Chapter Text
“Thank you for coming all the way from Palermo,” Tsuna says, flashing a polite smile as he shakes hands firmly with the elderly guest. “I hope the trip wasn’t too exhausting.”
The man chuckles, dismissing the concern with a wave. “Not at all, Decimo. It’s always a pleasure to see the family together like this.”
Tsuna nods, his gaze flicking upward for a second to the grand chandeliers above—opulent, glimmering as though they’re competing with the stars outside. Their warm light catches on the glasses filled with wine and champagne, casting a golden haze designed to make observers believe that all is flawless. Even the gentle buzz of conversation suggests a well-oiled machine. Tsuna knows better; it’s not so much well-oiled as just sufficient grease to keep it from falling apart. It’s an act, a performance hanging together as precariously as the crystal flutes on passing trays.
Reborn, ever the Realpolitiker, had drilled into Tsuna that the appearance of power is often as effective as power itself, so long as you projected it with conviction. After nearly five years as the Vongola Decimo, Tsuna understands it now: these gatherings aren’t about true unity, they’re about creating the illusion of it.
If Tsuna could afford to sigh in public, he would. Instead, he does it inwardly, half-listening to the guest in front of him, nodding and humming automatically at the expected beats.
A sudden electric jolt shoots up Tsuna’s spine, and his eyes track to the far side of the salon. Xanxus is leaning against an ornate pillar, his figure as imposing as ever: crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, half-hidden beneath a striped black vest, dark coat draped over his shoulders, tie hanging loose like an afterthought. In his hand, a deep, blood-dark drink swirls, which he downs in one swift motion. His grip clamps down on the glass, squeezing it, scowl deeper than usual, which really shouldn’t be possible.
Tsuna can sense trouble brewing even without his Hyper Intuition.
It doesn’t help that Squalo, typically a permanent fixture at Xanxus’s side, is missing. That leaves no one to fill the thankless yet apparently crucial role of human stress ball, taking the brunt of his boss’s moods and outburst (including the occasional glass or two hurled his way). Indeed, Gokudera had mentioned that Squalo was in Japan with Yamamoto on a mission, one that overlapped with the Vongola reception and couldn’t be postponed. Without his second-in-command acting as a buffer, Xanxus’s brooding presence weighs heavier, suffocating.
Tsuna barely waits for the guest’s response before stepping away, murmuring a quick, “Excuse me.” Better to prevent any accidents, he thinks, making a swift path through the crowd toward his right-hand man. He approaches Gokudera, who’s mid-conversation. Offering an apologetic smile, Tsuna whispers, “Hayato,” his tone urgent enough to command attention without causing alarm. “I need you to—”
A crack, a thud, a cascade of crashes, and the scrape of metal overturning, blending into a cacophony, is the universe’s way of telling Tsuna he’s too late.
Like clockwork, every head, including Tsuna’s, turns toward where the commotion is as follows: Xanxus stands over a smaller man, who’s struggling to regain his composure after being shoved into a table, surrounded by a mess of silverware, broken porcelain, and what might have once been food yet now more resembles an abstract art piece involving turkey and hors d’oeuvres. Tsuna catches a glimpse of the man, a lesser branch head he can’t quite place, frantically brushing shards of glass off his suit with trembling hands.
The man stammers through his pain and anger. “W-who do you think you are?” he shouts at Xanxus, and Tsuna thinks, not to be mean, though honestly, if the guy was that eager to die, he could have at least picked a less inconvenient time and place. “You disgusting mutt. You’re nothing, just a common thug! Everyone knows you’re not really Vongola, you b—”
A flash of blackened steel, the gleam of crimson X-markings, and a subtle shift in Xanxus’s stance are all the warning anyone gets before a double-barreled Dying Will Gun is at the man’s temple, cutting off the final insult with cold metal digging into skin. The branch head freezes, his fury evaporating into terror as his face drains of color, and Tsuna is certain he’s on the verge of soiling himself right there on the polished Carrara marble floor.
Xanxus, by contrast, is completely at ease. No, more than that; he looks... delighted. That manic grin Tsuna hasn’t seen in years slashes across his face. “Go ahead,” he drawls. “Finish what you were saying, scum.”
“Damn him!” Gokudera curses, striding forward before Tsuna can grab his arm. “Are you out of your mind, you psycho?!” He stops short of the confrontation, fists curled so hard his knuckles go white.
Xanxus glances his way. “Shut it. This isn’t your business—unless you’re in the mood to eat lead.”
“Not my business?!” Gokudera barks back. “Maybe you try not embarrassing the family for once. Think you’re capable of that, Xanxus, huh?”
Shit. Gokudera’s heart might be in the right place, but his word choice definitely isn’t, and now he’s gone and tossed a match into a gasoline-soaked powder keg. It shows. A deadly glint ignites in Xanxus’s eyes, his finger twitching over the trigger like a spring about to uncoil. Tsuna knows that look, knows exactly where this is headed. Xanxus isn’t angry anymore; he’s a second away from reducing everything, animate or otherwise, unlucky enough to exist within his radius, into collateral damage.
“Enough.” Tsuna says with low finality, and all chatter in the hall ceases as if a maestro had raised their baton. He steps forward, closing the space between him and Xanxus, the Hyper Dying Will Flame bursting to life on his forehead. Its heat rolls outward, pushing against the oppressive veil of Xanxus’s Wrath suspended around them. A flash of defiance; Xanxus reins it in, feet planted and unmoving.
Settling his gaze on the Varia leader, Tsuna says, “Xanxus. Perfect timing,” his voice cool and indifferent. “There’s something we need to discuss.” Tsuna doesn’t wait, already turning toward the door like they had agreed on this beforehand. “Outside. Now.”
Xanxus watches Tsuna retreat with an intensity that suggests a killing spree is still very much on the table. Tsuna pointedly ignores it. The moment stretches, until Xanxus snorts, flicking the gun back into the shoulder holster beneath his blazer with practiced ease; the branch head chokes out a pitiful sob. “Whatever.” He pivots on his heel, the scrape of shoes against marble loud in the silence. No one moves. No one breathes.
