But Tell It Slant, Chapter One
Jan. 29th, 2008 04:43 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleTitle: But Tell It Slant (Chapter One)
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17? holy crap--)
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Hibari/Dino, Hibari/Kusakabe
Warnings: girl!Hibari, minor/adult, sexual situations, language, teenage pregnancy, violence. Don't take it seriously, folks. This is crack. Serious, angsty, violent crack, but crack nonetheless. And, like. A character study in gender-identity with a psychotic teenager. Whee.
Summary: He's born a girl, and he dies a boy. Kyouya will always be a good boy, no matter what he does, or what he is.
Feedback omg-so-appreciated. <3
Chapter One
He's born a girl.
His parents aren't particularly disappointed, or if they are, they never actually say it. Though, if he thinks about it, it's implied in every action and reaction in the household.
His mother fills out the birth certificate, writes "Kyouya" for a name, and his father stamps the family seal near the bottom. At three days, he's taken home, wrapped in a blanket of the palest blue.
"Kyouya," his mother calls him continually, as though to remind him, each time, that he's his father's son, and not his mother's daughter. She dresses him in little overalls, with the darkest of blue shirts, and cuts his hair short when it threatens to curl. "My son," she says to all the neighbors, not bragging, but stating, because her son is, and he exists, and Kyouya will always be Kyouya.
Kyouya goes to school when he's five, dressed in shorts and a plain yellow shirt, a boy's hat upon his head. His backpack is green, with a mecha on it, and his mother stands outside the kindergarten gates, waiting for him the entirety of the day. When he comes out, in the midst of the storm of children, she rests her hand on his head, and walks home with him, asking him how school was, and if he had any friends, and if there had been any "problems."
"Problems," Kyouya learned when he was young, were when Kyouya did something bad, something his mother and father didn't like. Like when Kyouya had cried for a doll like Hana's, or when Kyouya had tried to kiss Kenichirou, or when Kyouya had pulled down his trousers, to figure out why he was like this when Hana was like that, and when he was like that when Kenichirou was like this. "Problems," Kyouya learned, where when Kyouya wasn't a good boy.
"Kyouya," his mother says, "is a good boy. My Kyouya is always a good boy." And Kyouya is a good boy, always a good boy, because mother says, and his father hopes, and Kyouya knows that family pride is everytihng, and he will always be a good boy.
When he's in elementary, Toshirou knocks him to the ground and kisses him. Kyouya stares up, and Toshirou stares down, and the teacher comes out to stop the scuffle before it leads to kicked shins and bitten hands. Kyouya storms home after that, and when his mother asks him if there were problems, he tells her about Toshirou, and the playground, and how Kyouya's back is still smarting.
His parents argue that night, quiet and strained in the front room, and Kyouya sits at the top of the stairs. He plucks at the edge of his pajamas, where a firetruck is slowly unraveling to threads, and listens.
"--girl," his father says, and Kyouya's mother makes a strange sound, as though she's crying.
"He's a good boy," she says, and when she steps out of the room, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her face is red and blotchy, and streaked with tears. Kyouya stands up and goes to his room, and lies on his bed. He will be, he knows, a good boy, because that's what his mother wants.
The next day Kyouya goes to school, with his blue backpack with the red mecha, and when Toshirou tries to knock him down to kiss him, Kyouya knocks him down first. Then Kyouya kicks him, hard, in the mouth, until Toshirou's crying and bleed and there's snot everywhere.
"Don't," Kyouya hisses, and the teachers are running out of the school, "make me mad."
His eyes burn, like he's going to cry, but he doesn't cry, because he's a good boy, and he'll kick anyone who makes his mother cry. Because Kyouya is his mother's son, and never his father's daughter.
By the time Kyouya begins middle school, no one tries to knock him down to the ground. His teachers ignore him mostly, handing back his papers with quiet murmurs of "well done," before moving onto the rest of the class. His classmates avoid him, and when they can't avoid him, they skirt around him, careful not to touch. Kyouya watches them go, boys and girls, and leans against the window, waiting until he can go home. And every day, he goes home, and sits in his mother's kitchen, and tells her about school, about how there aren't any problems, about how he does well in class. He hands her his tests, one after another, and she rests her hand on his head for each one, and sometimes, on particularly good days, she leans down, and kisses his forehead.
"My Kyouya," she says, "I'm so proud of you," and Kyouya takes this, holds it tight, and thinks about it all day, when he's standing in the midst of his classmates, stupid kids who can't even see the truth in front of their eyes.
"My Kyouya," she says, "makes me so happy," and Kyouya needs this, basks in this, because nothing else can make him happy, and nothing else can make this family of his happy. And when his parents fight, raised voices in the hallway, Kyouya stands at the top of the stairs, and waits, because he'll make them happy, both of them.
When he begins middle-school, his father pulls him to the bathroom, sets him in front of the mirror.
"This," his father says, "is how you tie a tie." Kyouya watches his father grab the tie, flip it, knot it.
Kyouya tries once, stumbles, and his father shows him again.
"Like this, and here."
Kyouya gets it by the third time, a tie that's crooked and too short, and Kyouya's father smiles.
"Good boy," he says, and he pats Kyouya on the shoulder. Kyouya frowns at his tie, tries it again, and his father says, "I wish you would smile."
At the entrance ceremony, Kyouya wears a tie and a smile, and both are a little crooked.
