over his eyes and whispers, like it's a secret, a surprise

(just between the two of us)

"Giovanni."

(and the mouth laughs the smiling riptearkill)

{ fanfiction master list }

2009-11-07T07:50:52Z

MASTERLIST

(oldest → newest)

dogs: bullets&carnage;

→ when the sun ; g ; badou+nill.
→ orphanage and cancer ward ; pg13 ; mihai/badou.
→ beyond the valley of the ultra milkmaids ; pg13 ; vague giovanni/badou.
→ round&round&round we go ; pg ; heine+twins.
→ private eye ; r ; heine+badou+giovanni.
→ how long the night was ; pg13 ; einstellsehn/fruhling.
→ you're just as confused as i am ; r ; giovanni/badou.
→ territory of lies ; pg13 ; heine/badou.
→ practice of fools ; pg ; badou/mimi.
→ merits of cigarettes: an internal monologue ; g ; badou-centric.
→ featherlight ; g ; naoto/nill.
→ first time ; pg13 ; giovanni/badou. *prequel to this.
→ ok, time for plan b ; pg13 ; heine/badou.
→ tasted worms, windows&roses ; pg13 ; giovanni/naoto/badou.
→ i will bring you every spring ; pg13 ; badou/naoto.
→ what's in velvet beyond ; r ; giovanni/badou.
→ deeper:blood of my blood ; pg ; giovanni-centric.
→ are laid fists of hunger silence ; r ; giovanni/badou (heine).
→ make my pain their crazy meal ; r ; giovanni+heine (lilly).
→ you're all that cold iron ; g ; giovanni+fruhling.
→ genesis ; pg13 ; einstellsehn+giovanni.
→ the prificient poison of sure sleep ; r ; giovanni/badou.
→ i shall not smile beloved;i shall not weep ; r ; giovanni-centric.
→ triptych ; pg ; giovanni+twins.
→ down shall we go which & up come who ; g ; badou-centric.
→ our mouths something red ; r ; giovanni-centric.
→ eagerly just not each other ; r ; fruhling/giovanni.
→ &are in real ; pg13 ; heine+giovanni.
→ amoklauf:in three parts ; (part 1 / part 2 / part 3) ; pg13 ; giovanni+heine+lilly.
→ rise with me;run away from your grave ; pg13 ; giovanni-centric.
→ thinking very much of nothing ; r ; giovanni/heine. [AU]

katekyo hitman reborn;

→ something more maturely childish ; pg ; squalo+dino.
→ where we dare to tread ; g ; squalo-centric (dino).
→ just make a wish&everything comes true ; g ; gokudera/haru.
→ we are all of us haunted&haunting ; pg13 ; squalo/bianchi.

hetalia;

→ so;and i say(38 ways to view a line) ; pg ; korea-centric (north korea + south korea). [AU]

d.gray-man;

→ button games ; pg13 ; tyki/cross marian

crossover;

→ such crude perfection ; dogs and kingdom hearts 2 ; pg13 ; badou/roxas.
→ forse perche della fatal quiete ; katekyo hitman reborn and persona 3 ; pg ; squalo/badou.
→ mi parve di morir ; katekyo hitman reborn and persona 3 ; g ; squalo/chidori.
→ e libero voler ; katekyo hitman reborn and persona 3 ; pg ; squalo/chidori.
→ windswept ; katekyo hitman reborn and dogs ; pg ; squalo/badou.
→ it's just a little like music ; katekyo hitman reborn and dogs ; pg~r ; squalo/badou.
→ pondering the tinsel part ; bleach and dogs ; r ; hirako shinji/giovanni.
→ like an animal in your care ; smt:devil summoner and dogs ; g~r ; giovanni/raidou kuzunoha XIV.

others;

→ fault line ; dogs ; giovanni FST side A.
→ lapdog ; dogs ; giovanni FST side B.

[fic|reborn] just make a wish & everything comes true ; gokudera x haru

2009-08-20T13:16:55Z

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Character(s): Gokudera/Haru.
Rating: G
Word Count: 162
Disclaimer: not mine.
Feedback: yes please!
Notes: a random drabble, TYL arc; post-Tsuna's funeral.

{just make a wish and everything comes true;

they don't quite believe it, not even afterwards, drifting down the road with vacant eyes blank stares listless movement of headshands like marionettes with their strings cut off (snipsnipsnip past the pianowires and heartstrings straight bullseye) but haru's eyes are dry and her fingers are warm when she turns towards him though only he sees knows the iron built into her spine and set into her features even the wet hair hanging down her face is like wire where's your umbrella, he asks (and immediately regrets it because) of course it's back there back with him back with the faded flowers and wilted memories that are only memories what was the use of leaving it there where it would hang useless what was the use when there was no chance of ever seeingit usingit again the way it should be and there is nothing, but i just wanted to say goodbye she says and there is no more and just so much more

[fic;dogs] &are in real ; haine + giovanni

2009-08-12T02:05:22Z

Title: &are in real
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: PG13-ish for psycho.
Characters: Haine and Giovanni.
Word Count: 828
Disclaimer: I don't own DOGS.
Feedback: VERY MUCH APPRECIATED.
Notes: Nothing...much? I've been working on this fic for forever holy shit. I'm so glad I finished.
Summary: (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now).

"Haine." Hainehainehainehaine words echoing around his head like a room with too many walls too many eyes too many mouthslipsteethtongue (fingers stroking his forehead grasping at his collar pushing him into the darkness holding his breath down onetwothreetwelve) and he bolts up from where he's lying on the couch, a hand already grasping the chain hanging from his hip and jerking upupup (around a small wrist a pale neck you can see the musclestendons ripping under the coldcruel metal and you laughlaughlaughlaugh as you tighten your hands

and Giovanni is sitting on the edge of a chair, smiling to a self)

"I expected rather warmer greeting than that."

Redeyesorangelenses heart still pounding voice still laughing and inside his head all the reflections of a grinning ghost I'm okay I'm okay Haine I'm okay I'm-

"What do you want?"

It's not even midnight yet, Haine realises, the noise outside from drunken crowd somehow unreal (the noise inside this room, with this man, somehow imagined yet more real to him, the grinning pierrot sitting across him somehow more real than the very air he's breathing in slowsteadystop).

The gun is still pointed at the pale blond head and Haine's eyes are wide.

Instead of answering, Giovanni makes a show of looking around the small room (breaking the eye contact with the barrel of the gun and baring his throat in a blatant mockery, a blind show leading on the fools and the unbelievers down into hell with the marching tune of his flute watch out watch out all the bad kids the piper's gonna get you go back to sleep). The corners of his lips turn down slightly as he catches sight of something (something unpleasant, the face you might make when the dog had done its little business on the carpet), then immediately twist back up almost as if it didn't happen at all.

"You."
"Stop fucking around."
(a laugh)"What, do you think I'm joking, Haine?"

That gets a response, the bullet barely missing his head and grazing against one ear instead. The noise from the outside stutters slightly (helpless floundering of a drowning man clutching at nothing, a bird flying into a window) as the echo of the gunshot slowly fades.

Giovanni briefly touches the side of his head, catching the (already sluggish) flow of blood on his fingers, and glances at it disinterestedly. Wipes his fingers on the handkerchief. Puts it back in his pocket. (casual greetings aside, now)

"Where were we? Ah, yes." The blond leans forward from his chair towards Haine, lips pulling back from teeth pearlywhite canines shining in the half-darkness. As if to share a personal darkdeepdeeper secret with him, as if to a fellow conspirator (fellow survivor of the nightmare and the bramble-fingers clutching at you pulling you downdowndown the thorns and the snakes can't hurt you, darling, because we're invincible now). "Do you think I'm joking?"

(faster than the car can fucking crash spiralling off everything's airborne now)

onetwothreefour hello earth

"Haine?"

His eyes snap open redburning hellfire breathing sulphur and acid as he snarls up at the face hovering above his own. The grin never fades even as Giovanni moves his head back slightly; the heavy weight on his shoulders doesn't fade either, almost(almost) painful. A hand moves, warm skin brushing against cold pressing against his neck feeling out the vein thud thudding under the pads of his fingers. He doesn't know where his guns are (they're still in his hands, the knuckles turning blue, but he can't move can'tmove can'ttalkcan'tdoanything but stare up into the mirrored tangerine reflection tinting everything bloodorange).

"Don't you see?" he whispers, gringrinning like a clown (a jester a joker) a joke that everybody else doesn't get, a private joke with his painted eyes painted lips painted mask of a face like thin membrane of an eggshell.

"I miss you."

Surprisingly warm fingers trail down the side of his neck and Haine shivers (perhaps even more so because he remembers in those warm fingers brushing gently against his own cold skin the cold fingers brushing against his warm skin roses and lillies in the air bramblethorns tearing his skin wrapped around his neck and it feels like a decade ago an eternity ago lips pressing against the cold of his collar whispering

you are my child).

(I won't ever be real to you.)

Giovanni laughs in his ear; an easy, relaxed sound, the slightly chapped lips pressing briefly against Haine's cheek. The fingers are at his shoulders now, pressing down at the dip of his collarbone and his shoulder, just enough to hurt but not quite, like pressing down on a cut that is just starting to scab over (but they never felt that, not really). "Come back home."

They both know what the answer is going to be even before Haine answers; nothing's easier than what he(they) imagined it would be and everything's harder because they're running out of time he's running out of time and all the while (the madeup paintedup memory of her smile still brightflaring in his head).

"No."

(we're all waiting for you.)

[fic;bleach|dogs] PONDERING THE TINSEL PART ; shinji x giovanni

2009-08-09T09:17:40Z

Title: Pondering the Tinsel Part
Fandom: Bleach & DOGS:Bullets&Carnage
Rating: R? Bordering on NC17 since lmfao look at the note, man.
Pairing: Hirako Shinji/Giovanni I KNOW BUT I SWEAR IT WAS AN ACCIDENT IT WAS A RANDOMISED MEME.
Word Count: 380.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people SOB.
Feedback: LMFAO ANYTHING WILL BE COOL YO. JUST DON'T KILL ME PLZ.
Notes: FUUUUCK for a meme, requested by epee. Prompt - mutual masturbation.
Summary: "Are we doing this or not? I gotta be somewhere real soon, y'know?"

Shinji's fingers dance over the rim of the sunglasses, and he sounds rather less than amused. "What's up with yer glasses? Just lose that thing, you're ruining my style." Giovanni merely purses his lips and slaps the fingers away, feeling the weight of the other's sword hanging from his hip as keenly as his own guns pressing against his back under the jacket.

