Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

AN: Sooo... Look what I found buried somewhere in my 'Light up the Sky' AU plunnies file today? Man, I'd forgotten all about it, too. Good thing I decided to go exploring the files of doom while suffering the boat trip from hell. I don't do boats, period. Why are planes so damn expensive? T.T Anyway, this is a little drabble-ish one-shot with Sasuke-as-Xanxus 'cause I love that idea. Some stuff remain the same as in 'Light up the Sky', i.e. Naruto founding Konoha and breaking the Arco curse, some are different, i.e. Xanxus never got frozen and Federico never died. Have fun reading! Onward! XD

P.S. The title (and the fic) is inspired by Paolo Nutini's "Iron Sky".

Sasuke doesn't recall his past life until he's nine going on ninety and burning, burning, burning.

He's been cornered in the narrow alley behind the brothel his mother works at, four scruffy lowlifes looming over him, and he fucking hates it—hates this shitty life, hates their sneering looks, their mocking taunts, how they spit whore and bastard and vileness in his face. Rage swells inside his veins, rush after rush of hot blood and adrenaline. Someone is laughing, laughing, laughing… He doesn't realize it's him until there's no more blood-beat, only hands of fire and redredred—

He burns all over, inside out. This, he remembers, is the curse of our bloodline. Eyes red as blood, red as molten steel. What is born in fire will feed on it…not die of it. And so he lives once more.

Why me? His head is too full of names in a language he's forgotten how to speak. They still fall from his lips, one by one. Each syllable carves a little piece of him out and throws it into the crackling flames. Why not you?

The world burns to ashes, and Sasuke laughs.

(It's bitter on his tongue, tastes like madness; feels like blindness, like eating his own heart.)

His mother cups his face with trembling hands once she sees the blood-orange of his flames. She presses a dry kiss against the ridged skin between his brows, tries to chase his scowl away with delirious promises of a father who'll want him once she tells him this.

She's not my mother, Sasuke tells himself after she leaves him behind, then stares at the man who believes her desperate claims.

Timoteo di Vongola looks nothing alike him. Kindness mellows the curve of his mouth when he smiles, and his chakra is a soft simmer, his eyes a warm butterscotch, all foreign elements, an exact antithesis. Sasuke's all sharp eyes and hard smirks, chakra seething hot and deep in his gut. They both know she lies, even if she doesn't; they both accept it for the same reason. Power holds the same value in every world he's lived.

He won't be my father, he decides, taking the gloved hand Timoteo freely offers him. The leather is cool and smooth against his palm, but it still can't imitate the texture of Timoteo's flesh. No skin-on-skin contact. Sasuke understands him a little better then.

I will take you into my family, but you must remember not to ask for what is not yours by fire and blood. What a fine metaphor, that is.

For the first time since he recalled his past life, Sasuke is grateful to be the one who bears their curse. Itachi would have killed and bled and sacrificed for this man. He'd have died a martyr's death twice over.

Life as Vongola's youngest scion isn't much different than life as Konoha's oldest Uchiha. Many eyes on him, many whispers and veiled scrutiny. A plethora of expectations; an explosion of curiosity follows his strides as he walks the hallways and takes everything in. Timoteo's entrusted his education to private tutors, his care to personal maids, and only interacts with him when they sit at the dinner table.

Family dinners, Sasuke quickly learns, are a poor euphemism for 'let's try not to kill each other while we eat, please and thank you'. Enrico takes every opportunity to be an ass to Sasuke or tap a maid's ass; sometimes, both at the same time. Massimo spends two quarters quoting various dead philosophers, one quarter building his resistance to poison, and one quarter catching up on his paperwork. Iemitsu has two dinner settings—laughing obnoxiously at his own jokes, mostly at Sasuke's expense, while getting piss drunk, or extolling the virtues of his pregnant wife, the lovely, ignorant, civilian Nana, while coming up with baby names, each one more ludicrous than the last. Timoteo sips at his wine and kindly pretends his children aren't professional killers with a minor degree in Talking Bullshit.

Maybe that's why, when Federico blindsides him and tries to welcome him with an honest-to-god hug, Sasuke reacts on instinct and stabs him with his salad fork.

Unlike any other sane person in his position, Federico finds his new baby brother adorably murderous and redoubles his efforts on the spot.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

After six months of countless, extravagant parties and being displayed like an exotic pet at the local zoo, Sasuke comes to loathe Sky Attraction. Timoteo, ever the consummate politician, points out which famiglia's prospective Guardians will benefit Vongola, subtly nudging him in their direction. Sasuke grunts something noncommittal, observing from the shadows, until Timoteo sighs and directs his disappointment and heavy, palpable disapproval towards Enrico's taste for vapid gold diggers.

