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thus comes death

in the last breath

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If there was anything that is consistent in the World Greatest Hitman's life, then it's one man.

To Reborn, he was nameless. In his farthest memory; once faceless.

But nowadays, he sighted him more than he ever did in ninety-three years, and it was both exhilarating and disturbing.

Disturbing because Reborn always recognized trouble when he saw it, and that man - if not being - embodied it effortlessly.

Tiny brat Reborn – or Renato, as he was known then – thought (hoped) that the man was a kin of his (padre, please let him be my padre) but the perpetually horny pubescent Reborn prayed not, because then his fantasizes – which starred that man more than he was comfortable with – would be absolutely revolting.

And there he was, seated as usual on the russet bench that always seemed to appear with him – once Reborn was in the middle of fucking nowhere, but still that damn bench was there with him – staring at Reborn with his typically blank gaze.

Today, Reborn handed in his resignation letter to the Vongola and notified the necessary mainstream Mafia press to broadcast his retirement. Even if there is no such thing as a retired hitman, but at least now he could turn down official requests without the usual hassles and take on unofficial ones on the side if he ever got bored – and now decided to ask the question he always wished to, but somehow never had the … courage to do.

His weary bones creaked as he took a seat beside the eternally youthful being and turned to stare down at a pair of brilliant greens.

"Are you my Reaper?"

Or perhaps he was not seeking an answer, but a confirmation.

Amusement painted the fair face, and a distant part of Reborn - a part than was rather vain and shamelessly superfluous, now damped with time and age - preened at the ability to put change on the usually blank-faced individual.

Even if it was a miscellaneous thing, a barely-noticeable upturn of pale lips - A slight twinkle in otherworldly eyes.

"No."

Breathed the wind.

Or the being, Reborn honestly could not discern, for both had the same voice.

Airy, soft, strong…

severe.

The first time he heard his voice, and it was a lone word that tilted his world.

It was terrible.

Magnificent, yet terrible.

Reborn licked his dry lips. "Then what are you?"

A stray autumn leaf was struck in his raven's nest, shyly peeking when he turned his gaze from Reborn to stare sightlessly ahead.

"Everything, and nothing."

Gentle mischief colored his face as he turned back to Reborn.

"But I was known once as Master of Death."

A breath was caught in Reborn's failing lungs –

Beautiful.

How beautiful.

He was a vision of bloom in a bleak world.

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:

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Renato of Fiore's creek sat hunched on the muddy steps of his home. No, not his, but Signora Maria's home.

The Signora saw that Renato failed to collect his daily earnings and punished him, but in truth it was not his fault.

See, Renato told Lisa and Matteo about his usual place, where he collects the goods, even though it was Stupid to tell, he never told anybody before but he wanted to brag to Matteo or have Lisa's dimpled smile directed at him for once!

And when his shift came and he went there, he saw the two of them in his special place!

It was his! He chose it first!

But then he can't just go there anymore when the two began working, because that's one of the Signora's rules, and even if he told her about what truly happened she would still punish him because Renato was the Stupid one, they were just cleverer than him.

Now he sat miserably on the cold steps, shivering from the cold with nothing but his anger to warm him, blinking the tears away because only little kids cried and Renato is seven years old.

And to think that ten hours ago he was eagerly waiting for the risotto croquettes, Nora can't cook to save her life but it was the only thing she ever did that's good, even if it was awfully soggy sometimes.

He huffed; the wind snatched his breath like the two stronzo, and it was with droopy eyes he watched the snow gather in his trembling lap.

The beautiful fire inside him that usually comforted him was absent, and he never felt more alone as he did now.

It was in that moment, when he noticed a shift of something dark in the corner of his eye, that he saw him.

A lone man, sitting on a bench that Renato would swear wasn't there a minute ago, staring calmly at him with the greenest eyes Renato ever saw.

Suddenly, everything went quiet.

The rumbling motors, the distant clamor of tourists, the stinging wind, and the nearest church's ringing bells –

Even the tremble in his bones quieted down.

He felt warm.

So, so warm.

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End

an: a little ficlet that was supposed to be funny but somehow turned sad? ok and dont ask me about Reborn's age because i tried to calculate his real age and got a massive headache, so i wrote the ficlet under my own assumption of his supposed age + what he appears to look like.

e.g. Reborn's true age would be 100, but appears to be in his early 70's….

oh and I listened to "master of death by peter gundry" i know its totally cliché it but got me in the mood.

bye.