"Are we doing this or not?" Shinji lowers his eyes, one eyelid drooping lazily into a wink, and grins crookedly. "I gotta be somewhere real soon, y'know?" He shifts closer, the bony knuckles digging into Giovanni's chest none-too-gently before dragging downdowndown. The muted clang as their belt buckles briefly brush against each other isn't the only thing that sends a ripple of shivers down Giovanni's spine. It could also be the heavy breath against his cheek, the hand curling around the bony jut of his hip. He wants to reply, say something caustic and mean and totally ruin whatever moment this was (something along the lines of how he certainly didn't look as if he's busy, and in fact, never had in their previous(similar) encounters) but--

The other man laughs, a breathless, slightly mocking tone still remaining in his voice even as he thrusts shallowly against Giovanni, his hand tightening on the other's belt and stray strands of blond hair brushing against the side of the other's face as he drops his head a little, forehead against Giovanni's jaw. "Hurry up," Giovanni finds himself saying instead, feeling that hand sliding down further and fiddling with the buckle even as his own fingers tug open Shinji's trousers. "Will you just--nnh."

There's a momentary flare of something - something that Giovanni doesn't recognise and isn't sure if he even wants to - but his teeth are bared into a snarlsneer and his hand tightens around Shinji and it is somehow good to hear the other's hitched breath cool against his neck (then the muttered curses growing hotter with every movement of skinagainstskin handsfingers grippingclutchingstrokingtouching). Shinji isn't an immortal, after all, even with the centuries of life(death?) behind the dark eyes and the crooked thin lips. He can still die (still have his blood spilt all over the fucking dirty pavement) and Giovanni knows that he knows this too.

But then, so can he.

[fic;reborn] WE ARE ALL OF US HAUNTED & HAUNTING ; squalo x bianchi

2009-07-05T02:40:06Z

Title: We Are All Of Us Haunted & Haunting
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating: PG-13 ish.
Pairing: Vague Squalo/Bianchi. TYL!Arc. Post-Reborn death.
Word Count: 1050.
Disclaimer: LMFAO no.
Feedback: YES PLZ.
Summary: "He'd never been good with women who couldn't take their share of life."
Notes: Random drabble that happened to get really long.

She walks into the kitchen with a gait that's apparently unfazed, turns her face towards him that's apparently unamused (back after the long and gruelling funeral, he'd gotten the other two idiots and wrecked the kitchen in a farewell party of their own). Squalo watches her silently regarding the figures sitting around the island; Gokudera's hair peeking out over the rumpled shoulders of his dark suit as he sits slumped over the counter, Yamamoto's sword leaning precariously on the stool as he snores quietly, barely above the hearing range.

But that isn't all; he sees the slight crooked-pin twist on her lips, the furrow of unsightly wrinkles on her smooth forehead, and looks away as if he noticed nothing.

Pours a glass. Pushes it towards her.

There's only a slightest of pause before she takes the glass, swallowing the heady bittersweetsyrupy liquor like it's water.

No change in expression. Pushes it back towards him.

He'd never been good with women who couldn't take their share of life.

After a moment, she pulls out a stool and sits down across to him, next to her brother. He notices that she's still in the black dress from the funeral, though she'd discarded the hat and the shawl. Her skin is whiter against the shimmer of black material than he'd remembered before. Maybe it's the pallor of death; he sees it hovering over the turn of her head, following the impatient drumming of her nails on the marble counter. He sees it on his own face too, sometimes.

Maybe that's why he pours her another glass, the liquid barely sloshing the bottom of the glass before he's pushing it towards her, but they both know that it's enough. Maybe this time he'll see a slight wrinkling of her nose, the faintest of red on her cheeks, her throat working as she swallows it down. And he does.

Scraping of glass against stone, enamel against marble, metal against glass.

After a while (the bottle soon similarly empty, barely sloshing at the bottom now, but it does little to warm him up, warm the cold of his metal hand take me back take all of us back to when it used to be simpler, nothing more than rose bushes and piano recitals and warmth of the kitchen on a summer day, the smell of vinegar and fish and sword practices and no wounds that couldn't be healed with a simple band-aid) they put the other two to bed. No matter that Yamamoto is now taller than him, no matter that the top of her head barely brushes Gokudera's chin now, they are still but children.

It always takes him a while to realise that she is not much older than them, as well. But he guesses, just maybe (maybe it's the way that she brushes Gokudera's hair out of his forehead as she tucks the sheet around him), in the gap of merely three years, therein lies the wide abyss of an entire century.

He doesn't know why he'd even been ordered to come here, in Xanxus's stead ('in the wake of the recent tragedy', he said, 'we cannot risk any more casualties'). They needed whoever, whatever, that could get them out of this mess; the boss's life was not meant to be trifled with such visits across the ocean, across enemy territories, to Japan in order to attend a stupid funeral. They had enough to deal with in Italy (but Squalo notices the fresh crate of liquor on the corner of the office as Xanxus writes him out a cheque for the flight, and he understands that, in his own way, this was a tribute as well, if not for the world's best hitman, then for the Varia's best illusionist).

Afterwards, Squalo walks her over to her door and leans on the wall as she unlocks it, before turning her large eyes up towards him. They're the same shade of green at Gokudera's, he realises, probably from their father. That isn't the only similarity; he senses the same strength in her as in the Storm Guardian, though hers is muted, masked behind a layer of velvet hair and soft skin and luminous silk of her dress. He'd known it from the moment she stood in front of the coffin, so tiny that it was barely visible among all the flowers.

Perhaps he'd known it all along. His mother had the same set of the shoulders, the same tilt of the chin as she addressed the men. He hadn't quite realised it before, back then, just how much effort that must have taken her. Just how much effort that she's taking now, the girl in front of him, although she's more a woman than a girl now; it is wrong to slap the label of a child on her, not when she's standing in front of him like this.

Maybe they could just write it off as a bad luck; a woman like this falling in love with a baby like that, but after an entire lifetime, because thirty-two years seem a long time now, as it did before; an eternity and more, Squalo had learnt to know otherwise.

He remembers the conversation he had with Cavallone. He said that he wanted a kid, they're all getting on in years. He said he wanted a quiet life. He said he wanted to retire. Squalo laughed at him; a fool's laugh for another fool, because nobody ever retires from this, from this world, until the day they die. Like the baby, his name now a scribble of black ink bleeding onto the parchment, sealed with the flame of the Vongola Decimo and locked under seven keys and seven chains and lowered six feet down in the ground.

But...

But maybe perhaps it's too soon. Perhaps it's a stupid thing to hope. Perhaps it's a stupid thing to even think about it. So Squalo shakes it away and grins at her, mirroring the crooked smile from earlier (a nail bent out of shape, a flower withering in the vase, rose vines growing in a thicket). "Going to invite me in yet?"

Her hands find the lapel of his jacket, pulls him forward pulls him in, and he lets her.

Whether they were born into this life or chosen, they were still in this for life. Might as well make the best of it while they could.

[fic|hetalia] So;and I say(38 ways to view a line) ; korea

2009-05-26T06:24:13Z

Title: So;and I say(38 ways to view a line)
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PGish.
Pairing: North Korea and South Korea. NOT a pairing. Mentions of Japan, China, and other nations involved in History of Korea.
Word Count: 3794
Disclaimer: I don't own this. All I own is idk being a Korean and that's about it. I apologise for any mistakes. I'm trying my best with consulting various sources.
Feedback: Very appreciated!
Notes: Brief rundown of general Korean history (Gojoseon and the Three Kingdoms, etc), the Japanese Annexation, and the Korean War to the present day, with particular focus on North Korea. There will be notations at the end of the writing.
Notes #2: North Korea = Ji-Soo, South Korea = Yong-Soo. (Sirname is identical; Im)
Notes #3: This is a GENERAL OVERVIEW of Korean History; therefore I do recognize that I have skipped over the details of some eras/incidents, and missed out some parts altogether. They may be written in detail at a later date as a series of stand-alone short stories.

It didn't used to be like this.

It used to be half-opened flowers still frozen from the winter frost spilling over the brightsmooth sleeves of his new clothes, the smooth gallop of horses over fields that seemed like it would never end. It used to be bathing in the lake where the son of the sky first descended, the icy-cold water turning his skin blue like the sky (until he didn't know whether he was floating on water or air and had to laugh until his teeth chattered too much to breathe). He used to lie outside listening to Dangun (the grandson of heaven, born from the sky-son and the bear-mother, sky opening up for his arrival) sing by the fireplace, counting stars until his voice cracked with sleep.

They were nothing more than barbarians in gege's eyes; he could see it and hear it (the word dongyi muttered under his breath at his clumsy attempts that left plants crushed and burnt, China finally bending down to the drycracked soil with him, pointing out the first signs of rice stalks with practices hands) but it was a good life, he (his people) were learning how to sow seed, how to tame the horses, milk the cows. They had clothes to wear, food to eat. They were settling down here with him, in this land (his land, now), and it felt good.

At some point there was another one of him; one of softer complexion and softer nature, who did not like the taut strings of the bow and the whistle of arrows but more the subtleties of music, the warmer southern climate to suit the warmer smile (slightly hesitant as he reaches out a hand for him).

(Hyung sounds odd, tongue curling around the word strangely easy, disconcertingly difficult)

It took some getting used to, watching his little brother -- After all, what else could he be? Sprung from his own land, his own people, and it was easy to see his smile and think of the days gone past (think of the days of the fireplace and singing, the stars bright over his head). He could see that gege liked this softer child. Everyone did, it seemed, but it didn't matter so much to him; he had always been the strong one, the Eastern barbarian leading his people into battle for better lands (for better life, although he wasn't sure which was a better life now, when they had all they could possibly want).

It didn't used to be like this.

He sees Yong-Soo's (at some point, it didn't seem right to call him 'Little brother' anymore, at some point it felt right) mud-spattered face and rain-drenched uniform, and beyond him he can see gege's feathered helm, the swinging banner of his empire, sees the way Yong-Soo's fingers clutch at the spear. He knows he should lift his sword, should defend himself, but instead the first thought that enters his head is

(the blade glancing off the plates of his armour)

just how much he's grown since last time he saw him, and

(one eye closed against the thunder breaking over their heads, little brother lunges forward and)

Really, his fingers suited the strings of the zither better.

-----

He stands on the wooden balcony of the house, looking out to the garden where the morning dew is still wet on the leaves. How long has it been, since that time? It still feels a little disconcerting to realise that it was his little brother who defeated him, even after all these years; he had always been the softer one.

But he has no time to think of that, now. His brother needs his help, their king needs it, and there are still the delegation to China to organise, the banishments of traitors to consider (his land, his, his(their) ancient heritage now used as nothing more than harsh borderland between themselves and other countries, as banishing grounds for the punished and the unwanted; his land of wide plains and high mountains, and it feels as if he can taste the water of the lake).

Instead, he just smiles; he can do nothing else here, at this moment. The silk of his clothes feels strangely heavy as he turns around, the light winged hat feels as if it were made of stone.

-----

The palace burns.

He watches the rooftops burning bright (skeletal wooden frames stark black and crumbling against red blazes) over the heads of the people, and feels the bloodied nails bite into the palms of his hands and the bitter bile rise to his throat.

"Hyung," there is a hand tugging at his sleeves, the action half-desperate, half-authoritative. He looks down at Yong-Soo's determined face, mud streaked in his long braided hair and dark blood matted to the side of his head. "The king already left; we should follow too."

