Disclaimer: I do not own Kateikyoushi Hitman Reborn! And its many characters, especially the two used here: Reborn and Fong no matter how much I want to.

Evanescent in Eternity

By Assiah

Steadily lifting a sword, long, slender fingers twirl the blade, its edge sharp and mesmerizing in his hand. The cold steel glimmers beneath the same tranquil moonlight which shines on dark raven hair and even darker, smoldering eyes. His silhouette, dressed in luxurious red and white robes that hid the delicacy of his slender frame, basks in the undead moon's frozen gaze, giving the pallor of his exposed skin a beautiful, unearthly glow.

On his lips, there is a barely noticeable hint of a smile, as razor sharp as the small sword, its handle starkly dark against the white of his hand. It begins slowly as he turns, spinning the blade as he does so, the loose braid of his hair and the layers of fabrics of his robes trailing behind him, playing with the fickle nocturnal breeze. His steps are silent, almost eerily so as slippered feet pads across tall, wild and untamed grass. The movements of his limbs are deliberate, liquid with a sort of Machiavellian elegance, his practiced gestures regimented and lovely.

His fingers brush against its blade in a sweet, fleeting caress as he waves it around. He slashes quickly and precisely, cutthroat in its allure as he delivers sharp kicks and rapid punches as blurs of dark vermillion. He twirls once, and promptly jumps, landing nimbly a few feet away, sword still held firmly and daintily in his hand.

His hair, loose as it is in its binds, fan across air, framing his face like a black veil. He has his eyes close, his expression one schooled into nonchalance and his entire form is enveloped by the strong arms of meditations. Not one step or flick of the wrist is a wasted gesture, especially as the earlier simple routine morphed into this complex rhythm of quick beats and unnaturally muted acrobatics. The sword mimics a pillar, stabbed sharply to the ground and held by the earth's unrelenting grip as he jumps on it, hand on the handle and feet on the air.

One leg bends once, foot resting on the side of the other's knee, and in a flurry of red like butterfly wings, he is once more on the ground, hand still on the blade. His steps are more rhythmic, more complex, yet they are still silent. His movements have become more rapid, his back a graceful arc, his arms and hands quick yet refined with emphasized gestures.

His steps sweep through the labyrinth of tall grass, his very being like an elusive willow tree which dances with the wind.

It is a nimble dance, elegantly beautiful as he sways, waving his arms in flow with the caress of a biting wind. His hair follows his graceful gait, as he spins, one leg momentarily up in a fluid kick. Sinuously, he curves his arms, one leg stretched and the other bent in a mimic of a defensive stance, before he twirls again for the last time beneath the spotlight of the moon.

His touch ephemeral as a whirlwind's kiss, he grabs the sword in a mockery of a bow and hurls it against the large oak in the shadows.

And then, he smiles.

The breeze murmurs, almost sweetly and Reborn stands from his seat on a branch, a hair's breadth away from the impaled sword. He lands on the ground, a few feet away, gun cocked against his own temple as he grins.

Fon doesn't say anything, his eyes remaining closed despite the smile, and instead he gives a proper, short bow, his fist against an open palm. He pauses, and then he spins around again, turning his back on the other, resuming his practice in meditative silence. In tune with the soft murmurs of nature's songs, he dances his art, a mild glimpse to the alluring, almost artful ways he performs the beauty of murder.

Reborn, despite how the martial artist may not be able to see him, offers a pretentious bow. The master hitman knows Fon at least senses even the smallest and most subtle movements—the brief caress of knuckles against his cheek, almost a whisper of the wind as he straightens is proof enough. Swiftly, almost impatiently, he forces the barrel of the gun against the shorter man's chin, pressing it harshly against a pale, vulnerable neck. He pulls the other back to him as his arm wraps around a slender waist, halting the dance, but not the curve of the Asian's arm for it wounds around his neck almost teasingly.

With a flick of a wrist, a smart cut forms on Reborn's cheek, but the Italian pays it no heed. He does not let go and instead, he hisses, a smirk on his lips. Blood drips, and Fong chuckles lowly, amused.

Their time is short. The sun shall rise soon enough, and so Fon escapes the circle of the other man's arms and turns once, facing him. In less than a moment, he had sent a sudden kick and Reborn has trapped his ankle in his grasp.

"I may have this dance, then?" the other drawls lowly and huskily in that arrogant way of his, eyes veiled by the shadow of his fedora. He raises his other hand, the one with neither his gun nor Fon's leg at hold, and fingers his sunburn lightly.

Fon smirks, an odd glint in his eyes and does not retrieve his leg from its bind. He knows that Reborn knows that what they have is not for eternity, but it is enough.

"Until dawn, you may."

The Sun tilts his head down, raising his fedora slightly, a grin on his face. Eternal vows aren't their kind of thing, anyway. Their being evanescent is what makes them so interesting. It is a glorious thing.

"Of course."

The next step begins with a gunshot, carried by its buzz on the wind's trail. Reborn lets Fon lead him, even if only momentarily, through the trail of the breeze with almost nonexistent touches and brief caresses, and it is simply beautiful.

That is how they always will be.

Finire

A/n: This is my first, hopefully to many, RebornxFon one-shot fics. It's basically a small glimpse in their supposed relationship. It depends whether or not I'll keep writing them. Maybe if I get inspired from time to time, hihi~

A/n: On the other hand, I should seriously start on this AU-verse fic I'm writing entitled The Shadow of God's Mantle which is about the relationship of the First Vongola with his Famiglia and how that compares to Tsuna and his own guardians and whatnot. It's sort of 100G, admittedly. Basically, I'm screwing up the entire Choice arc and adding my own stuff to the Trinisette and whatnot.

A/n: This one-shot, though, talks more on how these two are together and yet not together. Their meetings are usually brief, filled with hidden meanings and intent and so on, yet despite its personal significance, they act as if these moments don't exist after the sun rises. That sort of thing.