A/N: There's an author, somewhere on ffnet, who writes/wrote several AU Reborn! fics that had the air of dark/twisted fairy tales. I remember reading those fics and thinking, 'wow'. Thinking about those fics, I came up with this story, a long time ago.
This was an original story at first, but I thought this worked way better as a fanfic, and I'm more pleased with it now.
I'm also afraid I might've stolen a line or two of the fic from another author, but I really can't remember who they were. If I had my bookmarks, I could probably give proper credit (but I'm on my old, spare laptop atm, with zero bookmarks).

Anyway, enough with the long-winded note. Enjoy the fic. I'll be glad for any sort of feedback. (And just as a last sidenote, I hate ffnet's formatting.)

EDIT: OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY. /hides in shame. I pretty much stole the title from elsewhere too and I tried to change it to something else and then ended up leaving it because it was way more fitting. /dies.

The Awesomely Epic Chronicles of a Revolution

Dark skies thunder open and lighting splinters the world. The air's scented with the smell of washed forest paths and ozone.

Pain blisters through him and he's bleeding into his eyes. There's a knife still piercing his side, and the gash on his forehead simply won't stop running his vision red. Maybe he's already lost too much blood to make it out alive but he'll be damned if he lets something like that get in his way.

He takes a step back and two forward, almost a dance as he drives his own sword against his opponent's. Metal heats up with each clash despite the pouring rain, and yet he doesn't think the location is a poor choice. It's just as well that he'd win here, in the middle of nowhere, with trees surrounding him and his enemy on all sides. In the middle of nowhere, there's nowhere to run, an option he's sure the other side has considered.

It's just a pity there's no-one around to witness his victory though, he thinks, pushing his sword through the other's leg and hearing tissue rip. He tears his sword out and there's a scream of pain. He gives his opponent a little time to recover while he shifts his stance, knees bending and hands pulling higher by reflex. His grip on the hilt of the sword never falters, even as it draws a loose arc through the air before being thrust into the chest of the other swordsman.

With dead weight at its other end, the sword suddenly feels a word heavier but his grip on the hilt never falters. As he hears the harshly-whispered last words, he thinks 'well, nearly dead, anyway'.

He glares down at the fallen man and spits to the side, as much a gesture of disrespect for the dead as an attempt to rid himself of the horrible taste of his own blood.

The sky breaks overhead and the downpour continues relentlessly as he throws his head back and releases a roaring laughter that rivals thunderclap – a shameless, prideful howl, he knows – and it's obvious he's never felt better.

"I thought I made it clear."

He grins, and the expression of his mouth is vicious enough to sound as sharp as a bite in the thick darkness of the forest.

"I am the revolution."

It's a line he ends up using often – as it turns out, a lot of people want to know why he's doing this or that. They want to know why he's fighting them, or killing them, or taking their horse. But for having asked the questions themselves, people can have surprisingly selective hearing, so he always seems to have to repeat himself more than once.

"I am the revolution."

He says that at the beginning of each battle. It's become the way he announces himself because he wants to be taken as such – and taken seriously, of course – and representing himself through those words seems the most obvious way to go about it.

"I am the revolution."

Predictably enough, he has to say it as he finishes the poor bastards off as well, because they always ask a teary, bloody 'why'. He's more than happy to oblige at first, but after the first hundred or so warriors he's taken down, it's becoming tiring.

Halfway down this path of murder and destruction he's chosen, he realises his own slogan, his most beloved catchphrase, is becoming an absolute horror.

So he becomes creative.

"Because I said so."

"Because that's how I like it, shithead."

"Because you're a fucking loser."

"Because I'm better than you in every way, asshole. Not to mention, prettier."

He growls out challenge after challenge and grinds out insult after insult, at the same rate he dishes out painful deaths.

After a while, even that becomes a bit of a bore. So while he's in a slump for a month or so, trying to decide what his next move will be, he's also trying to figure out if he should say more, or less, the next time he maims someone. Maybe he should try striking out some sort of crazy pose?; but no, that's something only that irritating Sword King does, and that's not something he wants to do.

Strangely enough, the next time he does maim someone and they ask why he's being so cruel, there's a spark deep in his chest and it sets his whole body beautifully aflame. He glares down at the poor bastard, smashes his front teeth in with a heavily-booted foot; and with a smirk that kills,

"Because I'm the motherfucking revolution."