Xanxus follows Tsuna.
As Tsuna moves past Gokudera, who, incidentally, looks about as close to detonating as I-Pin’s Pinzu-Timed Explosion, he leans in. “I’m counting on you to restore the mood. No scandal.”
Gokudera’s eyes widen for a fraction before locking in, laser-focused. “Got it, Tenth.” His voice calibrates into a diplomatic register as he begins clearing the crowd and flags someone down to take care of the mess.
Tsuna snuffs out his Flame—no need for unnecessary spectacle, after all. Without it, Xanxus’s stare burns like a branding iron between his shoulder blades. Tsuna doesn’t shift, doesn’t break pace, just holds the grand saloon door open like he isn’t being watched like prey. “After you,” he offers with an air of nonchalance.
Xanxus huffs, equal parts impatience and contempt, and steps through, the sheer bulk of him turning his 20-centimeter height advantage into a finely tuned reminder of how much smaller everyone else, especially Tsuna, is. It’s a wonder Xanxus hasn’t yet made it to the top of Fuuta’s ranking of ‘Most Charming Mafia Personalities.’
This is going to be fun, Tsuna thinks, with the kind of dry humor born from the knowledge that handling Xanxus on a good day is like negotiating with a ticking bomb, and today, the countdown is already dangerously close to zero.
For context: Xanxus these days is no longer the rampaging bull on steroids of a decade ago. Not quite. He’s settled into more of a barely-held-in-check menace lurking in the background. Whether that counts as “maturity” is up for debate; on the other hand, at present, he seems content leading the Varia rather than attempting a third coup for the Vongola throne, which, all things considered, Tsuna figures he should be grateful for.
In addition, Xanxus has come to tolerate Tsuna’s status as Decimo in his own, uniquely Xanxusesque way. This, apparently, entails calling Tsuna “trash,” rolling his eyes, and answering direct orders with a “whatever” that, by some twisted logic, qualifies as respect (or as close as Tsuna’s ever going to get). It’s a step up. At least now their meetings don’t always end with Xanxus reaching for his guns and Tsuna wondering if the next bullet will finally make this whole mafia business someone else’s problem.
Which is why, even though Tsuna isn’t exactly thrilled to be alone with Xanxus in a private room (somewhere quieter he’d chosen to get them out of the spotlight), reasoning with the Varia leader, or at least stopping him from executing a handful of guests in cold blood, doesn’t feel as impossible as it once did.
The lock clicks, and Tsuna turns to find Xanxus already settled on the center couch, legs spread wide, arms draped over the backrest like he owns the place and every piece of furniture in it. His coat lies discarded beside him, the leather straps of his shoulder holster cutting black lines against his shirt, twin Dying Will Guns resting snugly against his ribs. The setup isn’t purely practical—it’s a warning to Tsuna that this isn’t going to be easy.
It takes everything Tsuna has not to gulp at the effortless dominance Xanxus exudes. His memory betrays him, dragging him back to that first meeting years ago, when the Varia descended on Namimori like a force of nature, and Tsuna had been nothing more than a scrawny kid out of his depth, staring up at this same man.
Tsuna shakes his head, forcing the thought out, briefly glancing at the empty chair in the corner. He decides against it, stays standing. With Xanxus seated, it’s a rare chance to look down at him instead of the usual opposite, and he takes it. “So,” he starts. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”
Xanxus tilts his head back, gaze dragging upward in a slow, deliberate arc. “What’s there to tell?” he drawls. “Trash talked. Got put in his place.”
No point letting Xanxus’s attitude get to him, Tsuna knows; however, that doesn’t stop his stomach from knotting up. “You held a gun to that man’s head.” Xanxus raises a brow that practically spells out And? without him needing to say a word. It grates, and Tsuna resists the urge to rub his temple. How does Squalo deal with this daily without snapping? Oh, right. “At a Vongola reception. In front of everyone.”
An ugly, lopsided grin spreads across Xanxus’s face. “Guess that scum should’ve kept his mouth shut, then.”
Tsuna sighs. This is spiraling fast. Any second now, Xanxus will storm out, probably break a few things on the way, and Tsuna will be left dealing with the aftermath, both the political kind and the kind that requires actual cleanup crews. He needs to shift gears. “What did he say?” Tsuna asks, keeping his voice neutral.
The smirk vanishes. In its place, a dismissive shrug. “The fuck does it matter?” Xanxus mutters, sandpaper-rough, watching the way Tsuna’s lips press together. As if holding out is too much work, he concludes: “Same crap as always. ‘I don’t know why they let someone like that in the room.’” He clicks his tongue, like repeating it leaves a bad taste. “That kind of shit.”
Tsuna doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know where to start, only that it makes him sick that a Vongola head could talk like that, hearing it from Xanxus and remembering what he caught during the commotion. “And you let him get to you,” he says at last, more of an observation than an accusation.
Xanxus’s mouth hardens, jaw locking. “It wasn’t about getting to me,” he snaps. “It was about making sure that piece of garbage knows he’s lucky to still be breathing.”
And Tsuna can’t deny that the fact the guy had the nerve to say that to Xanxus's face and still walked away with his life and all his limbs attached says more about Xanxus’s restraint than anyone would ever give him credit for. “Xanxus,” Tsuna says, softer now. “You’ve proven yourself to this family over and over. You don’t need to keep fighting every idiot who doesn’t see it. Don’t let people like him bring you down.”
The bark-like laugh Xanxus lets out startles Tsuna. “Spare me the bullshit, Sawada.” His fingers dig into the couch’s headrest, fabric bunching like tissue paper under his grip. “As if you believe that. As if any of you do. A bunch of fucking liars.”
