But Tell It Slant, Chapter Two
May. 21st, 2008 01:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleI told ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cityatsea that I'd post chapter two tonight, even if it killed me. It almost did. My roommate might still. It's really late, and, uh, keyboards are really loud. sorry, roommate, that i'm so full of fail...
Title: But Tell It Slant (Chapter Two)
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17. I think)
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Hibari/Dino, Hibari/Kusakabe
Warnings: girl!Hibari, minor/adult, sexual situations, language, teenage pregnancy, violence. This is crack. Serious, angsty, violent crack, but crack nonetheless. And, like. A character study in gender-identity with a psychotic teenager. Yeah...
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.
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Cavallone is sprawled out on the ground, his whip tangled nearby, and he blinks up slowly when Kyouya steps close. Kyouya nudges him with a foot, and Cavallone barely shifts, sighing and flinging out his arms.
"Take a break, brat."
Kyouya kicks him neatly in the ribs, and Cavallone gasps, rolling with the kick, and his hand catches Kyouya's foot. Kyouya grunts, twisting to land on top, and Cavallone is looking frustrated.
"I can't figure out what the hell your problem is. Take a break, and learn how to sit down before you fall down."
Kyouya leans forward, until his chest is pressed against Cavallone's, and murmurs, close to his ear, "I don't fall. I never fall."
Cavallone takes in a breath, and Kyouya breathes out, and he fists his hands in Cavallone's shirt, clenching the material between his fingers.
"You," Cavallone says, and he's putting his hands on Kyouya's waist, slow and gentle, left arm curving around. Kyouya grimaces, and Cavallone hesitates, and Kyouya rocks down hard, grinning when Cavallone grunts, tightening his hands on Kyouya.
Cavallone's face is twisting between disgust and pleasure, and Kyouya leans back, dragging across Cavallone's waist and hips. He drags a hand across Cavallone's split lip, then catches his hair, tugs it.
"Amuse me, or I'll bite you."
Cavallone laughs, barks something in Italian, and Kyouya yanks harder, showing his teeth when Cavallone winces.
"Children," Cavallone says, and he's grabbing Kyouya's hand, yanking it down to Kyouya's waist, "should mind their elders."
Kyouya ignores him, leaning forward to press his mouth next to Cavallone's, teeth and tongue pressing against the corner of Cavallone's mouth, against blood and torn skin. He catches the corner of Cavallone's mouth, tugs, and groans when Cavallone's hips lift, pressing hard (and he's hard, like some thing, cattle or sheep or dog, hard and trying not to rut against Kyouya--) against Kyouya's. Kyouya bites hard, and tries to rut back, awkward and clumsy, and it's not good, not as good as it was days ago, on the rooftop, with hands and fingers, and Kyouya wants something more, something that's less than him, and tempting in ways boys shouldn't be tempted.
Cavallone's fumbling at Kyouya's belt and Kyouya lifts up higher on his knees, pulling back to yank at his belt and zipper, tugging them both down. His trousers catch on his hips, and he pulls them roughly, further down his thighs, and then Cavallone's hand is between Kyouya's legs. Kyouya groans, fisting his hands in the sides of Cavallone's shirt, and arches up, scrambling at skin and clothing and god, there--
Kyouya's panting, and pulling at Cavallone's trousers, at his belt and snaps, and Cavallone's trousers are loose, and his hips thin, and he's hard, rocking and moaning under Kyouya, and his hand is still between Kyouya's legs, rubbing harder, rubbing faster. Kyouya yanks Cavallone's hand away, and twists, trying to push his trousers far enough down, and then he's bending, and Cavallone's cursing, fingernails digging into Kyouya's hip.
"Shit, you," Cavallone groans, and Kyouya's sinking down, his hands clutching at Cavallone's shoulders. He sucks in a breath, holding it tight, and Cavallone's fingernails are scratching deeper. He falls forward, fingers tightening, and shoves his mouth next to Cavallone's ear, gasping.
"Fuck me," he says. "Fuck," and his hands spasm, and it's almost too much, and Cavallone's hand is pressing against Kyouya's stomach, spread wide, "me."
Cavallone groans, and he's moving, back arching, hips rising, and Kyouya's legs are spread over him, tangled and bent. Kyouya grinds down, and Cavallone's head is shoved back against the ground, his neck strained, and his breath is coming in gasps, and Kyouya can almost bite him, almost--
Cavallone comes with a jerk, hands holding Kyouya's hips tight, and his teeth are bared. Kyouya snarls, close, so close, and Cavallone's such a fucking disappointment, and Kyouya bites him hard, rocking harder. Cavallone's yanking Kyouya up, and he's shoving his hand between Kyouya's legs, fucking him, and Kyouya clenches tight, the taste of blood, his and Cavallone's, in his mouth. Cavallone's fingers are slick with his own come, and Kyouya shoves his hand between his legs, and fuck, it's almost, and then he's coming, shaking and groaning, clamped around Cavallone's fingers, and god--
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Cavallone says hours later, when he’s winding his whip with lazily snapping motions. There’s a scrape across his cheek, with specks of blood drying into a dark crust, and Kyouya wants to hit him again, make him bleed more and more. “Lots of things I shouldn’t do with you.”
“What?” Kyouya asks. He’s tired and sore, and frustrated by half and half that he can’t just make Cavallone lie down and die. He straightens slowly, feeling his spine pop and the muscles in his arms and legs tense and jump. He wants to fight, run and fight until his muscles burn like fire, until he can’t move or breathe or even think.
“It’s like,” Cavallone says, “my brain turns off around you. Can’t think, just keep doing stupid things to you. With you.”
“What,” Kyouya asks again, looking up at the darkening sky, “things?” He can hear everything, the birds screaming the sun down, the rustle of grass underneath their feet. The nervous laugh Cavallone gives.
“Probably shouldn’t have lied about Namimori, for one.”
It doesn’t make him feel better, to try to break Cavallone’s jaw. Doesn’t feel better, to try to break anything of Cavallone’s. It just makes him madder, makes him see blood, taste it in his mouth, feel like he’s drowning in it. The more he hits Cavallone, the heavier his arms feel, and the slower he’s moving, until he’s kicking, one beat, and two, and kicking again, and Cavallone’s just lying there, taking it with an empty look on his face.
Kyouya wants more, doesn’t know what he wants, just wants to be free to scream and break something, run until he’s flying, or falling, or just can’t feel anymore, because he hasn’t felt weightless for a long time. Too long. Everything’s weighing him down, covering him with heavy air and heavy expectations, and the burdens on boys are heavier than ever, harder than ever, and Kyouya’s trying so hard to be a good boy.
Namimori, when he reaches it, is a mess. There’s smoke in the air, still clouding the courtyard, and there’re shards of glass scattering the grounds, blown out past the school gate. Kyouya kicks at the glass, listening to the sound of it scraping across the cement like nails on a chalkboard, and feels anger well up, thicker and hotter and stronger. Fuck them, all of them, because this is his school, his Namimori, and they don’t understand, can’t do anything but hold him back and down with their paltry expectations, their weakling rules. Kyouya's stalking out of the gates of Namimori when Cavallone catches him, touching Kyouya's arm, then backtracking when Kyouya turns.
"What?" Kyouya snaps, furious. Namimori's half-destroyed, windows and doors and fucking walls gone, and all for these stupid mafia fights. Kyouya wants to kill them all, all these stupid dogs that are on his territory, destroying his school.
"Here," Cavallone says, and he flicks something at Kyouya. Kyouya catches it, turns his palm to look at a packet of pills. There's pink writing on it, not Japanese, and Kyouya starts to turn his hand over, to drop it, because he doesn't want anything to do with anything Italian, because all these Italian things are pissing him off.
"Wait, wait--"
Cavallone's closer and Kyouya takes a half-hearted swipe at him, forcing Cavallone to take a step back.
"Just take it. One tonight, and one tomorrow morning. Just--" Cavallone takes a step closer again and Kyouya ignores him, looking at the packet in his hand. "Just in case."
Kyouya slips the pills into his pocket, and Cavallone steps closer, and when they fuck, it's a block away from the school, with Kyouya's trousers pushed halfway down. The alley wall digs into Kyouya's shoulders, and Cavallone pushes hard, and pulls hard, and comes hard, bending over Kyouya, and Kyouya hates him. He shuts his eyes, hissing through his teeth and pushing Cavallone away as he comes, muscles bunching, then slacking. He does up his belt, yanks down his vest, and walks home, come slick and cool between his legs.