One thing, he's discovered, is certain: he fucking likes swearing.

He stands at the top of the mountain and had conquering this peak really been his goal, this would've been the moment when he'd turn around and double back to whatever place he calls 'home'. However, he has no home; and he most certainly has no intention of turning back.

He lingers in the thin forest, leaning against a tall tree. From this height he can see the Ivory Citadel gleam a bright orange in the sunset. Clouds seem to gather and swirl in the skies over it, and he's immensely jealous for that spiral crown even the Gods seem to grant the Sword King. He's even more absurdly annoyed when he realises that since he's begun working against the King, he's been systematically circling the Citadel, zeroing in on it, like a…yep, just like a fucking spiral; and that fact, coupled with the swirly crown of clouds, only serves to piss him off so much more.

He's not naïve, or stupid: he knows every king is a king for a very good reason. It just so happens that the Sword King has climbed over a pile of corpses to get into his current position. No big deal, right? He's unafraid, and maybe a bit reckless, but he thinks, what the hell. He's got as good a chance at beating that fucking bastard as anybody, considering how motivated he is. And considering he's already mown down about a third of the knights that would've stood in his way, he thinks he's pretty damned good.

"Pretty fucking awesome actually, if I do say so myself."

He lets himself slide down against smooth white bark, and sighs. He doesn't allow himself to show any other second of weakness, and even that was too much, so he frowns and bares his teeth to make up for it. It's truly a shame there's no-one around he can scare or beat up – he's been climbing this mountain for far too long and while actual, physical ascent into the atmosphere may be good for his health, his skills haven't followed the steep curve upwards. He fears he may have gotten rusty, but he doesn't let himself feel uncertain of his talent, because talent is natural.

He's a natural, he thinks and smiles with a self-assuring huff then gets up as he hears a shuffling noise somewhere down the path ahead of him.

He begins his downward path along a mountain in the middle of the night. That same night, he conquers two more swords, and takes two more corpses for his pile.

And one day, the revolution will have that crown.

"Your time is up," a clear voice announces.

He knows he's fucked up, because he feels his blood boil over in his veins. He feels no guilt as he gasps through the curtains of rain and stirred darkness and his lungs fill with clouds of red dust. He can't feel his body anymore but he knows pain is there, lingering between his smashed shoulder and the bloodless gap through his stomach. The pain is there, definitely, infinitely there, barely waiting to crash into him. He idly wonders if this is payback for the swords he's conquered and the styles he's murdered, the lineages he's put an end to. After all this time he's spent dishing it out, karma is turning out to be a bitch.

It's there now, the pain, creeping into every shattered bone and torn muscle. There's imminent numbness as well, and he wonders if this is how everyone he's ever defeated have felt – because he feels like a total idiot.

His time's up, that asshole Knight tells him, as if he hasn't heard or felt his clock count down on his life for years now.

His fingers curl into fists and he growls in what could be his last gesture of defiance. He knows he should probably be ashamed of dying by the blast of his own sword through him and he's absolutely glad there's no-one else around to see this, but it's a fucking pain either way, so he can't help but throw in all his spite and arrogance into his last moments. Might as well.

"You will be reclaimed, soon enough. But in the mean time, the Citadel has decided you will be left here, at the place of your death."

He nods as if he feels anything but resentment and a sort of stinging shame towards dying there and being left there, to be seen by every passerby.

Forehead pressed to the ground and water burning its way down into him, he takes in the earthy scent that persists through the rain. When he turns his head, he can distinguish a horizon, even through the night. He grows light-headed and numb, and the world gains some great, dreamlike consistency. The shapes he can see through the dark are lined with silver.

His thoughts begin to still but instead of feeling even remotely relaxed or at peace, he feels nothing but immense irritation. Of all the things he's gone through, this is probably the worst – taking up so much of his time already.

He can't breathe anymore, can't focus anymore, so the hate becomes hazy and displaced as he closes his eyes.

The dust thickens, rises in his throat and settles there along with coppery blood.

Rot takes over his heart.

Heartbeat ceases.

The revolution is only beginning.

It's silent and cold.

It's still raining when he begins to stir.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

It's been raining all this time and all his bones but a finger have turned to mud. Flowers have grown into him, like a mantle down along where his back used to be.