The accusation stings. Because Tsuna can see it playing out in his mind’s eye: the branch head’s insult passing unchecked, Gokudera’s maybe you try not embarrassing the family for once, and Xanxus, always Xanxus, with his rage so loud it turns everyone else’s sins into white noise. Xanxus, whose past misdeeds stick to him like a splinter that won’t come out, no matter how many years he’s run the Varia without issue, giving people every excuse to disregard his side of the story.
Goddamn.
“Look, I get it. What that guy said—” Tsuna hesitates, feels Xanxus’s glare on him, charged and waiting like a loaded gun. “It was cruel. It was wrong. But, uh... with your history and how you, you know, carry yourself, you’re not exactly making things easier.” Okay, that sounded worse out loud. “What I mean is—” He scrambles, looking for an exit that isn’t another trap. “There are better ways to handle this kind of thing!”
Xanxus’s whole body stiffens. “Fuck you.” Low, seething. “My history? How I carry myself?” His fingers twitch, probably with the need to crush Tsuna’s throat. “Don’t fucking lecture me, you little shit. You’re not my damn father.”
Frustration does strange things to a person. So, instead of shutting up, Tsuna opens his mouth and says, “Well—do you want me to be?”
A pause. A long, stretched-out silence where neither of them breathes.
Then: “What.” It’s Xanxus’s voice, emptied of anything resembling an inflection.
If Tsuna had to explain later why he said what he did, he imagines he’d do two things: (1) wish he could sink into the void and cease to exist, and (2) deny it with such vehemence that it would make it all the more obvious he absolutely did say it.
It’s not like Tsuna has any real experience with, uh, those kinds of dynamics. He’s only vaguely aware, in that distant, academic way most people know about things like ancient ruins or deep-sea creatures, that some people find... satisfaction in such exchanges. It doesn’t matter. The truth is, it’s out before he has a chance to stop it, intuition firing off and bypassing any rational thought.
“You heard me. Do you want me to be your d—” The word catches, refuses to form. “Your... d-daddy?” It slips free, wobbling in the air like a nervous tightrope walker.
Xanxus’s eyes go wide, wider than Tsuna has ever seen them, even in the frenzy of battle. His mouth parts, slack with disbelief, in a way that might’ve been funny if Tsuna weren’t consumed by the immediate and pressing concern of getting launched through the nearest wall.
And yet, somewhere from the inscrutable depths of Tsuna’s brain, a thought surfaces: if this is how I die, at least I’ll go down as the one who managed to shock Xanxus into looking like that.
The moment shatters when Xanxus pushes up from the couch, grabs Tsuna by the tie, and yanks him forward hard enough to lift him off the ground. Tsuna catches himself onto his toes, their faces inches apart.
“You—you’re mocking me?” Xanxus hisses, his voice snagging on something raw. His grip tightens further, and Tsuna’s heart slams against his ribs as the Flame of Wrath bleeds into the air, black sparks crackling and fizzing around them. “You—you...!”
“No, no, no!” Tsuna yelps, hands flying up defensively. “I’m not mocking you! I swear—I’m serious!”
Xanxus doesn’t let go. His jaw clenches, releases, clenches again. His grip on Tsuna’s tie shakes, the tiniest flicker of doubt seeping through the cracks of his rage. “Sawada—” he starts, stops. His eyes narrow, scanning Tsuna’s face, dissecting him, searching for the tell, the slip, the moment this all unravels into a joke at his expense. He doesn’t seem to find one.
Tsuna says, “Trust me.” He lifts a hand to Xanxus’s chest, fingers resting against the fabric of his vest. He isn’t exactly pushing, more coaxing, urging him to sit back down. “I wouldn’t joke about this.”
Time contracts and expands, seconds dragging like years, or maybe the other way around. Slowly, the Flame of Wrath begins to retreat in reluctant pulses. Not gone, merely held back. Shoulders slackening and knees bending, Xanxus lets his body slowly sink back into the couch. His fingers slip from Tsuna’s tie, twitching once, twice, like they haven’t quite decided to let go.
Tsuna exhales a shaky breath that doesn’t help settle the pounding in his ears. He shrugs off his coat, lets it fall in a heap. His fingers find his tie, pulling at the knot, easing the constriction Xanxus left behind.
With measured movements, Tsuna steps forward, one knee pressing into the cushion beside Xanxus’s thigh, then the other. He doesn’t sit, just hovers, muscles burning slightly from the effort of his legs spread wider than feels natural to accommodate Xanxus’s not-so-small frame.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Ah, that’s an excellent question.
Tsuna doesn’t answer. Instead, he raises a hand to thread his fingers through thick black strands, brushing the scarlet feathers and decorative tassels before closing his grip at the base of Xanxus’s skull. His other hand finds the chiseled edge of a jaw, thumb pressing against the scarred skin left behind by ice decades ago. He pulls—one hand anchoring in his hair, the other guiding his chin up—tilting Xanxus’s head back, forcing him to meet his eyes.
“You’re not an embarrassment,” Tsuna says, steady, controlled, which is a miracle, considering his spiking cardiac rate. “Do you hear me? You’re not.”
A sharp inhale, like something slipping past Xanxus’s defenses, catching him off guard.
“You belong here, with the Vongola,” Tsuna cups Xanxus’s face, fingertips rubbing light, grounding strokes at his temple. He leans in closer. “And with me.”
“No!” The word rips its way out of Xanxus’s throat, half-shouted, half-choked. The Flame of Wrath flares, distorting the air as it totters at the brink of tangibility; its heat rises fast, closes in with a volatile dance of black sparks that flash in and out of sight, pulsing against Tsuna’s skin. Close enough to scorch.
But Tsuna sees it for what it is, sees through it: a shield raised in haste, flimsy and desperate. A defense masquerading as an attack. Because beneath the rage, buried deep, is fear. Fear of being unwanted, discarded, nothing; a fear Xanxus has hammered into something harder, something useful. Rage is easier, safer, it can be wielded. Fear leaves you vulnerable, weak. And Xanxus has never allowed himself that.
