Disclaimer: I don't own KHR.

Authors Notes: So, D18. We meet again, you sexy, sexy bastards.

For Becky, because she deserves much more, and I'm sadly cheap.


(In which nobody can admit what they really want, and Hibari plays the villain.)


(Stop. Stop and think.)


Hibari doesn't know what brings it on; he doesn't show this of course, doesn't stare in shock at his hands, at Dino, he only slumps faintly. He wonders, while Dino stumbles back in surprise, pain, clutching his nose, what brought it on. It felt like impulse, reflex. It felt like training all over again, like battling on rooftops, in forests, speeding around the country while the Cavallone sat at his side, asking about Japan, asking about culture, if he'd been on this side of Kyoto before. Hibari's through with training – with Dino as a teacher.

The Cavallone bleeds on his suit. It tumbles down the crisp alabaster, trails of crimson seeping into the fabric, and while it continues, he holds his nose, staring down at Hibari from an awkward angle, only making out the beginnings of a scowl from the top of his face, two sharp eyes fixed in a glare.

He wipes his face, cleans the blood with his shirt cuff. It's already ruined, anyway, already going to earn some disconcerting frown from Romario, so he doesn't see the point in the other of finding a cloth, a tissue; anything to clear away all the indignity smeared across his face, these splatters on the floor and the trail down his shirt. With Kyouya, it's always his pride; it's always being forced onto his knees, to beg, to be so exposed.

He smiles apologetically, although he isn't certain why. There's blood all over him, drying in and tasting metallic, copper on his tongue. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, although he isn't certain why. Let me in, he wants to say, to order. He wants too much at once, too fast. Wants to reach out and brush ebony hair back, press their foreheads together. (Let me in, Kyouya, you want to say, can't let yourself say.) He doesn't. "I'm really sorry."

Hibari doesn't answer. He isn't sure how to.


"How long will this take?"

Tsunayoshi glances at him briefly, looking mature, looking busy; over-worked. He smiles, this weak but reassuring smile, waves his hand as if saying, 'Don't worry about it.' "A few weeks, tops," he replies, over blueprints, over this deafening noise from all around. "Don't worry about it."

Hibari frowns at this disgrace to Namimori; taking the grounds away, making them a Mafia base, a hideout, even. He loses a little respect for himself when he agrees, thinks he's becoming soft, looks around at all these people fooling around – stupid herbivores – thinks about the Cavallone, stares into the walls while all these people are surrounding him. He feels sick. It's so stuffy in the room. It's too crowded.

He stands up from his chair and while the other Guardians are discussing the money for construction, he interrupts by slamming the door.

What does being Mafioso earn any of them? What do these people even want anyway; why do they work so hard?

Hibari thinks it's some cliché; love, money, connections, world domination. His stomach is still in knots, and he yawns. He drives away, falls asleep beside Dino, and finds he doesn't care much anymore. He's never really cared. (About anything, nothing matters; you have what you want, that's all you need.)



Hibari says nothing.

"I was wondering…"

(Stupid, stupid, stupid –)

"…if you'd come with me this time?"


Dino falls asleep in Italy, alone. Stares at the ceiling, glances at his cell-phone, thinking, contemplating everything, feeling like he's been thrown away already.

He doesn't fall asleep for a long time.


There's another meeting after the construction begins. There's nothing new to go over, and it's drags out long, so long that it's dark when they get out. Hibari's first out the door, pissed after listening to Gokudera complain about his departure the last time. Yamamoto and Gokudera stay behind with Tsuna – like when they were teenagers, hanging around after class until Hibari made them leave, because they were friends; they are friends. The simple notion makes Hibari want to chase them away again, separate them, but he isn't the one with the power now.

Outside, Hibari slips his hands into his pockets. "Hey," he hears Ryohei greet beside him, and he yawns instead of acknowledging him, thinks far enough to know that he'll continue ignoring Sasagawa, until a bandaged hand drags down one shoulder.

He glowers up at Ryohei, affronted by the touch.

"Do you want to grab a drink?" the boxer asks, unabashed. Asks with a smile, with something hidden beneath the surface he's sure Hibari will comprehend without surprise – like it wasn't obvious in those awkward teenage years, fumbling for words after one revelation, when Hibari brushed past the Mosca with grace, something entirely unfamiliar so far back into adolescence.

Hibari doesn't consider it for a moment. (You don't consider yourself to be in a commitment, either.)

Shakes his head, turns his back on Sasagawa and calls out 'Good night', because there needs to be formalities, because there's no way he'll accept this casual relationship with so many people; stupid, stupid herbivores.


Hibari tries to remember how Dino and he became whatever they were. He tries embarrassingly hard, sitting on the couch with a book forgotten in his loose grasp. It's a brief lapse of humanity, but he decides that if he can't remember it, it wasn't important. He remembers the first time they had sex, but believes that holds some importance; this rough ecstasy in the hotel room while travelling the North of Japan, sinking his teeth into Dino's flushed neck, doing something stupid like muttering his name before –

Hibari slams the book shut. He decides the Bucking Horse just isn't important, decides that all the kisses and the sex and the dinners in fancy restaurants don't matter. He goes to bed, alone.


