haneuma-dino:
Kyouya is, as expected, furious.
The boy is hissing and spitting like an angry cat underneath him, and Dino’s lips purse in a futile attempt to stem the flow of laughter that bubbles in his throat. He coughs to try and cover the chuckle that escapes, then opens his mouth, intending to offer an insincere apology, when Kyouya does something that he did not expect.
Well, the threat was expected, certainly, but not the way the boy leans up and scrapes his teeth along Dino’s throat.
He knows that Kyouya won’t actually tear out his jugular, so he isn’t quite sure why his breath catches and he stills even the slightest movement of his body, if not in fear. The only thing that remains in motion is his heart, which seems to be trying to beat a hole through his ribcage. He wonders if Kyouya can feel it against the hand that clutches the front of his shirt in a vice grip.
He’s pushed back before he can get his bearings, and so he sits in top of Kyouya, bringing one hand up and touching it to the skin on his neck that he can still feel the other’s teeth against. He sits, blinking slowly in his confusion and this other strange feeling that he can’t—or doesn’t want— to put a name to.
Kyouya flops back to the ground underneath him, and Dino shakes his head and pushes his own odd reaction to the back of his mind for future analysis.
Or maybe never analysis, because he’s pretty sure he knows, even as he tries so hard to play dumb to himself.
His eyes flick down to Kyouya’s face. The boy’s sharp eyes are glaring death up at him, but Dino’s almost certain that he can see a little something else in there, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking that Kyouya feels something for him other than hatred or grudging tolerance, but Dino can’t help but hope. The last few years spent tutoring him has nurtured a soft spot in his heart, a gentle kind of affection that he hasn’t yet felt the need to categorize.
Until now. He’s assumed thus far that his regard for the boy is platonic in nature, but the way the skin of his throat tingles at the memory of Kyouya’s teeth leads him, however reluctantly, to believe otherwise.
Nonetheless, he plants his hands on the ground on either side of Kyouya’s head and leans down a little for a closer inspection of the narrowed eyes glaring up at him.
After only a moment of staring, brown eyes narrowed in a look of exaggerated concentration, Dino realizes that he has no idea how to read what he sees. Tilting his head and exhaling a long-suffering sigh, he makes himself more comfortable on top of his student-and-maybe-something-deeper.
“You need to learn to have more fun, Kyouya,” he says, smirking to cover his distress. “Fun that doesn’t involve tearing out throats, I mean.”
He removes his clean hand from the ground, sliding his index finger through the icing on Kyouya’s cheek and tapping it against the boy’s down-turned lips.
He’s decided to think about new feelings and sharp teeth and secretive eyes later. Now is for making Kyouya happy, as impossible a task as it seems.
Dino appears to be stuck in a state of disbelief and oh, what a wonderful state it is; his eyes are wide, honey reflecting the sun as shock, disorientation sets in and he attempts to think. Futile, of course it is, for if Hibari cannot determine the reason behind his own actions, how can the horse be expected to? They may have spent the previous years in the dance of tutor, student, perhaps something more, but knowledge of another is never fully obtained, and certainly not without consent. Hibari would have his last breath, drawn ragged and entirely taken from him over, above intimacy shared with the blonde.
Intimacy is the refuge of the weak; it is where cowards hide, burying their fears among bosoms and biceps, drawn taunt with strain. Hibari Kyouya has no need for intimacy, no Hibari needs intimacy to rule the world. They need fear, controlling puppet nooses held tight around throats. They certainly do not need Italian Dons resting their hands either sides of their heads, giving a sigh, an indication that this is all so natural to the both of them rather than rugged, malformed, wrong. As though they aren’t stumbling fools playing confident in a game of lovers.
At the thought, his own head snaps from side to side, eyes widened ever so slightly. They aren’t lovers, they are barely even acquaintances, but something about this position lends entirely the wrong idea to the casual observer and, it seems, his own eyes. They aren’t lovers, he repeats internally, summoning as much self loathing as he can, and he will not crave such a thing. Not now, never, despite the flutter through his veins at the flash of teeth, the lump that gathers at the base of his throat in timing with the words. The desperate urge to open his mouth, taste the warm fingers pressed against his lips.
The temptation overrides all others, smashes through the conscience developed to prevent exactly this sort of thing happening; pinned, defenceless and happy to be so, Hibari opens his mouth and tastes the sugary icing on the other’s fingers. His eyes manage to stay open, fixes firmly on Dino’s hand and tongue moving over, between fingers and nothing else until, far too soon, he tastes skin in place of sugar, snapping his mind back on track and forcing his teeth down, hard enough that he tastes blood.
Almost spluttering, he wrenches the fingers from his mouth and moves swiftly backwards, on full defence, as though the blood on his lips and the confusion misting his mind, head, heart is entirely Dino’s fault instead of his own weaknesses. Already, they have become too intimate, too close; crossing tonfa and whip, trading blows in place of sweet nothings. Too fucking intimate, he snarls, turning on his feet and demanding nothing that isn’t being left alone to think this through, an order quickly abandoned by his own mind as his feet scream to be used, faster. Breaking into a run, he leaves the cake where it is, slams the rooftop door shut and just runs.
Hibari has never run from a fight before, something he has always held in high regard, but the one shining star in an otherwise clouded sky of achievements has been torn down in the name of Cavallone. In times of distress, Hibari retreats to rooftops, watches the sky, reminds himself that even when he is gone, even when the problems he faces at any given time or space are gone, the sky will remain. Nature, the natural order, rules will remain. Now, though, when his eyes travel to the sky, he sees only him, bright and shining, and he hates it. There is nowhere to go, no-one to run to, and though he can’t quite remember a time there ever has been the thought brings a fresh pang of fuck you, Cavallone.