When he gets home, he toes off his shoes, goes into the kitchen. The glasses are next to the sink, upside down, and he picks one up, fills it with water. The pills are white and he swallows one, rinses out his glass and sets it upside down. He shoves the other pill, still in the packet, in between pages of a book, and crawls into bed, tired and throbbing, a bitter taste in his mouth.
x-x-x-x
Namimori seems to spin around a boy named Sawada Tsunayoshi. He’s slighter than Kyouya, and younger, and looks almost like a girl, with tiny hands and big eyes and a smile that pisses Kyouya off. Kyouya watches Sawada, and the boys who follow Sawada, and hates them all, because they’re systematically tearing Namimori apart. He hates the way Yamamoto Takeshi stands too tall, and the way Gokudera Hayato stands too close, and the way Sasagawa Ryouhei stands too strong. He hates all the fights, because he stumbles, and bleeds, and it hurts when he falls, and hurts more when he stands up, and he feels small next to everything else.
He hates the way everything spins around Sawada Tsunayoshi, and he hates the way he’s spinning, too, like he’s gone mad. But he still spins, because Sawada Tsunayoshi, with his big eyes and girlish hands and fucking stupid smile, is the strange center of everything, and Kyouya can’t turn away, however much he wants to. He stands outside their strange circle, and watches, and spins when they spin, always around Sawada. And when the baby gives back the ring, he takes it, and slips it onto his finger, because he can’t escape this place, just outside the circle.
The ring is heavy metal, a dull gray that looks scratched, and when he slips it onto his finger, it’s too big and too bulky, threatening to fall off. He spins it around his finger, just like he spins around Sawada, and then he puts it on a chain (and it feels like Sawada’s put him on a chain, too, of the baby’s fastenings, and Sawada doesn’t even know it), and hangs it around his neck. The bulk of the ring lies strangely under his shirt, and it’s cold against his skin, hurts when it rocks against his collarbone. It makes him feel small, and he hates it. He doesn’t, though, take it off, and the chain warms against the hollow of his collarbone.
He strips down in the bathroom, bare toes curling on the cold tile. The water in the bath is scalding, and the steam rises thick in the room, covers the mirror in fog. Kyouya drags the side of his hand across the rim of the tub, steps in with a hiss. He sinks down, sitting in the bottom of the tub, and his knees, bent, barely crest the water, his hands lying over his legs. The water burns, turning his skin redder by shades, and he’s sweating, hair curling damp against the nape of his neck.
The chain around his neck is still cold, and the ring is colder, and he touches it with his fingers, shivers when the metal brushes against his collarbone. He lets his fingers touch his skin, where it lies taut over his collarbone, and he drags them down, curving to his side. His thumb catches at his waist and his fingers spread out over his hip, and he presses his cheek against his knees, closes his eyes. His body feels wrong, strange and thin and tense, bent over in the tub, and he clenches his eyes tighter, grits his teeth. His hair plasters wet against his face, drips down his narrow back, and he crumples in the bathtub, his fingers too small to span the width of his own life.
When he pulls himself out of the tub, the water’s turned cold, and the tips of his fingers are white, near turned blue. He scrubs a towel against his hair, twists it around his waist, and when he wipes the mirror with his hand, clearing the fog in streaks, he can see the jut of his shoulder blades, the bony line of his spine, the curve of his hips and chest. He lifts his chin, tilts his head upon his neck, and the chain catches and pulls at his hair. He doesn’t look much like a boy anymore, his face still too soft, his thinness turning slender. He frowns, yanks the towel free from his hips, and dries himself quickly, turning away from the mirror.
When he goes to class, he sits near the window and looks at his hands, the way the muscles bunch when he makes a fist, and the way his fingers curve when he rests against the desk. His fingernails are chipped, but his fingertips are still soft, and when the teacher is turned to the board, explaining the value of the numbers, Kyouya touches his fingertips to his lips, presses his fingertips against his mouth, and his tongue, and bites. His fingertips grow hot, blood gathering beneath the skin, and the bruises, when he looks that afternoon, are small and faintly blue, pinpricks of pain when he grips the door handles of Namimori.
Cavallone catches him before October is over, when the leaves are falling and Kyouya’s winding a scarf around his neck. There are leaves in Cavallone’s hair, and when Kyouya grabs at them, they crumble to dust, tiny orange and yellow and red in Cavallone’s hair, and in Kyouya’s eyes.
“Wait,” Cavallone says, and he grabs Kyouya’s wrist, and his fingers, long, fit around Kyouya’s wrist, where the bones feel like Hibird’s, hollow and empty and like Kyouya’s going to break apart against the world, against Cavallone. “So delicate,” Cavallone murmurs, and Kyouya throws himself forward, knocking Cavallone off-balance, knocking his world askew.
“Don’t,” Kyouya spits, and Cavallone doesn’t laugh, but he smiles, like he knows something Kyouya doesn’t know, like he’s indulging Kyouya. Kyouya twists his wrist in Cavallone’s hand, digs his fingernails into Cavallone’s skin, and Cavallone’s beneath Kyouya’s nails, beneath Kyouya’s skin, and Kyouya’s changing, he can feel it every time he breathes, and he can’t stop this, can’t make sense of it. He feels like he’s out of control, like he can’t think of anything but the way his wrists fit in the length of Cavallone’s hand, and the way his hips fit against Cavallone’s body, and the way he’s changing, and he can’t stop it.
“Kyouya,” Cavallone says, and Kyouya knocks Cavallone’s hands away, pulls free.
“Don’t,” Kyouya says again, and when Cavallone starts to open his mouth, he barks, “stop it.” The taste in Kyouya’s mouth is sour, and he swallows, swallows again.
“Are you--” Cavallone begins to ask, and Kyouya swings at him, feels his fist graze the edge of Cavallone’s jaw.
“No.” Kyouya doesn’t scrub at his face, and he doesn’t bite his lip, but when Cavallone takes his hand again, this time holding Kyouya’s fingers, Kyouya doesn’t pull away, either.
“You’re okay?” Cavallone asks, and dustings of red are on his eyelashes when he bends close to Kyouya, his breath warm on Kyouya’s cheek. Kyouya shivers, turns away, and rewraps his scarf.
“I’m fine,” he says, sharply as the wind and the leaves in his eyes, and Cavallone doesn’t ask are you crying or say you’re lying, because boys don’t cry, and all of Kyouya’s life is a lie.
“We’re fine,” Cavallone says after him, and Kyouya can’t hear truth anymore, or anything but the way Cavallone’s words sound fragile and thin, like the leaves that crumble between Kyouya’s fingers, and the wrists that are wrapped in Cavallone’s hands.
“We’re fine,” and Kyouya lets Cavallone take him back to hotel, the wind whipping Cavallone’s hair, pulling at Kyouya’s scarf. Kyouya’s face feels cold, cheeks raw from the wind, but his hand feels rawer wherever Cavallone’s hand touches his, where the calluses on Cavallone’s palm press against Kyouya’s palm.
He lies on the bed, hooded eyes and a slack mouth, and Cavallone spreads over him, eyelashes golden in the faint sunlight from outside. Kyouya spreads his legs, twists his fingers in the sheets beneath him, and Cavallone makes a sound like he’s breaking, crumpling into ash. Cavallone touches him, runs his fingers down the line of Kyouya’s spine, covers the span of Kyouya’s back with the width of his hands.
“You’re thin,” Cavallone says when Kyouya’s turned against the pillow, Cavallone’s mouth close to Kyouya’s shoulder blade. Kyouya shifts, pushes Cavallone back, and rises up to his knees, moving to straddle Cavallone with loose limbs. He sinks down until he’s resting on Cavallone’s thighs, and Cavallone’s looking at him critically, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What?” Kyouya asks, hating the look on Cavallone’s face. Cavallone’s mouth twists, like he doesn’t know how whether to smile or to frown, and Kyouya lifts his chin. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” Cavallone says after a moment, “that like this, you don’t look much like a boy.” Cavallone reaches out, lays his hands against Kyouya’s hips, and Kyouya feels cold where Cavallone touches him. “You’re growing up, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” Kyouya says fiercely, and Cavallone’s hands creep up, rest over Kyouya’s ribs, thumbs curving upwards.
“Some lost boy?” Cavallone asks, and then he laughs, grabbing Kyouya and pulling Kyouya forward as Kyouya bristles, trying to figure out where, exactly, Cavallone wounded his pride.
“I’m not.”
“A boy?” Cavallone asks, “or lost?” Kyouya shudders, reaching out to dig his broken fingernails into Cavallone’s skin warningly, and Cavallone’s hands tighten around Kyouya’s sides, curve up higher against Kyouya’s chest. “You’re more lost than you think.”
Kyouya swings at him, feels Cavallone grab his hand and pull. He tries to scramble upwards as Cavallone throws a leg over him, shoves him against the bed, and then Cavallone’s mouth is against his, and Cavallone’s body is pressed against his, naked skin and corded muscles, from hips to chest. It’d be easy to kiss back, sink into something he doesn’t understand, and lose himself. But he’s losing himself too quickly, can’t figure out who he is or what he is, and so he bites the corner of Cavallone’s mouth, pulls at Cavallone’s hair.