It's still raining as he considers his predicament, thoughts still dulled by sleep. The one thing he notices above everything is that his sword is missing.

He knows it will be long until the rain stops.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

The earth trembles with thunder once but then continues to tremble with footsteps. He quietens as he's looked upon and looked over.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

He becomes a tall figure sitting on the mossy stump of a tree; he becomes a black cloak wrapped around a mysterious figure.

He becomes alluring. Strangers approach him with ease and as they step closer, they all become faceless to him. They become faceless as their numbers grow.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

"Three drops of your blood. That's all I ask for."

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

Birds come at him from the darkness and they gather around him as if he's their guardian. Their wings flap widely and impatiently when he ignores them, so he takes to accepting them on his shoulders.

Eventually, he becomes something else entirely: a mass of darkness while his body is rebuilt, three drops at a time. His masks are beautiful. He becomes beautiful, because he cheats. He becomes beautiful, because he lies.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

The rain never stops, and it makes him ache. He curls into himself, dark tendrils and spider-lilies and blood-flowers in bloom. The loss of his sword is a pain even his ethereal half-body feels, and the rain is a curse while he remains rooted to one place.

Beware the King, the maker of masks.

"What did you think you would gain?"

The dark bird on his back sinks its claws deeper into him as he hides his face from the dark-haired stranger who stops next to him.

"Three drops of your blood," he whispers. "That's all I ask for."

There's a 'clink' as the stranger's hand moves to grasp at the hilt of a sword for a moment and from that moment on, a trill of fear runs through him.

"What good will it do you?"

He's tired, but can't sleep. Can't rest, for the pitter-patter of water over him. He hasn't forgotten why or how he's died and he's still less than pleased with that occurrence. He fully intends to remind the Ivory Citadel and that King of it, regardless of how much time has passed since.

"Three drops of your blood is all I need."

"But is that the right thing to do?"

Underneath the billowing wind-swept, rain-washed cloak, he's nearly complete.

He twitches, and a spider-lily is crushed under an inattentive foot.

"It is the right solution," he says aloud, not knowing whether he refers to the blood tax he imposes on travellers or the bloody carnage that is sure to be borne of his hands. 'Tear it all apart,' he scowls into the rain.

The black birds are unsettled and their wings shift in unease as the dark-haired stranger pulls his sword out. He also twitches for a second time and thorns snag onto his cloak when he tries to move away for fear of receiving another fatal wound.

However, instead of moving into a stance that would be adequate to the killing of a blood-demanding roadside apparition, the stranger runs his free hand over the sword. There is not so much as a wince or a sigh when the sword draws blood, and said apparition breathes in deeply at the scent that infuses the damp air.

The bleeding hand is extended towards him and he looks into the stranger's face: what is expected of him? There's nothing but pride and arrogance in the other man's eyes, so he thinks 'this would be a good soul to capture'.

He doesn't ask why the dark-haired stranger is doing this, because it would be a waste of time. He can't do anything but lean forward when that hand is raised to the level of his face. He can't and won't let good blood go to waste, so he slowly licks at the palm and wound, feeling his body inch closer to completion under the cloak.

His heart begins to beat again, stronger and stronger with each second, drowning out every other sound as it syncs with the pulse he can taste on his tongue.

When both hand and cut are clean, he closes his eyes and sighs. Damp fingers slide along his jaw and he feels nothing but pleasure, now that all his senses have awakened. Those same fingers tilt his chin up and before he knows it, he's treated to a kiss. It's a burning kiss that leaves him weak all over again and when they part, words are whispered against his lips and they please him more than he can properly express.

His murder of crows takes flight all around them, all soft rustles and dark feathers and for a long moment, there is no rain.

"You're my revolution."

From that point on, they travel together like it's the most natural thing in the world, or like they've done this from the very beginning, when one of them was an aspiring swordsman and the other was…hmmm, come to think of it, he knows nothing about the stranger, so he makes it his business to know.

The first thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is that he's moody. Actually, after the first couple of days, he thinks 'moody' doesn't even begin to cover it. He's unpleasant, and quirky, and violent, and is liable to call him a worm (to say the least) whenever he damned pleases. The man's so violent, in fact, that he's already taken down five men whom he'd personally wanted to kill and claim for his own goals and purposes. Now, of course, he can only glare at the back of the stranger's head, hoping it would burst into flames and burn down the same way those five bodies have.

