Ok...my exams are finally over. This is one of my older pieces again; and my favourite. Here's to hoping you'll like it too.

Title: A Send-off in the Style of the Vongola
Pairing: RebornXLambo, a side of Lal and Colonello (I don't think anyone dominates in this pairing==)
Rating: PG-15
Warning: Character death. Mild violence and gore. Reborn being emotionally retarded; and acting every bit the cold, cruel and unattached bastard Lambo says he is. An impossibly long but pretty average story that might get you bored...because it's UNBETA'ED and has NO SEXUAL CONTENT. (Sorry! )
Summary: Because the best actor is the one who can convince even himself, but in the end, everyone mourns in their own way.

It went without saying that Reborn wasn't the one who had fantasies about the two of them living out a long life together. The very notion itself was ridiculous. They were both Mafia; and in a trade where violence was the currency, even the most capable men serving under the most influential families were fair game. The repeated assassination attempts Tsuna had to endure were proof enough. It was just the fact he was an Arcobaleno, and the older one by decades; that had made him expect the damn cow to outlive him. In hindsight, he realised he'd even come to take the idea of a weeping cow by his side while he drew his last breath as a given.

But like everything else in the Mafia world, deaths were unpredictable.

It was another job; no different from any other. Tsuna had sent the cow out -now admittedly more competent at 20 years old- as the lead escort for a protected informant they were moving to another location. Somehow there had been a shootout, they were told; a crew of fifteen men lying in ambush. They had been no match for the Vongola's Thunder; but single-handedly taking out more than half of them hadn't saved him from the bullet. Out alive and laughing; back in through a coffin. The Vongola Tenth had finally witnessed the realization of his worst nightmares.

Reborn's first thought had been that his ex-pupil would have to be conciled to the idea he had sent a close friend to his death. A don could not be so hung up he would not be able to function; not within such a large family. It was half the cow's oversight, anyway; so baka-Tsuna shouldn't allow himself to shoulder all the responsibility. Which he would; so the hitman had set himself out to make sure he didn't. Well, he had coped better than Reborn had anticipated; but he was his student, wasn't he?

Now Reborn just had to get Tsuna to reacquire normal hours of sleep.

And after that, there had been a meeting with the delegates from the Bovino, to settle the sum of death money; redirecting assignments the cow could now never fulfill; keeping track on the sudden influx of condolences to make sure they didn't intentionally offend anyone; and arrangements for the funeral.

Searching for a suitable candidate to fill his vacancy.

No, he was too busy to be grieving.

And why should he be? It wasn't as if he hadn't ever had a lover who'd died; a few had even done so at his own hands. So while he understood perfectly why everyone suddenly gave him a wide berth and plenty of privacy, it left him no less irritated. If they were going to make so many allowances for him, then they couldn't blame him when he took full advantage of it to subject them to his sadistic tendencies.

He was internally furious when it failed to elicit but a half-hearted response; even from the infamously volatile Storm.

Grunting in displeasure as he nursed his drink, he glared daggers at his own reflected visage on the liquid's surface before downing it. He was drinking a lot more these days, but one had reason to when one developed a bad mood: Tsuna and the other Guardians hadn't even settled on potential candidates for the cow's replacement yet. When were they going to be more realistic? Shaking his head, he signaled the lone bartender to pour him another tot. A true professional, the man showed no sign of detecting the malevolent aura Reborn was currently emanating. Unlike the patrons; who had fled as discreetly as possible upon the murderous look on his face. Pity, he mused; toying with his glass of whiskey. One would need a drinking partner to fully appreciate this.

In the next second, he got exactly what he (hadn't) wished for.

"Reborn, kora!" A loud jingle of the bell which made him wince; followed by a trampling of boots. "Why are you enjoying this place all to yourself? You should've called me, kora." The blond figure sauntered over to inspect the label of his choice before he whistled. " Mortlach,1938. Good stuff. And every decent vintage deserves a bit of sharing." Nodding to the bartender to get him another glass, Colonello dropped his voice once the man disappeared. "Heard about the news last night. So how's your old student faring, kora?" And not a word about Reborn himself; which only made the unspoken question more blatant. Subtle as a bull, the hitman thought dryly. Then he caught his own allegory and frowned.

"Fine," he answered curtly. "How's Lal?" The other Arcobaleno dismissed his inquiry with a slight wave. "Five months pregnant; normal blood pressure and average weight gain; nearly dropped a couple of grenades on my head this morning. In other words, spiffy." The man laughed at his own remark, then became serious just as suddenly. "But never mind about me, kora. The question is, how are you?"