He's leader of the disciplinary committee by his third month, by default of kicking the previous leader's teeth in when the bastard tries to touch him. His hand strays too close to Kyouya's chest, and Kyouya knocks him down, kicks him hard, then kicks him again, and again, until Kyouya can only see red, and hear himself gasp for breath, and hope the bastard was dead.
The next day, the president's armband is lying in Kyouya's shoelocker, and Kyouya pins it on in the bathroom, careful to make sure it's straight.
The armband becomes his shield, and Kyouya becomes more and more paranoid, because Kyouya becomes more and more like them, and less and less like them, and he's his family's son in all but body.
He kicks more boys in the face, and stops going to P.E. When health checks come, he's carefully absent, and comes back with a doctor's note. He skips class to go to the toilet, and hides out on the roof when his class goes to swim in the pools. He pulls further away, and further still, and wears his ties and smiles and armband on the far side of the class.
When he comes home, he sits at the table, and lies to his mother, talking about friends and girlfriends and how he's happy, and his mother smiles at him, and kisses the top of his head, and lying has never felt so good.
He comes home one night with blood on his shoes, from someone who bumped into him, touching him. Kyouya toes off his shoes, and shoves them to the side, knocks a pair of his father's shoes on top, so his parents won't see. The next morning, his shoes are set out next to the door, clean, and his mother isn't smiling anymore.
"Kyouya," she says, "your tie," and she reaches out, straightens it, her fingers cold when she brushes his cheek. "Be happy," she says, and her face is streaked.
Kyouya stops at a store on his way to school, running bruised knuckles over all kinds of metal, all for hurting, and that afternoon he beats the boy half to death for making his mother cry, sidestepping the blood carefully. He cleans the tonfa in the boys' bathroom, and slides them into his shoe locker before going home. His mother looks up from the kitchen table, and Kyouya kisses her cheek, and smiles for her, and leaves a pair of shoes, clean and crisp, next to the door.
When he's fifteen, he wakes one morning with blood on his sheets. He pulls his sheets off his bed in disgust, bundling them up with his pajamas and boxers. He shoves the lot into the washer, dumps in the soap, and gets ready for school slowly, carefully. He puts on a pair of underwear, then another pair, and folds a wad of toilet paper carefully. He kisses his mother as he leaves, and when she says he looks pale, feels clammy, he smiles for her.
At school he takes over the discipline committee's room, kicking out his subordinates. He curls up on the couch, and tries to sleep, and ignore the way his stomach twists and digs into him. By the time lunch has come, he's changed the wad of toilet paper thrice, and his patience is about to snap. When Kusakabe strays too close, nearly touching, Kyouya lashes out, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction when Kusakabe's arm makes a snapping sound.
"Don't," he snaps, and presses the tonfa against Kusakabe's throat, where he can feel Kusakabe's ragged breaths, "touch me."
He's alone the rest of the day, the disciplinary committee's members skirting the far edge of his eyesight. He lies on the couch, curled up tight, and closes his eyes just as tight, waiting for the school bell so he can go home.
"Kyouya," his mother says when he gets home, climbing the stairs to his bedroom, "is there a problem?" Kyouya stands at the top of the stairs, and she stands at the bottom, and Kyouya's eyes burn like he's about to cry, and he can't cry, because he's a boy, and boys don't cry. But boys don't make their mothers cry, either, and his mother looks like she's about to cry, her face crumpling.
"No," he says, and he makes his bed with jerky movements as she watches from the doorway. He tucks a sheet in haphazardly, then throws himself upon it, and she sits next to him, her hands slipping through his hair, fingers catching on the hints of curls.
"Your hair," she murmurs, and, "my Kyouya," and he falls asleep like that, her hands warm against his face. When he wakes, there's a glass of water and a packet of pills on his nightstand, and a blanket tucked up near his chin.
Kyouya skips the next few days of school, sleeping in his room while his mother bustles about, humming under her breath. She touches him more those few days, resting her hand on his head, or kissing his cheek, or tucking his blankets closer against him. He touches her back, holding her hand loosely when she sits on the edge of the bed, and he tells her careful lies about school, about his friends and the classes he's missing. She listens carefully, remembers all the names, and repeats them to his father, a curve of a smile on her mouth. Kyouya sits with them, sleepy-eyed and lazy with the heavy-limbed weight of drugs, and he smiles when they smile at him, and climbs the stairs to sleep when they turn away, murmuring to each other.
When he returns to school, it feels like a strange country. Kusakabe's skittish, trying to hide his cast, and the rest of the committee is equally hesitant. Kyouya snaps his tonfa against one's jaw, holds it tight and still.
"Get to work," he says, and they scatter into the hallways, throwing the carelessness of the school into the careful control Kyouya needs. As Kusakabe moves to join them, Kyouya turns, flicking his tonfa so it barely brushes Kusakabe's cast. Kusakabe freezes, turning towards Kyouya, and Kyouya forces the tonfa harder against Kusakabe's cast.
"Don't," he says, "disappoint me," and Kusakabe bows stiffly before rushing from the room.
x-x-x-x
He dreams after Kokuyou; dreams of being pushed down, having his hands pinned and jaw grabbed, of hands bigger than his, rougher than his, touching him. He wakes up sweating, his hands clutching his sheets, and he slams his way through the house, shaking his head at his mother. He takes the long way to school, with care to go outside his territory, and wanders the streets until he catches a gang's attention. It feels good to slam his tonfa against them again and again, to make them bleed, to make their bones break. It feels good, to reassure himself that he's strong, stronger than the rest of these things.