The second thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is that he really, really, really likes fire. He's the first to set fire to things when they need to set up camp – or at any other time, for that matter – but he never puts them out. He hates the fact that he, an accomplished swordsman and overall badass character, always has to put out more or less intentional fires here and there. Not to mention, every time he gets too close to the man while he's in one of his sulks, his hair gets singed. He's spent years growing the damned thing out, and that asshole keeps burning away at it with irritating carelessness.

The third thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is that he has a weird kink going on for his hair. Yes, even though he tries to set it on fire every so often. The petting and stroking and the pulling on it during sex is all fine and dandy; but then they settle down for sleep one night – which is an experience in and of itself – and when he wakes up there are feathers and beads in his hair, tangled along two long strands. Any attempt to get an explanation or apology out of the stranger gets him nothing.

The fourth thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is an offshoot of this situation: he knows he's pushed too far when he gets a look that clearly tells him to leave the stupid feathers where they are, or he might end up with more than the ends of his hair singed. He tests the waters for a while and yes, he gets the same look every time he's bothered the man beyond 'annoyed'. He starts numbering and naming the looks he gets.

The fifth thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is that when he's not irascible and unapproachable, he's horny. Lucky him, right? Of course, it always feels good…more or less; but that's not the issue. The issue is that it's so very tiring. How the hell is he, aforementioned badass character and awesome with a sword, supposed to even be able to lift the sword – his livelihood, for Heavens' sake – after being fucked every which way? Luckily enough, after particularly lively nights, the man takes it upon himself to make sure his lover's well-fed even while he gets yelled at and cursed out. Another thing he finds out this way is that the other's body has probably been in way too many fire-related accidents, if the burn scars are anything to judge by. He thinks that serves him right for playing with fire.

The sixth thing he learns about the dark-haired stranger is that his name's Zan. Or Zen. Something like that, anyway, but it doesn't matter, since he's sure that's not his real name: he's given it far too easily and far too emotionlessly, when he'd been entirely mute or even threatening about far lesser things. Example:

"Hey, where did you put my cape?"

Silence.

"Hey!, I said! Where the hell is my cape?"

Silence.

"HEY! I FUCKING NEED THAT CAPE! IT'S FREEZING COLD AT NIGHT, YOU ASSHOLE."

At that, Zan, or Zen, or whatever, turns to him and with patented look number ten (this one means 'I'll say this once and I expect no reply') says:

"Burned it last night."

To his defence, it's hard for him to calm down once he's fired up

('Oh har har, fired up, see what I fucking did there?'),

so he really makes a stupid mistake right there, and asks a question.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR?"

It's only when Zan (he has to decide on one name to call him by) grabs him by the arm that he realises how close he is to spontaneous combustion. Zan' hand is hot, fucking burning through his clothes, right into his damned skin.

Sure, he makes up for it later, when he does that thing with his tongue with patented expression number twenty-five on his face ('Gotcha.'), but right there and then Zan stares right into his eyes, piercing right down to the bottom of his fucking soul and- oh sweet God I'm melting.

"You didn't gather up enough firewood."

And boy, does he wish that would've been the end of that, but that leads into other things happening – things he'd rather completely forget about. On the other hand, Zan is anything but forgetful. Because (and maybe this should be the seventh thing he learns about the dark-haired not-so-much-a-stranger) Zan doesn't forget that he's missing his cape and that he's really, far too cold at night.

Zan doesn't forget, so he ends up with new clothes. They're partly stolen and partly (this is where his sanity decides to curl up and die) sewn by Zan himself. Yeah. Exactly. Hand-sewn.

It takes him a while to realise that he doesn't know how good Zan is with a needle – what if he's left needles in the clothes? – and it takes him even longer to realise he's never actually seen Zan work on the clothes. He just believes him when he says he made them, because it's far easier to believe than other things the man has told him in the past, so he just puts the clothes on.

He's suspicious at first, because he doesn't think he needs to be wearing that much amount of leather. It takes less than five minutes for him to realise that they're comfortable, and warm, and quite the tight fit.

They turn out to be much easier to wear in battle since the soft leather doesn't chafe, not to mention they make him look so damned good.