They should follow, he knows it. Whereever the king goes, they also must go. But he can (they can) still feel the islanders' sandaled feet tramping the rice fields, the blades of their swords stained with their people's blood, and he grits his teeth.

(their land should not be like this, wasn't like this, it didn't used to be like this; he would have thrashed those Japanese barbarians for good, had thrashed them in the olden times, over and over until they dared not set foot on even a grain of sand of his shores, had fought them all, and now--)

"Hyung?" There's just a hint of tears wobbling on the edge of the word, and he slowly turns around. (his hand finding the other's and gripping tight, sticky with blood). "Let's go."

He will find a way to protect this land, this people.

(the heat from the palace burns his skin raw, and he merely tightenes his hand around the other's)

-----

It's a bit different now, a little more noise added to the millenia-old cacophony of voices (he goes to sleep with Dangun's voice ringing in his ears, wakes up with Yong-Soo's voice echoing through the palace). The new language (new-different? new-old?) is now familiar on his tongue, the winged hat sitting easy on his head.

Recently now, more than ever, he can hear babble of foreign languages, strange and odd in his ears, different from the inflection of Chinese and the sharp staccato of the Japanese; it is different but soothing in a way that he can't explain (the first rising hackles at the strangeness of it smoothed away by the gentle hands wrapped around a rosary, the ghostly pale faces over sombre black garment somehow reassuring in the sheer innocence of the expression there).

"They should be stopped." Yong-Soo says one day over dinner; he is bigger now, taller, the child who was him now nothing but a memory (and it is faint even for himself now, the days of the sky-son, the wide fields of his land; it was such a long time ago--). He doesn't say anything but carefully reaches over the table for a pickled dish, silver chopsticks feeling strangely odd in his calloused fingers.

Yong-Soo's voice is determined, firm (the centuries spent with gege has lent him new authority in his words). "They are getting worried, okay? This grisdo, this abominable religion, is making them disrespectful towards the old ways, all the ideals--"

"I guess so." He says blandly and (what could be his first time) sees the annoyance flit over the other's face. Frowning, they both put their chopsticks down, metal clicking against the lacquered wooden table.

(he had never thought about how strange the lack of the usual smile was, never realised that the hesitancy was gone now, replaced by odd determination in the set of his lips)

Yong-Soo answers for both of them, picking up the tea cup. "We have to."

-----

It's a little too quiet. He thinks, 'calm before the storm', then wonders where that thought came from. No matter what, it seems that he can't let go of his innate fighting nature, the constant paranoia. The French and the Americans are demanding entry now, but he knows better after the Japanese; they will protect this land with everything they have, burn their ships, kill their priests, nothing can stop them from letting no-one into their little kingdom. Just the two of them, their land, and their people.

And he thinks that's the way it should be always.

-----

He watches as Yong-Soo is brought down to his knees before the dimunitive Japanese (forehead pressed roughly to the ground by a booted foot, the white and gold of the 'Imperial uniform' bright next to their own tattered hanbok). He would have laughed if he still could (through the rough gag and the rope holding him down fast, tied up like some worthless animal ready to be killed). You think you can be a Westerner just with those clothes, with that sword, with your armies? Nothing but cheap imitations-

Yong-Soo's hands are shaking as the treaty is brought before him, a brush roughly thrust into his hand; he wants to catch his eyes, mouth words that won't be seen, won't be heard don't sign it don't ringing in his eary cryingclashingscreaming his people his land their people

"Sign here." Honda orders, the Japanese words jarring in their ears. Somehow, even with the ropes, it is that sound that forces them to truly realise that they lost.

They lost.

A naked sword rests on Yong-Soo's shoulder, the blade just grazing the side of his throat and with the other hand, Honda gestures down at the paper. "Sign here."

Yong-Soo stares down at the document as if stunned (and he recognizes the look in his eyes, it was like when he first put the bow and arrow into his hands, like that night (such, such a long time ago, they can barely remember it, he hopes that he barely remembers it) when he swung that spear straight down towards him and their eyes met and it was--)

Their eyes meet over the dangerous shine of the blade and Honda frowns slightly, lips curling into an ugly sneer and twists his wrist slightly; blood trickles from the shallow cut on his neck, staining the blue of his clothes dark.

They lost.

Yong-Soo's hands are shaking as he quickly look away to sign the paper, and he can't stop the angry clenchtwist of his fingers (still bound fast behind his back) until another foot presses down on his wrists, making him cry out. "Be quiet." Honda orders, without even looking up from the head bent over the paper, the red stains on the paper obvious when it is pulled out from under Yong-Soo. Honda nods as though satisfied.

They lost.

-----

Yong-Soo huddles in the corner as he is thrown into the room, wiping bloodied lips on the sleeves and not caring that the red smears stained the white silk.

It hurts; all he wants is just close his eyes and sink into the blissful darkness and not wake up until the scars and bruises are healed. He struggles up on all fours and crawls on the floor, only managing to move a few inches from the door before he collapse back on his belly; his back feels as if it's on fire (he can feel the blood hot and sticky).

"You shouldn't have done that."

The voice is quiet, muffled by the crouching and the tightly clenched teeth (only half-understood by the other laying on the floor) but he lifts his head up, dark eyes gleaming even in the dim light as he looks at Yong-Soo. The dishelved hair surrounds the blood shot eyes and the younger cringes, shrinks back into the corner, huddling even closer together as if his brother's presence scares him.

"What, and have that Islander have his way with everything? I had to do this, this is the only way that would get any of the others to notice what's going on. Honda is mad, they won't let him do this to us, they--"

"Brother."

His words slowly die down into silence, the heavy breaths forced out of his lungs (pulling at the torn skin of his back). Yong-Soo looks down at him, and the smile on his face is startling (he had never thought he would ever smile that way, it makes something inside him give; he had never wanted to see that look again).

"You're going to make it worse, brother."

-----

The dagger is pressed to the back of his neck and he dares not breathe (he wants to think that it's the cold air that's somehow frozen his lips shut, not the fear eating away at his insides, making his heart beat even louder; somehow the realisation seems to make the blade feel sharper).

"You're mine now." Honda's voice is monotonous, the hard sound of his language seemingly even more pronounced in the tone of it, and he feels the other's hand grip the long braid of his hair tight, pulling it back sharply that his head snaps back with the force. "You will follow our ways."

"No!" The word comes out choked, half-gurgled into an animalistic snarl as the Japanese roughly pushes him down onto the ground on his belly, a foot pressed between his shoulderblades and the point of the blade resting over the back of his neck. "You will obey me." He wants to kick out, to scream with what little voice he has left, what little strength he could muster (his people are so far away now, scattered among the foreign lands, in Russia, in China, and their voices are so faint).

But before he could do anything, the heaviness is lifted from his head; the sharp blade slicing the thick lock of hair clean off.

Dimly he registers the other moving away, hears the choked sounds coming from his right (wincing at the sound of heavy leather connecting with fleshskinbone) and in a minute it is finished. The jagged ends of his short hair feels like needles as he hangs his head low.

The nape of his neck is strangely cold over the open collar of the kimono, and he tightens the grip around the sleeves of the cloth as Honda meticulously straightens out the sash. Beside him, Yong-Soo shivers in the cold, goosebumps painfully visible on the thin frame as he wraps his arms around himself.

"Your name," Honda speaks, and the warning coldness in the voice brings his attention back to the Japanese, "is Hideyuki."

"It's Ji-Soo."

The blow to the side of his head (the hilt of the katana splitting his lip) feels like a thundercrack, and it is only by sheer force of will that he does not fall to his feet right then and there, merely taking a few stumbling steps before righting himself. Honda looks down at him, dark eyes betraying nothing. "You will speak only Japanese."

(the footsteps are closer and he grits his teeth, blood smearing the side of his mouth)

"You will not wear your old clothes."

(the softquiet sound of the blade leaving its scabbard is loud in Ji-Soo's ears, and he can't help but to close his eyes)

"You're mine now."

-----

He can do nothing; he watches their land being trampled under the rule of this Islander, this barbaric not-country. He watches his brother being forced to his knees before Honda, his king desecrated before his people. All they could do is suffer and wait (wait, wait, this damnable waiting will be the death of them all--and he believes it, he can believe it; their silence is more than proof enough).

We don't need protection. We don't need you, and your ways, and your language. Just cheap imitation of everything else that you took from us, from gege, from those strange Westerners and distorted to suit your whims. Do not think that we will stay down, for we will not lose to you.

(He cannot look away; the images burning into the back of his eyes, the screams and whimpers forever echoing inside his head)

He will not forget.

-----

The fresh wind coming from the Manchuria plains is the same as ever, but the look in his eyes is harder, more determined, the set of his shoulders just a little defensive. He is alone, in what could be the first in a very, very long time (he must strain his memory to remember the days long ago when it had been just one of him; there had always been two in his dreams, his waking memory) and the wind is cold.

He can feel his hope dwindling with each rejection, gege's frowning face and Soryeon's smiling one both instantly mocking, lingeringly insulting. He knows they can count on no help from the West; they are nothing but mad dogs, salivating at the prospect of trade and money and nothing else, and he has (they have) nothing to offer in return for freedom.

(He could give up his life for freedom, now, spending time with these people who dedicate themselves to the idea of freedom, for themselves, for their country)

In his heart of hearts he knows this is futile (and sometimes he would like to shout this is useless, don't throw your life away, live, and let us be patient) but he had never been the one to bow down to anyone.

He had been a fighter first before he was a negotiator, a politician, and the cold biting wind on his face brings back the forgotten memories (the sword heavy in calloused palm).

Banishing the image of mud-streaked face blood-streaked clothes from his mind, Jin-Soo turns his gaze away to head back towards the base.

-----

It is a hard-worn liberty and they wear their scars like a badge, their gauntness like a medal of honour (Yong-Soo's face is bright for the first time in years; the first time he had seen his brother in years, each shut away in Japan's cage and trapped by the wide hard winter of the mainland). He would like to speak to him, to say something, but there's Ivan's hand heavy on his shoulder and Jin-Soo has to suffice with catching Yong-Soo's eyes (sees America behind him, resplendent and victorious in his shiny cap and green-brown of the army gear, and he cannot help but frown a little).

They sit down on the table, the two halves facing each other, he would like to say something, anything, but there's something hot burning in the back of his throat (a bitter feeling rising at the bright face of Alfred beside his brother) so he says nothing and turns his gaze to the table (missing the slight flicker of surprisehurt in Yong-Soo's eyes).

"So, what should we do about you?"

Alfred asks while shuffling the worn documents laid out on the table and Jin-Soo looks up, freedomfreedomfreedom burning on his tongue but his mouth will not open, instead clenching his hands tightly under the table (and out the corner of his eyes he sees Ivan cracking a little smile, the big white hand finding his bony elbow and gripping tight).

"I do not think they are ready yet."

The accented voice is soft but firm. It's a voice with a millenia of hard winter behind it, and Jin-Soo feels rather than sees America stiffen on the other side of the table, the smile growing strained though it loses none of the brilliance.

