bladderwrack (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bladderwrack) wrote2009-08-17 08:12 am
bladderwrack) wrote2009-08-17 08:12 am
five is a four-letter word
n.b. post title is not the title of the fic, which I cannot think of a non-retarded name for, also I am not sure if it deserves a name anyway. I hate titling things, orz. DinoxSqualo, 1349 words. ...wow, I haven't written anything this blatantly h/c in a while. I am quite embarrassed by this fic! Sorry, Squalo XD;
*
Squalo has decided that he hates summer in Namimori.
His laundry won't dry properly. He can't wear his coat and feels exposed, vulnerable in just shirtsleeves, as if he is going out in his underwear. Squalo hates it, hates this cloying heat thick as syrup in the air; hates the air conditioning too, that chills the sweat on his body in glass-fronted office buildings. He longs for sea breeze, for tinder-dry pine needles and sharp-cut lines of light and shadow (--although in truth, he has never liked Italian summers either, so blinding-white and dusty).
During the day, he arranges bank transfers, meetings, negotiations. Everyone gets on his nerves in this heat, and Xanxus is impossible to work with. During their perpetual screaming matches, he would swear he would leave, except that he is afraid of two things: one, that Xanxus will call his bluff; two, that Xanxus will show himself not to give a shit one way or the other.
Squalo spends long hours in the dojo, training until he can think of nothing else. His body pours with sweat, his jaw aches and his mouth tastes of acid, his limbs are burning, burning. As if he would strip away all his flesh and become the sword itself.
*
Someone's voice is forcing its way through the sticky dojo air. It risks becoming a fly-in-amber that way, along with the dust motes and the swept-away cicada carcasses.
"Change of plan for tomorrow," Dino is calling to him, without coming any closer. "Reborn wanted me to pass you a message. Your phone wasn't on, so -- "
Then use the fucking answering machine, what do you think it's for, he starts to shout, but his ears are singing; he doesn't feel connected with the room; his vision is full of a heavy light that is actually darkness.
He feels his legs go from under him, but doesn't notice hitting the floor.
*
Squalo tries to bat away the hands that are sponging his face and neck and arms with iced water. He's been sticky-clammy all day, he doesn't want to be wet. Then he realises he isn't where he left himself. He raises his head, and everything whites out again. He waits for it to stop, then repeats the manoeuvre, more cautiously. He is ... lying across the row of leatherette chairs next to the vending machines, and the reason he can barely see is because it is dim in here but searingly bright at both exits, to the gym and outside, which is not a combination anyone should have to adjust their eyes to.
"Is that okay? We keep it in with the freezer pops in case anyone, you know, sprains an ankle or something. ... Is he going to be all right? Do you want me to get the coach? Or call a doctor?"
"We should be fine. Thanks for helping."
Irritatingly familiar voices, both. He focuses carefully, and -- ah, yes, Yamamoto, looking flushed and ridiculously healthy in his baseball gear -- and why doesn't he pass out from heat exhaustion, thinks Squalo pettishly. Fuck off, samurai boy, he wants to say. He snarls weakly in Yamamoto's general direction. His head is pounding; he feels every heartbeat surge in his temples. He snarls at Dino too, for good measure.
"Ah, Yamamoto," Dino says sweetly, "do you think you could fetch my car? It's in the back car park." He hands him the keys.
And Yamamoto, blessedly, leaves, and it is just Dino with him again.
What he hates about Dino is how he always seems to be around at times like these, to witness Squalo's humiliating defeat and incapacity, when Squalo has tried to get himself killed before rather than endure the shame of it.
What's worse is that Dino never seems to mind. It makes Squalo want to scream, makes him want to go and provoke Xanxus into fighting him, to be beaten down as he always is and bask in Xanxus' cleansing rage.
But he has sent Yamamoto away, to his credit, so maybe he does understand a little bit.
Dino lets him sit up slowly and gets him to sip at some vile carbonated sports drink. Then Yamamoto is back with the car -- isn't he underage? thinks Squalo -- and he finds he can stand up now, and yells at the world in general not to forget his gym bag.
"Fuck," he says, "I hate air conditioning, it fucks with my eyes."
"I think we'd better keep it on, all the same," says Dino. "If you finish your sports drink, I'll let you turn the fan down."
*
Dino's apartment is spacious and airy, and Squalo would bet good money that the furnishings were not chosen by Dino. It looks camped-in, rather than lived-in. He wonders how much time Dino spends in it.