When he’s walking home, just after dusk, there’s a line of bruises just below the waist of his trousers, where Cavallone had gripped his waist too tight. And when he stretches, there’s a dull burn along his spine, and the bite-mark on the inside of his wrist looks nearly purple in the early dark. The pains and scrapes make him feel like a boy, but he’s bruised like a girl, and everything, so adult, makes him feel like a child, and he doesn’t know who he is. And when his mother calls “Kyouya,” face turned to the door, he doesn’t know who she’s calling anymore.
x-x-x-x
It begins to snow in early December, small flakes that fall slowly, quietly, and just thick enough to cover the ground. Kyouya drags his feet in the snow, cold and tired and slow. The heels of his shoes scrape the snow from the pavement, slick patches of snow turned slush, and the cuffs of his trousers are wet. The school’s courtyard is still empty, snow smooth across the pavement, and Kyouya drags his feet. When he reaches the doors, and looks back, his footsteps look small in the courtyard, and the yard is still beneath the streetlights. He unlocks the doors, locks them behind him, and the hallways of Namimori are as quiet as the snow-covered yard, and as cold.
He changes his shoes, shivers when the cuffs of his trousers brush, wet and cold and half-frozen, against his skin. He takes his time in wandering between the lockers, throwing away a bottle, straightening a forgotten chair taken from a classroom. By the time he’s unlocking the Disciplinary Committee’s office, there’s the sound of voices in the yard below, and he pulls back an edge of a curtain, looks down. Students are already milling around, carrying bags over their shoulders, dressed for clubs. Teachers are scattered amongst them, wrapped in coats and mufflers, and Kyouya watches the lot of them enter the school, in twos and threes and fours, until the yard is empty again, snow stained and trampled and distorted beneath the streetlights.
The voices in the school are distant, floors down and wings away, and Kyouya sits at one end of the couch, holds a book in his hand, and stares at the binding. He can hear the clock in the room ticking, louder than the students’ voices, and when a teacher shuffles down the hallway, coughing, Kyouya jerks, pages rustling beneath his fingers. By the time sunlight is began to creep in the window, Kyouya’s standing near the window, and the book is lying on the couch, pages folded beneath its weight.
He watches the rest of the students stagger through the gates, bundled in bright reds and yellows and blues, scarves and hats and gloves flashing in the faint light, faces red and half-hidden from the cold. Kyouya watches them come, the first ones slow, the last ones running against the chimes of the bell. When the bell ends, the yard is still and quiet and empty, and the snow is gray. He pulls the curtain shut again, and his fingers touch the windowpane, cold and damp and enough to make him shiver, bile rising in the back of his throat. He steps back, rubs his fingertips against the seam of his trousers, and turns to the door.
The snow’s stopped by the time school bells ring the end of the day, but the clouds are heavy in the sky, low enough that it feels like he’s choking. He stands in the roar of the hallways, his scarf hanging itchy over his neck. The air from the doorways is tickling the insides of his wrists, feels like cold fingers sliding up beneath his sleeves, but no one is touching him, and he can’t touch anyone. The students shy around him, moving past with nervous laughter and jerky steps, and he wants to break them all.
The world scatters when Kyouya steps out the school doors, students tucking their heads against the wind, turning to the street. The snow on the ground is dry, light enough to lift at near every breath, and the wind picks it up, drags it in lazy circles across the schoolyard. Kyouya ducks his head to the wind, and he stops in the width of the school gates, where Cavallone is standing, furred hood set about his face. Cavallone’s standing as if stubborn, the snow spinning around his feet slowly, but his face, when Kyouya looks, is smiling (and it’s his face, eyes and mouth, smiling, and Kyouya doesn’t know how he does it, doesn’t know why he does it).
“Merry Christmas,” Cavallone says, sounding flustered and out of breath, and so at odds with his clenched hands, his wide stance. Kyouya snorts, tries to push past him, and Cavallone catches his arm, holds on stubbornly. “Well, early, but I won’t be here for Christmas. I’ll be in Italy, so I thought we could--”
“What?” Kyouya asks, pulling his arm free, then busying himself with wrapping his scarf around his neck so he won’t have to look at Cavallone. Cavallone makes a noise, and Kyouya continues. “We could what? I’m not your--” He hesitates, not sure what word he’s not, because there’s a lot of things he’s not. A girl, a friend, a lover, happy-- “I’m not yours,” he finishes lamely, and tucks the ends of his scarf in.
Cavallone’s quiet for a long minute, and Kyouya feels like he should be proud for shutting the man up, but he’s not. He’s cold, and empty, and just wants to get home before it starts to snow. He doesn’t want to hang around waiting for some foreigner, doesn’t want to act like everyone else around him.
“I’m your teacher, then,” Cavallone finally says, like it’s some kind of revelation, and Kyouya turns, starts to object. “And you’re my student,” Cavallone continues, talking over Kyouya with the ease of the stupid.
Kyouya frowns, says, “teachers don’t fuck their students,” and Cavallone shrugs, almost smiles.
“I’m not a very good teacher, then,” he says, “but you’re not a good student, either.” Then he’s propelling Kyouya down the street, and Kyouya lets him, because his legs are cold and his feet are numb, and he feels too tired to fight. By the time they reach the hotel, snowflakes are slowly falling, spinning before Kyouya’s eyes, catching in his hair and eyelashes. He ducks his head to the snow, and when Cavallone reaches out, catching Kyouya’s hand to chafe warmth into it, Kyouya pulls away, shoves his hands into his pockets.
The hotel’s doors, big and glass and heavier than they look, open slowly, and the hit of warm air makes Kyouya shiver, blinking as the snow in his hair slowly begins to melt. Cavallone presses a hand to the low of Kyouya’s back, nodding towards the elevator, and Kyouya steps quickly, turning so Cavallone’s hand slides from Kyouya’s coat.
“Don’t touch me,” he murmurs, and Cavallone is stubbornly smiling as he follows Kyouya onto the elevator, reaching out to brush the snowflakes from Kyouya’s head and shoulders. “Don’t.”
The elevator ride is long, and silent, and the walk down the hallway is the same, with Kyouya following Cavallone’s steps sullenly. Cavallone fumbles at the door, nearly dropping the cardkey, and when the door finally swings open, Kyouya pushes in past Cavallone, throwing himself into the chair near the bed.
“Now what?” he asks when Cavallone’s unzipping his coat, long fingers pale against the dark fabric. Cavallone looks up as he pulls his arms out of his coat, shrugs awkwardly as he tosses the coat over the back of the chair.
“What do you want?” Cavallone is standing close, too close, and he touches the side of Kyouya’s face with the back of his fingers, like Kyouya’s-- Kyouya frowns, sinking further into the chair.
“Nothing. Don’t touch me like that.”
“Why not?” Cavallone’s leaning closer, his breath on Kyouya’s face, and then he’s crouching in front of the chair, his knees on either side of Kyouya’s legs, his hands steadying him against the chair. “I’ve touched you lots of ways--”
Cavallone’s hand wraps around Kyouya’s throat, thumb pressing up beneath Kyouya’s chin, and then Cavallone’s pulling his hand down slowly, gently, like he’s trying to caress him, and it tickles, is too soft and not-there and it’s like when Kyouya’s mother used to tickle him with a giant feather to make him laugh, when Kyouya had been little, before he’d started to grow up, before he’d lost his place in the world.
“Don’t,” Kyouya snaps, slapping away Cavallone’s hand as he starts to stand. Cavallone rocks back on his heels, then reaches out, grabbing Kyouya’s hands, and Kyouya tightens his hands into fists, draws back a hand to hit Cavallone. His fist grazes Cavallone’s jaw, barely knocks Cavallone’s head, and so he hits him again, harder, makes Cavallone let go and fall backwards, head snapping to the side.
“Fuck,” Cavallone curses, then, as he’s gingerly touching his jaw, cupping his cheek, “why can’t I touch you?”
“Because I don’t like it.” Kyouya starts to draw his legs up onto the chair, then hesitates before lowering his feet to the floor again. “You touch me like I’m a girl. I’m not, I’m not what you think I am.”
“I don’t,” Cavallone starts to say, and Kyouya interrupts, feeling sharp and brittle.
“You don’t,” he says, and he leans forward in the chair, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin upon his hands, “have to be gentle with me. I don’t want that.”
“I never know what you want,” Cavallone says, but he’s reaching out towards Kyouya, and his hands, when they wrap around Kyouya’s wrists, are tight, and when he pulls Kyouya down, it’s rough. Kyouya slaps his hands down on the floor, and when Cavallone pulls, Kyouya’s hands drag across the carpet, and the burn digs deep into his body, from his skin to his bones.
Kyouya struggles upward, trying to undo his coat, but Cavallone grabs Kyouya’s arms, pulls him closer again. Cavallone’s hands slide down Kyouya’s coat, then they’re underneath, pulling Kyouya’s shirt free of his trousers, pushing beneath the fabric, until they’re hot on the skin of Kyouya’s back. Kyouya blinks quickly, feels his breath come in pants, and then Cavallone’s trying to pull Kyouya’s shirt and coat over his head, and Kyouya’s trying to push him away, trying to free himself of his clothes himself. He finds himself on the floor, a carpet burn across his side, and Cavallone’s kneeling over him, eyes bright.