Typical Colonello; still an amateur at conversational manipulation. Ignoring the melancholy that had assaulted him at the latter's mention of grenades, he cocked an eyebrow. "What language do you happen to be speaking?" But for once, there was no scathing comeback. "Don't be an ass, Reborn," the former Comsubim said; shaking his head. "You know he wasn't just like any of your other lovers." "No," Reborn agreed wryly. "He was more annoying and stupid." His blond colleague gave a snort. "Whatever." He lifted the glass to his lips. Suppressing a sigh, Reborn followed suit, and together they drank in silence. It wasn't like the man had really wanted to prod anyway; that was most likely to be Lal's doing. Women.

Both men knew that this wasn't something that needed asking.

If Reborn ever recounted this night later on, he would remember wondering why he had intentionally let a dead man's blood stain his suit.

Going for a walk after he and Colonello parted, he had found his footsteps leading him to a familiar building. Now why had his still largely sober mind brought him here; of all places? Standing hesitantly at the base of the church, he shrugged his shoulders and went in. His instincts immediately incited him to employ his stealth; but when he pushed open the unlocked door, he found that he needn't have bothered. Not even the priest was here this evening. A dead man had never needed as much security as a live one- particularly when he was locked in an impregnable steel vault.

It was only a temporary storage place for the body until the day of the burial; but Irie and Spanner had done everything to it they could think of that would prevent the cow's body from being defiled by old enemies. A high honour for someone who started out as a lower family's Babbo.* He proceeded underground, where he punched in his access code- one of the only two that had been given authorisation- and stepped aside after the full body scan affirmed his identity. Dimly, he caught sight of the silhouette as cold lights hummed to life; and air whooshed in from behind him to fill the vacuum. The cow was lying enclosed in a glass sanctuary; quieter than he'd ever been in life; face pale and completely peaceful. They'd even put on his horns, he observed with some amusement; although the Thunder Ring around his neck was merely a skillfully crafted token. There was a slight pause as the idea struck him. Why not? He slid the glass case open.

Slowly, the hitman lowered himself until he and the corpse were almost parallel. From this distance, his breath tickled the cow's face; fluttering his eyelashes lightly and giving the false impression of pure slumber. Then he placed his gun's barrel against the slender, sculpted chest with his finger around the trigger and pulled.

The shot went in as smooth and soundlessly as any kill he'd ever committed; barely a twitch came from the impact. He registered a faint chink when the shell chipped the glass beneath; before he drew his lips over a deaf ear in a whisper. "That's for breaking your promise." Don't forget, Reborn. I'm still going to be the one to kill you! Obsidian eyes closed. Of course those words had been foolish.

The preservative gases spewed forth in the resealed chamber behind him as he left; marking his first and only visit.

Reborn was never late. It was either absolute punctuality or a plain, self-appointed dismissal. In this case it was the latter; serving as one of the few times he'd directly disobeyed the Vongola Decimo's order. As expected, theymurmured. There had been a long-standing enmity between those two, after all. It was common knowledge that the hitman Reborn had always considered the Vongola Thunder to be beneath him. Then briefly these attendants would look nervously to their host; but Tsuna's mind was elsewhere.

Only he and select others knew where Reborn had gone.

Hours after the burial, a lone individual materialised. He was dragging along a bound and gagged body; as if heaving his struggling captive up the hillside costed him no effort; and it was in front of the newest grave that the half-crazed victim was deposited. The only reason why this man had lived for so long wasn't because he had been doing solitary in a high-security prison, but what his murder would've indicated; at least where his captor was concerned. Which was why he was here now; because somehow his potential killer had decided to go ahead with it anyway. As his head was brutally yanked up by his soon-to-be executioner- so that the engraved name of his final target would be the last thing that filled his vision- his muffled screams were soon cut short. Then the newly-minted corpse was treated to a contemptuous kick that sent it on its way down the slope. Giving his weapon a cursory examination before concealing it in his jacket's holster, the tall, elegant hitman gave the headstone one last glance before continuing with his awaited return.

*Owari.

A/N: *Babbo- Italian mafia-speak for a useless member of the Family.

Of all my fanfics so far, I would consider this one the best; for being the most mature emotionally. Just my best, of course; which doesn't necessarily signify anything of myself amongst my many, incredibly gifted peers. And even that is just a personal opinion. (Who knows? Maybe one of my other fics is better, ne? ;P)

Err…Review?