It takes a week or so for him to find out that Zan didn't think that way. It takes him right about that same amount of time to finally realise that whatever he thinks he knows about the dark-haired man (he drops the 'stranger' when he thinks about Zan nowadays, because he can't be a stranger when they're so intimately acquainted) is nothing, simply because whenever he thinks he has Zan pinned down to a set of rules, the man just goes and fucking breaks the rules.

Either way, he ends up sort of thanking him for the clothes, one evening, briefly mentioning how much more comfortable fighting has gotten. Zan's prompt response is to get him out of said amazing clothes, lift his legs to wrap around his waist, and grope at his ass.

"It's this,"–another squeeze–"that they're so tight for," and a smirk.

Well. That's just so typical.

And that's how the revolution ends up stalling for the night.

They fight, one night, and it's not like their usual arguments. The usual arguments go like this: he shouts at Zan over some stupid matter (or not so stupid, depending on what's been set on fire); Zan glares at him and calls him some name or other. Whenever he senses they're about to fight, he makes sure they camp near a water source, because he knows he'll need to put fires out; and sometimes, there's the threat of important extremity amputation. The next morning though, they carry on like nothing's happened.

This time around, he's saying he's done stalling, and he's the one that's being relatively calm about things, while Zan is voicing his displeasure loudly and dangerously. It would be a bit scary, if he wouldn't be fucking pissed off at how much Zan thinks he can rule his life, just because he saved him once and called him his, or whatever.

Finally, when he's had enough, he packs his shit up and leaves. He's got better things to do. He can't wait any longer, he's sick of waiting and if Zan thinks he knows better, let him do whatever the fuck he wants.

He's tired of circling around the Citadel, so he moves closer to it, breathing in deeply as it grows in front of his eyes. The revolution's going faster and faster now and if he had to guess, he'd say he's spinning out of control. He knows it, and isn't afraid of it. His momentum grows so he crashes through five or so swordsmen on his way to meeting the King, adopting their styles into his own, picking up their moves and dirty tricks. He also picks up a few swords from a knight that somehow uses six of them to attack at the same time. He spends about a month or so on the outskirts of a small country town, doing nothing but practicing from dawn to dusk even though he knows he's mastered the style even as the fight had gone on.

All the while, Zan doesn't show his face.

The rainy season begins again.

The revolution loses its axis and its spins become lop-sided.

It twists in on itself, but it keeps growing until its shadow darkens the gate of the Ivory Citadel with rumours and fears.

When he fights the Sword King himself, he's a monster wave of blades that has built up over a long distance and period of time. He's a march of swords straight out of Hell and he's aiming for the King's heart.

He quickly loses track of time and injuries ('Pah! To a man, these are only nicks and scratches!' he says about the shoulder he used to smartly block a sword aiming for his face). It feels as though they've been fighting for a whole day when one of them actually says something.

"Why are you doing this?" he's being asked, and has no reply but the next clash of swords.

He leaps back but sends the other five swords out to meet any attack that may come his way. He straightens out and there's no trace of arrogance when he speaks.

"Because I can."

He wants to say a lot more ('I want my sword back!'), but that's enough for now.

"You're actually pretty good," he hears as he parries an attack he almost didn't see coming. "Did my stupid son put you up to this?"

He burns with pleasure at having the King recognize his skills but he's also annoyed by the fact that the old man just won't quit talking.

"I don't know your fucking son."

A few seconds later he becomes even more pissed off, because the King isn't even breathless, dammit, and how's he supposed to win against someone who apparently only needs an arm to beat him up.

His eyes narrow. That's it. He's dumb for taking so long to realise this. The Sword King is missing an arm below the elbow, and it's tipped his whole balance over, affected his style and changed it for the better. That's it, he thinks.

The King doesn't think much of it when he moves towards the back of the large throne room they've been using as sparring grounds and presses his left arm against the wall. He grits his teeth and with a lot more strength than is necessary to rip through what is now useless, extra tissue to him, he cuts his own damned arm off. After all, he's already been assimilating the King's style but his adaptation is faulty if he has two arms.

He rips a piece out of his undershirt and ties it around the bleeding stump. He's only a bit lightheaded now, so he has to make this quick. Luckily enough for him, the King seems to be stunned by this move and if that's concern he sees in his eyes…well then, those eyes are the first things that will have to go.