“Kyouya.”
Kyouya lifts a knee, slams it into Cavallone’s stomach, and Cavallone wheezes, bending over Kyouya with a grunt. Kyouya grabs Cavallone’s hair, pulling him close enough to kiss him roughly, and Cavallone kisses him back just as hard. Kyouya can taste blood, but he doesn’t know if it’s his or Cavallone’s, and when Cavallone touches Kyouya, it’s with fingernails and fingertips that grip too tight, pull too hard. Kyouya gasps, twists on the floor, and when Cavallone fucks him, it’s too fast, and too hard, and better this way, always better this way.
Cavallone’s hands are on Kyouya’s thighs, and he’s pulling Kyouya closer, pushing himself deeper. Kyouya bites him harder, then twists his hand in Cavallone’s hair until Cavallone’s breath breaks. Kyouya bites his lip until he bleeds, bites Cavallone’s lip until Cavallone bleeds, and there’s too much blood in the kiss, feels like Kyouya’s drowning in it. Kyouya groans, arching his back against the floor, and Cavallone’s mouth is red, shining wetly, and it smears against Kyouya’s mouth, against Kyouya’s cheek and jaw as Cavallone pants for breath.
“Kyouya,” and it’s wet against Kyouya’s skin, and Cavallone’s coming, digging his hands in against Kyouya’s waist and back, pulling Kyouya hard against him, until it hurts down into Kyouya’s bones. Kyouya squirms, fighting his way closer, and he hates the way his hands slide down Cavallone’s back, the way his arms wrap around Cavallone’s neck and shoulders. He hates the way he holds on, but he can’t make himself let go, so he shoves his face into the angle between Cavallone’s neck and shoulder, and when Cavallone’s fingers are too gentle, too much a caress, Kyouya bites him.
“Kyouya,” and it’s a laugh, Cavallone’s laugh, rocking Cavallone’s chest against Kyouya’s. Kyouya rides it out, still and steady against Cavallone’s laughter, and Cavallone kisses Kyouya, sloppy and wet with blood and spit, and grinning like an idiot. Kyouya frowns, turning his face away, and Cavallone laughs all the harder.
“I don’t understand you,” Cavallone says, and Kyouya wonders why Cavallone’s laughter (so much, so loud) sounds so strained, and why Cavallone’s eyes don’t match his mouth.
“Let go.” Kyouya pushes at Cavallone and Cavallone lets go, lifting his hands in gesture. Kyouya winces, then pulls himself together, sitting up slowly. Cavallone wipes his mouth, frowns at the blood on his hand, then licks his lip, wincing.
“You bite hard,” he murmurs, and Kyouya makes a lazy swipe towards Cavallone, fingertips barely brushing Cavallone’s shoulder.
“Shut up,” he says. “You talk too much.”
“Do I?” Cavallone asks idly, and he’s leaning forward, pressing his thumb against Kyouya’s lower lip. It stings, and when Cavallone pulls his thumb away, it’s bright with Kyouya’s blood. Cavallone presses his thumb against Kyouya’s mouth again, then leans forward, kissing Kyouya. The kiss stings, but it’s too gentle, and that hurts more, and Kyouya doesn’t understand why. He hates it, though, the way his chest feels like he’s suffocating, and so he tries to make the kiss more, deeper or harder or colder. Cavallone’s stupid, though, and stubborn, and kisses Kyouya with the same slowness, no matter how Kyouya fights him.
“Let me,” Cavallone says when Kyouya pulls back. Kyouya’s furious and red-mouthed, and when Cavallone touches Kyouya, his hands curved around Kyouya’s ribs, Kyouya grabs Cavallone’s hands, tries to pull him off. “Let me,” Cavallone says again, sounding as frustrated as Kyouya feels, and he’s kissing Kyouya’s shoulder, like a feather meant to tickle, but only hurts instead.
“Cavallone,” Kyouya says, and he’s about to hit Cavallone, or push him, or just scream at him, when a phone rings, an overly-bright song chiming cheerfully. Cavallone pulls back, clumsy and fumbling, and crawls over a few feet so he can grab his trousers, digging through the pockets. The ringtone’s only getting louder, more grating, and Kyouya scoots back until he’s leaning against the chair, watching Cavallone. Cavallone looks at the phone’s face, then flips it open, holding it up to his ear.
“Yeah?” Cavallone asks, and he’s looking at Kyouya. “Uh--” Then he’s talking in Italian to whoever’s on the other side, and Kyouya hates the sound of Italian, the way it sounds so far away to his ears. He picks at the upholstery of the chair, catching a loose thread, and pulling it looser. The thread grows longer in his hands, and the upholstery is loosening on the seams, as Cavallone begins to sound more and more frustrated, or angry, or just-- Just different, the way Cavallone never is unless Kyouya pushes him too far.
Finally, when the thread has frayed apart, breaking in Kyouya’s hands, Cavallone says “ciao” with finality. Kyouya brushes the fragments of thread off his hands, then looks up, and Cavallone is looking back at him, face strangely apologetic.
“Romario,” Cavallone says as some kind of explanation as he shuts the phone with a snap. “We’re heading back to Italy.” He’s already reaching for his clothes, sighing as he stretches. Kyouya watches him bend, long muscles in his back, and reaches out, touching Cavallone’s skin before pulling away. Cavallone looks back as he pulls on his shirt, the collar mussing his hair. “Kyouya?”
“You should hurry.” Kyouya pushes himself up, then leans down to grab his underwear and trousers, stepping into them, then pulling them up. Cavallone holds out his school shirt, and when Kyouya reaches for it, Cavallone grabs Kyouya’s hand, pulls Kyouya down a bit, so Kyouya’s closer. “What?” Kyouya asks, feeling frustrated all over again as he bends low, his hair mixing with Cavallone’s.
“You kept it.” Cavallone sounds pleased and he touches the chain around Kyouya’s neck, follows the links down to the ring from the fights in Namimori. Cavallone spins the ring on the chain, says, “Good.”
Kyouya snorts, and when he pulls away, straightening, the ring falls, hitting his skin cold and heavy. He grabs his shirt, pulls it on, and buttons it quickly, shoving the tails into his trousers carelessly. Cavallone reaches out, grabbing the ends of Kyouya’s belt, and Kyouya stands still as Cavallone does up the belt loosely, tucking the end into the loops.
“You’re too slow,” Kyouya says when Cavallone’s standing with a groan, pulling on his own trousers. Cavallone laughs, buckling his belt with soft clicks of the metal, and Kyouya shuffles his feet on the carpet, feels too cramped in the hotel room, feels too close to Cavallone’s body.
“You’re so impatient,” Cavallone mumbles through fabric as he pulls on another shirt, but when the shirt’s pulled over his head, he’s smiling. Kyouya frowns, pushing past Cavallone so he can grab his shoes. He perches on the edge of the chair to put on his shoes, then grabs his coat, pulls it halfway on.
Cavallone’s phone rings again, the annoying cheerful tone loud as it vibrates across the floor, and Cavallone lunges for it, stumbling over the hem of his trousers. He grabs the phone and flips it open, and Kyouya can hear a voice from the other end speaking in Italian. Cavallone frowns, pulling his shirts down over the waistband with one hand, and answers the voice. His voice sounds sharp, and the Italian sounds strange to Kyouya’s ears.
“Got it,” Cavallone finally says in Japanese, and he’s shutting the phone, shoving it into his pocket. “I’m late,” he says as he grabs his socks, pull them on as he hops on one foot, then the other. Kyouya stands up, grabbing his hat and scarf, and Cavallone’s grabbing his keys and wallet, sliding them into his pockets. “Do you want a ride?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, take care of yourself,” Cavallone says in a rush, shoving his shoes on and reaching for his coat. Kyouya shrugs, hands Cavallone his gloves, and follows him out the door. “Kyouya?” Cavallone asks, and Kyouya grunts, pulls his hat on.
Cavallone kisses him while they’re going down the elevator, drags his hand, too gentle, down Kyouya’s throat, and Kyouya kisses him back, harder and with teeth. Cavallone’s laughing when the elevator reaches the lobby, blood on his bottom lip, and he says, breathless, “I’ll see you in a few months, Kyouya.”
“Fine,” Kyouya says, because it’s stupid to try to fight about this, because Cavallone’s too stupid, too stubborn. He watches Cavallone stride across the hotel lobby, reaching his men with a laugh Kyouya can hear from the elevator, and then they’re leaving, all the Italians with their boss, heading out into the swirl of snow. Kyouya waits until he can’t see them anymore, until there’s nothing past the windows but snow, and then he drags his hat further down, and wraps his scarf tightly about his neck. He pushes his way through the lobby, and out the door, and he walks home in the cold, snow catching in the ends of his hair and his eyelashes.