Dino doesn't need to try. He can remember it with ease; when he looks at Kyouya's face, that same frown, and he can remember something he would call a blush, no matter how slight. Of course, there are times when Kyouya is wearing something much more fierce than a frown, shown more with his eyes than his mouth, and it reminds Dino of the slamming of a door.


(Stop smiling, you want to say. Stop being so happy; why are you always so happy?)

Hibari allows a kiss. Dino wraps his arms around his waist, but it's too much, so Hibari then pushes him away an inch, just so his arms fall away, away from him. Their foreheads are forced together - Dino thinks it's romantic, and Hibari can pinpoint every bruise and scratch visible at the proximity, out of nothing more than interest. (Not worry, stop worrying.) The majority are fresh ones he picked up on the trip. Hibari doesn't care, of course.

Dino opens his mouth to say something; something stupid and affectionate, that doesn't fit, can't fit, they can't pretend this is some kind of commitment; Hibari wasn't attracted to Ryohei, that was it, that was all; that scar on his cheek? Who gives a fuck when he's standing right there in the flesh and –

(Stop thinking. Stop fucking everything up that you have.)

Hibari grabs onto the back of Dino's head, feels soft blond tufts on through his fingers, and forces him down before Dino even knows what he was going to say. Hibari starts a kiss, and when Dino holds him this time, he allows it, enjoys it, even. He likes the feel of Dino's teeth grazing his lips, likes how rough and careless the Cavallone is during sex, likes screwing around like this.

He likes how when it's over, he can walk out the door without a care.


"I was lonely." A mouth brushes his neck, a tongue trails along his jawbone. It could have went somewhere, until Dino nuzzled into his throat and said, "I missed you."


(You could have walked out the door.)


They're both retreating from the newly constructed Vongola headquarters. It's dark, almost, an auburn glaze still sliding down the pathways; nothing is more beautiful than Namimori. It's autumn in Japan, and the school still stands tall, exactly as it did ten years ago, when Hibari ruled over it with a merciless fist. He walks by it, unmoved. It's not his place anymore. There is no such things as fondness.

Dino, on the other hand, cranes his neck and stares up at the roof, and Hibari knows what he's thinking about when that God-awful smile crawls across his face, almost mocking him, that European gaze mocking Japan. He knows what he's thinking, and it's strange – he can remember forgetting it.

He thinks the Cavallone is about to speak, and starts walking faster, down the pathway, leaving this place again, again, how many times has he visited now, lost and looking for something, spreading red dots on a map and a bold X marked over the shrine, where he'd stand, and ask.

(Where you find no answers.)

A hand drags down his shoulder and he stops. He tilts his head back, staring apathetically in return to Dino's warm gaze. His bangs flick, cover one eye. Dino's about to say something, from the way his mouth is parted.

He doesn't speak. He tugs Hibari close, kisses him, this soft assuring thing, and keeps their lips together momentarily, before it ends; and Hibari has another thousand questions in his head again.

Lately, things are too choking. Nothing goes his way, nothing has since Namimori, where his future was planned by tonfas and unconscious students in the hallways. Nothing feels right anymore, and this gentle kiss tops the list.

He smirks vindictively, and it hurts his mouth using unfamiliar muscles. He slips out his tonfa, and the traces of orange in the skylight abruptly leave. Dino's just a shadow.

"Are you asking for a spar?" Dino asks, and there's a smile in his voice Hibari resents, Hibari wants to batter away from that crafted Italian face. The Cavallone pulls out his whip, something he knows Kyouya hasn't set eyes on in ages. He doesn't crack it threateningly on the ground, because he'll go easy on Hibari now. How can he not?

(Stop fucking everything you have up.)

Hibari frowns. "Are you ready?"


Dino bleeds down his suit.

Somewhere, lost in the adrenaline, he had became serious. It stopped being this playful game, this memoir of being young, being knew to all this feeling, all this complication. It became an argument, the only way to Mafioso assassins knew how.

They fought. It was frustrating and sore, and (you were frustrated and sore; God Kyouya, can't you ever care?)

He doesn't smile this time. Hibari's bloody too, sweating, panting, licking his lips like he'd just eaten something particularly delicious, and Dino's relatively certain he'll make another reach for his tonfa, even though from the drawn out silence, it's already finished. A draw; it's always a draw. Insecurity bursts to life in Dino's chest, like Hibari was being intentionally weaker. Something about it makes him feel happy, and something about it makes him feel pathetic.

Hibari grins at him; it's all sharp, seductive, without him really meaning it. It's all subconscious lust he's full of after fights, after expressing passion and getting caught up – slamming his tonfa into Dino's cheek, getting sliced in the chest by the whip and sinking his teeth into Dino's hand. (It isn't fair-play; there is no fair-play in a quarrel.)

