Everywhere the Devil Spits, Tsuna Poisons Shit

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn

Pairings: 0027, sibling!Bianchi&Tsuna

Summary: ''They task Bianchi with his fucking assassination training.'' Poison burns when it goes down the throat.

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

Warnings: Poison.

Written for the 0027 Population Project (if you're interested- we've got a collection on AO3 with all the works and welcome any 0027! Not having an AO3 account is no problem- external bookmarks can be added to the collection, they're a blessing!)

They task Bianchi with his fucking assassination training.

''…How many times a day will I have to check my food for poison?''

''None.''

''You're just saying that to catch me off-guard.''

She smiles over her shoulder. It should be simple, should be quick, but something lingering in her gaze doesn't sit well with him. Her chin is tucked close to her neck, her hair falling around her like a waterfall.

White teeth, strawberry lips. At the curl of the mouth, Tsuna inches away.

She's not the sisterly figure she's become to him in the last few months anymore. He knew it was there all along, that it crawled underneath her olive skin, but seeing the scorpion emerge from the shifting sands makes him laugh nervously. It's loud, too loud, and it echoes in the room until it falls dead in silence.

She doesn't say a thing.

He swallows, his pulse racing.

Everything about her screams danger.

''…I don't want to learn how to kill people, Bianchi.'' He cuts to the chase. Trying to distract her isn't going to help him. And right now? He'd give anything to get her soft, sweet eyes back, instead of this eerie gaze. Her green eyes glow in the late afternoon sun.

He is terrified, but at least he knows this danger.

She chuckles, low and humorless. ''You'll have to, darling.''

''…And what if I still refuse?'' She's going to hit him. He knows for sure. It's what Reborn always does in this kind of situation, after all. And there is no one Bianchi idolizes more than the World's Greatest Hitman.

She sits down on his table, raining her nails down on the surface. The tapping is strangely relaxing. ''Then you'll die.''

He freezes. There's a lump in his throat. ''You'd go that far?''

She tilts her head to the side, tresses of hair sliding off her shoulders. A yawn. Her hand covers her mouth in a delicate gesture. ''I wouldn't have to.''

Tsuna's brows draw together. ''What…''

She sighs deeply, jerks her finger to make her command known. He shuffles closer cautiously.

''I could teach you everything from how to shoot a man from a hundred feet away, to slipping poison into his food so it will go undetected. I could tell you that you have to become Decimo. That you have to learn how to kill, that the Cosa Nostra will force you. But in the end, it won't change your mind.''

He nods shakily, but certain.

She lifts his chin, fingers digging into his jaw, and whispers, cat eyes glowing: ''Then you'll agree, little brother, to learn.''

His reply is breathless. ''Why?''

''Because you'll need it. As of now, you're powerless. Defeated the man who took over the world, but powerless none the less. You don't know how to play their game. You don't know how to stop them. They'll force you and you won't be able to do a damn thing about it.

What I think of it doesn't matter. If you become Decimo, you'll need to know exactly how to kill the right way, and all the specific kind of murder needed for specific occasions. If you don't become Decimo, you'll need to stop them with your own hands.''

She gives him a bit room. ''Now I ask you, are you willing to learn?''

He bites his lip, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

Exhale.

''Teach me.''

There's not a single tremble.

(He'll burn the world down if he has to)

Nine months later, Timoteo Vongola dies in his sleep. It was peaceful, his guardians say, a merciful death for a mafioso.

Nobody detects a trace of poison, except for the wine from last night, but Nonno's adopted grandson brought the wine in with a cheerful smile. It was safe, all agree.

(That said grandson lost nearly everything at the age of four at Timoteo's hand through the means of a flame, a seal, and abandonment… Nonno buried his secrets deep. It's just that his secrets buried him deeper)

Documents proving Xanxus di Vongola's pure, Vongolean ancestry turn up on Oregano's desk. She knows better than to ask questions.

Iemitsu retired last week and his son is not the one she nominates for Decimo.

The former Decimo candidate sits in the pews, surrounded by his guardians, beaming and clapping as Timoteo's youngest son is inaugurated.

At the banquet afterward, some ask what he is planning to do now he is not becoming Boss.

Sawada Tsunayoshi glows. ''I was planning to help Enma restore his ancestral home,'' He gestures to the man holding his hand.

His date.

The bosses recoil.

My God, how didn't they notice him before?

The man is tall, taller than Decimo by far, has shoulders broader than their wives' closets, eyes like the setting sun and hair redder than a fire engine. By all means, he should have been the first person they spotted when entering the building.

His sheer lack of presence is uncanny, like the ladder in front of the door you've ducked around so many times that it has become invisible, only to shock you when someone else points it out. They shiver.

''Something wrong, gentlemen?'' Not-Decimo's cloyingly sweet smile has gained fangs in the meantime and the bosses can't scramble away quickly enough.

In their wake, they hear his voice. ''Aww, I wanted to tell them about my apprenticeship with Bianchi-nee!''

The quiet chuckle of his companion does nothing to reassure them.

Behind his wine, Tsuna smiles. Excellent year, glides over the tongue. So fruity, honeyed, you'd never guess the toxic nature of alcohol alone, even without anything else interesting mixed in.

Poison burns when it goes down the throat.

Nobody tells Tsuna what to do.

Coward's weapon, it might be, but dead men tell no tales.

''Everywhere the devil spits, poison ivy grows.'''

-Alan Chadwick.