Dino tries to make Squalo eat, which Squalo doesn't feel like doing, and enquires after life with the Varia, which Squalo doesn't feel like talking about.
"Boring as fuck," says Squalo, morose. "We're not even killing anyone. I don't want to be here." He bristles suddenly. "Anyway, what makes you think you have any right to ask about Varia business?"
Dino shrugs, easy. He really means it, too, he isn't bothered. How does Dino manage to be so unassumingly happy all the time? Squalo thinks there must be something wrong with Dino's head. Squalo isn't used to being happy at all, but he thinks this is normal for him.
Squalo takes out a little metal tool attached to a keyring and unfastens his mechanical hand. He hasn't changed the undercloth for days, and the binding is chafing him.
He glares at Dino. "What."
"Nothing, nothing." Dino makes a placating gesture with his hands, and knocks over the sugar bowl, which smashes.
"What the fuck," says Squalo, "Why do you even bother having anything but plastic crockery?"
"Oh, I break the plastic stuff too," says Dino cheerfully. He laughs, and rubs the back of his neck. He does not seem the least bit ashamed of his idiocy. "Do you want to wash? The bathroom is just through there, I'll lend you some clothes. I'll clean this up."
Squalo contemplates making disparaging remarks about all kinds of things, but decides, on reflection, that he is too tired. He goes to wash.
*
"Hey, look," says Dino, when Squalo emerges from the shower. "It's raining."
"It's still thirty-five fucking degrees and humid as fuck, how the fuck is that an improvement." He wants to scream but can't muster the energy.
Dino smiles at him. "I'll open the doors," he says. "Come with me."
The sudden downpour has made the apartment dim. He follows Dino mutely to the sitting room, colourless like rainwater, grey like a shadow in the half-light. The borrowed clothes are too big on him; he looks very thin. He has a towel around his neck, and his hair hangs over it down his back in damp strands. Dino guides Squalo to the couch and sits down with his arm around him. Squalo decides to be pleased that his hair is making Dino's t-shirt damp as well as his own.
It is an improvement, in point of fact. The rain has blocked the glare of the daylight. The world blurs behind it, and the heavy percussive sound drums Namimori into a soothing oblivion. It is odd that Dino, being such a sunny person, would understand what would give Squalo solace.
He is asleep within minutes, letting the bruised ends of the day drift past without him.
*
*
Squalo has decided that he hates summer in Namimori.
His laundry won't dry properly. He can't wear his coat and feels exposed, vulnerable in just shirtsleeves, as if he is going out in his underwear. Squalo hates it, hates this cloying heat thick as syrup in the air; hates the air conditioning too, that chills the sweat on his body in glass-fronted office buildings. He longs for sea breeze, for tinder-dry pine needles and sharp-cut lines of light and shadow (--although in truth, he has never liked Italian summers either, so blinding-white and dusty).
During the day, he arranges bank transfers, meetings, negotiations. Everyone gets on his nerves in this heat, and Xanxus is impossible to work with. During their perpetual screaming matches, he would swear he would leave, except that he is afraid of two things: one, that Xanxus will call his bluff; two, that Xanxus will show himself not to give a shit one way or the other.
Squalo spends long hours in the dojo, training until he can think of nothing else. His body pours with sweat, his jaw aches and his mouth tastes of acid, his limbs are burning, burning. As if he would strip away all his flesh and become the sword itself.
*
Someone's voice is forcing its way through the sticky dojo air. It risks becoming a fly-in-amber that way, along with the dust motes and the swept-away cicada carcasses.
"Change of plan for tomorrow," Dino is calling to him, without coming any closer. "Reborn wanted me to pass you a message. Your phone wasn't on, so -- "
Then use the fucking answering machine, what do you think it's for, he starts to shout, but his ears are singing; he doesn't feel connected with the room; his vision is full of a heavy light that is actually darkness.
He feels his legs go from under him, but doesn't notice hitting the floor.
*
Squalo tries to bat away the hands that are sponging his face and neck and arms with iced water. He's been sticky-clammy all day, he doesn't want to be wet. Then he realises he isn't where he left himself. He raises his head, and everything whites out again. He waits for it to stop, then repeats the manoeuvre, more cautiously. He is ... lying across the row of leatherette chairs next to the vending machines, and the reason he can barely see is because it is dim in here but searingly bright at both exits, to the gym and outside, which is not a combination anyone should have to adjust their eyes to.