So after he makes sure he's defended on all sides, he charges straight into the opening the King has left thanks to his momentary astonishment. Lifting his unfamiliar sword is harder with one hand, but he's already factored this change into his style. He runs the King through, somewhere to the side of his stomach, then leaves that sword there and after unsheathing another sword from the five he has strapped to his back, also puts that one through a leg and abandons it. He doesn't need to be weighed down by cheap swords anymore.

Before he can pull away to survey the damage, a hand grabs at where his left arm used to be, gripping tightly. His tear ducts seem to break at the sting he feels, he rationalises, because there's no way he'd ever show any pain in front of an enemy. But the pain exists and then it becomes even stronger as the hand around the stump heats up until it feels like his entire left side is on fire. The feeling's painfully familiar, or maybe that's just the pain he feels. When he's shoved to the ground, the first thing he does is wipe the embarrassing tears off his face; after that he inspects the wound, only to find that the flesh and skin have been closed over it. Oh, that fucker, he'd…

"You've fucking cauterized my fucking stump!" he spits out.

The King meticulously pulls out the swords that were so graciously given to him through parts of his body that would bleed out in a matter of time, and smiles kindly.

"You're the one who wanted to fight on equal ground, right?"

He gets up and feels a bit steadier on his feet even though his ears are filled with his own rushing heartbeat and a rumble he can't quite place. Either way, he doesn't need to push himself to continue. He quickly gets better at handling the sword with only one hand even though his turnarounds are slower, the arcs of his sword larger. What he really wants right about now is for the fight to be over so he can go to sleep. He aims for main arteries and important organs and the King seems to be able to block only half his blows. Good for him, he smirks.

As it turns out, the rumble he's hearing is caused by the guards outside, who now crash backwards through the doors of the throne room and lie about uselessly as a greater force dominates them. Distractingly pretty (oh, like he'd like to hear that one) even under blood splatter, in comes Zan, sword dripping onto an already red carpet, followed by what seems to be his own troop of knights.

The King calls out.

"Xanxus! What do you think you're doing?"

So his name's Xanxus. He finally knows.

"I've come to collect my toy, Father."

His eye twitches at both the nickname he gets and the title he addresses to the King. Father?

"I'll show you 'toy,'" he growls and turns around, ready to end this.

"Too slow," the King tells him, right before a sword pierces through his heart.

That fucking does it. He's never been so pissed off in his life. He's already figured he might die in the fight with the Sword King, but he didn't think it would be this fucking stupid. He has half a mind to thank Xanxus for his 'help', but not while the fight hasn't been lost yet and he's still got some life left in him.

He roars as he lifts his sword up as high as he can and brings it around in a semi-circle that cleanly lops the Sword King's head off his shoulders.

Suddenly, the both of them are dead weight – well, the King more than him – so he pushes the King away before collapsing to his knees.

He coughs up some blood and thinks aloud,

"Fuck, this is unpleasant."

That's when he finally allows himself to cry. But only a bit, of course, and hidden by the sleeve of his good arm. He's only crying because of all the victories he's ever taken, this has to be the fucking stupidest one.

When Xanxus comes to kneel next to him, he stays stubbornly silent. It suddenly seems like Xanxus hadn't just 'accidentally' found him there, by the side of that road, and that he hadn't been saved out of the goodness of the bastard's heart. All along, with no coincidence to it, this had been the plan – the mighty swordsman fights and defeats the current Sword King, who reigns over everything. If he won and lived, he'd be the next Sword King. If he won and died (which he thinks he's successfully doing), Xanxus would probably take over the empty position. What an asshole.

"What the fuck have you done to yourself?"

He glares at Xanxus, but he doesn't feel very threatening.

"How're you going to fight with only one arm? You're going to be of no use to me."

"Shut up." He coughs again then smirks. "I'll figure something out," he mumbles, as the world gets dimmer.

"You're just dumber than I thought, aren't you?" Xanxus asks, with something that sounds a lot like a frustrated sigh. "Even though you're technically the Sword King now, I should probably just leave your worthless ass to die."

With his good arm, he grasps at Xanxus' shoulder.

"Don't you dare, you bastard."

