Chapter Text
They always tell you that if you want to be somebody, if you want to be remembered, you need to leave your mark on the world. You need to leave something behind that people will see etched into the world around you and will make them remember you forever.
For the first sixteen years of his life Xanxus took that literally.
As a child, he scratched his initials into the brick and mortar of the streets around him. He cut them low to the ground to use them as markers for himself. He cut them high into the side of walls so that he would be known. He carried a short, sharp chisel with him for protection and also to leave behind his mark. He was Xanxus and he would be known.
As a teenager, found by his father at long last and dropped into a life above the streets, Xanxus took every opportunity he could to leave his mark behind. He wrought destruction in the pursuit of his ambitions- to be known, to be feared, to be powerful, to be respected. He could hollow out entire buildings of all their people, leaving them like open wounds, bloody monuments to his prowess. He continued to leave his signature, carved into wooden walls, into stone floors, splashed in blood upon the ceiling, leaving stains and scars that bore the double X for Xanxus.
Xanxus carved his way through the world, preparing it for the day that he would step into his father’s position and become the Tenth Vongola leader. It didn’t matter that he had three elder brothers. It did not matter that he was not his father’s chosen heir. It was his destiny and everywhere he looked he could see the world had been leading him to this moment. He was only following the path that had been prepared for him.
And then the truth had pressed itself into his hands, into his mind and everything had changed.
Mere months after learning the truth, Xanxus sought to change his fated path back to what had always been. If he could not be given the role that he knew was his, he would take it. If he had to tear down the entire building and leave it as a scar upon the earth he would. He was Xanxus and this was his destiny.
But with the blood and battle, there was betrayal and burning ice. Under Timoteo’s sorrowful gaze, Xanxus’s last grasp for the future he had built up through his every action slipped free of his influence.
Surrounded by ice, unable to breathe, to move or feel, Xanxus could only stare straight ahead, unblinking. His world was a silent blur of colors moving periodically in front of him; images distorted by the ice in front of his eyes. His world was contained entirely within his own mind and he was left there, frozen, thinking.
And he did nothing else.