TBC
i need love. love me, please? D:
cityatsea that I'd post chapter two tonight, even if it killed me. It almost did. My roommate might still. It's really late, and, uh, keyboards are really loud. sorry, roommate, that i'm so full of fail...Title: But Tell It Slant (Chapter Two)
Rating: R (bordering on NC-17. I think)
Characters/Pairings: Hibari, Hibari/Dino, Hibari/Kusakabe
Warnings: girl!Hibari, minor/adult, sexual situations, language, teenage pregnancy, violence. This is crack. Serious, angsty, violent crack, but crack nonetheless. And, like. A character study in gender-identity with a psychotic teenager. Yeah...
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.
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Cavallone is sprawled out on the ground, his whip tangled nearby, and he blinks up slowly when Kyouya steps close. Kyouya nudges him with a foot, and Cavallone barely shifts, sighing and flinging out his arms.
"Take a break, brat."
Kyouya kicks him neatly in the ribs, and Cavallone gasps, rolling with the kick, and his hand catches Kyouya's foot. Kyouya grunts, twisting to land on top, and Cavallone is looking frustrated.
"I can't figure out what the hell your problem is. Take a break, and learn how to sit down before you fall down."
Kyouya leans forward, until his chest is pressed against Cavallone's, and murmurs, close to his ear, "I don't fall. I never fall."
Cavallone takes in a breath, and Kyouya breathes out, and he fists his hands in Cavallone's shirt, clenching the material between his fingers.
"You," Cavallone says, and he's putting his hands on Kyouya's waist, slow and gentle, left arm curving around. Kyouya grimaces, and Cavallone hesitates, and Kyouya rocks down hard, grinning when Cavallone grunts, tightening his hands on Kyouya.
Cavallone's face is twisting between disgust and pleasure, and Kyouya leans back, dragging across Cavallone's waist and hips. He drags a hand across Cavallone's split lip, then catches his hair, tugs it.
"Amuse me, or I'll bite you."
Cavallone laughs, barks something in Italian, and Kyouya yanks harder, showing his teeth when Cavallone winces.
"Children," Cavallone says, and he's grabbing Kyouya's hand, yanking it down to Kyouya's waist, "should mind their elders."
Kyouya ignores him, leaning forward to press his mouth next to Cavallone's, teeth and tongue pressing against the corner of Cavallone's mouth, against blood and torn skin. He catches the corner of Cavallone's mouth, tugs, and groans when Cavallone's hips lift, pressing hard (and he's hard, like some thing, cattle or sheep or dog, hard and trying not to rut against Kyouya--) against Kyouya's. Kyouya bites hard, and tries to rut back, awkward and clumsy, and it's not good, not as good as it was days ago, on the rooftop, with hands and fingers, and Kyouya wants something more, something that's less than him, and tempting in ways boys shouldn't be tempted.
Cavallone's fumbling at Kyouya's belt and Kyouya lifts up higher on his knees, pulling back to yank at his belt and zipper, tugging them both down. His trousers catch on his hips, and he pulls them roughly, further down his thighs, and then Cavallone's hand is between Kyouya's legs. Kyouya groans, fisting his hands in the sides of Cavallone's shirt, and arches up, scrambling at skin and clothing and god, there--
Kyouya's panting, and pulling at Cavallone's trousers, at his belt and snaps, and Cavallone's trousers are loose, and his hips thin, and he's hard, rocking and moaning under Kyouya, and his hand is still between Kyouya's legs, rubbing harder, rubbing faster. Kyouya yanks Cavallone's hand away, and twists, trying to push his trousers far enough down, and then he's bending, and Cavallone's cursing, fingernails digging into Kyouya's hip.
"Shit, you," Cavallone groans, and Kyouya's sinking down, his hands clutching at Cavallone's shoulders. He sucks in a breath, holding it tight, and Cavallone's fingernails are scratching deeper. He falls forward, fingers tightening, and shoves his mouth next to Cavallone's ear, gasping.
"Fuck me," he says. "Fuck," and his hands spasm, and it's almost too much, and Cavallone's hand is pressing against Kyouya's stomach, spread wide, "me."
Cavallone groans, and he's moving, back arching, hips rising, and Kyouya's legs are spread over him, tangled and bent. Kyouya grinds down, and Cavallone's head is shoved back against the ground, his neck strained, and his breath is coming in gasps, and Kyouya can almost bite him, almost--
Cavallone comes with a jerk, hands holding Kyouya's hips tight, and his teeth are bared. Kyouya snarls, close, so close, and Cavallone's such a fucking disappointment, and Kyouya bites him hard, rocking harder. Cavallone's yanking Kyouya up, and he's shoving his hand between Kyouya's legs, fucking him, and Kyouya clenches tight, the taste of blood, his and Cavallone's, in his mouth. Cavallone's fingers are slick with his own come, and Kyouya shoves his hand between his legs, and fuck, it's almost, and then he's coming, shaking and groaning, clamped around Cavallone's fingers, and god--
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Cavallone says hours later, when he’s winding his whip with lazily snapping motions. There’s a scrape across his cheek, with specks of blood drying into a dark crust, and Kyouya wants to hit him again, make him bleed more and more. “Lots of things I shouldn’t do with you.”
“What?” Kyouya asks. He’s tired and sore, and frustrated by half and half that he can’t just make Cavallone lie down and die. He straightens slowly, feeling his spine pop and the muscles in his arms and legs tense and jump. He wants to fight, run and fight until his muscles burn like fire, until he can’t move or breathe or even think.
“It’s like,” Cavallone says, “my brain turns off around you. Can’t think, just keep doing stupid things to you. With you.”
“What,” Kyouya asks again, looking up at the darkening sky, “things?” He can hear everything, the birds screaming the sun down, the rustle of grass underneath their feet. The nervous laugh Cavallone gives.
“Probably shouldn’t have lied about Namimori, for one.”
It doesn’t make him feel better, to try to break Cavallone’s jaw. Doesn’t feel better, to try to break anything of Cavallone’s. It just makes him madder, makes him see blood, taste it in his mouth, feel like he’s drowning in it. The more he hits Cavallone, the heavier his arms feel, and the slower he’s moving, until he’s kicking, one beat, and two, and kicking again, and Cavallone’s just lying there, taking it with an empty look on his face.
Kyouya wants more, doesn’t know what he wants, just wants to be free to scream and break something, run until he’s flying, or falling, or just can’t feel anymore, because he hasn’t felt weightless for a long time. Too long. Everything’s weighing him down, covering him with heavy air and heavy expectations, and the burdens on boys are heavier than ever, harder than ever, and Kyouya’s trying so hard to be a good boy.
Namimori, when he reaches it, is a mess. There’s smoke in the air, still clouding the courtyard, and there’re shards of glass scattering the grounds, blown out past the school gate. Kyouya kicks at the glass, listening to the sound of it scraping across the cement like nails on a chalkboard, and feels anger well up, thicker and hotter and stronger. Fuck them, all of them, because this is his school, his Namimori, and they don’t understand, can’t do anything but hold him back and down with their paltry expectations, their weakling rules. Kyouya's stalking out of the gates of Namimori when Cavallone catches him, touching Kyouya's arm, then backtracking when Kyouya turns.
"What?" Kyouya snaps, furious. Namimori's half-destroyed, windows and doors and fucking walls gone, and all for these stupid mafia fights. Kyouya wants to kill them all, all these stupid dogs that are on his territory, destroying his school.
"Here," Cavallone says, and he flicks something at Kyouya. Kyouya catches it, turns his palm to look at a packet of pills. There's pink writing on it, not Japanese, and Kyouya starts to turn his hand over, to drop it, because he doesn't want anything to do with anything Italian, because all these Italian things are pissing him off.
"Wait, wait--"
Cavallone's closer and Kyouya takes a half-hearted swipe at him, forcing Cavallone to take a step back.
"Just take it. One tonight, and one tomorrow morning. Just--" Cavallone takes a step closer again and Kyouya ignores him, looking at the packet in his hand. "Just in case."
Kyouya slips the pills into his pocket, and Cavallone steps closer, and when they fuck, it's a block away from the school, with Kyouya's trousers pushed halfway down. The alley wall digs into Kyouya's shoulders, and Cavallone pushes hard, and pulls hard, and comes hard, bending over Kyouya, and Kyouya hates him. He shuts his eyes, hissing through his teeth and pushing Cavallone away as he comes, muscles bunching, then slacking. He does up his belt, yanks down his vest, and walks home, come slick and cool between his legs.
When he gets home, he toes off his shoes, goes into the kitchen. The glasses are next to the sink, upside down, and he picks one up, fills it with water. The pills are white and he swallows one, rinses out his glass and sets it upside down. He shoves the other pill, still in the packet, in between pages of a book, and crawls into bed, tired and throbbing, a bitter taste in his mouth.