He gets to school just before the morning bell, blood splattered, and sits on the roof of the school, furious. Kusakabe shows up during the first class, comes to stand a half-dozen yards away, and Kyouya hates him, hates him for being taller, wider, bigger; for being a boy.
By the next year, his dreams change, and it's not another boy pushing him down, but a man, the thing that's badgering Kyouya at all hours, chasing him to babble on and on about some underclassmen and rings. And in the dreams, the man babbles, but he says different things, things about Kyouya, and himself, and he sticks his hand down Kyouya's trousers, twists it, pushing his fingers in and up. When Kyouya wakes up, his chest feels tight, and his legs are tingling, and he hates himself for the way he wants to shove his hand down his pajama pants.
The man catches him that day, too, saying something about training, and Kyouya swipes at him with his tonfa, furious and cold. The man's tall, and lean, and when he's pressed against Kyouya, he feels corded and tight, muscles spreading over Kyouya's back. Kyouya snaps out with his tonfa, snarls when it hits flesh, and hits again, and again, and it doesn't matter that the whip touches him, because he's going to kill this man, this thing, that's come onto Kyouya's territory, into Kyouya's control, and is tearing it all slipshod, making Kyouya think and feel and dream.
He slams the butt of his tonfa into the man's jaw, and the man laughs, and the whip catches Kyouya's wrist, the same way Kyouya's breath catches in his throat. And the man's eyes change, and Kyouya's going to kill him, bite him until there's nothing left pain and death and Kyouya's control, all the thin traces that are strewn over the rooftop.
"Kyouya," the man says, and Kyouya slams his tonfa into the man's stomach, smiling when the man gasps, blood on his lips.
"Just lie down and die," he says, smirking. He's about to hit him again, break the man's teeth in, when there's a crack, and it feels like fire across Kyouya's side, dragging blood across his stomach. He stumbles back, stunned, because no one does this, none of the cattle ever stay standing, ever fight back.
"You're not very cute," the mans says, and Kyouya seethes.
"I'll kill you," he snaps, and the man laughs, like that fucking baseball thing, and Kyouya wants to tear the world to pieces. And the man, the fucking man, keeps laughing, flicking his whip like he's playing, not serious, and Kyouya hates him, hates him more than he's ever hated anyone, because no one's ever played before, acted like it's a game, because it's not a game, not for anyone but Kyouya. And this is Kyouya's place, Kyouya's world to control, not some outsider's.
The man calls Kyouya a child, flicks the whip next to Kyouya's face. Kyouya steps into it, feels leather cut against his jaw and cheek, and slams his tonfa against the man's arm. The man looks startled and Kyouya wants to laugh, and then the man's grabbing Kyouya, barking out words in Japanese and Italian, sounding furious, and Kyouya's anger is melting into pleasure, because he's won his game.
"You bore me," he says, and the man pulls him closer, and then they're touching, hip to shoulder, and the man's eyes are opening in an entirely different way.
"You," the man says. Kyouya spins his tonfa into the man's side, and the man grunts but doesn't stop, grabbing at Kyouya, and touching, pressing a hand against Kyouya’s chest, then Kyouya's trousers, and grabbing at Kyouya's chin, turning his face up. "Fuck.”
The man throws Kyouya away from him roughly, snatching his hands back as though were burned, and Kyouya stumbles, snarls. The man's already turning away though, cursing in Italian, and Kyouya's furious, because he's already won the game, and this isn't how it's to be played, this is against the rules.
The man's halfway across the roof, nearly to the stairs, when Kyouya hits him, slamming him into the wall. The man fights back, though, and then Kyouya's tonfa are clattering across the roof, and Kyouya bites, digging his fingers into the man's arms, his teeth into the man's shoulder. The man's pulling at Kyouya's hair, trying to throw him off, and it hurts, but fuck it, fuck him, because Kyouya's better than everyone, and stronger than everyone, and Kyouya always gets what he wants.
And it's Kyouya, it's Kyouya who's controlling this, who's trying to crawl into the man's skin, make the man scream and bleed. And it's Kyouya who squirms closer, rubbing closer, biting deeper. And the man's hands don't pull as hard, and then there's a hand against Kyouya's trousers, and Kyouya can rub against it, yanking at the man's head and biting hard, and that's it, that's the game, and it's his game now, like it was always meant to be.
"Fuck," the man groans, and Kyouya tears with his teeth, makes the man hiss and jerk.
"Your hand," he snarls, blood hot in his mouth, and the man's fumbling, grabbing at Kyouya's zipper and belt, and then there are fingers, thick and hot, and Kyouya hates the sound he makes in his throat, but he likes the way the fingers are moving, and he digs his fingernails in, twists them against the man's arms.
"Fuck, fuck," the man's panting next to Kyouya's ear, too close. Kyouya snarls, jerks away, and lifts up onto his toes, rocking further into that hand. It's slick, and wet, and Kyouya presses his mouth against the man's bloody shirt, breathes in ragged. He lets go of the man's right arm, and shoves his trousers further down his hips, fits his fingers between the man's. It's better, and he groans, trying to move faster, because this is too slow, spiraling out of his control, and he wants--
His feet slide further apart, and he rises up higher on his toes, yanks the man's hand further down, further in. It's hot, and empty, and he wants something, needs something, and he's trying to breathe, squirming and panting, and making noises like that man. He's jerking, his muscles clenching, and it's empty, and--
"No," he hisses, and the man groans, shaking. He grabs the man's hands, and shoves them further between his legs, closer, and-- The man's fingers are thick, and big, and when they slide in, Kyouya's hips stutter. Kyouya bites, holds his breath, and the man's hand is moving, and his fingers are moving, and Kyouya shoves his hand beside the man's, and it's enough, almost enough, and he bites the man's jaw, breaks skin and muscle, and grinds down on the man's hand, and there--
It's hot, and wet, and everything's beating fast, and the man's hand is still between his legs, and suddenly, Kyouya hates it all.