"O-of course, I mean. I guess not... They're still weak."

He sees America squeeze Yong-Soo's shoulder; he knows it is meant to be reassuring but to him it looks like nothing more than another form of vice (another cage to trap them in, this time it's made of soft wool rather than hard sharp steel, but it is still a cage).

Five years.

They can wait five years.

-----

Yong-Soo doesn't quite know exactly what had happened; still shell-shocked and covered in a fine dust of stone and gunpowder, he sits on the ruin of Seoul.

(and honestly, he doesn't quite know what happened, either; all he knows is that he must save him; his little brother, his kin, and he needs to save him from everyone ever and then they could be happy and free and they will be together like they should be always all the time and there won't be anyone else to interfere I won't let anyone interfere little brother I'm here I'mhereI'mhere--

"Why?"

The wide eyes turn towards him, takes in the blood-spattered khaki of the uniform, the red-starred hat pulled down low over his forehead (the bayonet black and shiny and new cradled securely in his arms). He says nothing but reaches out a (bloodied) hand towards the other, intending to pull him up to his feet. Yong-Soo shrinks back from him like he did so many years ago in that dark room, Honda's voice still ringing in both of their ears, the makeshift bombs only brief pauses of hope, of relief.

"Y-you killed them! T-they-" Our people. His voice cracks and breaks just like it did (just like it used to) in their(his) childhood, and in some way this is just like it used to be, the little brother shrinking away from the older.

Just like it used to be.

It's so different now.

Jin-Soo merely smiles, glimmer of white teeth on face smeared with dirt and soot and what else besides. "It's for you."

Everything all of this all the massacre the streams running with the blood of the people the Han river filled with bodies the broken buildings for as far as the eyes can see this is all for you can't you see?

He can't.

-----

It is cold up here in winter, colder than even when it used to be at the beginning of time. The chill pierces to his bones, and he'd never felt older.

How long has it been, since that time? (lifting the bayonet high above his head, seeing the same eyes same face as that night thousands of years ago) It had been a long time. The barbed wire cuts through his skin, digs into the palm of his hands, but he hardly feels it over the freezing temperature.

It is strange to be shut out in here, he, who had lands as far as the eye can see, so wide that he could not reach the borders of it even when he rode for a full day. It is strange to see instead his brother make his name in the world, as if he were an equal (almost as if they were all equal among themselves). It feels like he is trapped in a fish bowl sometimes, trapped behind a cage made of glass (he tried so hard to get out of it, he did get out he did-)

There is a new edge in the voices when they speak to each other now, a new hardness in Yong-Soo's stare; he knows that his presence unnerves him, and he's used to it. It usually is the case for most of the others, these days.

He just never would have thought it would happen with him.

Maybe they were always meant to be apart.

Maybe it was wrong from the start that there were even two of them.

(that doesn't make the sting go away, doesn't stop the blood from flowing)

It used to be so different.

/NOTES/
1 - Gege - Older brother (Chinese).
2 - Dongyi - Eastern Barbarians; a term used by the Chinese for the early Korea (Gojoseon).
3 - At some point there was another one of him - (early) South Korea, depicted as Silla and Baekje to early North Korea's Goguryeo; Baekje was famous for its musical and cultural prowess, and was friendly with Japan, and Silla with China's Tang Dynasty. Goguryeo mostly hung out on its own conquering lands and stuff, and its territory reached through Manchuria and southeastern end of Russian maritime province. Baekje was later conquered by Silla-Tang alliance to join United Silla.
4 - Hyung - Older brother (Korean). [NOTE: the Three Kingdoms speculatively used an older form of the modern Korean, with Silla's dialect having a more direct line to the modern Korean language - it is thought that they did not use the same language, but different forms or dialects of a single language, and communication would not have been so difficult; I have used the modern Korean word here as I am unsure of the word for Older brother in Sillan dialect, but Goguryeo's unfamiliarity with the word reflects the differences in their languages.]
5 - gege liked this softer child - Silla and Baekje were friendly with China and Japan respectively (see note 3 for more information).
6 - at some point, it didn't seem right to call him 'Little brother' anymore, at some point it felt right - Goguryeo's relations with Baekje and Silla were complex and alternated between alliances and enmity.
7 - beyond him he can see gege's feathered helm - Silla-Tang(China) alliance defeated Goguryeo in 660 CE, leading to the North-South states of Silla and Balhae (remnant of Goguryeo) that lasted for the next 300 years or so.
8 - the palace burns - The Japanese invasion of 1592 that lasted for 6 years under Toyotomi Hideyoshi's orders. The Korean army and navy managed to repel them back under General Yi Soon-sin and help from China. This invasion had cemented the hostile relationship between Japan and Korea.
9 - the new language - Joseon Dynasty had more or less perfected the Korean language, and there is little difference between Joseon dialect and the modern Korean.
10 - winged hat - referring to the headgear of the costume of the governmental officials.
11 - silver chopsticks - silver utensils were used for the royal family as it was said to detect poison such as arsenic; it will turn black on contact with poisoned food.
12 - grisdo - (a poor romanization) of the word Christ. Christianity/Roman Catholicism is called Cheonjugeo, or Suhak. Christianity was introduced to Korea via China around 1770s, and the growing popularity alarmed the Joseon government in that it forbade worship of idols (thus forbidding the Confucian tradition of ancestral commemoration), leading to the great persecution of Christians in 1860s that led to conflict between France and Korea.
13 - The French and the Americans are demanding entry - related to the 1860s Christian/Catholic persecution, France used it as an excuse to get hold of Korean territory. The same year, America also made an attempt to forcefully open trade with Korea. Korea fought both forces off and performed the Isolationist tactic on the entire country, forbidding contact with any foreigners.
14 - Sign here - the Treaty of Ganghwa made in 1876, an unequal treaty that forced Korea to forego its Isolationist policy and open up their country, and granted Japanese extraterritoriality powers in Korean lands.
15 - You shouldn't have done that - 1909 assassination of Itou Hirofumi (the Japanese plenipotentiary) by the Korean nationalist An Jung-Geun. Led to the forceful annexation of Korea under Japan of 1910. Although unawares at the time, Japan and America signed a secret agreement (which led to later anti-American sentiment in Korea) giving Japan free reign in control of Korea without American intervention.
16 - the sharp blade slicing the thick lock of hair clean off - The Gabo Reform. Under the Japanese rule, Korea was forced to discard many, if not all, of its traditions and customs, including the long hair (a Confucian tradition).
17 - Your name is Hideyuki - Gabo Reform. See note 16.
18 - Soryeon - Korean term for Soviet Russia / USSR.
19 - The fresh wind coming from the Manchuria plains - North!Korea has joined the Korean Nationalist/Freedom fighters who escaped to China and Soviet Russia (as well as other European nations) push for Korean Liberation. There was little success in their efforts. See note 15 for the reasons to the lack of response from other nations such as America and UK.
20 - Ivan's hand heavy on his shoulder & sees America behind him - After WWII and Japan's defeat in 1945, Korea was officially liberated from under Japanese annexation. However, Soviet Union and America decided that Korea was not ready to be an independent government, and imposed a 5-year supervision for the nation, leaving the Southern half for US supervision and the Northern half for USSR, diving Korea at the 38th parallel.

[fic;dogs] EAGERLY JUST NOT EACH OTHER ; fruhling x giovanni

2009-05-18T10:54:04Z

Title: Eagerly Just Not Each Other
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: R-ish for sexual implications idk.
Pairing: Fruhling/Giovanni.
Word Count: 310
Disclaimer: I don't own DOGS.
Feedback: YES PLEASE.
Notes: Prompt "safeties" by moot

Things run deep in the undergound (everyone looking out for the next piece of meat to feast on, next bit of fingersbones to chew on the sound crunching loud in the dark suck me dry to the marrow of my bones).

Even though they ignored each other completely, he still always seemed to know whenwherehow to meet her (brush his shoulder against hers, a finger on the button of her cuff, a crooked smile hanging on the lock of her hair) even in the vast emptiness of the Below, the half-dark corridors echoing with empty ghosts and empty sounds. But enough, enough, they are both same puppets of the stage, same dogs tied to the goldenbrown strands of Her hair and held fast by the long slender scalpelfingers of Hers.

Sometimes it was Fruhling (hips rolling against his effortlessly, fingers tangled in blonde hair tugging his head back lips like razors sharpcruelglint in the dark) and sometimes it was Giovanni (hands curled around the smooth skin of her thighs dipping his head down his tongue like velvet hotwetslide in the dark).

(And if the blood spilling out of the gaping cross of a corpse at his feet is a shitty excuse for a Valentine, then maybe a certain distance is necessary)

It was hard to explain and neither of them ever tried to (they know a lost cause when they see one), but it was still thrilling(deep in the stomach deeper than the heat) when their eyesgaze meet hotcoldhatred across the narrow corridor and she all hard lines and sharp angles buttons digging into the palm of his hands the inside of his arm cold steel pressed against his throat (is this a demerit ha ha ha) and he all twisted fingers twisted grin orange tie slipping easily through her fingers the buckle cold against her belly and

and it felt good to be touching.

[fic;dogs] OUR MOUTHS SOMETHING RED ; giovanni

2009-05-08T01:30:48Z

Title: Our Mouths Something Red
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Rating: LMFAO UH R.
Pairing: Giovanni/Giovanni shut up it's all moot's fault.
Word Count: 285
Disclaimer: I don't own DOGS or any of these shit ahhhhhhhh.
Feedback: DON'T EVEN. JUST BRING OUT THE ROTTEN VEGS.
Notes: Prompt "creeper adult gio/weepy uke shota gio TIME PARADOX - 'palais de glace'" by moot and I hate her.

at first he thinks this is some kind of a bad joke but it isn't the fadedbleached hair like a mangy dog the nervous twisting of his fingers the shiny tag on the bracelet catching the light the metal halo heavy and burdensome around the delicate bones of shoulderscollar (justaboutreddytobreakanyminutenow counting down threetwoone) it's all so familiar like a room he'd never left (you should have died there) and he crosses the room in three steps the other him (because there's no other way(out)of calling this creature) shrinking back fingers with nails bitten to the quick drifting up to his throat He digs his fingers (burying them in clumpedmatted blonde hair tangletug and the whimpers mean nothing when the tears he licks up are so sweet) and the other recoils away pleasepleasepleasnoplease (nails scraping against the slimycoldwet cheekbones and eyelashes brushing his knuckkes) Giovanni can feel his lips curling back (teeth bared the pearlywhitesharp canines readyreadyready?) it's not fair it'snotfair you're not me you can't be me you need to the fingers relax for a moment (the facedlight hair stuck to the palm of his hand wrapped around his fingers like noose) before Giovanni pushes the other down pushing him down on the floor and his hands are like viceclaws on the white hospital gown on the smoothwet skin and digs inininin you have to be me samehair sameface sameeyesnoeyes (same bloody fingers curling into bloodied fabric of the suit scrabbling against the mirrors leaving bright streakssmears all ten of them) you should have died there (we should have died there here this cold room noone to look atyou noone to see you noone to noone nothing at all) and

that has made all the difference.