“You’re lying,” Xanxus snarls, teeth bared, his voice fraying at the edges. “Don’t—don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not,” Tsuna replies, and the Sky Flame stirs, neither fully formed, nor a counterattack, stretching toward Wrath where it lingers in the air, petulant, waiting to be chased. “I mean it.” The Sky moves like a tide meeting the shore, wrapping around the Wrath’s heat without suffocating it, containing without breaking. “Every word. And I think you know that. Don’t you, Xanxus?”
Xanxus makes a strangled noise. His body tenses, muscles locking up like he’s taken a hit to the gut. “S-Sawa—da—” It isn’t spoken so much as broken apart, the syllables stumbling from his mouth.
“Quiet,” Tsuna breathes. His lips move where his hands have been, brushing over Xanxus’s forehead, skimming the contours of his face, tracing the angles of his nose, cheekbones, jaw. He pauses near the corner of Xanxus’s mouth. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?” He speaks without thinking, the words flowing out, silk-smooth. “So good for Daddy.”
Xanxus’s Wrath snaps. The surge of power slams into Tsuna, wild, untamed. Tsuna doesn’t waver. He envelops, he overtakes. The Wrath writhes in futile resistance, trying to break free, only to be pulled under, smothered, lost in the vastness of the Sky.
In the periphery of his vison, Tsuna sees Xanxus’s fingers twitch, clench at nothing, stray sparks sputtering at his fingertips, erratic and restless.
Fire hazard. Yeah. Tsuna should care. Should, doesn’t. Not when their life-forces pull and twist around each other in a dance both transcendent and primal. Not when Xanxus’s body is fever-hot beneath his hands, skin radiating warmth into Tsuna’s like an open furnace.
It’s intoxicating. Xanxus is intoxicating.
Tsuna wants more.
Then it hits him—had Xanxus said his name? Had he been trying to push Tsuna away? The sobering thought cuts through Tsuna’s lust-induced brainfog. His hands recoil, hovering uselessly midair, and he blinks, really looks at Xanxus. Panting rough, eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down the taut column of his neck, vanishing beneath the open collar. His jaw is clenched so hard it has to hurt.
Xanxus looks wrecked. If Is it pain, or is it another feeling entirely?
I ought to know. Tsuna should be able to tell, if he’d been paying attention, if he’d been thinking. He let himself want too much to see what this was doing to Xanxus.
Tsuna's chest clenches. “You,” he says, taking in the tremors coursing through the man beneath him. “Are you—did I go too far?”
Red eyes flicker open, unfocused, pupils blown wide. “Huh?”
Out there, somewhere in the vast expanse of the multiverse, Tsuna is certain that there exists a version of himself who handles this with composure. That Tsuna knows exactly what to say and definitely doesn’t let his anxiety hijack his vocal cords.
Unfortunately, here is not that timeline.
“Uh, wait—hold on, just—if this is too much, you can tell me, and I’ll stop. I swear,” Tsuna blurts out, aware that he’s spiraling and absolutely incapable of doing anything about it. “Not that I want to stop. I really don’t. At all. But I need to know you’re okay with this because—uh—look, I genuinely have no idea if you’re even into guys? And, like, it’d be great if you were. Fantastic, actually. Given... the circumstances.” He gestures vaguely, as if that explains anything. “But also, uh, I don’t want to accidentally assault you or anything. And—oh my god—the daddy kink. That feels severely under-negotiated. Like, should we stop and go over some ground rules? Because, when you think about it, our entire relationship consists of me physically overpowering you—not in a kinky way, just in a you-want-me-dead way—which is why, maybe we should talk this through.”
Tsuna dimly registers that Xanxus is staring at him with an expression that could only be described as the human equivalent of a “system error.”
There’s a beat. An opportunity for Tsuna to stop, to salvage whatever is left of their sanity. Naturally, he keeps going.
“And let’s not forget the whole Timoteo thing. Because, objectively, you have massive daddy issues—no judgment, zero judgment, just a fact—and now I’m here, calling myself ‘daddy,’ and—shit. Is this too weird? It’s too weird, isn’t it? I mean, I’m fine with it if you are, but—”
Xanxus doesn’t let him finish. His hand flies out, fisting Tsuna’s shirt, and pulls. Tsuna, still propped up on his knees to stay above him, looses his balance and lands flush against Xanxus’s lap.
And, oh. Oh.
Pressed this close, there’s no mistaking Xanxus’s erection pushing up against his ass. Well, Tsuna’s hard too. Painfully so. He just hadn’t noticed until now.
“Tsunayoshi,” Xanxus growls. “You keep running your mouth about my issues”—he spits the word like it’s laced with more venom than Bianchi’s poison cooking—“and I’ll incinerate you so completely there won’t be a single scrap left for your precious family to bury.”
Hard to argue with that, Tsuna thinks. Also, hold on. Tsunayoshi? Did Xanxus just—when has he ever used his given name? Tsuna tries to recall, sifting through years of insults, indifference, and murder attempts, only to come up blank. Never. Not once.
He’s a second from calling it out when a large hand grips the back of Tsuna's neck, and his mouth is already on Xanxus’s by the time his brain catches up. Or maybe Xanxus’s is on his. Either way, it happens, and it happens fast.
It isn’t a kiss. Not really. At least, not like any kiss Tsuna has ever known. Kisses, in his experience, don’t usually feel like he’s being mauled by a bear. Kisses don’t slam into you so hard your teeth knock together, don’t split your lip open on impact. Xanxus, clearly, isn’t interested in kissing him.
Xanxus bites, drags his teeth over the fresh sting, pulls at Tsuna’s bottom lip until it hurts, and Tsuna tastes the metallic tang of blood. And there’s the tongue—fuck, the tongue—pushing too deep. Tsuna didn’t think human anatomy even allowed for that. It’s not remotely comfortable.