"Let go," Kyouya snaps, and the man pulls back, his hand brushing between Kyouya's legs, making Kyouya's muscles bunch and jump. Kyouya hisses, and shoves himself away from the man, stumbling back a few steps. The man's already sinking down to the rooftop, shoving his hand (the hand that had been down Kyouya's trousers, still wet) down his trousers, groaning, and saying, "shit, shit, shit, oh fuck, oh shit--"
Kyouya grabs at his trousers, yanks them up, and is buckling his belt, fingers feeling heavy and numb and wet, everything still wet and slick and disgusting, like he's some kind of thing-- He's buckling his belt when the man sucks in a breath and jerks, makes a sound that makes Kyouya want to bite him, tear him apart.
He picks up his tonfa, hands shaking, and flicks them, staring at the man. The man's slumped against the wall, limp, with his hand still down his trousers, and Kyouya hates him. He snarls and stalks forward a few steps, crouching to grab the man's hair and yank his head up. The man looks at Kyouya with bleary eyes, says "fuck" quietly, and lets his head fall back. Kyouya yanks, then lets go, standing up to take aim, and kick--
The sound of the man's arm snapping is refreshing, and the man's strangled cry even more so, and Kyouya leaves the rooftop feeling a little bit better, because in the end, he’s the only winner.
When he gets home, he skirts around his mother, feeling sweaty, and dirty, and empty. He hides in the bath, sinking in the water, scratching at his skin. He can still feel hands on him, touching him, and he scratches at them, snarls and swears. The water's hot, and burns, and he takes a breath, holds it in. When he finally crawls out of the bath, his mother is in the hallway, her hands holding her apron.
"Kyouya," she says, and she touches his face. "Kyouya, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says, and he kisses her on the cheek, and crawls into bed, sore and tired and empty. And his mouth still tastes of blood.
When Kyouya dreams that night, he dreams of hands.
In the morning, the man is standing outside the school gates, insolent posture of shoulders slouching low, chin raised high. He grins when he sees Kyouya, lifts his neck and chin, and says, too friendly, “Kyouya.”
“What?” Kyouya asks, and the heat in his mouth in his mouth feels good, feels pleasant in the same way the anger in chest feels. He smiles, and smiles more when the man startles, takes a step back. “Do you want to die here?”
“No,” the man says, and he sounds like he’s about to laugh. Kyouya snarls, takes a step forward, but the man doesn’t step back again, just lifts his hands. “We’re going on a trip, Kyouya. You can try to kill me somewhere else.”
“No.” The idea sickens him, twists his stomach, and he spits out, “I’m not leaving Namimori.”
The man looks confused, lifting his hands up higher, turning them towards his face. “Not for long, Kyouya. Just so I can make you better.”
“I have no interest in that.” Kyouya looks away, through the school gates. The students are mingling near the doors, in twos and threes and fives. He can hear laughter, faint, a sharp voice, then the laughter again, louder. He starts to take a step.
“Then until you can kill me.”
The man’s face looks genuine, like all the cattle, slow and stupid and too truthful by half. Kyouya glances back at the school, where the students are slowly going through the doors. “Until I can kill you,” he repeats back, and the man smiles, lifting his chin high again.
“Call me Dino, then, Kyouya,” the man says, and he’s already turning away, moving towards the flashy cars on the side of the road. Kyouya snorts, turning away to watch the last of the students scurry into the school as the bell chimes. A flash of a skirt rounds into a hallway, sliding out of his view, as the bell’s last note sounds, and the yard is empty. The faces in the classroom are distant, turned away from him, and he watches a moment before he turns, following Cavallone to the cars.
TBC
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17? holy crap--)
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Hibari/Dino, Hibari/Kusakabe
Warnings: girl!Hibari, minor/adult, sexual situations, language, teenage pregnancy, violence. Don't take it seriously, folks. This is crack. Serious, angsty, violent crack, but crack nonetheless. And, like. A character study in gender-identity with a psychotic teenager. Whee.
Summary: He's born a girl, and he dies a boy. Kyouya will always be a good boy, no matter what he does, or what he is.
Feedback omg-so-appreciated. <3
Chapter One
He's born a girl.
His parents aren't particularly disappointed, or if they are, they never actually say it. Though, if he thinks about it, it's implied in every action and reaction in the household.
His mother fills out the birth certificate, writes "Kyouya" for a name, and his father stamps the family seal near the bottom. At three days, he's taken home, wrapped in a blanket of the palest blue.
"Kyouya," his mother calls him continually, as though to remind him, each time, that he's his father's son, and not his mother's daughter. She dresses him in little overalls, with the darkest of blue shirts, and cuts his hair short when it threatens to curl. "My son," she says to all the neighbors, not bragging, but stating, because her son is, and he exists, and Kyouya will always be Kyouya.