There's laughter, and surprising gentleness in the way he's being handled. Warm hands are carding through his hair and he thinks that from all the ways he could have possibly died, this…well, this isn't too bad. Sure, he's struggling to breathe as fluid invades his lungs, but it could've been worse. He could've lost.

However, this is taking up way too much of his time.

"Hey, can you do me a favour?"

There's an amused huff and he knows Xanxus understands what he wants him to do. He steals one last kiss and makes no sound when the sword twists in his chest, effectively ending his life. Again.

"You owe me one, Squalo."

The revolution is brought to a halt.

His phone begins vibrating in his jacket then starts its despairingly loud ringing. He heaves the most annoyed sigh in his arsenal as keys jingle in one metallic hand and he pulls the cell phone out with the other.

He doesn't bother to check the caller ID before flipping it open.

"What the fuck do you want now, Xanxus? I'm at the fucking front door. Seriously, do you have to call every five minutes?"

There's some growling at the other end of the line, which he takes as Xanxus being pleased at the news before he hangs up.

Squalo sighs again as he pushes the door open then locks it behind him; but this time, it's more out of tired amusement than anything else.

He shoves the phone in the back pocket of his pants as he walks through the apartment, then unceremoniously dumps his jacket, keys and bag on the couch, contemplating falling over and going to sleep right there. When he hears the sound of water starting to run, he perks up and also begins to whistle while unbuttoning his shirt. By the time he reaches the bathroom, his belt and pants are also undone. Xanxus will probably appreciate his readiness…he hopes.

He coughs a bit at the steam that escapes when he opens the bathroom door then grins when he sees Xanxus already leaning back in the bath tub, watching him. He walks in, closes the door (wouldn't want the princess to catch an unfortunate cold from a draft), and goes to kneel by the bathtub.

"Missed me?" he tries, with a winning smile.

That same smile usually makes all the ladies go weak in the knees. The fucker only "hmmm"s in reply, lifts a wet hand to bury it into Squalo's hair and uses that to pull him close enough to kiss.

Victory in our times. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then?"

Xanxus doesn't agree or disagree, but he's considerably less tense than what he sounded like on the phone.

"What took you so long?"

Squalo counts events off on his fingers. "I beat the crap out of the challenger in Egypt but as usual, there always seem to be twenty more people willing to get their asses kicked by me. It's like a fan club."

"After that…hmm, the Adil hired me out for a couple of months. Then it was time for our yearly 'party time without Xanxus.' We partied pretty hard, it was great."

Xanxus splashes water into his face at that. Asshole.

Squalo calmly wipes the scalding water off with the first towel his hand can reach. "It's good to see you're in such a great mood. What happened?"

"You were gone for a fucking year and a half."

Squalo decides to try his luck. "Distance makes the heart grow fonder, darling," he coos, batting his eyelashes.

That earns him another faceful of water and a punch to the shoulder that's sure to leave a bruise. He does manage, however, to grab at the offending arm before it makes a full retreat, and pull Xanxus half out of the tub. Instead of beating some sense into Squalo, the other's lips curve into a wolfish smirk and he pushes himself entirely out of the tub with his remaining free arm.

Squalo ends up with an armful of soaking, burning Xanxus and he's not sure if he wants to complain. It's been a while since he's seen or held something as hot (literally and figuratively hot), so he frees his metal arm from under both their weights and drags a cold finger along Xanxus' spine, feeling devious as the man shivers. A second later, Xanxus's fist pretty much rips through his sopping shirt on his quest to kiss and bite the life out of Squalo, with no complaints from his victim.

That's when his phone takes the opportunity to make its presence known once more. Xanxus rolls his hips against Squalo's and growls warningly. Through the heated haze, Squalo can almost hear the threat but he still pulls the offending item out from his pants. He flips it open and manages to put it to his ear before Xanxus forcefully takes it away and one-handedly crushes it with a look of absurd joy on his face before throwing it over his shoulder, straight into the bathtub.

Squalo's sexy times resume shortly and he's glad he's managed to stare death into the eye again, defy it, and walk away unscathed. As his upper lip gets bitten right through and he can taste blood again, he thinks 'well, almost unscathed.'

And it should be smooth sailing from here on out.

Or so he thinks.

"Fuck no! Go fuck yourself, asshole!"

The revolution continues its lazy days.

FIN.