The whole thing is too much. The biting, the bruising, the way Xanxus claims, like he’s trying to carve himself into Tsuna’s mouth. Unnecessary. Excessive. The way Tsuna’s body responds anyway, the way heat licks up his spine, the way his stomach twists—yeah. That’s probably unnecessary, too.
Xanxus fists a hand in Tsuna’s hair, holding him in place as if he thinks Tsuna might run. His other hand drags down, gripping Tsuna’s lower back, pulling him closer, bracketing him in, pressing their bodies together until there’s no space left; just friction and the frustrating barrier of clothing.
They break apart because even mafia bosses can’t survive without air. Tsuna starts to speak but has to pause, sucking in air between unsteady exhales. “I—” Another breath, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m taking that as a ‘yes, Tsuna, I’m enthusiastically into this,’” he teases, pushing his luck. “Yeah?”
“For fuck’s sake, shut up,” Xanxus snaps, sounding more exasperated than angry. For once, Tsuna can’t blame him.
The coat on the couch buzzes. Tsuna almost doesn’t hear it, insignificant like everything else that isn’t Xanxus. It buzzes again. “Your coat’s vibrating,” Tsuna says, lips brushing Xanxus’s jaw. “Might’ve rung earlier. Someone’s persistent. Should I be jealous?”
Xanxus doesn’t move. He grunts, “Ignore it,” and reaches out to kill the thing with a couple of swipes of his hand. “Whoever it is can cram it up their ass and leave it there.”
Tsuna huffs a quiet laugh, trailing the back of his hand along the flushed side of Xanxus’s face, careful to avoid scraping his rings against skin as he maps the jagged lines of the largest scar like uncharted territory. His touch drifts lower, brushing against Xanxus’s mouth, feeling the warmth of his breath ghost against his skin.
“What a rude little thing you are,” Tsuna scolds while dragging his thumb over Xanxus’s full lips, slick with the mess of their kiss. “You shouldn’t be kissing Daddy with that mouth.”
Xanxus meets Tsuna’s provocation with a jut of his jaw, lips parting to take in the pinky finger with the smaller band of the Sky Ring, Version X. His mouth closes over it, heat swallowing the cool metal, tongue dragging slow over the smooth surface encircling Tsuna’s knuckle, tracing every inch like he’s committing it to memory.
And Xanxus sucks. His half-lidded eyes never leave Tsuna’s, and Tsuna swallows, frozen in place, wide-eyed, unable to look anywhere except at Xanxus’s lips sealed around the very thing he once fought to claim as his own.
“Ah—fuck.” The curse slips out, unfiltered, as the spike of arousal crashes through Tsuna, hitting faster than his brain can process.
At that, Xanxus takes Tsuna’s finger deeper, tongue dragging over skin and metal. The chain connecting the smaller ring to the main piece strains, stretching taut between Tsuna’s fingers. Xanxus traps the cool links between his teeth, biting down until the metal clinks.
Tsuna doesn’t move. Can’t. His thoughts are static, hardly believing it’s real as Xanxus releases his finger with a wet pop, the chill of air rushing over the oversensitive dampness. When Xanxus moves again, it feels like they’ve been circling this moment for years, as if every decision and collision has led them here, since the first time they laid eyes on each other.
Xanxus’s mouth opens, going for the larger ring, the one that means everything, and Tsuna only stares, uselessly.
There’s more metal now, heavier, thicker metal, forcing Xanxus to stretch his jaw wide as he leans in. His tongue moves first, pressing against the clawed tip of the articulated metal finger guard, flicking over the intricate metalwork, tracing the sharp ridges before dipping into the grooves of the blue, faceted topaz gemstone.
Xanxus sighs. He peers up at Tsuna from beneath his lashes, dark and glassy and open, as his tongue drags with intent along the engraved axes of the cross at the center, where VONGOLA is carved into the metal. His lips part wider, sealing around the band.
Tsuna fleetingly wonders if the flame-like extensions rising from the ring might catch or cut against the soft tissue of Xanxus’s mouth. Still, the expression “Varia quality” wasn’t coined for nothing, and with the precision with which Xanxus’s tongue moves, it’s like he’s been doing this for years.
With the larger ring fully sheathed in the hot cavern of his mouth, Xanxus’s eyes flutter shut, brows creasing, an expression dangerously close to reverence crossing his face as he sucks. Slow. Deep. Barely-there, utterly un-Xanxus-like little noises vibrate through metal and flesh. Xanxus is savoring this, Tsuna realizes, dizzily: the taste of the Sky Ring, the taste of Tsuna. Xanxus's tongue stretches further, past the metal, pressing into the delicate space where Tsuna’s middle finger meets the others, teasing the delicate skin there with slick, insistent heat before dragging back over his digit. His lips tighten and loosen, following the rhythm of suction, taking his time.
Now, at 24, Tsuna is far from a blushing virgin. Nowhere near it, in fact. And yet, somehow, this—Xanxus sucking on his fingers, his rings—undoes Tsuna in a way nothing else has. Higher thought folds in on itself, peeling away like old wallpaper, leaving behind only nerve endings and the pulse of something ancient, hungry.
It rises, feeds on the same instinct that sparked earlier, when Xanxus yielded, when he gave in to him, but now it’s worse, bigger and louder, overwhelming. For a brief, disorienting second, Tsuna swears his Sky Flame is thinking for him, separate from him, sentient, whispering its own logic, its own will. Dismantle him. Not in any metaphorical way, not in a way that keeps Xanxus intact—no. Tear him down, piece by piece, muscle unspooling, sinew snapping, burning through everything until there’s nothing left to resist. Not a tide this time; a tsunami. Welcoming, in the way death takes all, is all-consuming.
The thought drifts, oddly weightless, too large to hold. To keep it from settling, Tsuna buries his nose into Xanxus’s hair, lets out a thin, near-hysterical laugh.