Kyouya goes to school when he's five, dressed in shorts and a plain yellow shirt, a boy's hat upon his head. His backpack is green, with a mecha on it, and his mother stands outside the kindergarten gates, waiting for him the entirety of the day. When he comes out, in the midst of the storm of children, she rests her hand on his head, and walks home with him, asking him how school was, and if he had any friends, and if there had been any "problems."
"Problems," Kyouya learned when he was young, were when Kyouya did something bad, something his mother and father didn't like. Like when Kyouya had cried for a doll like Hana's, or when Kyouya had tried to kiss Kenichirou, or when Kyouya had pulled down his trousers, to figure out why he was like this when Hana was like that, and when he was like that when Kenichirou was like this. "Problems," Kyouya learned, where when Kyouya wasn't a good boy.
"Kyouya," his mother says, "is a good boy. My Kyouya is always a good boy." And Kyouya is a good boy, always a good boy, because mother says, and his father hopes, and Kyouya knows that family pride is everytihng, and he will always be a good boy.
When he's in elementary, Toshirou knocks him to the ground and kisses him. Kyouya stares up, and Toshirou stares down, and the teacher comes out to stop the scuffle before it leads to kicked shins and bitten hands. Kyouya storms home after that, and when his mother asks him if there were problems, he tells her about Toshirou, and the playground, and how Kyouya's back is still smarting.
His parents argue that night, quiet and strained in the front room, and Kyouya sits at the top of the stairs. He plucks at the edge of his pajamas, where a firetruck is slowly unraveling to threads, and listens.
"--girl," his father says, and Kyouya's mother makes a strange sound, as though she's crying.
"He's a good boy," she says, and when she steps out of the room, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her face is red and blotchy, and streaked with tears. Kyouya stands up and goes to his room, and lies on his bed. He will be, he knows, a good boy, because that's what his mother wants.
The next day Kyouya goes to school, with his blue backpack with the red mecha, and when Toshirou tries to knock him down to kiss him, Kyouya knocks him down first. Then Kyouya kicks him, hard, in the mouth, until Toshirou's crying and bleed and there's snot everywhere.
"Don't," Kyouya hisses, and the teachers are running out of the school, "make me mad."
His eyes burn, like he's going to cry, but he doesn't cry, because he's a good boy, and he'll kick anyone who makes his mother cry. Because Kyouya is his mother's son, and never his father's daughter.
By the time Kyouya begins middle school, no one tries to knock him down to the ground. His teachers ignore him mostly, handing back his papers with quiet murmurs of "well done," before moving onto the rest of the class. His classmates avoid him, and when they can't avoid him, they skirt around him, careful not to touch. Kyouya watches them go, boys and girls, and leans against the window, waiting until he can go home. And every day, he goes home, and sits in his mother's kitchen, and tells her about school, about how there aren't any problems, about how he does well in class. He hands her his tests, one after another, and she rests her hand on his head for each one, and sometimes, on particularly good days, she leans down, and kisses his forehead.
"My Kyouya," she says, "I'm so proud of you," and Kyouya takes this, holds it tight, and thinks about it all day, when he's standing in the midst of his classmates, stupid kids who can't even see the truth in front of their eyes.
"My Kyouya," she says, "makes me so happy," and Kyouya needs this, basks in this, because nothing else can make him happy, and nothing else can make this family of his happy. And when his parents fight, raised voices in the hallway, Kyouya stands at the top of the stairs, and waits, because he'll make them happy, both of them.
When he begins middle-school, his father pulls him to the bathroom, sets him in front of the mirror.
"This," his father says, "is how you tie a tie." Kyouya watches his father grab the tie, flip it, knot it.
Kyouya tries once, stumbles, and his father shows him again.
"Like this, and here."
Kyouya gets it by the third time, a tie that's crooked and too short, and Kyouya's father smiles.
"Good boy," he says, and he pats Kyouya on the shoulder. Kyouya frowns at his tie, tries it again, and his father says, "I wish you would smile."
At the entrance ceremony, Kyouya wears a tie and a smile, and both are a little crooked.
He's leader of the disciplinary committee by his third month, by default of kicking the previous leader's teeth in when the bastard tries to touch him. His hand strays too close to Kyouya's chest, and Kyouya knocks him down, kicks him hard, then kicks him again, and again, until Kyouya can only see red, and hear himself gasp for breath, and hope the bastard was dead.
The next day, the president's armband is lying in Kyouya's shoelocker, and Kyouya pins it on in the bathroom, careful to make sure it's straight.
The armband becomes his shield, and Kyouya becomes more and more paranoid, because Kyouya becomes more and more like them, and less and less like them, and he's his family's son in all but body.
He kicks more boys in the face, and stops going to P.E. When health checks come, he's carefully absent, and comes back with a doctor's note. He skips class to go to the toilet, and hides out on the roof when his class goes to swim in the pools. He pulls further away, and further still, and wears his ties and smiles and armband on the far side of the class.
When he comes home, he sits at the table, and lies to his mother, talking about friends and girlfriends and how he's happy, and his mother smiles at him, and kisses the top of his head, and lying has never felt so good.
He comes home one night with blood on his shoes, from someone who bumped into him, touching him. Kyouya toes off his shoes, and shoves them to the side, knocks a pair of his father's shoes on top, so his parents won't see. The next morning, his shoes are set out next to the door, clean, and his mother isn't smiling anymore.
"Kyouya," she says, "your tie," and she reaches out, straightens it, her fingers cold when she brushes his cheek. "Be happy," she says, and her face is streaked.