"You're out of shape," Hibari quips, looking unamused.

Dino shudders; the night cold trickles into his wounds, leaves him uneasy, and he staggers for a bit, breathily reaching out, clutching Hibari's shoulders, and kissing the little scrapes, little cuts and bigger wounds. It's like an apology, and it ends on the mouth, soft and sweet.

Hibari allows it in his own form of apology, ignoring all the questions for once. What good does figuring them out do?


The same questions over again. It's stale now. Everything is stale, and repetitive; the taste of Dino's mouth, the bedsheets, the fucking and lacking feeling, I mean, can't you remember all the passion a decade ago, have we lost it, do you even care?

Hibari can't sleep.

He interrupts Dino's dreams by slamming the door.


"Jesus, Dino."

Bianchi frowns at him, and he's covered in bruises and cuts. He's sore all over, and he's lonely. And he sits down, beside her, and talks in Italian, a reminder in the back of his head days and nights of walking Kyoto have turned precious. He talks in Italian, like it's retribution for Kyouya's departure. He talks in an undertone, because he isn't sure what to say anymore.


(You make a scene in the bar, because you take all the shit Ryohei's slurring out of context. You make a scene because you're confused, and you need an outlet, you need a psychiatrist, God, do you need help. Why did you agree to this again…?)


"How do you put up with it?"

On that rare occasion when himself, Mukuro sidles up to the Bucking Horse, presses himself against the wall, relaxed, casual – curious. He stares up at Dino, that gaze that sizes him up instantly, patronizing and enigmatic. Dino doesn't know if it's rude to avoid looking into his bad eye, offensive on some level, but he doesn't care much. He can remember all those years ago, kids all in hospital beds and setting eyes on Hibari for the first time; just a lump in sheets, sleeping soundly.

Mukuro doesn't clarify, and Dino isn't dense enough to ask. He'll know how it would seem, that way. (The right way, isn't it? But you can't admit that, please don't admit that.)

Dino opens his mouth, glances at Hibari from afar, back turned so all the black from his hair, his suit, his polished shoes simply mix together. (He looks like a shadow.)

Dino doesn't know what to say.


It's been a long time coming. Everything just stops; all the invitations, all the dinner, all the sex, all the kisses and all the being in the same room. Hibari knows it's for the best, tells himself it's for the best. He has his missions, now. (Only has his missions now.) Carries them out with wrath, with lingering grace he vainly feels he'll lose control of. Where's the self-respect? Where's the family? What does it matter anymore? (Why do you have to fuck everything up?)


It's Tsuna's funeral.


They wind up fucking in the back of Dino's car, out of sympathy, maybe, out of confusion; what to do now? Hibari doesn't think he can take the sight of Dino crying. He thinks it would make him angrier than when the Cavallone smiles.


"What is this?" Dino mutters into his jawbone, while his hips buck, his mouth staying open to breath, to pant, to moan when Hibari leans down, nips his collar-bone. Right now? It's comfort. Back then it was a mistake. (Admit it, you know it's the truth. What can he give you that you won't fuck up in the end?)

Hibari looks down, breathes hard, ragged, hands on the sides of Dino's face, tilting it up, and crushes their mouths together as an answer. He doesn't know what to say. (You've never wanted anything more, just don't stop, and you'll be his everything, no leaving, no shitting out this time.)

Dino breaks away, halts his hips. "What is this?" he repeats in a whisper, trying to breath again.

Hibari stares at him. "Comfort." He forces himself down onto Dino's cock in defiance, head grazing the roof of the car. Dino chokes back a moan, furrows his brow. He grabs onto Hibari's hips tightly, stopping any movement.

"That's not enough."

Looking away from Dino, Hibari takes to glaring out the window. "Why are you fucking this up?" (Hypocrite. God, you're so unbearable; how did he put up with you?)

Dino stares a second longer, calculating, before letting Hibari go, so he collapsed down, so he could moan in foreign tongue, ignore the casket in the building outside; so he could mock Hibari while he loved him. Drown it out, drown everything out, and fuck Hibari into the leather seats. Dino groans his name, buries his face and forgets that they're broken up. (It feels good to forget.)


Visiting Tsunayoshi's grave was unpredicted.

Hibari stood their, overlooking it, and asked. Asked silently, bowed head, frowning lips – a passer by might have mistaken this for mourning.

The answer came, clutching roses, donning fine European suits and Cavallone Famiglia tattooes.


Dino opens his mouth, about to say something stupid, about to ask why the Hell Hibari's there, about to break the silence; perhaps about to cry.

(Fix this, whatever this is.)

And Hibari interrupts him with a kiss.

Authors Notes: I really loved this fic, but I also felt like it missed something huge. I can never focus long enough for producing huge fics, so I always settle for something not quite… right. This is pretty much the closest to 'fluff' I'll ever get, but oh well; t'was certainly one hell of a murderous bloodsucking finger-cramping ride.

Thanks so much if you read. 3

(Also, Ryo18 needs uber-muchos fic, so get on it, fandom!)