Maybe that’s why Tsuna starts murmuring filth at Xanxus, his ringless hand pressing down against Xanxus’s shoulder. “You sure do like Daddy’s ring, huh?” He watches how Xanxus’s chest heaves frantically. “Daddy loves the way you cling to him. So warm. So tight.” Fuck, Tsuna wants to see Xanxus choke. Wants to make him feel it. So he feeds him another finger, and a third, then slides his pinky in for good measure, stuffing Xanxus’s mouth full, forcing his jaw wider until he nudges the quivering resistance at the back of his throat.
Muscles clench, convulse. A weak, broken whimper escapes Xanxus, yet he stays put, never even tries to pull away. Lips parted, slack, accepting, he just takes it. “Such a slut. But you know exactly how to make Daddy feel good, don’t you?” Tsuna purrs, watching spit spill past Xanxus’s lips, trailing down his chin. “My pretty boy. Look at me—let me see those beautiful eyes.”
A garbled groan vibrates against Tsuna’s fingers as Xanxus obeys, his red eyes cracking halfway open. His hips buck, and Tsuna meets him there, grinding down, rolling against him. On any other day, that alone would have driven him insane, if not for the riot of sensations happening at his fingers, of all places.
And it’s a mess in Tsuna’s head, too many loose ends tangling and unravelling now that the older man is letting him have this. Like, what else can that mouth take? How many more pathetic sounds can he pull from a throat accustomed to growling commands and insults? Would Xanxus let him tie those big hands up with his own tie? Shove him down, make him beg? Would he bend over, let Tsuna fuck into him, let him take, take, take?
Only one way to find out.
Tsuna’s hand moves from Xanxus’s shoulder down the solid plane of his chest, fingertips teasing over the leather of his holster, pausing over the gun. Then, lower.
“I’ve got you... just let me take care of you,” Tsuna murmurs, lips brushing against Xanxus’s ear. His palm presses against the hot hardness beneath Xanxus’s trousers, and it twitches under his touch. Tsuna needs no more encouragement. His fingers work the belt, metal clinking, leather slipping free, followed by the buttons, one, another, flicking open, and the fabric parts under his hands. His breath catches as he reaches in, body thrumming with anticipation, when—
Knock, knock.
“Tenth? You in there?” Gokudera’s voice carries through the door. Behind it, there’s a muffled barrage of shouting. “I’ve got Squalo on the line. Says he’s been calling his ‘idiot boss,’ but he won’t pick up.”
The knock at the door jolts Tsuna and Xanxus, tension coursing through their bodies in an instant. They lurch, suddenly and uncoordinated, the couch beneath them groaning as its balance shifts back, tilting past the point of no return. The legs lift, the frame wobbles, and with a whip of motion, the entire couch flips, sending them sprawling onto the floor.
Tsuna slams down hard, all his weight driving into Xanxus, crushing the air from his lungs. Worse (far, far worse), momentum propels his hand forward, and all four fingers, Sky Ring and all, plunge deeper down Xanxus’s throat.
A violent gag wrenches through Xanxus, his jaw snapping shut not by choice, but by reflex, his body rejecting the intrusion on instinct.
Pain sears up Tsuna’s hand as Xanxus’s teeth sink down hard on his knuckles.
“Shit—ow!” Tsuna yelps, trying to jerk his hand back. Gravity works against him, keeps them in a tangled mess of limbs.
Finally, Xanxus spits out Tsuna’s finger before shoving him off with a force that sends Tsuna rolling. Doubled over, Xanxus chokes out ragged coughs.
“The fuck—” Xanxus rasps, pushing himself upright. A hand rakes through his hair, breath still uneven, and the glare he shoots at Tsuna would have a lesser man start writing his will.
Sprawled on the floor, Tsuna stares back, his finger throbbing, his mind reeling at how much and how fast the situation has flipped.
“Tenth! What the hell was that?! Are you okay?”
From the phone’s speaker, Squalo’s voice bursts through, tinny and furious. “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN THERE?!”
Tsuna is busy staring at Xanxus, so he doesn’t answer. Dark hair sticks up in unruly angles, vest and shirt rumpled, gun holster askew, belt undone, a couple of buttons on his trousers left open. His mouth is a mess. Shiny, wet with spit. A thin smear of saliva trails down his chin, glinting in the light.
Not a bad sight, considering Tsuna’s pretty sure he’s just endured one of the worst cases of blue balls in history. Mild stupefaction settles in as he replays the things that had been running through his head—what he’d do to Xanxus, what Xanxus might’ve let him do. Alas, neither of them looks remotely hard anymore. Guess shoving a ringed hand down someone’s airway and getting bitten in a decidedly unsexy way tends to kill the mood.
Such a waste.
From the other side of the door, Gokudera’s voice spikes in panic. “Is Xanxus in there?! Is he attacking you?! Tenth?! Say something!” The doorknob rattles as Tsuna’s right-hand man tries to force it open.
Springing to his feet, Tsuna's hands fumble as he grabs and shrugs into his coat. “N-no, Gokudera! It’s—it’s fine! Everything’s fine!” he calls out, voice catching on the lie. “Just—just give me a second!” He scrambles toward a nearby dresser, pulling open a drawer until he finds a handkerchief and hastily wraps it around his bleeding hand.
Meanwhile, Xanxus, far more gracefully, snatches his coat from the floor and swings it over his shoulders in one smooth motion. With his back to Tsuna, he straightens his clothes, quick and efficient, combing his fingers through his hair to set it in place. Tsuna catches the motion of his sleeve swiping across his mouth, wiping away the wetness.
“Xanxus,” Tsuna calls, stepping closer to make sure he’s heard over Gokudera’s shouting outside. He’s got a hundred things he wants to say, but his brain’s running like jelly.
Xanxus turns to face him, looking infuriatingly composed. The one sign of anything amiss is the faint flush on his bronze skin, likely to go unnoticed by anyone not paying close attention.
“Brat,” Xanxus replies, his voice still hoarse from coughing. The epithet doesn’t sound the least bit affectionate. “Pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll break every bone in your hand.”