Kyouya stops at a store on his way to school, running bruised knuckles over all kinds of metal, all for hurting, and that afternoon he beats the boy half to death for making his mother cry, sidestepping the blood carefully. He cleans the tonfa in the boys' bathroom, and slides them into his shoe locker before going home. His mother looks up from the kitchen table, and Kyouya kisses her cheek, and smiles for her, and leaves a pair of shoes, clean and crisp, next to the door.
When he's fifteen, he wakes one morning with blood on his sheets. He pulls his sheets off his bed in disgust, bundling them up with his pajamas and boxers. He shoves the lot into the washer, dumps in the soap, and gets ready for school slowly, carefully. He puts on a pair of underwear, then another pair, and folds a wad of toilet paper carefully. He kisses his mother as he leaves, and when she says he looks pale, feels clammy, he smiles for her.
At school he takes over the discipline committee's room, kicking out his subordinates. He curls up on the couch, and tries to sleep, and ignore the way his stomach twists and digs into him. By the time lunch has come, he's changed the wad of toilet paper thrice, and his patience is about to snap. When Kusakabe strays too close, nearly touching, Kyouya lashes out, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction when Kusakabe's arm makes a snapping sound.
"Don't," he snaps, and presses the tonfa against Kusakabe's throat, where he can feel Kusakabe's ragged breaths, "touch me."
He's alone the rest of the day, the disciplinary committee's members skirting the far edge of his eyesight. He lies on the couch, curled up tight, and closes his eyes just as tight, waiting for the school bell so he can go home.
"Kyouya," his mother says when he gets home, climbing the stairs to his bedroom, "is there a problem?" Kyouya stands at the top of the stairs, and she stands at the bottom, and Kyouya's eyes burn like he's about to cry, and he can't cry, because he's a boy, and boys don't cry. But boys don't make their mothers cry, either, and his mother looks like she's about to cry, her face crumpling.
"No," he says, and he makes his bed with jerky movements as she watches from the doorway. He tucks a sheet in haphazardly, then throws himself upon it, and she sits next to him, her hands slipping through his hair, fingers catching on the hints of curls.
"Your hair," she murmurs, and, "my Kyouya," and he falls asleep like that, her hands warm against his face. When he wakes, there's a glass of water and a packet of pills on his nightstand, and a blanket tucked up near his chin.
Kyouya skips the next few days of school, sleeping in his room while his mother bustles about, humming under her breath. She touches him more those few days, resting her hand on his head, or kissing his cheek, or tucking his blankets closer against him. He touches her back, holding her hand loosely when she sits on the edge of the bed, and he tells her careful lies about school, about his friends and the classes he's missing. She listens carefully, remembers all the names, and repeats them to his father, a curve of a smile on her mouth. Kyouya sits with them, sleepy-eyed and lazy with the heavy-limbed weight of drugs, and he smiles when they smile at him, and climbs the stairs to sleep when they turn away, murmuring to each other.
When he returns to school, it feels like a strange country. Kusakabe's skittish, trying to hide his cast, and the rest of the committee is equally hesitant. Kyouya snaps his tonfa against one's jaw, holds it tight and still.
"Get to work," he says, and they scatter into the hallways, throwing the carelessness of the school into the careful control Kyouya needs. As Kusakabe moves to join them, Kyouya turns, flicking his tonfa so it barely brushes Kusakabe's cast. Kusakabe freezes, turning towards Kyouya, and Kyouya forces the tonfa harder against Kusakabe's cast.
"Don't," he says, "disappoint me," and Kusakabe bows stiffly before rushing from the room.
He dreams after Kokuyou; dreams of being pushed down, having his hands pinned and jaw grabbed, of hands bigger than his, rougher than his, touching him. He wakes up sweating, his hands clutching his sheets, and he slams his way through the house, shaking his head at his mother. He takes the long way to school, with care to go outside his territory, and wanders the streets until he catches a gang's attention. It feels good to slam his tonfa against them again and again, to make them bleed, to make their bones break. It feels good, to reassure himself that he's strong, stronger than the rest of these things.
He gets to school just before the morning bell, blood splattered, and sits on the roof of the school, furious. Kusakabe shows up during the first class, comes to stand a half-dozen yards away, and Kyouya hates him, hates him for being taller, wider, bigger; for being a boy.
By the next year, his dreams change, and it's not another boy pushing him down, but a man, the thing that's badgering Kyouya at all hours, chasing him to babble on and on about some underclassmen and rings. And in the dreams, the man babbles, but he says different things, things about Kyouya, and himself, and he sticks his hand down Kyouya's trousers, twists it, pushing his fingers in and up. When Kyouya wakes up, his chest feels tight, and his legs are tingling, and he hates himself for the way he wants to shove his hand down his pajama pants.
The man catches him that day, too, saying something about training, and Kyouya swipes at him with his tonfa, furious and cold. The man's tall, and lean, and when he's pressed against Kyouya, he feels corded and tight, muscles spreading over Kyouya's back. Kyouya snaps out with his tonfa, snarls when it hits flesh, and hits again, and again, and it doesn't matter that the whip touches him, because he's going to kill this man, this thing, that's come onto Kyouya's territory, into Kyouya's control, and is tearing it all slipshod, making Kyouya think and feel and dream.
He slams the butt of his tonfa into the man's jaw, and the man laughs, and the whip catches Kyouya's wrist, the same way Kyouya's breath catches in his throat. And the man's eyes change, and Kyouya's going to kill him, bite him until there's nothing left pain and death and Kyouya's control, all the thin traces that are strewn over the rooftop.