Things, more or less, continue in this manner, until Federico becomes fed up with Sasuke's well-honed avoidance tactics and tries to meddle.

"Aw, you're adorable," Federico coos as he's threading feathers in Sasuke's hair, exploiting his fondness for hawks in yet another futile attempt to tame the bird's nest that followed Sasuke into this life.

Sasuke's never much cared—it's just hair, what's the big deal, anyway?—but lets him fuss because it makes Federico happy, makes his smile shine brilliantly across his face, pure and bright as the Dog Star.

(Once, Mikoto used to treat him like a baby chick; Itachi's smiles didn't used to be so rarely seen or so damned heartbreaking; Naruto used to make up for them with his distilled-sunshine smiles; Sakura used to nuzzle his neck and quietly hum when a film of Sharingan-perfect images, chock-full of blood and still-fresh grief, flashed beneath his eyelids; Sarada…some days, thinking of his daughter used to be the only thing that kept him going in the wilderness. Gods, but he's tired of pretending he doesn't miss them.)

"You're annoying," he says, with no real heat and a sort of stoic fondness, and it sounds familiar.

"You can't avoid them forever. Just give up, Xan." A small, round mirror is thrust in front of Sasuke's face—Federico's eyes stare out of the glass, burnished black like sizzling coals, like Sasuke's irises before death sank its claws into his soul and branded him with Sharingan-cursed red. "Trust me, it'll be better in the long run. A Sky without Guardians is a sad thing, mio caro fratellino."

Federico beams with pride, as if Sasuke's averted some sort of terrible disaster like civil war, when he does finally give up and start scouting people. He's considerably less proud when, in an all-or-nothing gambit to chase away Timoteo's merry band of sycophants, Sasuke adopts Naruto's penchant for effortless, casual swearing, his wife's violence-is-the-answer life philosophy, and their mentors' appalling drinking habits.

In hindsight, this charming combination works a bit too well.

It's late summer, one of Sasuke's least favorite seasons, which means little aside from the fact Timoteo's moved the parties outdoors. Sasuke's stretched out across a bench in the garden, away from the mingling clusters of gossip mongers, exuding belligerence and leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes, until—

"Voi! You—with the feathers and shit!"

Lazily, Sasuke cracks one eye open, staring up at the too-loud intruder with knitted brows and indifference; the whole of his expression screams unamused, something the boy seems to revel in, if the way his grin widens is any indication. He's all Suigetsu on the surface, from the swordsman's lithe poise to the color of his hair to the shark-like edge in his grin, but there are still pieces missing, little quirks this boy lacks that highlight the differences, that slide deep and sharp against the flesh of his neck.

"Shut the fuck up, trash," he rumbles, throat tight. When the boy's mouth parts in undisguised glee, Sasuke jolts upright, his face a thundercloud of clashing emotions, then walks away without sparing a backward glance for the yelling boy.

It doesn't end there, of course.

Enrico dies in a gunfight. One day he's there, hurling verbal abuse at Sasuke, with one palm pawing at some forgettable, giggling maid, then the next day he's gone, only solemn frowns and silence at the dinner table. Of them all, not surprisingly, it affects Timoteo the hardest. Sasuke endures the old man's furtive glances with forbearance, whenever he turns his sad, weary eyes on him as accusations are flung about indiscriminately.

He's never hidden his dislike for Enrico; he's not about to start now because the man's dead. Timoteo can make of that what he will.

Suigetsu's double seeks him out at another insipid party, more persistent than ever and twice as loud. Sasuke still doesn't know his name, but the boy's apparently done his research.

"Voi! Xanxus!"

Eyes squeezed shut, Sasuke throws his head back and empties his glass. The whiskey burns as it glides down his throat, simmers in a mass low in his stomach.

(It's not enough; Sasuke still can't look at him.)

"The fuck do you want, scum?" he grits out, rubbing the thin skin of his eyelids, after it becomes evident there's no avoiding whatever new hell this is.

"Your brother said you're considering Guardians."

"Tell him to mind his own fucking business."

Timoteo returns from his visit to Iemitsu's family wearing the face of a man who's committed an unforgivable atrocity, all aged lines and regret steeped into his bones. Iemitsu's notable absence from the dinner table screams with implications and blame; so does his stubborn refusal to crack a single uninspired joke whenever there are official, mandatory meetings.

Nobody tells Sasuke what exactly happened, but he can easily guess. Iemitsu may be descended from the main line, but he's still considered branch family until Timoteo's all out of sons.

(He had once been the leftover heir, the convenient backup.)

Suigetsu's double finds him again; this time, not at a Vongola party.