Tsuna knows Xanxus means the fall. That doesn’t stop him from smirking, and saying, “Funny, you didn’t seem to mind when you were choking on my fingers earlier.”
Xanxus does that thing, the stare like he’s calculating whether the gratification of murder is worth the effort of washing gore out of his jacket. Then, rather than retaliating, rather than lunging, he... scoffs. “Tch. Don’t flatter yourself,” Xanxus mutters, adjusting his lapels.
Tsuna is aware he needs to act quickly since they don’t have much time, while also knowing he has to tread carefully. Things with Xanxus always feel like balancing atop a tower of cards. “What I mean is—sorry about that. I couldn’t get my fingers out of your mouth in time when we fell. Are you okay?”
“I’m not made of glass,” Xanxus grumbles.
What Tsuna could never put into words is that he’s always suspected Xanxus is far more fragile than he lets on.
Tsuna scrubs his uninjured hand through his hair, as if that’ll help untangle his thoughts. “About what happened before—I, um, I liked it.” Though his face flushes, he keeps looking straight at Xanxus. “I think I wasn’t the only one, was I? Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Xanxus narrows his eyes. “You sure talk a lot.”
“Not a no?” Tsuna offers his best attempt at a charming smile as he steps closer. “If you enjoyed it too, maybe we could have another go? Properly this time. Preferably not in the middle of a Vongola reception. And definitely somewhere with fewer chances of the furniture trying to kill us.” He shrugs, grin widening. “Like a bed, for instance. Just a thought.”
There’s a long, nerve-wracking, Gokudera-and-Squalo-screaming-filled pause where Xanxus stares, his face unreadable. At long last, he speaks, sounding bored, like he’s humoring the conversation. “Presumptuous runt.” Xanxus’s hand moves, and Tsuna flinches, expecting a fist, but Xanxus simply grabs Tsuna’s crooked tie knot and tugs it back into place. “Still scrawny. Still useless,” he mutters, long, calloused fingers pressing into the fabric a moment longer than necessary. Releasing the tie, he steps back slightly. “Don’t leave town. We’re not done.”
Tsuna is momentarily stunned by a gesture that, in Xanxus’s book, might as well be the equivalent of building the Taj Mahal. “I’ll be in Italy for a while,” he answers, then remembers to add, “You... have my number, I think? Not that you’ve ever used it.”
An unintelligible grumble leaves Xanxus as he turns on his heel and strides toward the door, not bothering to spare Tsuna a second glance. He twists the key in the lock and swings the door open, slamming it into the wall before it bounces back slightly.
On the other side, Gokudera flinches and stumbles back in startled confusion.
“What the—” Gokudera starts, only for Xanxus to move first, snatching the phone from his grasp. “Hey!” he protests, hands flying up.
Whatever Gokudera is saying is drowned out by Squalo’s shouting as Xanxus lifts the phone to his ear. “Shitty boss! What the fuck are you doing?! I told you to keep it together—”
“Fuck off.” The monotone delivery makes it all the more jarring as Xanxus proceeds to hurl the phone down to the floor. It smashes into the marble with a crack, ricochets off the ground, slams into the nearest wall, bounces to another, careening as shards of glass and plastic explode in all directions. When it clatters to a stop, the poor thing is an unrecognizable carcass of metal and circuits.
Gokudera gapes. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Haru gave me that phone, you—you goddamn brute—!”
Xanxus strides past the Storm Guardian, ignoring him completely, stops, and glances back at Tsuna. “I’m getting out of this shithole,” he says, by which Tsuna assumes he means the Vongola mansion. He smirks and walks off down the corridor. Behind him, Gokudera kneels by the broken phone, swearing while he tries to salvage what he can.
Unnecessarily dramatic, Tsuna thinks, shaking his head as he watches the scene play out from inside the room. A small, treacherous part of him feels a little pleased. Xanxus’s reaction confirms, at least to Tsuna, that he’d been more rattled by the, uh, interruption than he was willing to show. Either that, or he was still pissed over Gokudera’s comment from earlier (trust Xanxus to hold a grudge). Most likely, it was both.
Before Tsuna can dwell on it, Gokudera shoots up from the floor.
“Tenth!” His right-hand man bursts into the room, eyes wide with alarm. He scans the overturned couch before locking onto Tsuna’s face and the bloodied handkerchief wrapped around his ring finger.
“WHAT THE FUCK DID THAT BASTARD DO TO YOU?!” Gokudera’s hand flies to the dynamite at his belt, ready to blow up first and ask questions... never. “That piece of shit—I knew he’d pull something like this! We should’ve kicked him out years ago! Just say the word, Tenth, I’ll—”
“No, no, it’s not what you think!” Tsuna blurts out. “Hayato, Xanxus didn’t attack me! It was—ah, a heated argument, but we—we sorted it out. It’s fine. I promise.”
Gokudera’s eyes dart between Tsuna, the couch, and the blood, brows furrowing like the pieces refuse to fit. “An agreement?” he echoes, incredulous. “Tenth, are you serious? And more importantly—your hand! We need to take care of that! That son of a bitch—did he try to cut off your finger for the ring, or—wait.” His focus halts, caught on Tsuna’s mouth, sharpening. “Tenth, is that a cut? You’re... you’re bleeding. From your lip.”
Bleeding from the li—oh. Tsuna lifts his hand to his mouth, pressing one fingers against the bottom lip. When he pulls back, there is bright red staining his skin. A lovely souvenir from Xanxus’s teeth, which he conveniently neglected to mention while fixing Tsuna’s tie. On cue, Xanxus’s parting smirk creeps into his mind. That jerk.
Tsuna shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Xanxus, uh, accidentally bit me, that’s all. He tripped. Fell. Right onto my fingers. With his mouth open.” He forces a laugh, eyes darting anywhere but at Gokudera. “Just physics.” He coughs. “And then I was thinking, chewing on my lip too hard, and, uh, bit myself. Separate incident.”