"Kyouya," the man says, and Kyouya slams his tonfa into the man's stomach, smiling when the man gasps, blood on his lips.
"Just lie down and die," he says, smirking. He's about to hit him again, break the man's teeth in, when there's a crack, and it feels like fire across Kyouya's side, dragging blood across his stomach. He stumbles back, stunned, because no one does this, none of the cattle ever stay standing, ever fight back.
"You're not very cute," the mans says, and Kyouya seethes.
"I'll kill you," he snaps, and the man laughs, like that fucking baseball thing, and Kyouya wants to tear the world to pieces. And the man, the fucking man, keeps laughing, flicking his whip like he's playing, not serious, and Kyouya hates him, hates him more than he's ever hated anyone, because no one's ever played before, acted like it's a game, because it's not a game, not for anyone but Kyouya. And this is Kyouya's place, Kyouya's world to control, not some outsider's.
The man calls Kyouya a child, flicks the whip next to Kyouya's face. Kyouya steps into it, feels leather cut against his jaw and cheek, and slams his tonfa against the man's arm. The man looks startled and Kyouya wants to laugh, and then the man's grabbing Kyouya, barking out words in Japanese and Italian, sounding furious, and Kyouya's anger is melting into pleasure, because he's won his game.
"You bore me," he says, and the man pulls him closer, and then they're touching, hip to shoulder, and the man's eyes are opening in an entirely different way.
"You," the man says. Kyouya spins his tonfa into the man's side, and the man grunts but doesn't stop, grabbing at Kyouya, and touching, pressing a hand against Kyouya’s chest, then Kyouya's trousers, and grabbing at Kyouya's chin, turning his face up. "Fuck.”
The man throws Kyouya away from him roughly, snatching his hands back as though were burned, and Kyouya stumbles, snarls. The man's already turning away though, cursing in Italian, and Kyouya's furious, because he's already won the game, and this isn't how it's to be played, this is against the rules.
The man's halfway across the roof, nearly to the stairs, when Kyouya hits him, slamming him into the wall. The man fights back, though, and then Kyouya's tonfa are clattering across the roof, and Kyouya bites, digging his fingers into the man's arms, his teeth into the man's shoulder. The man's pulling at Kyouya's hair, trying to throw him off, and it hurts, but fuck it, fuck him, because Kyouya's better than everyone, and stronger than everyone, and Kyouya always gets what he wants.
And it's Kyouya, it's Kyouya who's controlling this, who's trying to crawl into the man's skin, make the man scream and bleed. And it's Kyouya who squirms closer, rubbing closer, biting deeper. And the man's hands don't pull as hard, and then there's a hand against Kyouya's trousers, and Kyouya can rub against it, yanking at the man's head and biting hard, and that's it, that's the game, and it's his game now, like it was always meant to be.
"Fuck," the man groans, and Kyouya tears with his teeth, makes the man hiss and jerk.
"Your hand," he snarls, blood hot in his mouth, and the man's fumbling, grabbing at Kyouya's zipper and belt, and then there are fingers, thick and hot, and Kyouya hates the sound he makes in his throat, but he likes the way the fingers are moving, and he digs his fingernails in, twists them against the man's arms.
"Fuck, fuck," the man's panting next to Kyouya's ear, too close. Kyouya snarls, jerks away, and lifts up onto his toes, rocking further into that hand. It's slick, and wet, and Kyouya presses his mouth against the man's bloody shirt, breathes in ragged. He lets go of the man's right arm, and shoves his trousers further down his hips, fits his fingers between the man's. It's better, and he groans, trying to move faster, because this is too slow, spiraling out of his control, and he wants--
His feet slide further apart, and he rises up higher on his toes, yanks the man's hand further down, further in. It's hot, and empty, and he wants something, needs something, and he's trying to breathe, squirming and panting, and making noises like that man. He's jerking, his muscles clenching, and it's empty, and--
"No," he hisses, and the man groans, shaking. He grabs the man's hands, and shoves them further between his legs, closer, and-- The man's fingers are thick, and big, and when they slide in, Kyouya's hips stutter. Kyouya bites, holds his breath, and the man's hand is moving, and his fingers are moving, and Kyouya shoves his hand beside the man's, and it's enough, almost enough, and he bites the man's jaw, breaks skin and muscle, and grinds down on the man's hand, and there--
It's hot, and wet, and everything's beating fast, and the man's hand is still between his legs, and suddenly, Kyouya hates it all.
"Let go," Kyouya snaps, and the man pulls back, his hand brushing between Kyouya's legs, making Kyouya's muscles bunch and jump. Kyouya hisses, and shoves himself away from the man, stumbling back a few steps. The man's already sinking down to the rooftop, shoving his hand (the hand that had been down Kyouya's trousers, still wet) down his trousers, groaning, and saying, "shit, shit, shit, oh fuck, oh shit--"
Kyouya grabs at his trousers, yanks them up, and is buckling his belt, fingers feeling heavy and numb and wet, everything still wet and slick and disgusting, like he's some kind of thing-- He's buckling his belt when the man sucks in a breath and jerks, makes a sound that makes Kyouya want to bite him, tear him apart.
He picks up his tonfa, hands shaking, and flicks them, staring at the man. The man's slumped against the wall, limp, with his hand still down his trousers, and Kyouya hates him. He snarls and stalks forward a few steps, crouching to grab the man's hair and yank his head up. The man looks at Kyouya with bleary eyes, says "fuck" quietly, and lets his head fall back. Kyouya yanks, then lets go, standing up to take aim, and kick--
The sound of the man's arm snapping is refreshing, and the man's strangled cry even more so, and Kyouya leaves the rooftop feeling a little bit better, because in the end, he’s the only winner.