Sasuke's barely settled in his role as the Varia Boss, having spent the first month knee-deep in weeding out spies and reviewing past paperwork and conducting personal evaluations of the current staff, when the boy bursts through the door of his new office.

"Voi! I heard the Varia's now yours," he bellows, apropos of nothing.

Slowly, Sasuke puts the report on the Volkov Bratva down, leans back in his leather chair; he raises his head, red eyes intent, coldly assessing, and looks at him.

(He still doesn't know his name. Federico will laugh himself to tears when Sasuke asks.)

"You want to be Varia, scum?" The question is barely out before the boy's dipping his chin, parting his damned, loud mouth. Sasuke cuts him off with a glare. "Show me some quality, then we'll talk."

Massimo drowns in the Adriatic sea. Silence suffuses the atmosphere and awareness suffuses the silence. Timoteo's eyes never stray from the man who delivers the news, knuckles white and clenched around his wine glass, frozen in denial. It's none other than Massimo's Storm Guardian, pain written on his face, contrition and shame. Sasuke is half-reading the man's body language, half-feeling the silence. When Iemitsu clears his throat and makes some trite remark about sabotage and CEDEF investigations, Timoteo lets out a low, mournful noise; keening. Sasuke refills his wine glass and says nothing.

Once is happenstance; twice is coincidence; thrice is enemy action. Or so the saying goes in this world. Shinobi don't believe in coincidence.

His gaze bores into Federico's, tracing the flecks of rust in his iris, the imperfect ring of his pupil. Federico smiles, but it's a brittle thing, ripped at the edges, nothing like his usual smiles.

(Federico loves his family; deeply, unconditionally.)

It incites him to brutally murder whoever brought that smile to Federico's lips. There's a rage in him, Sasuke knows. He breathes it in, breathes it out, lives with it—a firestorm reigniting nerves burnt out and sizzling down their endings.

The morning after Massimo's funeral, Sasuke storms into his office and starts hunting down clues and suspects.

(He failed a brother once. Vengeance is an old mistress of his.)

Two months later, Squalo barges into his office with a new title and one less hand. Sasuke's glad he learned his name, despite Federico's endless teasing, because after this moronic stunt, it would be an insult to Suigetsu's memory if he kept calling the boy his double.

"How the fuck does this—" He gestures, severely unimpressed, towards the maimed ruin of Squalo's wrist. "—translate as quality in your brain, trash? If anything, I'd call it fucking incompetence."

(Sasuke had lost half an arm once; he knows better than anyone how it feels to be missing a part of yourself every single day.)

"Voi! I won fair and square!" Squalo fires back, chin held high, pride ringing through his voice, wrapped around each notch of his spine.

That mulish scowl tells Sasuke he'll have his hands full with this one. Federico will be happy, at least.

Sasuke fixes him with a flat stare, slowly asks, "You chopped your dominant hand off because you wanted to even the odds against Tyr?"

A small nod. "Yeah," he says, and it sounds less like a statement, more like a question, as if he isn't sure why that is relevant or how it will affect his application.

Inwardly, Sasuke feels an iota of vindictive joy when he tells him how. "Can you fucking regenerate, scum?"

"Uh…" The look of sheer astonishment on Squalo's face almost makes this headache of a conversation worth it. "…no?"

"Come find me when you can."

"What."

(Suigetsu would have loved messing with this kid.)

"That was cruel, Xan," Federico chides, perched on Sasuke's desk and holding his paperwork hostage, but his eyes are laughing. "What if he never comes back?"

Sasuke scoffs as he kicks him off none too gently. "I'm not that lucky, Fede."

He really—really—isn't.

(In fact, Sasuke is the dictionary definition of unlucky.)

Squalo returns with a hand made of real illusions, a ten-year-old kid in tow, and a significant dip in his savings account. Sasuke doesn't bat an eye at the new hand, quirks an inquisitive brow towards the ex-Arcobaleno, then tosses them two application forms.

Unlike Squalo, Mammon comes with excellent credentials and all his limbs attached; that's enough for Sasuke. He, also, comes bearing news of how the curse was lifted, and that…that sends Sasuke's mind reeling.

(The whole coming-back-with-potential-recruits thing never actually stops. By the time Sasuke gets a clue, it's already far too late. Federico dies laughing every time Squalo brings another stray in.)

"Yo, temē, fancy seeing you here," Naruto says, all stretched cheeks and sunshine, when Sasuke tracks him down and kicks his door in.

Naruto is alive, and all Sasuke can think is, "You're that fucker Iemitsu's precious tuna fishie? That's hilarious, dobe."

Naturally, Naruto decks him. Sasuke laughs as he leaps back and Naruto follows with another punch, and it feels like coming home.