Gokudera, bless his heart, gives Tsuna a look like he’s grown a second head. “Xanxus... accidentally bit your finger. And you bit yourself on the lip.”
“Uh... yeah.” Tsuna can’t blame his right-hand man for the awkward silence that follows. “Anyway, I’ll clean the hand, slap on a bandage, and it’ll be fine in no time.”
In the end, Gokudera seems to decide that maybe it’s best to let this one go. “If you say so... as long as you’re alright, Tenth.”
“I am,” Tsuna reassures, offering a small nod meant to close the conversation. “Thank you for worrying, Hayato. And please tell Haru I’m sorry about your phone—I’ll replace it with the latest model. Really, I feel awful about it.”
What Tsuna doesn’t say is that he’s fairly sure Xanxus had been trying to keep his temper in check, since it was just the phone that got smashed. Not Gokudera’s skull. Not Tsuna’s. Which is generous, considering Tsuna had told one of the most dangerous men alive, what was it again? Oh, right. That he had “massive daddy issues.” And, if Tsuna remembers correctly, called him a slut. Yeah, that happened.
Daddy, Xanxus, slut. Tsuna doesn’t need the reminder, doesn’t need the image of Xanxus’s wet hot mouth, the Sky Ring heavy on his tongue, the obscene way he’d sucked on it. He shuts it down fast.
Nope. Not going there.
“Let’s patch this up first.” His hand throbs—pain, good. Focus on that. “We’ll get back to the reception after. What’s the situation?”
As they walk, Tsuna glances down the hall where Xanxus disappeared, wondering, without urgency, when he’ll see him again. Weird man. But really, who’s Tsuna to judge? He’s got his own brand of weird, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s open a Pandora’s box between them, one that won’t be shut again so easily.
By his side, Gokudera rattles on with his usual fervor, completely missing the smile playing at Tsuna’s lips.
~ Epilogue ~
A few days later...
This isn’t right.
It’s been festering in the back of Xanxus’s head ever since Sawada said it, casual as anything, like he wasn’t dropping a goddamn bomb.
You have massive daddy issues.
And now it won’t fucking leave. It’s circling, picking at Xanxus, gnawing at the edges of his brain like a vulture waiting for something to die. Maybe something is dying—his goddamn peace of mind, for starters. Because what does that even mean? He’s pretty damn sure he’s wanted to kill his old man, not fuck him. That’s insane. He knows that. He’s sure of it, except, he’s also confused as hell. How are these things even related? Why had it felt good when Sawada said it? When he called himself his—fuck, no. No.
The drink in Xanxus's hand isn’t helping. Neither does the low hum of his office or the unread report in front of him. None of it helps. So, fine, fuck it. He’ll ask.
Whiskey swirls in his glass. Xanxus scowls at the intercom, delays for a beat, and presses the button.
“Squalo. Get in here.”
A couple of minutes later, the handle rattles and Squalo steps in briskly. The dark circles under his eyes suggest someone who barely made it off the plane before being thrown straight into micro-managing a hundred Varia crises. “What now, shitty boss?”
Xanxus says nothing at first. He looks at his glass, then at Squalo, then back at his glass. He could let this go. This is stupid. A waste of time.
“... Do I have daddy issues?”
Squalo freezes mid-step. His expression stays deadpan, but his attention shifts to the walls, the ceiling, the corners, scanning for something.
Raising an eyebrow, Xanxus asks, “The hell are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to figure out if I’m on Candid Camera,” Squalo retorts, glancing around like he expects a hidden TV crew to pop out. “Because there’s no way you actually just asked me that.” He looks back at Xanxus, waiting.
“I'm fucking serious.” Xanxus’s grip intensifies around his glass.
“Alright,” Squalo walks over and sits down across from Xanxus. “What brought this on?”
Leaning back in his chair, Xanxus crosses his arms. “Sawada said I’ve got ‘massive daddy issues.’”
Squalo’s mouth twitches. A sound wheezes out of him, some mix of a pfff and a strangled cough.
Xanxus’s scowl deepens. “What.”
Slapping a hand over his mouth, Squalo’s shoulders shake with the effort to suppress his laugh.
“You scum—what’s so funny?!”
Inhaling sharply, Squalo pulls himself together and clears his throat. “Nothing, boss. Just—” He falters, like he just lost his train of thought. “In what context did Sawada tell you that? This about the reception? Gokudera said you two were talking for a while.”
Context?
The memory of Sawada ravaging him, the Sky Ring in his mouth, Sawada’s fingers tangled in his hair, kissing, grinding, heat, Sawada telling him to be good for him, calling him slut and pretty boy—it all floods Xanxus’s brain at once.
Xanxus doesn’t want to think about this with an audience.
“Not your fucking business,” Xanxus deflects, and really, that’s him being civil.
Squalo scoffs, flicking a hand like he’s swatting away a fly. “Voooiii, fine, don’t get your panties in a twist—” He pauses, adjusts. He doesn’t push. “But, uh—Xanxus. You did try to kill your old man in an elaborate coup, so, y’know...”
Xanxus glares. “That’s not an answer.”
A sigh. Squalo drags a hand over his temple. “Look, you’ve got... issues with your dad. Let’s put it that way.”
“Shitty shark,” Xanxus grits his teeth, feeling his patience shrivel up and die. “Just answer the damn question—do I have daddy issues or not? And—”
Squalo is already getting up. “And I’m not your therapist,” he says, moving toward the door too fast to be casual.
“Sit the fuck back down,” Xanxus orders.
“Can’t! Super busy! Gotta—uh—train with Takeshi! Very important!”
“That brat’s in Japan.”
Squalo kicks open the door anyway. “Yep.”
After all these years, Xanxus has to admit his second-in-command has perfected the timing of his exits: the door slams shut a fraction before the glass shatters against it.
Outside the door, Squalo lets himself laugh, full-body and doubled-over, cackling.
Daddy issues. Fucking Sawada.