"Is that okay? We keep it in with the freezer pops in case anyone, you know, sprains an ankle or something. ... Is he going to be all right? Do you want me to get the coach? Or call a doctor?"
"We should be fine. Thanks for helping."
Irritatingly familiar voices, both. He focuses carefully, and -- ah, yes, Yamamoto, looking flushed and ridiculously healthy in his baseball gear -- and why doesn't he pass out from heat exhaustion, thinks Squalo pettishly. Fuck off, samurai boy, he wants to say. He snarls weakly in Yamamoto's general direction. His head is pounding; he feels every heartbeat surge in his temples. He snarls at Dino too, for good measure.
"Ah, Yamamoto," Dino says sweetly, "do you think you could fetch my car? It's in the back car park." He hands him the keys.
And Yamamoto, blessedly, leaves, and it is just Dino with him again.
What he hates about Dino is how he always seems to be around at times like these, to witness Squalo's humiliating defeat and incapacity, when Squalo has tried to get himself killed before rather than endure the shame of it.
What's worse is that Dino never seems to mind. It makes Squalo want to scream, makes him want to go and provoke Xanxus into fighting him, to be beaten down as he always is and bask in Xanxus' cleansing rage.
But he has sent Yamamoto away, to his credit, so maybe he does understand a little bit.
Dino lets him sit up slowly and gets him to sip at some vile carbonated sports drink. Then Yamamoto is back with the car -- isn't he underage? thinks Squalo -- and he finds he can stand up now, and yells at the world in general not to forget his gym bag.
"Fuck," he says, "I hate air conditioning, it fucks with my eyes."
"I think we'd better keep it on, all the same," says Dino. "If you finish your sports drink, I'll let you turn the fan down."
*
Dino's apartment is spacious and airy, and Squalo would bet good money that the furnishings were not chosen by Dino. It looks camped-in, rather than lived-in. He wonders how much time Dino spends in it.
Dino tries to make Squalo eat, which Squalo doesn't feel like doing, and enquires after life with the Varia, which Squalo doesn't feel like talking about.
"Boring as fuck," says Squalo, morose. "We're not even killing anyone. I don't want to be here." He bristles suddenly. "Anyway, what makes you think you have any right to ask about Varia business?"
Dino shrugs, easy. He really means it, too, he isn't bothered. How does Dino manage to be so unassumingly happy all the time? Squalo thinks there must be something wrong with Dino's head. Squalo isn't used to being happy at all, but he thinks this is normal for him.
Squalo takes out a little metal tool attached to a keyring and unfastens his mechanical hand. He hasn't changed the undercloth for days, and the binding is chafing him.
He glares at Dino. "What."
"Nothing, nothing." Dino makes a placating gesture with his hands, and knocks over the sugar bowl, which smashes.
"What the fuck," says Squalo, "Why do you even bother having anything but plastic crockery?"
"Oh, I break the plastic stuff too," says Dino cheerfully. He laughs, and rubs the back of his neck. He does not seem the least bit ashamed of his idiocy. "Do you want to wash? The bathroom is just through there, I'll lend you some clothes. I'll clean this up."
Squalo contemplates making disparaging remarks about all kinds of things, but decides, on reflection, that he is too tired. He goes to wash.
*
"Hey, look," says Dino, when Squalo emerges from the shower. "It's raining."
"It's still thirty-five fucking degrees and humid as fuck, how the fuck is that an improvement." He wants to scream but can't muster the energy.
Dino smiles at him. "I'll open the doors," he says. "Come with me."
The sudden downpour has made the apartment dim. He follows Dino mutely to the sitting room, colourless like rainwater, grey like a shadow in the half-light. The borrowed clothes are too big on him; he looks very thin. He has a towel around his neck, and his hair hangs over it down his back in damp strands. Dino guides Squalo to the couch and sits down with his arm around him. Squalo decides to be pleased that his hair is making Dino's t-shirt damp as well as his own.
It is an improvement, in point of fact. The rain has blocked the glare of the daylight. The world blurs behind it, and the heavy percussive sound drums Namimori into a soothing oblivion. It is odd that Dino, being such a sunny person, would understand what would give Squalo solace.
He is asleep within minutes, letting the bruised ends of the day drift past without him.
*
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