Namimori seems to spin around a boy named Sawada Tsunayoshi. He’s slighter than Kyouya, and younger, and looks almost like a girl, with tiny hands and big eyes and a smile that pisses Kyouya off. Kyouya watches Sawada, and the boys who follow Sawada, and hates them all, because they’re systematically tearing Namimori apart. He hates the way Yamamoto Takeshi stands too tall, and the way Gokudera Hayato stands too close, and the way Sasagawa Ryouhei stands too strong. He hates all the fights, because he stumbles, and bleeds, and it hurts when he falls, and hurts more when he stands up, and he feels small next to everything else.
He hates the way everything spins around Sawada Tsunayoshi, and he hates the way he’s spinning, too, like he’s gone mad. But he still spins, because Sawada Tsunayoshi, with his big eyes and girlish hands and fucking stupid smile, is the strange center of everything, and Kyouya can’t turn away, however much he wants to. He stands outside their strange circle, and watches, and spins when they spin, always around Sawada. And when the baby gives back the ring, he takes it, and slips it onto his finger, because he can’t escape this place, just outside the circle.
The ring is heavy metal, a dull gray that looks scratched, and when he slips it onto his finger, it’s too big and too bulky, threatening to fall off. He spins it around his finger, just like he spins around Sawada, and then he puts it on a chain (and it feels like Sawada’s put him on a chain, too, of the baby’s fastenings, and Sawada doesn’t even know it), and hangs it around his neck. The bulk of the ring lies strangely under his shirt, and it’s cold against his skin, hurts when it rocks against his collarbone. It makes him feel small, and he hates it. He doesn’t, though, take it off, and the chain warms against the hollow of his collarbone.
He strips down in the bathroom, bare toes curling on the cold tile. The water in the bath is scalding, and the steam rises thick in the room, covers the mirror in fog. Kyouya drags the side of his hand across the rim of the tub, steps in with a hiss. He sinks down, sitting in the bottom of the tub, and his knees, bent, barely crest the water, his hands lying over his legs. The water burns, turning his skin redder by shades, and he’s sweating, hair curling damp against the nape of his neck.
The chain around his neck is still cold, and the ring is colder, and he touches it with his fingers, shivers when the metal brushes against his collarbone. He lets his fingers touch his skin, where it lies taut over his collarbone, and he drags them down, curving to his side. His thumb catches at his waist and his fingers spread out over his hip, and he presses his cheek against his knees, closes his eyes. His body feels wrong, strange and thin and tense, bent over in the tub, and he clenches his eyes tighter, grits his teeth. His hair plasters wet against his face, drips down his narrow back, and he crumples in the bathtub, his fingers too small to span the width of his own life.
When he pulls himself out of the tub, the water’s turned cold, and the tips of his fingers are white, near turned blue. He scrubs a towel against his hair, twists it around his waist, and when he wipes the mirror with his hand, clearing the fog in streaks, he can see the jut of his shoulder blades, the bony line of his spine, the curve of his hips and chest. He lifts his chin, tilts his head upon his neck, and the chain catches and pulls at his hair. He doesn’t look much like a boy anymore, his face still too soft, his thinness turning slender. He frowns, yanks the towel free from his hips, and dries himself quickly, turning away from the mirror.
When he goes to class, he sits near the window and looks at his hands, the way the muscles bunch when he makes a fist, and the way his fingers curve when he rests against the desk. His fingernails are chipped, but his fingertips are still soft, and when the teacher is turned to the board, explaining the value of the numbers, Kyouya touches his fingertips to his lips, presses his fingertips against his mouth, and his tongue, and bites. His fingertips grow hot, blood gathering beneath the skin, and the bruises, when he looks that afternoon, are small and faintly blue, pinpricks of pain when he grips the door handles of Namimori.
Cavallone catches him before October is over, when the leaves are falling and Kyouya’s winding a scarf around his neck. There are leaves in Cavallone’s hair, and when Kyouya grabs at them, they crumble to dust, tiny orange and yellow and red in Cavallone’s hair, and in Kyouya’s eyes.
“Wait,” Cavallone says, and he grabs Kyouya’s wrist, and his fingers, long, fit around Kyouya’s wrist, where the bones feel like Hibird’s, hollow and empty and like Kyouya’s going to break apart against the world, against Cavallone. “So delicate,” Cavallone murmurs, and Kyouya throws himself forward, knocking Cavallone off-balance, knocking his world askew.
“Don’t,” Kyouya spits, and Cavallone doesn’t laugh, but he smiles, like he knows something Kyouya doesn’t know, like he’s indulging Kyouya. Kyouya twists his wrist in Cavallone’s hand, digs his fingernails into Cavallone’s skin, and Cavallone’s beneath Kyouya’s nails, beneath Kyouya’s skin, and Kyouya’s changing, he can feel it every time he breathes, and he can’t stop this, can’t make sense of it. He feels like he’s out of control, like he can’t think of anything but the way his wrists fit in the length of Cavallone’s hand, and the way his hips fit against Cavallone’s body, and the way he’s changing, and he can’t stop it.
“Kyouya,” Cavallone says, and Kyouya knocks Cavallone’s hands away, pulls free.
“Don’t,” Kyouya says again, and when Cavallone starts to open his mouth, he barks, “stop it.” The taste in Kyouya’s mouth is sour, and he swallows, swallows again.
“Are you--” Cavallone begins to ask, and Kyouya swings at him, feels his fist graze the edge of Cavallone’s jaw.
“No.” Kyouya doesn’t scrub at his face, and he doesn’t bite his lip, but when Cavallone takes his hand again, this time holding Kyouya’s fingers, Kyouya doesn’t pull away, either.
“You’re okay?” Cavallone asks, and dustings of red are on his eyelashes when he bends close to Kyouya, his breath warm on Kyouya’s cheek. Kyouya shivers, turns away, and rewraps his scarf.
“I’m fine,” he says, sharply as the wind and the leaves in his eyes, and Cavallone doesn’t ask are you crying or say you’re lying, because boys don’t cry, and all of Kyouya’s life is a lie.
“We’re fine,” Cavallone says after him, and Kyouya can’t hear truth anymore, or anything but the way Cavallone’s words sound fragile and thin, like the leaves that crumble between Kyouya’s fingers, and the wrists that are wrapped in Cavallone’s hands.
“We’re fine,” and Kyouya lets Cavallone take him back to hotel, the wind whipping Cavallone’s hair, pulling at Kyouya’s scarf. Kyouya’s face feels cold, cheeks raw from the wind, but his hand feels rawer wherever Cavallone’s hand touches his, where the calluses on Cavallone’s palm press against Kyouya’s palm.
He lies on the bed, hooded eyes and a slack mouth, and Cavallone spreads over him, eyelashes golden in the faint sunlight from outside. Kyouya spreads his legs, twists his fingers in the sheets beneath him, and Cavallone makes a sound like he’s breaking, crumpling into ash. Cavallone touches him, runs his fingers down the line of Kyouya’s spine, covers the span of Kyouya’s back with the width of his hands.
“You’re thin,” Cavallone says when Kyouya’s turned against the pillow, Cavallone’s mouth close to Kyouya’s shoulder blade. Kyouya shifts, pushes Cavallone back, and rises up to his knees, moving to straddle Cavallone with loose limbs. He sinks down until he’s resting on Cavallone’s thighs, and Cavallone’s looking at him critically, like he’s trying to figure something out.
“What?” Kyouya asks, hating the look on Cavallone’s face. Cavallone’s mouth twists, like he doesn’t know how whether to smile or to frown, and Kyouya lifts his chin. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” Cavallone says after a moment, “that like this, you don’t look much like a boy.” Cavallone reaches out, lays his hands against Kyouya’s hips, and Kyouya feels cold where Cavallone touches him. “You’re growing up, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,” Kyouya says fiercely, and Cavallone’s hands creep up, rest over Kyouya’s ribs, thumbs curving upwards.
“Some lost boy?” Cavallone asks, and then he laughs, grabbing Kyouya and pulling Kyouya forward as Kyouya bristles, trying to figure out where, exactly, Cavallone wounded his pride.
“I’m not.”
“A boy?” Cavallone asks, “or lost?” Kyouya shudders, reaching out to dig his broken fingernails into Cavallone’s skin warningly, and Cavallone’s hands tighten around Kyouya’s sides, curve up higher against Kyouya’s chest. “You’re more lost than you think.”
Kyouya swings at him, feels Cavallone grab his hand and pull. He tries to scramble upwards as Cavallone throws a leg over him, shoves him against the bed, and then Cavallone’s mouth is against his, and Cavallone’s body is pressed against his, naked skin and corded muscles, from hips to chest. It’d be easy to kiss back, sink into something he doesn’t understand, and lose himself. But he’s losing himself too quickly, can’t figure out who he is or what he is, and so he bites the corner of Cavallone’s mouth, pulls at Cavallone’s hair.