When he gets home, he skirts around his mother, feeling sweaty, and dirty, and empty. He hides in the bath, sinking in the water, scratching at his skin. He can still feel hands on him, touching him, and he scratches at them, snarls and swears. The water's hot, and burns, and he takes a breath, holds it in. When he finally crawls out of the bath, his mother is in the hallway, her hands holding her apron.
"Kyouya," she says, and she touches his face. "Kyouya, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says, and he kisses her on the cheek, and crawls into bed, sore and tired and empty. And his mouth still tastes of blood.
When Kyouya dreams that night, he dreams of hands.
In the morning, the man is standing outside the school gates, insolent posture of shoulders slouching low, chin raised high. He grins when he sees Kyouya, lifts his neck and chin, and says, too friendly, “Kyouya.”
“What?” Kyouya asks, and the heat in his mouth in his mouth feels good, feels pleasant in the same way the anger in chest feels. He smiles, and smiles more when the man startles, takes a step back. “Do you want to die here?”
“No,” the man says, and he sounds like he’s about to laugh. Kyouya snarls, takes a step forward, but the man doesn’t step back again, just lifts his hands. “We’re going on a trip, Kyouya. You can try to kill me somewhere else.”
“No.” The idea sickens him, twists his stomach, and he spits out, “I’m not leaving Namimori.”
The man looks confused, lifting his hands up higher, turning them towards his face. “Not for long, Kyouya. Just so I can make you better.”
“I have no interest in that.” Kyouya looks away, through the school gates. The students are mingling near the doors, in twos and threes and fives. He can hear laughter, faint, a sharp voice, then the laughter again, louder. He starts to take a step.
“Then until you can kill me.”
The man’s face looks genuine, like all the cattle, slow and stupid and too truthful by half. Kyouya glances back at the school, where the students are slowly going through the doors. “Until I can kill you,” he repeats back, and the man smiles, lifting his chin high again.
“Call me Dino, then, Kyouya,” the man says, and he’s already turning away, moving towards the flashy cars on the side of the road. Kyouya snorts, turning away to watch the last of the students scurry into the school as the bell chimes. A flash of a skirt rounds into a hallway, sliding out of his view, as the bell’s last note sounds, and the yard is empty. The faces in the classroom are distant, turned away from him, and he watches a moment before he turns, following Cavallone to the cars.
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
*SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 02:14 am (UTC)AND KUSAKABE. AND *KOKUYO* OH GOD THAT ARC IS SO MUCH SICKER WITH HIBARI AS A GIRL. AND AND DINO! FUCKING HIBARI! IS SO HOT, IT MAKES ME HAPPY IN MY PANTS. SEE THAT? YOUR HET PORN MAKES ME HAPPY IN MY PANTS; I'LL JUST BE OVER HERE EATING MY ICE CREAM AND WHIMPERING NOW, OKAY.
OTL
Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 03:30 am (UTC)omg, THANK YOU. *adores so hard* *flailing* I don't even know what to say. Thank you~ :D I-- I'll respond coherently. Someday. a;ds.fkljsdxc
Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 05:37 am (UTC)Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 05:38 am (UTC)*incoherent with happy-happy-joy-joy*
Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 05:45 am (UTC)Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 05:46 am (UTC)Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 05:57 am (UTC)PS; do you use AIM or any other instant messenger? i ask because towards the end of our comment spree last night, we might as well moved to instant messenger. XD XD XD
Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 06:00 am (UTC)I do~ AIM is "its eucalyptus" and gmail's chat is "kiki.midnightdiddle". You? :D
Re: *SCREAM~*
Date: 2008-01-30 06:03 am (UTC)gchat: sugoii@gmail.com
♥! I um, basically camp out on the internets, so.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-21 09:29 am (UTC)This. Is awesome. Seriously. I've always wanted to see it done, and now it has been, and...
GAH.
Okay, time to be coherent here. I absolutely LOVE the way you've written Hibari's seething frustration and anger towards others, towards his confused state, and it's so... him. And holy hell, the... the fight-turned-sex scene killed me of hot and awesome because he's just so livid and pent-up and... God, poor Dino.
I'd probably be just as bewildered and turned-on if it were me in that situation, too.no subject
Date: 2008-05-23 12:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-31 10:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-09 06:48 pm (UTC)I love this fic and its mistress and of course Hibari! *is tonfa'd* You turn Hibari into a girl and make everything believable, sensible and beautiful, so so beautiful that I have to convince myself again and again that in cannon Hibari is a He and that a good thing b'cause I SHIPPING YAOI DAMMIT!! But really, your Hibari is that good and when his (her? Nar, he'll bite my to dirt if I call 'him' that) mother cried I went all Gah~ Hiba mommy and failed around madly. I afraid that you manage to kill me good,miss ^^
And I haven't said any thing about Dino, Kusakabe, Hiba' daddy and ASJKIJI oh gawh MUKURO yet >>__<< but...but butbutbut my brain is a melt goo on my floor right now and is impossible to think of any good enough English to express how rock this fic is. So I'll end this impossible lame reply with a heart felt Thank you for the best death of my life and I'll wait for another installment gingerly ^^
no subject
Date: 2008-08-11 06:28 am (UTC)