{ prompt request post }

2009-05-07T08:58:10Z

request post.

-fandom
-prompt
-anything else (pairing or specific characters or whatever)

thank you o/

[fic;dogs] DOWN SHALL WE GO WHICH & UP COME WHO ; badou

2009-05-06T23:15:02Z

Title: Down Shall We Go Which & Up Come Who
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS:Bullets&Carnage
Rating: G.
Pairing: None. Badou-centric.
Word Count: 100.
Disclaimer: Characters/Fandoms do not belong to me.
Feedback: would be much appreciated!
Notes: prompt - "he liked to take pictures of shadows".

He liked to take pictures of shadows.

It wasn't the dark streaks spilling against the asphalt that he was interested in (bleedingspreading before him like some kind of murder scene, the flash of his camera smoke acrid in his nose) nor was it the multi-faceted reflections under a streetlight (suddenly he is a six-armed monster out of a nightmare, suddenly a two-headed freak, suddenly suddenlysuddenly...etc etc).

Rather, it was the blackness of old cracked leather, the smooth gleam of a gun (a knife pointed in darkness, a hand reaching out to nothing).

He still isn't ready to let go, yet.

[fic; dogs|reborn] IT'S JUST A LITTLE LIKE MUSIC ; squalo x badou

2009-05-04T06:47:22Z

Title: It's Just a Little Like Music.
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS:Bullets&Carnage & Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: PG~R-ish.
Pairing: Squalo/Badou
Disclaimer: Characters/Fandoms do not belong to me.
Feedback: would be much appreciated!
Notes: TEN PROMPTS - TEN WORDS - ONE PAIRING meme.

Angst:
He hadn't meant to. It wasn't him. But it was Badou's face grinning out at him from the creased manilla folder, and it was Xanxus's gun pointed steadily at his head.

AU (GodfatherMafia!AU):
The car tyres squeal to a stop in the middle of the country lane and Badou's face comes precariously close to its (fifth? sixth? Squalo was a shitty shit driver) intimate meeting with the dashboard of the car, only saved by the jerk of the seatbelt digging hard into his chest. The wheeze of sick lungs (inflating like a balloon with so many holes in it) is loud, but the following insults are louder.

Crack!fic (...i think only Rabid would get this. SORRY I CANNOT WRITE):
".........Squalo. Squalo."
"-Uh?"
"You're drooling in your sleep again, assfuck. Get the fuck off me."

Crossover (...but this IS a crossover pairing what what WHAT - guess what this is crossedover with lol -shot-):
"You're so fucking retaaarded." Badou ignores the Italian, ignores the bare-white surroundings and the bright light that's making him squint and grunts as he starts pulling on the heavy rope, the friction rough against the palms of his hand. "If I can move this frickin' ship, I get to wear that fucking captain's hat."

First Time:
Squalo really, honestly didn't think the first time would be like this, as he holds Badou's hair back from where the redhead is slumped over the airplane toilet bowl, hugging it to himself with an almost desperate expression on his face (he was retching hard enough to throw up his spleen, so he guessed the gesture wasn't too exaggerated).

Fluff:
Without the rapid rifle-quick mouth and the streetwise gleam in his eye (the world-weary look in his yellowed fingers), Badou is suprisingly light in his arms (the furthest thing from weighing a ton, although that's just the weight of his bones and thintight skin, nothing more and nothing less) and Squalo frowns a little as he gathers the redhead up, ignoring lanky limbs and the unlit cigarette dangling at the side of his mouth.

Humor (THEY'RE ALL HUMOUR OKAY):
The china teacups clack quietly in their saucers and Berenice leans back a tiny fraction in her seat, greyblue eyes (funny how different they look, yet so similar) silently regarding the redhead seated across her. Squalo shifts a fraction in his seat (the leather of his gloves tight across his knuckles) and blurts out. "I'm teaching him Italian."

Hurt/Comfort:
The only time Badou is ever still (drawing away without a word, his face smoothing down impassively, carefully, but Squalo can always tell) is when the Italian trails his fingers along the dark straps, brushes his thumb against the jutting cheekbone; it's playing with smouldering fire, the ambers ready to flare from beneath thin covering of ashes and rotten old rags, but Squalo's always been reckless.

Smut:
Squalo stares up at the ceiling, still seeing purple around the edges of his vision, his heart just about ready to jump out of his chest.

"-Is this why you bought all those bananas."
"Shut up."

UST:
-And Badou pushes him into the pool.</div>

[fic;reborn] WHERE WE DARE TO TREAD ; squalo + dino.

2009-04-05T21:47:23Z

Title: Where We Dare To Tread.
Author: Fridge.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn.
Rating: G.
Pairings: Squalo-centric and lots of Schoolage Dino and Squalo. IDK.
Genre: General. SCHOOLAAAAGE.
Disclaimer: Reborn isn't mine and neither are Dino and Squalo even though Amano fucking sucks.
Notes: BAHHHHHHH These were for a meme but I didn't finish them w/e might as well post them up here and delete these crappy shit off my computer.

1. Fix you up - T&S.
"You're such a dumbass," Squalo grumbles out after pulling the other back to the safety of the pavements, only inches away from the speeding cars. "I should just let you be spattered on the sidewalk like you deserve."

Dino just breathes out a nervous laugh of half-relief, half-(well, just pure laughter) and curls his fingers around the other's inner elbow, the crisp white fabric of the shirt creasing under the bandaged fingers. "Thanks, Superbi."

"Squalo."
"Yeah, okay."

The fingers are warm through the shirt.

2. Pills - LSF.
Opening the bathroom cabinet, Squalo isn't surprised to see rows and rows of tiny bottles, neat stacks of bandaids, trailing rolls of gauze. Altogether like this they look like part of some game of House, and it is Dino (wrapped carefully round and round in some gauze and sealed better with kisses) who peeks in through the half-open doorway before nervously shuffling in.

"Ahaha, sorry for making you wait. They're bringing the tea now."
"I don't care."

Dino smiles at that, the words somehow sliding off him like water would a duck, and when he tilts his head and laughs quietly it is the bandaged and hopeful smile of the colour of iodine and cough syrup, smelling faintly of sweet strawberry.

3. Fiji Baby - GS.
He had a very particular something about him, something that went far beyond the kicked puppy look and the bandaids on his fingers, his face, the bony jut of his ankles, beyond the smile saccarine sweet as lukewarm honeylemontea. It was a certain special kind of something, like a familiar room that you'd left behind for many years, the toys torn and broken with age, like an old photograph yellowed in the sun.

And Squalo hates it. Maybe that's why he suddenly swept everything off the library table, the half-drunk coke can and schoolbooks and pen and eraser and everything (a thunderous rumblecracklethud in the silence and the librarian's going to come over any minute now, the authoritative footsteps clackclacking in the polished stone floor).

And Dino, no, he just smiles quietly and slips down from his chair, begins gathering the scattered papers (soaked with the fizzy brown liquid, the careful handwriting bleeding blueblack on the wet paper) while Squalo looks on unmoving from his own chair, arms crossed (and the foreign wordless thoughtless frustration burns in his chest).

He doesn't explain, but then, Dino doesn't question either.

[fic;reborn] SOMETHING MORE MATURELY CHILDISH ; squalo + dino.

2009-04-05T21:45:45Z

Title: Something More Maturely Childish.
Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Squalo and Dino. IDK IF IT'S A PAIRING BUT IT'S PRETTY GAY IDK.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Who'd want Reborn anyway.
Notes: For furby's last year's birthday and Christmas and this valentines l-lol. 8( I'm sorry I fail a lot.

"You'll see," he says and Dino nods, hardly following the words themselves but watching(listening) rather the tone of the words themselves (the thinpale lips forming the words as easily as if he'd been rehearsing the words until they are as familiar as breathing), the mad gleam of conviction shining in Squalo's eyes, the all-consuming knowing look in them.

He turns around, eyes sliding across the other like he isn't there (like he doesn't exist), leaning his elbows on the railing to gaze down upon the school grounds. "I'll be the best in the world, and then," (pausing for a dramatic finish, the pale eyes flashing back at the blonde with a sharp grin much like his namesake) "and then you will see."

They both know that you doesn't just mean Dino; it means Dino and the priests and the teachers and the others who laugh at Squalo's name, the ones who pick fights in the corridors, the ones who stalk down the corridor like Moses (the scarlet gaze piercing, gaugingmeasuringpicking alwaysalways). They both know that it all narrows down to one thing and that is the slight quirk of lips of the boy who is slowly but surely eating up all of Squalo's spare time, the one who makes him snatch at his phone every time it rings (as if it's a live fish, a lifeline, a burning ball of fire). It all narrows down to Xanxus.

And Squalo believes it, believes him, inasmuch as he can believe in anything (Dino remembers how his lips curled when he walked him to the village church, how he turned on his heels and left even before reaching the doorstep I don't need such things)

Squalo, with his neat haircut and the tie always in place and the shirts as white and as pristine as the clouds above them. Squalo never stops for anyone and anything (but always reaching out to grab his arm, never his hand, because there is no way that he would stoop so low -- like a girl, he sneers, the turn of his head as dismissive as a prince's).

"You'll see."

And I will, Dino thinks, but he never says it out loud because maybe he doesn't want this moment (this almost welcome break in the usual squabbles and insults and roaring words shouted across the hallways) to be gone in the sweep of Squalo's pale eyelashes. He doesn't want the bony calloused fingers to stop jabbing at the air for puncuations, the kind of grandiose gestures that could only be dreamed up by a boy (a hand that neither of them would see in a few weeks, but they don't know that yet).

And Dino keeps his promise.

He is there when Squalo opens his eyes, a cup of cold honey tea laid out on the bedside table, the blonde head slumped over the crisp pale white sheets. A hand is half-curled against Squalo's forearm and he wants to jerk away, but Dino stirres, looks up, and smiles as if nothing happened, that none of this happened, like they were back at school and this time it's Squalo who fell down and Dino's there to smooth out the bandages. "Slept well?"

Instead of answering, Squalo asks for today's date; it's been three days since his fight, and he can still feel the painkillers and the drugs in his bloodstream, making him groggy and irritable.

"Where's my uniform," he manages to say through the drug-thickened tongue and sandpaper throat, the yellowed eyes (either from the drugs or the fatigue, Dino isn't sure) staring fixedly at him from deep sunken sockets of thin purple-blue veins, seen running just under paperytransparent skin of his cheeks, his eyelids.

Instead, the blonde curls his fingers around the corner of Squalo's blanket, the knuckles just barely brushing barelynudging the other, his form hardtenseangryannoyed even through the thick fluffy blanket (because this is the closest he'll ever get to touching him, because when he was unconscious it felt like it was unwelcome, and now that he was awake, unneeded).

"It's off being cleaned," Dino finally mutters out with an embarrassed air (stumbling over the words and pauses, the yellowpale eyes burling sulphur holes into his face). "It's just- really wet and- the blood- so-- So we thought you'd died at first--" And his hand quickly withdraws from the blanket to fly up to his already-tousled hair, but he misjudges the distance and it crashes instead into the back of the chair that he's sitting on. The impact jarrs the funny bone to the marrows and Squalo just sneers and narrows his eyes. "Idiot."

The rest of it's spent quietly, or, inasmuch as someone like Dino Cavallone could be quiet, all useless bustle and soft apologies and stupid, awkwardly bashful laugh and all, clacking unnecessarily with the spoons and sugar, and finally managing to drop the sugar bowl on the bed; palewhite grains spread out all over the stark white medicinal blanket.

And then he sits and watches the wary look in Squalo's eyes fading slowly minutebyminute secondbysecond with every heartbeat pushing drugged blood around his body, and his fingers tremble as they reach out to carefully smooth away the long ragged strands of hair away from the swordsman's face. (it's too long, doesn't he ever cut it, does he like it, why is he doing this, what are you doing.)

Two weeks later, he might as well not have existed at all.

----------------

The uniform jacket of the Varia (the red sigil standing brightly out from the smooth black of the leather) slung almost carelessly over the required black-tie suit (but Dino knows Squalo, or at least hopes that he does, and in any case he knows that nothing Squalo does is careless).

It's almost as if, even during this brief lull in the rift, Squalo is openly declaring his (and he suited the role of the villain so well) loyalty for the Varia, for Xanxus, and Dino has to smile when everyone gives the swordsman a wide berth of space that is anything but discreet. A ticking bomb, a looming threat of silverhair blackleather redblood this is only temporary, never a retreat, becaus Xanxus never gives up.

You'll see.

Stepping into that empty space is like stepping onto a spider's web (all minute vibration in the air and chink of ice in tall glass) and Squalo looks up in an instant, the paleanimal eyes fixing on Dino with an intensity that could almost be threatening (but Dino would like to think that he knows Squalo)

"Hi."

"Cavallone."

A brief pause before Squalo answers, gaze never really leaving Dino's face but at the same time gaugingsensing the others around them, like Romario in the corner of the room tensing slightly, or Belphegor suddenly looking up from the desserts table behind his long blonde bangs.

Dino doesn't move but picks up a glass from the passing waiter (smoothly, without faltering or spilling anything and almost much too aware of the yellow eyes following his every movement).

"How's your--"

"It's fine."

Squalo barks out, cuts off Dino's words halfway, and the blonde merely shakes his head and smiles widely.

Italian doesn't suit Squalo, Dino thinks. It's too lazy a language, too melodious in its sounds, that it is almost strange coming from someone as harsh and hasty as Squalo. But Dino doesn't move out of the circle, the wall that Squalo has built around himself for the occasion, and the ice chimes pleasantly against the condensed glass as he idly swirls the drink around. Squalo's still watching him, wary and cautious.

"How's Xanxus?"

Dino finally ventures out, voice mellow and pleasant and lazy (and Squalo tightens his hands slightly, catching Romario's movement out of the corner of one eye and the matching, but sinuously discreet one of Belphegor's even as he picks out a melon slice from the fruit platter).

"Why do you even ask? You don't care."

The swordsman spits out finally, (the creak of leather gloves almost barely heard above the chatter of people around them) the fall of silvery hair into his eyes not masking the hostility of the glare. Dino is unruffled in the direct line of it - it might be because of the presence of other people, it might be because there is that unfailing presence of Romario (almost tangible, like the warmth from a nuclear reactor, perhaps). Maybe it's because he knows Squalo, more than either of them had ever guessed.

Squalo holds the gaze for a minute longer, then drops it to the glass that he's holding. But not before Dino says, much too softly, like the ice clinking in his glass from the minor tremor (spreading down from the base of his spine up to the back of his neck down his shoulder and finally his hand) that both of them are ignoring.

"Because he's important to you."

They both say nothing further than that, Dino in his well-pressed suit and a flower in his buttonhole as if this is some pleasant chance encounter in an evening outing, and Squalo in his dark uniform scowling into his drink.

Finally the blonde shifts, rocking on the balls of his feet, and catches the barest of movement from Romario out the corner of his eye. "Well, see you around then, Squalo." Saying goodbye so easily with his stupid smile and stupid little wave and stupid flower and the hair that was always messy and fell into his eyes no matter how many times he tried to sweep it away, and the next moment is a blur until Squalo--

"Squalo," Dino says, staring wide eyed, a deer-in-a-headlight look that flickers across his face only for a second, then he (carefullygently) wraps his hand around Squalo's fisted against his collar. The hand is warm through the thin cotton glove, against the hard unforgiving metal. "Let go, please." The smile is back in its proper place now, small but unflinching, and Squalo suddenly wants to strangle the expression off his face.

"I could kill you," he instead whispers(hissesgrowlsbreathes), the breath stirring the fine blonde hair hanging over Dino's forehead, falling into his eyes. "I will kill you."

Despite the bird-rapid heartbeat racing beneath the palethin (much much too thin) skin, the blonde tilts his head a little and laughs. It isn't to fool Squalo, who can feel the palpitations like drums against his hand, his forearm pressed against Dino's chest; it isn't to fool himself either. "I know."

This close up, Dino can see the fine capillaries of Squalo's eyelids, spread across his harsh, high cheekbones that doesn't look at all softened by the years, by the long hair falling down past his shoulders. Rather, he looks more like a ghost, a childhood nightmare with eyes like broken frosted glass and touches cold like steel. But he doesn't move away.

Squalo holds the gaze for a moment longer, the grip on Dino's shirt collar tight and suffocating, making him laugh again (a little breathlessly this time), before letting go with a sharp swear.

A snap of his fingers and Belphegor is immediately by his side, a glance and a grin he shoots at Dino half-threatening, half-childishly vicious. "We're leaving."

Dino looks after towards the two dark-clad figures moving towards the door, Squalo's pale hair like a halo around his head and the people parting before them like Moses. "I'm fine," still half-breathless and waving away Romario's flurry of movement patiently. The smile never quite leaves his face as he reaches up, feeling the creases to his collar gingerly. "It's fine. I'm alright."

[fic;dogs|reborn] WINDSWEPT ; squalo x badou

2009-04-05T21:41:58Z

Title: Windswept.
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS:Bullets&Carnage & Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Squalo/Badou
Disclaimer: Characters/Fandoms do not belong to me.
Feedback: would be much appreciated!
Notes: In response to Sunscorched by handjobs4free. Squalo POV, semi-AU, post-Varia arc of the Katekyo Hitman Reborn manga. Written (to an extensive level) to "A Fever Analog" by Owen, "Eric's Song" by Vienna Teng, and a whole truckloads of Cat Power and Okkervil River. **Two months of extensive procrastinating and blood/sweat/tears.

Day...whatever.

Squalo stopped looking at the calendar (just another day, another meaningless waitingwatchingholdingon).

It's (almost) funny how much of his life has been a waiting game, always expectinghoping for more; eight years of frozen ice that wasn't ice and the empty silences that echoed back the words, uncountable hours (hours blending into days) strapped down to the bed watching the IV drip slowly, weeks sitting around burning steadily through the few cartons of smokes that's (always, always) been lying around. (he sits out on the balcony and watches the smoke burn itself out into nothing, spreading thinwhite into the night sky)

Squalo is patient, but he's getting tired.

-+-+-+

He's lying on the bed in a half-doze when the doorbell rings, but he doesn't get up; no point in anything. He hates feeling like this, but everything is slipping out of his grasp like whisps of smoke and ashes and he can't stop it.

No second chances, and Squalo is starting to believe that despite himself.

The bell rings a second time, then a third, and sudden flare of rage makes Squalo practically fly down the stairs and throw open the door, "Shut, up, what do you--"(leavemealoneleavemealone) just behind his tongue, in his throat ready to come out-

Then.

-+-+-+

Later, he tries not to think, tries to let the drone of the monotonous news on the television drown out the wordsimages in his head, but his mind keeps drifting upstairs to the running of water, the hardly-there sound of feet walking (rather unsteadily, it seems to him, and Squalo turns the volume of the television louder).

He wants to convince himself that it's because he's too tired, but every nerve seems to be thrumming with energy now, every muscle taut (somehow his body still remembers, after all this time).

Too tired, that was it. Nothing else, yeah.

(but he'd always been bad at the pretending business)

-+-+-+

The next morning he cooks waffles; he hasn't been down in the kitchen in weeks and he has to throw out half of the things in the fridge (they could, perhaps, hurl the bad eggs at the passing gondolas).

Badou is sound asleep, almost looks as if he were dead except for the quiet wheezing of unhealthy lungs that Squalo can hear if he strains his ears.

Squalo goes shopping for more food, debates between a bottle of wine and a bushel of apples. He brews a pot of the blackest coffee and sits at the floor of his bedroom, fingers carefully picking through the contents of Badou's backpack like it could tell him something--train, subway, plane, even a dubious looking stub of a ferry ticket that he glances at before placing it down in the row of plastic and paper before him.

A disjointed map of roads and paths (so many possibilities, so many everything) that he can't quite place. (and ever so often looking up to glance back at the figure curled up in the bed)

He is waiting again (more waiting more hoping a brief lull(spike) in the games), but he feels as if he can breathe a bit easier, feels as if he could last a few more hours, a few more days.

(the bedroom door shuts quietly)

-+-+-+

The road lies ever stretched out before them, and he is still waitingwatchinghoping with the hours blending into days into weeks (neverending rollercoaster ride, an idyllic road trip that everyone must have dreamt about at least once; it's in his blood, he'd like to think, but he knows it's not only just that).

They don't use maps, and Squalo's mobile phone had long run out of battery. The silence and quiet (raspy breath of a laugh) is uncomfortable first and disconcerting later, slowly easing into the sort where he has to turn his own head away to smile (not to hide, merely holding out, Squalo convinces himself).

(and just because Squalo is wearing dark shades doesn't mean that he doesn't catch the quirk of lips amidst the tangletumble of red hair)

-+-+-+

The stars seem so much brighter when there's a haze of alcohol running through his veins, casting a thin veil in front of his eyes.

They are lying on the hood of the car, the metal stil warm under their backs, and stares out into the sky (it feels all too big and too wide, bigger than the biggest stretch of iron and wire and steel and dirt built up for centuries that he had only heard and never seen, could never imagine).

Squalo idly points out the constellations (the swan, the snake, the throne, the archer) and the ones he doesn't know he makes up himself. He knows that Badou knows that he is, but neither of them care (and it seems to Squalo that the bony elbow jabbed into his ribs should have hurt much more than it should have been, when he points out a giraffe among the confusing myriad scattered above them).

"Why are you doing this." Badou rasps out and flicks the cigarette butt over their heads, arcing in a fieryredflickering trail over the night sky and Squalo's body and out of sight somewhere amidst the chirp of crickets.

Squalo shrugs, his elbows thumping against the hood with a hollow sound (his arms are tired, and lately he doesn't hide it from the redhead, either). "Because I want to."

"That's very selfish of you."

"Is it?"

A soft breeze whooshes past the cornfield and stirs Badou's hair with a dry crinkle against the car.

"I just do."

"Whatever."

(this time the elbow actually hurts when he points out a shark)

-+-+-+

First plague-free motel in (weeks? months? Squalo has lost count of the days but the golden hue of the wheat fields are deeper) and they celebrate it wth a decent bottle of wine, the consequences which leaves Squalo with a yellowing bruise on the side of his face that he attempts to cover up with his dark sunglasses, but later discards; it really isn't that important, anyway.

Badou has picked up a smattering of Italian, most of them swear words, and he occassionally leans out the car window to shout obscenities at the random passersby whipping by them

The late summer sky is brilliant, not a speck of cloud in it and reflects Squalo's grey eyes blue. The wheat fields on either side of them rustling in endless waves of the wind, and it's the only sound apart from the low rumble of the engine.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," Squalo mutters under his breath after the seventh innocent peasant is left staring after them dumbfoundedly. His left hand is dextrous on the gear, the landscape blurring into burnt gold and redbrown. Badou grins roguishly and lights the next cigarette, carelessly tossing the old stub out of the window.

"Oh come on, I'm a fucking tourist."

"We don't have an embassy for a nobody like you."

"And?"

"Don't toss them out the window. That's illegal."

This time, Squalo can practically feel the razorsharp grin directed at him. "And?"

Instead of replying, the swordsman just sighs (torturously, dramatically) and changes the gear again.

-+-+-+

They are in Rome, the pavement hot with the noonday sun and the throng of tourists. Squalo is nonchalant in his dark shirt and pants but Badou's skin fairly burns even under the cooling shade of a parasol of the cafe. He pretends not to notice Squalo turning his head away to hide a grin when he haltingly orders coffee for them, the pidgeons clucking about their feet.

The coffee arrives, looking as black as Squalo's hair is white (the gleam of it under the sun almost hurts his eye to look at) and Badou watches the swordsman carefully pour milk into his cup before taking a gulp of his own, the scalding heat seemingly reducing the summer glare into nothing.

-+-+-+

Later, as his acquaintance stops for a moment to talk to a seemingly harmless street vendor, Badou stands well away. After all, it wasn't any use to him now, not anymore. The shadow is cool under the shadow of a statue (a rider atop a galloping horse, and the narrow slit of a papergrin goes unnoticed) and he absently watches a group of kids feeding pidgeons and doves in the square before stubbing the cigarette out on the horse's hoove and turning to grin lazily as Squalo approaches, apparently finished with whatever it was. "Where to, now?"

Squalo merely shrugs, his eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses as he sweeps his gaze around them, unsweltering and cool in the air thick with cigarette smoke and sweat.

There is a sudden explosion of feathers and the birds swarm about them for a moment, the air momentarily filled with sounds of excited chirps and beating of wings like fireworks. Neither bats an eyelash, and Squalo reaches out to pluck a dirt-encrusted feather off Badou's shoulder. "We need to change the car."

-+-+-+

They are moving again, on the road (here and there streaks of red blood and skidding tire marks hint at their progress) and Badou notices that the weather is just slightly colder (and he almost misses the blazing heat and shimmer of the road in front of them, the hot smell of engine that's been running for far too long).

Now and then he can see the glimmering sparkles of blue in between the wide, rolling planes and hills; they are closer to the sea, now.

Squalo buys him a hat at their next stop, the kind with a wide brim and flap like a veil covering the back of his neck. He has, also, thoughtfully provided some fake flowers arranged around the crown of the hat.

"You said you're a fucking tourist!" Squalo yells out after a brief struggle that ends with a dent in the passenger side door and a broken handle. Badou scampers in through the driver's side and settles down comfortably on the seat, hands already plucking a cigarette from the glove compartment and lighting it up. He grins and blows a long stream of smoke right into the other man's face as Squalo gets in after him. "I'm not your fucking mafia wife."

Squalo thinks that Badou sounds just too cheerful for his comfort, idly ripping out the cheap fake flowers from the hat and dropping them out through the car window. He glances through the rearview mirror, watching the petals scatter like multi-coloured butterflies trailing in their wake, before finally settling down in a colourful scatter of plastic and fabric along the road.

"No," he finally replies when the drone of the engine has drowned out all sounds, when the whipping of the wind has scattered away the smoke clogging up the insides of the car. The air tastes clean and cool and Squalo takes a deep breath, enough to feel the strain in his lungs with the force of it. "You're just an affair."

There's a hint of knifesharp cigarettehot grin in the edge of Badou's lips; Squalo can feel it in the way their elbows are almost touching, the space between them (between words between pauses almost tangible that he could grab it), while Badou leans back in his seat and stretches his feet over to the dashboard, spreading his toes out in the sun.

It's colder now, Squalo realises suddenly, tries to remember the date, the month, before it's all swept away by the wind in his hair.

No maps, no words, no ties no goals (only his sword and bank accounts and a handful of false names), but Squalo is somehow fine with it. A decade's worth of burden melting away in the cloud of smoke, in the bloodorange mass of hair beside him with his palesallow skin burnt pink under the brighthard Italian summer haze, because all he can feel is that warmth at his elbow, a patch of contact, sliver of skin on skin.

One hundred and two, one hundred and three, but it doesn't feel like running away (feels as if he's never been so sure, never been so uncertain of the path lying ahead).

"A break soon," Squalo says (but then, what is a break when they have nothing to go back to?) but the words are lost in the wind, watching the redhead reaching out with his (scarred) hand to feel the rush of air. The wind is almost deafening, the loose strands of redwhite hair like flecksflashes of light in front of his eyes.

-+-+-+

Badou clutches at the hat with one hand and holds the cigarette with the other, and Squalo knows to stand out of the wind, watching the flecks of pale ash being torn along in the wind. Their bare feet are cool on the wet sand, the pants rolled up to the knees.

The sky is clouded over to dark bluegrey and pale silver, the sea a muddy jade green like the foggy beer bottle that Badou kicks cheerfully back into the waves. Squalo almost expects someone to be just behind every corner, every sand dune they skirt around, but they are alone.

"Guess nobody wants to come here in this weather," Badou rasps out as if he's read Squalo's mind, voice rough from the salty wind.

Squalo looks back at the row of footprints behind them, seeing mere dotted, uneven punctuations that are only a shade darker than the sand itself, weaving in and out of the white foam and clumps of seaweed. "No, I guess not."

In what seems like hours later (all red feet and red cheeks from the hard wind that blew sand into their eyes) they slowly make their way back where they can see the car, red peeking over the scraggly, thinly spread out plants the covers the dunes. Badou trails along bits of shells and whitebleached coral pieces behind them, occassionally pausing to hurl some of them deep into the crashing waves only metres away from them, the seagulls swooping down whenever one of the gleaming, sea-smoothed white shells go flying.

"Come on, it's cold." Squalo calls out behind him as he irritably shakes out the sand from the cuffs of his pants, sweeping his hair to one side and feeling the rough grit of sand grains in them.

The redhead waves his hands vaguely, giving no sign of having ever heard Squalo. "Last time I was at a beach like this--" He abruptly cuts off, mumbling something that is lost in the roar of the sea, reaching to fling the entire hoard into the sea.

Squalo watches the other clamber up the sand hill towards him and they both turn towards the murky sea of jadebluegreenwhite, Badou finally flicking the remaining stub of his cigarette into the air to be swept towards the waves.

"It's not so bad here."

"Yeah."

There's something else on the tip of his tongue, just behind lodged in his throat, but Squalo says nothing and pulls the redhead back towards the car.

-+-+-+

Sometimes Squalo wonders why he's doing this, watching Badou idly flick the channels in the same old cheap motel TV (this one crackles with static whenever any of them move from the bed, so it'd be best if they stayed put) and grinding out the cigarette stubs into the ashtray lying between them (the only remaining chaperone, a chink in the wall through which trickles of conversations flicker in and out) sticking out like the spines of a hedgehog.

He knows the consequences and the repercussions--the Family is the Family is the Family, and nobody ever forgets that, ever, not even him, not even when you try to smoke your way through an entire pack of ivy-curled cigarettes until the dawn lights up the eastern sky palered and drowns out the stars.

There is, of course, nothing good on the television and what little there exists is in Italian, and after a while Squalo pulls Badou up by his arm and ignores the furious static crackle (and the matching round of loud protests in favour of the daytime drama reruns).

"I can't fucking breathe in here because of your damned cigarettes." He mutters in the way of an excuse, reaching out to throw Badou his jacket; after sundown, the night is no longer balmy, and the lack of crickets in the shrubbery as they silently walk along the road is strange to his ears.

He watches the bluish pale smoke curling up against the night sky, remembering how the lights played over the dirty water of the canals, remembering how it felt to be stranded, watching and wanting and waiting.

They reach a clearing in the small forest, covered with thick, long weed with a burst of white flowers that rustles as they approach. By that time, it's so dark that all Squalo can see is the pale bluewhite smoke and the red ember of the cigarette. Something, however, makes him follow the figure almost blindly into the thicket of the field, pushing a path through towards Badou.

"What do you want to do?" Squalo finally asks the curling tendrils of smoke, Badou nothing more than a dark outline against an even darker night that has fallen around them. The red glowing end of the cigarette moves briefly, the wheeze of sick lungs loud in the air as the redhead exhales. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know." It's the utter, sheer truth (Squalo never lies, not when he has no need to, and he isn't about to change that) and Badou shrugs as if he expected the answer, because they're both stepping into this blind and mute and dumb and there was no way they could predict anything anymore.

Sometimes it feels like he's betting everything behind a losing horse of the race, and really, Squalo wants to convince himself otherwise (and it's easier to ignore the facts when the sun is in his eyes, the endless stream of words filtering through his mind).

"Whatever you want, I guess." Badou's voice breaks the silence, and he strains his eyes but finds only the setting gloom around them.

"As long as there's wine and cigarettes, huh."

"As long as it is."

Squalo watches the red end of the cigarette stub glow and spit furiously, before reaching over to swat it away; he couldn't care less about the forest fires and the consequential fines at this moment. "Badou?" "W-what?" His voice rises to an indignant squawk, his expression in the gloom almost panicked.

He grins at the other's expression, the long nose dusted with pale freckles, and feels like he's finally back on track (finally something that he feels sure of).

"Can I kiss you now?"

It's more like a poorly planned-out trip than a picture perfect getaway towards the sunset, more like a bad dream, a nightmare most of the time, but (stumbling out from the field with Badou beside him scratching furiously at a bugbite until Squalo grabs and pulls his hand away) he feels as if he could deal with it.

[fic;dogs|persona3] E LIBERO VOLER ; squalo x chidori

2009-04-05T21:39:19Z

Title: E Libero Voler.
Fandom: Persona 3 & Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: G~PG.
Pairing: Squalo/Chidori
Disclaimer: Not mein.
Notes: For puffs. This pairing is so depressing and cute and sad I can't stop writing it. 8"<

She always felt so frail in his arms, like she could disappear any minute, melt away into the chilly morning air and never come back. Sometimes Squalo can almost imagine that she is semi-transparent, bleeding into the winter landscape like nothing.

He hated the cold, but her warmth somehow reduces it all to nothing.

----

He had never been too good with words; glib tongue and honeyed words weren't a requirement for one in his profession, and Squalo had always detested diplomats (that sort of trickery always made his stomach turn).

But it's at times like these that he wishes he could find the words that could tell her. Words that could somehow explain (categoriseanalyse) why he insists on braiding her hair, helping her with her coat, pulling her in by her hand and breathing in the coldsterile smell of her hair.

Squalo doens't know why he feels like this, only that he does, but as he watches her stretch out her hands for the first flakes of snow and turn a questioning gaze towards him, he has to smile.

---

She can take care of herself, she tells him and he knows that, knows it all too well. (the smell of blood always clings to her, blending wiht the sharpsterile medicinal smell of hospitals)

But yet he wants to push her behind him, into his arms (because she always felt like a child to him in her strongupright fragility), to tell her that everything is fine (it isn't) and nothing is going to happen (it will).

Squalo had always been bad at pretending.

"Squalo," and she slips out of his grasp as easily as it is all nothing, but the warmth lingers in his hand(s). "It's okay."

He takes a breath (tasting saltycopper and iodine on his tongue) and looks away. "I know."

(he's always been bad at lying and they both know this)

---

Sometimes he wakes up from his half-sleep (the only time he could actually let go of the blood and the adrenaline and the sharp thrill of blade cutting through flesh and muscle and bone is when he's at home) to find her fingers in his hair, half-done braid spread out neatly on the bed. He doesn't move until it's done and the ends are tied neatly off before pulling her back into his arms.

(and much later, he remembers the feel of it, the imprint of her fingers in his hair like coolcold snow, and turns his face away)

[fic;dogs|persona3] MI PARVE DI MORIR ; squalo x chidori

2009-04-05T21:37:16Z

Title: Mi Parve Di Morir.
Fandom: Persona 3 & Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: G.
Pairing: Squalo/Chidori
Disclaimer: Not mein.
Notes: For puffs because she is awesome.

The silence seems bigger, louder up here somehow (it feels kind of like dying, kind of like living, the way that his lungs sting with every breath of the cold air but the rest of himself feeling cold and numb all over) and her hair is the only spark of colour in a field of white, undisturbed snow (the only thing, it seems, that shows Squalo that she's actually alive). He leans in to rest his cheek against the mass of windswept fiery hair (tied with white satin ribbons; he had tied them himself this morning, every strand carefully gathered)

"Chidori," Squalo tries to find words that won't come, words that are somehow lost in the white puffmist of breath.

"I like you." (finally settling on those three words, because they both know that they don't have all the time in the world, and in any case she wouldn't have appreciated and he wouldn't have been able to say the sweet nothings, anyway)

"Okay."

"Okay."

And the silence returns again.

Snow begins to fall when his hand finds hers.

[fic;dogs|reborn] FORSE PERCHE DELLA FATAL QUIETE ; squalo x badou

2009-04-05T21:32:12Z

Title: Forse Perche Della Fatal Quiete
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage & Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Rating: Mixed. PG mostly.
Pairing: Squalo/Badou
Disclaimer: Neither of these manga belong to me.
Notes: Written mostly because handjobs4free is a nagging granny at heart. Series of drabbles because I fail at writing.

1.///
Badou's mood is everchanging as a particularly irritable cat on costant PMS, and Squalo mutters under his breath as he slams down on the accelerator, plunging and running the red light just ahead of the incoming surge of traffic. "This is why you should never fucking drive."

2.///
Even after dragging the smoker around half the world and most of Europe, Squalo still can't bring himself to ask about the scar yet. But then, the past hardly matters anymore when what you can think about half the time is just where you are going to wash off all the blood.

3.///
Being with Badou (sitting with his feet propped on the dashboard, the hair whipping out around him and somehow not managing to disturb the cigarette clamped down firmly between his teeth) is like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded and earmuffed -- all lurching sensations and exhilarations, but all in strange, disquieting silence.

4.///
Colours rising up on the pale skin, it's somehow becoming a familiar sight (but one that he'll never get tired of, Squalo thinks)

"I hate you."
"No, you don't."

~+~+~+~

Much later, he's nursing a sore jaw, the cause of which is laying back innocently on the bed and flicking through the crappy motel TV channels.

"I hate you."
"No, no you don't."

5.///
With Squalo, Badou always feels like a roadside hitchhiker (a rucksack slung over one shoulder cigarette between his lips a grin on his mouth and a thumb dangling out in front of him), never knowing what he'd get but making the best of it as much as he could. (But hey, there was always good booze)

6.///
Despite appearances, Squalo wasn't good with cold. Far from it, in fact, and he breathes on his fingers, the leather hardly helping against the cold of the Alaskan weather. Badou, on the other hand, positively radiates happiness and hyperactivity that could only be matched by a five year old in a cake shop or a sack full of monkeys on drugs. But he's warm, and maybe that's why their shoulders brush against each other's ever so often as they walk.

"TIIIIIIIIIIIIMBERRRRRRRRRRRR!"

Squalo barely has time to turn a skeptical eye on the redhead when Badou simply grins maniacally and shoves a handful of dripping snow down the back of his neck.

He roars, partly at the chill that is literally sliding down his back, and turns to tackle the hysterical redhead into the nearby pile of snow. The ridiculous fur hat that the smoker insists on wearing is the first to go, and it's only when they are so helplessly tangled in the oversized scarf and each other that they stop, flushed and panting.

"My ass is cold." Badou whines, peeking up at the other from between a splay of red hair and clumps of snow scattered over his face, and Squalo automatically reaches out to brush them off the other's face, the melting snow clammy against the leather.

It's not his fault that he lets his hand linger for more than it should on the redhead's face.

"Your ass, not mine." Squalo finally mutters out when the silence becomes too long, but the redhead is already wriggling away in search of his hat, long limbs awkward and gangly even with the thick coat. Badou jams it back on his head and turns to grin, flopping right back down into the snow (a gigantic 6-feet snow angel). Squalo is left standing knee-deep in snow and his feet were goddamned freezing already, could they please go back to the hotel now--?

"You look like a giant frosting snowman."
"Ha ha. And you look like a fucking douchebag. Stand up."
"No."
"Didn't you say your ass was cold a minute ago?"

"--I can't feel it anymore." Badou breathes out after a click and a whoosh and Squalo guesses he should be amazed at the smoker's ability to be able to light anything on fire in this weather, but he is too tired and too cold to be agreeable, today. (dripdripdrip goes the snow, soaking steadily into the back of his shirt and trousers) Squalo turns around with a half-snarl, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and digging out piles of snow from there, too.

"I'm going."
"Come ooon, Squalo. Per piacere~?"

The Italian rolling almost awkwardly out from unfamiliar tongue isn't the reason Squalo stops (or so he would like to think, because Squalo would like knowing that he isn't some sort of a fucking girl) and he looks over his shoulder at the redhead.

Although Squalo doesn't quite understand a lot of things about the redhead (indeed, he can't ever think that he knows anything about Badou Nails), he knows that for one thing, to look into the smoker's face when he is definately wanting something is not a good thing at all. (a regular old death sentence in itself)

"It's fun."

I'm not supposed to have fun, Squalo wants to grit out, wants to shout it right back at the redhead (because his childhood died, encased in ice, when Xanxus had, and now that they're older they had no time to dwell on such things--to dwell on the past is to have already failed) but the dull, heavy impact of snow to the back of his head cuts off the words short.

The sky is grey, threatening to burst out with more snow or even rain (both were to be proven true in the next half an hour) and the hyenacackle rings high and loud in the air as Squalo tumbles back into the snowpile, frozen fingers already grappling for hold.

He isn't supposed to have fun.

But it isn't just him anymore, Badou (knows), and Squalo (agrees).

7.//
Squalo doesn't quite understand just why he goes through all this trouble for a skinny piece of ass that he isn't even allowed to pinch, but he's pretty sure that (bloodhair jadedeyes cacklingmadhyenalaugh and all) it's worth all that somehow.

[fic;dogs] TRIPTYCH ; giovanni + lukinoki

2009-04-05T21:29:58Z

Title: Triptych.
Author: Fridge.
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS:BULLETS&CARNAGE.
Rating: G~PG.
Pairings: Giovanni and the Twins. References to Lilly and Haine because Giovanni is obsessed.
Genre: General. Sibling. Giovanni musing. A little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: I wanted to write Giovanni and the Twins. This is a sort-of-shoutout to romanitas ♥ You're the best Twins ever. Also written for monthastray prompt, June 1st.

Sometimes he feels as if the twins are just too good to be true, that he is only just dreaming this, the idea of a perfect sister (sisters), but they're here, as real as breathing, even more real than the image of paleblondeblue flickering ghost of a long-dead sibling (not even a sibling, didn't even deserve the term, that fucking bitch—) that so haunts Haine.

(and he wants to laugh, to laugh and laugh and laugh until he coughs out his heartlungsorgans all pulsing and breathing in his hands, in his lap, dripping clear fluid and blood all over the pristine floor and the fabric of his suit)

Haine was ever so good at making himself blind.

And that is ironical too, when in some mornings all he can feel is the clawingprickling around his eyes in his eyes (these perfect eyes, so perfect because Giovanni always always takes great care of whatever Mother has given him, right?)

The twins, he thinks, were one of those things.

"Giova-ani~!"

Same morning greetings, same bright smiles, same half-halo around their necks, same samesamesameall of this just for him.

They bring him his morning coffee sometimes, when he is (when his eyes are) tootired tooexhausted tooburnedout just too intent on this hunt, this mad-dog hunt this wild goose chase around the dips and corners of the depths of the underground (chasing and being chased and occasionally standing up to wave the butt of his proverbial rifle around, because that's what a hunter does, that's what attracts the prey—the all-consuming curiosity).

He never admits this, not even to Mother. Somehow this has become a secret even to her, because after all, nothing that she's ever given him could ever be wrong, and really, the needleprickelectricity pain must all be because of him (and a darkdeepsmallsnide voice in his head whispers defective, you're defective, damaged, just something recycled and cobbled together from leftover remains of deepestdarkest dreams and secrets)

Giovanni would like to pretend sometimes. He likes to pretend that the twins are somehow older than they actually are, than they actually behave, and somehow behindbeneathbelow all the smiling childish cackling and giggling and careless rampage and chaos, there is something. He would like to pretend that they understand him.

"Good mo~orning, Giova-ani~~!"

They had put too much sugar in it, the white grains sparkling in the saucer as he takes it, the last night's pain still lingering in the corners of his covered eyes.

And he smiles as he sips it, the scalding liquid against his tongue, down his throat (hot like blood), because they are his, just his, not anyone else's no never.

And once more, it's like it's 'just three of us' all over again.