When he’s walking home, just after dusk, there’s a line of bruises just below the waist of his trousers, where Cavallone had gripped his waist too tight. And when he stretches, there’s a dull burn along his spine, and the bite-mark on the inside of his wrist looks nearly purple in the early dark. The pains and scrapes make him feel like a boy, but he’s bruised like a girl, and everything, so adult, makes him feel like a child, and he doesn’t know who he is. And when his mother calls “Kyouya,” face turned to the door, he doesn’t know who she’s calling anymore.
It begins to snow in early December, small flakes that fall slowly, quietly, and just thick enough to cover the ground. Kyouya drags his feet in the snow, cold and tired and slow. The heels of his shoes scrape the snow from the pavement, slick patches of snow turned slush, and the cuffs of his trousers are wet. The school’s courtyard is still empty, snow smooth across the pavement, and Kyouya drags his feet. When he reaches the doors, and looks back, his footsteps look small in the courtyard, and the yard is still beneath the streetlights. He unlocks the doors, locks them behind him, and the hallways of Namimori are as quiet as the snow-covered yard, and as cold.
He changes his shoes, shivers when the cuffs of his trousers brush, wet and cold and half-frozen, against his skin. He takes his time in wandering between the lockers, throwing away a bottle, straightening a forgotten chair taken from a classroom. By the time he’s unlocking the Disciplinary Committee’s office, there’s the sound of voices in the yard below, and he pulls back an edge of a curtain, looks down. Students are already milling around, carrying bags over their shoulders, dressed for clubs. Teachers are scattered amongst them, wrapped in coats and mufflers, and Kyouya watches the lot of them enter the school, in twos and threes and fours, until the yard is empty again, snow stained and trampled and distorted beneath the streetlights.
The voices in the school are distant, floors down and wings away, and Kyouya sits at one end of the couch, holds a book in his hand, and stares at the binding. He can hear the clock in the room ticking, louder than the students’ voices, and when a teacher shuffles down the hallway, coughing, Kyouya jerks, pages rustling beneath his fingers. By the time sunlight is began to creep in the window, Kyouya’s standing near the window, and the book is lying on the couch, pages folded beneath its weight.
He watches the rest of the students stagger through the gates, bundled in bright reds and yellows and blues, scarves and hats and gloves flashing in the faint light, faces red and half-hidden from the cold. Kyouya watches them come, the first ones slow, the last ones running against the chimes of the bell. When the bell ends, the yard is still and quiet and empty, and the snow is gray. He pulls the curtain shut again, and his fingers touch the windowpane, cold and damp and enough to make him shiver, bile rising in the back of his throat. He steps back, rubs his fingertips against the seam of his trousers, and turns to the door.
The snow’s stopped by the time school bells ring the end of the day, but the clouds are heavy in the sky, low enough that it feels like he’s choking. He stands in the roar of the hallways, his scarf hanging itchy over his neck. The air from the doorways is tickling the insides of his wrists, feels like cold fingers sliding up beneath his sleeves, but no one is touching him, and he can’t touch anyone. The students shy around him, moving past with nervous laughter and jerky steps, and he wants to break them all.
The world scatters when Kyouya steps out the school doors, students tucking their heads against the wind, turning to the street. The snow on the ground is dry, light enough to lift at near every breath, and the wind picks it up, drags it in lazy circles across the schoolyard. Kyouya ducks his head to the wind, and he stops in the width of the school gates, where Cavallone is standing, furred hood set about his face. Cavallone’s standing as if stubborn, the snow spinning around his feet slowly, but his face, when Kyouya looks, is smiling (and it’s his face, eyes and mouth, smiling, and Kyouya doesn’t know how he does it, doesn’t know why he does it).
“Merry Christmas,” Cavallone says, sounding flustered and out of breath, and so at odds with his clenched hands, his wide stance. Kyouya snorts, tries to push past him, and Cavallone catches his arm, holds on stubbornly. “Well, early, but I won’t be here for Christmas. I’ll be in Italy, so I thought we could--”
“What?” Kyouya asks, pulling his arm free, then busying himself with wrapping his scarf around his neck so he won’t have to look at Cavallone. Cavallone makes a noise, and Kyouya continues. “We could what? I’m not your--” He hesitates, not sure what word he’s not, because there’s a lot of things he’s not. A girl, a friend, a lover, happy-- “I’m not yours,” he finishes lamely, and tucks the ends of his scarf in.
Cavallone’s quiet for a long minute, and Kyouya feels like he should be proud for shutting the man up, but he’s not. He’s cold, and empty, and just wants to get home before it starts to snow. He doesn’t want to hang around waiting for some foreigner, doesn’t want to act like everyone else around him.
“I’m your teacher, then,” Cavallone finally says, like it’s some kind of revelation, and Kyouya turns, starts to object. “And you’re my student,” Cavallone continues, talking over Kyouya with the ease of the stupid.
Kyouya frowns, says, “teachers don’t fuck their students,” and Cavallone shrugs, almost smiles.
“I’m not a very good teacher, then,” he says, “but you’re not a good student, either.” Then he’s propelling Kyouya down the street, and Kyouya lets him, because his legs are cold and his feet are numb, and he feels too tired to fight. By the time they reach the hotel, snowflakes are slowly falling, spinning before Kyouya’s eyes, catching in his hair and eyelashes. He ducks his head to the snow, and when Cavallone reaches out, catching Kyouya’s hand to chafe warmth into it, Kyouya pulls away, shoves his hands into his pockets.
The hotel’s doors, big and glass and heavier than they look, open slowly, and the hit of warm air makes Kyouya shiver, blinking as the snow in his hair slowly begins to melt. Cavallone presses a hand to the low of Kyouya’s back, nodding towards the elevator, and Kyouya steps quickly, turning so Cavallone’s hand slides from Kyouya’s coat.
“Don’t touch me,” he murmurs, and Cavallone is stubbornly smiling as he follows Kyouya onto the elevator, reaching out to brush the snowflakes from Kyouya’s head and shoulders. “Don’t.”
The elevator ride is long, and silent, and the walk down the hallway is the same, with Kyouya following Cavallone’s steps sullenly. Cavallone fumbles at the door, nearly dropping the cardkey, and when the door finally swings open, Kyouya pushes in past Cavallone, throwing himself into the chair near the bed.
“Now what?” he asks when Cavallone’s unzipping his coat, long fingers pale against the dark fabric. Cavallone looks up as he pulls his arms out of his coat, shrugs awkwardly as he tosses the coat over the back of the chair.
“What do you want?” Cavallone is standing close, too close, and he touches the side of Kyouya’s face with the back of his fingers, like Kyouya’s-- Kyouya frowns, sinking further into the chair.
“Nothing. Don’t touch me like that.”
“Why not?” Cavallone’s leaning closer, his breath on Kyouya’s face, and then he’s crouching in front of the chair, his knees on either side of Kyouya’s legs, his hands steadying him against the chair. “I’ve touched you lots of ways--”
Cavallone’s hand wraps around Kyouya’s throat, thumb pressing up beneath Kyouya’s chin, and then Cavallone’s pulling his hand down slowly, gently, like he’s trying to caress him, and it tickles, is too soft and not-there and it’s like when Kyouya’s mother used to tickle him with a giant feather to make him laugh, when Kyouya had been little, before he’d started to grow up, before he’d lost his place in the world.
“Don’t,” Kyouya snaps, slapping away Cavallone’s hand as he starts to stand. Cavallone rocks back on his heels, then reaches out, grabbing Kyouya’s hands, and Kyouya tightens his hands into fists, draws back a hand to hit Cavallone. His fist grazes Cavallone’s jaw, barely knocks Cavallone’s head, and so he hits him again, harder, makes Cavallone let go and fall backwards, head snapping to the side.
“Fuck,” Cavallone curses, then, as he’s gingerly touching his jaw, cupping his cheek, “why can’t I touch you?”
“Because I don’t like it.” Kyouya starts to draw his legs up onto the chair, then hesitates before lowering his feet to the floor again. “You touch me like I’m a girl. I’m not, I’m not what you think I am.”
“I don’t,” Cavallone starts to say, and Kyouya interrupts, feeling sharp and brittle.
“You don’t,” he says, and he leans forward in the chair, his elbows propped on his knees, his chin upon his hands, “have to be gentle with me. I don’t want that.”
“I never know what you want,” Cavallone says, but he’s reaching out towards Kyouya, and his hands, when they wrap around Kyouya’s wrists, are tight, and when he pulls Kyouya down, it’s rough. Kyouya slaps his hands down on the floor, and when Cavallone pulls, Kyouya’s hands drag across the carpet, and the burn digs deep into his body, from his skin to his bones.
Kyouya struggles upward, trying to undo his coat, but Cavallone grabs Kyouya’s arms, pulls him closer again. Cavallone’s hands slide down Kyouya’s coat, then they’re underneath, pulling Kyouya’s shirt free of his trousers, pushing beneath the fabric, until they’re hot on the skin of Kyouya’s back. Kyouya blinks quickly, feels his breath come in pants, and then Cavallone’s trying to pull Kyouya’s shirt and coat over his head, and Kyouya’s trying to push him away, trying to free himself of his clothes himself. He finds himself on the floor, a carpet burn across his side, and Cavallone’s kneeling over him, eyes bright.
