Traditions

Author's Notes and Miscellany: Written for my Hitman Reborn! community (like the rest of my Reborn! fics are). Contains mature subject matter, so be wary. I honestly have no idea if pedophilia is as common in the Mafia as I've made it out to be. Don't take my word for it. Oo. Please don't hurt me.


There was a reason Gokudera Hayato hated it when his father had guests over. It wasn't the piano recitals, no; he didn't do those so much as he got older, and, thus, stronger than Bianchi. He could refuse the food physically if he wanted too, and his father never forced the food on his son.

And besides, these weren't "those" types of guests. They weren't the ones to delicately sip champagne or merlot (or cognac, or a good, warm port with a hint of summer), while trading high coasters gossip and stabbing each other in the back. They weren't the ones whose coats you took (because you were the Young Master), and gave warm kisses to on each cheek before directing them to the dining hall where the tables were pushed to the walls and food was set out on them in buffet style.

These were the guests that entered in boisterously, throwing their coats into the waiting arms of the butler and stride into the sitting room (or the drawing room, or the library, or the study, or any place dark and prospectively smoky). These were the guests you had to be careful around, because they weren't all nice, because sometimes the kisses you pressed to their cheeks or lips were either changed or deepened, and you couldn't stop them from gripping your arms and pinning you in place while they plundered your mouth with their tongues because you weren't as strong as they were (even if you were stronger than your older sister), and left you panting and near tears in the end. These were the guests that gave your rear a swift, benevolent pat as you served them, or a lingering stroke or a curt, discreet squeeze. These were the guests that you had to humor because if you didn't, Father would loose face.

And at first it was hard, torturous, to look beggingly at your father, only to have him look away as a man passed a hand over your head in a friendly way, because you never knew when they were going to be friendly or not. And soon, you learned not to look to other people for help.

So this was why, on a hot, early September day, Hayato allowed himself to be pinned onto the lap of the 9th head of the Leonelli's son's lap. Because it was tradition, and Hayato wasn't old enough quite yet at thirteen to defy tradition, he found himself carrying in the man's wine and glass. "Here." The boy had said brusquely, setting down the goblet and pouring the wine expertly; Hayato had learned to do a lot of things expertly that children his age technically shouldn't have known.

The man was smiling vaguely unpleasantly, and Hayato ignored him until, as he was walking away, the man had grabbed the back of the boy's belt and hauled the child into his lap. This hadn't happened to him since he was very young, being sat on one of his father's guests laps; the sensation was different. Being almost fully grown, he sat perfectly in the cradle of the man's spread legs, his bare feet dangling only a couple of inches above the rich carpet. When he was a child he could cling to the neck of whoever was holding him, but now, since he was half-grown, he manfully tried to use the Leonelli's shoulder for support.

Seeming perfectly at ease, the man relaxed in his chair, casually sliding one hand up the boy's side to rest on his upper ribs. Hayato, at this point in his life, knew the man wasn't after his blood, but wanted some blood sport; having gotten used to this at a very young age, he tolerated it.

"No welcome for an honoured guest? Come on, boy, show some compassion. Our Papa's know each other." The man rumbled, the warmth in his eyes deepening, making him seem very dangerous and cold. Hayato sneered behind his hair, being old enough now that he didn't have to greet his father's guests by kissing them, but leaned in and gave the Leonelli a filial kiss on the lips.

He was about to pull away and express his bullshit attitude that he was happy to have the Leonelli present when the man suddenly clamped his hands down onto Hayato's upper arms. And because this man was a grown adult, it was an easy task for him to pin a thirteen-year-old child onto his lap, and so Hayato couldn't struggle away when the man deepened the kiss. The boy made an undignified "mmmph" into the man's mouth as the man flexed his jaw, forcing Hayato's mouth open, and nearly choked when the man's tongue ran along the insides of his mouth.

There were no words exchanged between the two after that, when the man's free hand worked its way into Hayato's boxers, shaming and angering the boy, who wasn't old enough to defy traditions, but, damnit, he was old enough to defy some things. When he cried out, the man swatted him easily across the face, stunning Hayato who had never, really, been slapped in the face before. A little trickle of blood ran from his nose into his mouth, teeth separating from the flesh of his cheek, filling his mouth with blood. This sensation was familiar, and ordinarily welcomed, but it had been done all wrong. His brain couldn't piece together how it was wrong, at that point, but he knew, as the man lifted him and slammed his back into the long, ancient table, it was wrong. And that was why, when the man had pulled at his boxers and pants, baring bits of Hayato's skin that were rarely ever bared, the boy made his move.

Laying back on the ornate table, pants pulled down past his upper thighs, Hayato opened his eyes when something hot and wet dribbled on his forehead. His hand, desperately gripping the silver handle of a fruit knife, was clenched in a fist at the side of the man's head, meaning the rest of the blade had been buried into the man's temple.

And Hayato began to laugh, even though he was crying at the same time, tears and blood trickling down his face at the same time, choking him when he accidentally snorted both back up when he took a deep breath in. He laughed as he pushed the man off of him, ignoring where the bastard fell, laughed as he pulled up his pants, laughed as he climbed the stairs. It died down to teary little chuckles as he dug out the duffel he always had ready in cases like these.

Later, when he was safely back in Japan, his father called him, and Hayato, who had calmed down sufficiently enough at this point to be considered sane, began laughing again. His father didn't see what was so goddamned funny. Neither did Hayato.