“Kyouya.”
Kyouya lifts a knee, slams it into Cavallone’s stomach, and Cavallone wheezes, bending over Kyouya with a grunt. Kyouya grabs Cavallone’s hair, pulling him close enough to kiss him roughly, and Cavallone kisses him back just as hard. Kyouya can taste blood, but he doesn’t know if it’s his or Cavallone’s, and when Cavallone touches Kyouya, it’s with fingernails and fingertips that grip too tight, pull too hard. Kyouya gasps, twists on the floor, and when Cavallone fucks him, it’s too fast, and too hard, and better this way, always better this way.
Cavallone’s hands are on Kyouya’s thighs, and he’s pulling Kyouya closer, pushing himself deeper. Kyouya bites him harder, then twists his hand in Cavallone’s hair until Cavallone’s breath breaks. Kyouya bites his lip until he bleeds, bites Cavallone’s lip until Cavallone bleeds, and there’s too much blood in the kiss, feels like Kyouya’s drowning in it. Kyouya groans, arching his back against the floor, and Cavallone’s mouth is red, shining wetly, and it smears against Kyouya’s mouth, against Kyouya’s cheek and jaw as Cavallone pants for breath.
“Kyouya,” and it’s wet against Kyouya’s skin, and Cavallone’s coming, digging his hands in against Kyouya’s waist and back, pulling Kyouya hard against him, until it hurts down into Kyouya’s bones. Kyouya squirms, fighting his way closer, and he hates the way his hands slide down Cavallone’s back, the way his arms wrap around Cavallone’s neck and shoulders. He hates the way he holds on, but he can’t make himself let go, so he shoves his face into the angle between Cavallone’s neck and shoulder, and when Cavallone’s fingers are too gentle, too much a caress, Kyouya bites him.
“Kyouya,” and it’s a laugh, Cavallone’s laugh, rocking Cavallone’s chest against Kyouya’s. Kyouya rides it out, still and steady against Cavallone’s laughter, and Cavallone kisses Kyouya, sloppy and wet with blood and spit, and grinning like an idiot. Kyouya frowns, turning his face away, and Cavallone laughs all the harder.
“I don’t understand you,” Cavallone says, and Kyouya wonders why Cavallone’s laughter (so much, so loud) sounds so strained, and why Cavallone’s eyes don’t match his mouth.
“Let go.” Kyouya pushes at Cavallone and Cavallone lets go, lifting his hands in gesture. Kyouya winces, then pulls himself together, sitting up slowly. Cavallone wipes his mouth, frowns at the blood on his hand, then licks his lip, wincing.
“You bite hard,” he murmurs, and Kyouya makes a lazy swipe towards Cavallone, fingertips barely brushing Cavallone’s shoulder.
“Shut up,” he says. “You talk too much.”
“Do I?” Cavallone asks idly, and he’s leaning forward, pressing his thumb against Kyouya’s lower lip. It stings, and when Cavallone pulls his thumb away, it’s bright with Kyouya’s blood. Cavallone presses his thumb against Kyouya’s mouth again, then leans forward, kissing Kyouya. The kiss stings, but it’s too gentle, and that hurts more, and Kyouya doesn’t understand why. He hates it, though, the way his chest feels like he’s suffocating, and so he tries to make the kiss more, deeper or harder or colder. Cavallone’s stupid, though, and stubborn, and kisses Kyouya with the same slowness, no matter how Kyouya fights him.
“Let me,” Cavallone says when Kyouya pulls back. Kyouya’s furious and red-mouthed, and when Cavallone touches Kyouya, his hands curved around Kyouya’s ribs, Kyouya grabs Cavallone’s hands, tries to pull him off. “Let me,” Cavallone says again, sounding as frustrated as Kyouya feels, and he’s kissing Kyouya’s shoulder, like a feather meant to tickle, but only hurts instead.
“Cavallone,” Kyouya says, and he’s about to hit Cavallone, or push him, or just scream at him, when a phone rings, an overly-bright song chiming cheerfully. Cavallone pulls back, clumsy and fumbling, and crawls over a few feet so he can grab his trousers, digging through the pockets. The ringtone’s only getting louder, more grating, and Kyouya scoots back until he’s leaning against the chair, watching Cavallone. Cavallone looks at the phone’s face, then flips it open, holding it up to his ear.
“Yeah?” Cavallone asks, and he’s looking at Kyouya. “Uh--” Then he’s talking in Italian to whoever’s on the other side, and Kyouya hates the sound of Italian, the way it sounds so far away to his ears. He picks at the upholstery of the chair, catching a loose thread, and pulling it looser. The thread grows longer in his hands, and the upholstery is loosening on the seams, as Cavallone begins to sound more and more frustrated, or angry, or just-- Just different, the way Cavallone never is unless Kyouya pushes him too far.
Finally, when the thread has frayed apart, breaking in Kyouya’s hands, Cavallone says “ciao” with finality. Kyouya brushes the fragments of thread off his hands, then looks up, and Cavallone is looking back at him, face strangely apologetic.
“Romario,” Cavallone says as some kind of explanation as he shuts the phone with a snap. “We’re heading back to Italy.” He’s already reaching for his clothes, sighing as he stretches. Kyouya watches him bend, long muscles in his back, and reaches out, touching Cavallone’s skin before pulling away. Cavallone looks back as he pulls on his shirt, the collar mussing his hair. “Kyouya?”
“You should hurry.” Kyouya pushes himself up, then leans down to grab his underwear and trousers, stepping into them, then pulling them up. Cavallone holds out his school shirt, and when Kyouya reaches for it, Cavallone grabs Kyouya’s hand, pulls Kyouya down a bit, so Kyouya’s closer. “What?” Kyouya asks, feeling frustrated all over again as he bends low, his hair mixing with Cavallone’s.
“You kept it.” Cavallone sounds pleased and he touches the chain around Kyouya’s neck, follows the links down to the ring from the fights in Namimori. Cavallone spins the ring on the chain, says, “Good.”
Kyouya snorts, and when he pulls away, straightening, the ring falls, hitting his skin cold and heavy. He grabs his shirt, pulls it on, and buttons it quickly, shoving the tails into his trousers carelessly. Cavallone reaches out, grabbing the ends of Kyouya’s belt, and Kyouya stands still as Cavallone does up the belt loosely, tucking the end into the loops.
“You’re too slow,” Kyouya says when Cavallone’s standing with a groan, pulling on his own trousers. Cavallone laughs, buckling his belt with soft clicks of the metal, and Kyouya shuffles his feet on the carpet, feels too cramped in the hotel room, feels too close to Cavallone’s body.
“You’re so impatient,” Cavallone mumbles through fabric as he pulls on another shirt, but when the shirt’s pulled over his head, he’s smiling. Kyouya frowns, pushing past Cavallone so he can grab his shoes. He perches on the edge of the chair to put on his shoes, then grabs his coat, pulls it halfway on.
Cavallone’s phone rings again, the annoying cheerful tone loud as it vibrates across the floor, and Cavallone lunges for it, stumbling over the hem of his trousers. He grabs the phone and flips it open, and Kyouya can hear a voice from the other end speaking in Italian. Cavallone frowns, pulling his shirts down over the waistband with one hand, and answers the voice. His voice sounds sharp, and the Italian sounds strange to Kyouya’s ears.
“Got it,” Cavallone finally says in Japanese, and he’s shutting the phone, shoving it into his pocket. “I’m late,” he says as he grabs his socks, pull them on as he hops on one foot, then the other. Kyouya stands up, grabbing his hat and scarf, and Cavallone’s grabbing his keys and wallet, sliding them into his pockets. “Do you want a ride?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, take care of yourself,” Cavallone says in a rush, shoving his shoes on and reaching for his coat. Kyouya shrugs, hands Cavallone his gloves, and follows him out the door. “Kyouya?” Cavallone asks, and Kyouya grunts, pulls his hat on.
Cavallone kisses him while they’re going down the elevator, drags his hand, too gentle, down Kyouya’s throat, and Kyouya kisses him back, harder and with teeth. Cavallone’s laughing when the elevator reaches the lobby, blood on his bottom lip, and he says, breathless, “I’ll see you in a few months, Kyouya.”
“Fine,” Kyouya says, because it’s stupid to try to fight about this, because Cavallone’s too stupid, too stubborn. He watches Cavallone stride across the hotel lobby, reaching his men with a laugh Kyouya can hear from the elevator, and then they’re leaving, all the Italians with their boss, heading out into the swirl of snow. Kyouya waits until he can’t see them anymore, until there’s nothing past the windows but snow, and then he drags his hat further down, and wraps his scarf tightly about his neck. He pushes his way through the lobby, and out the door, and he walks home in the cold, snow catching in the ends of his hair and his eyelashes.
TBC
i need love. love me, please? D:
