Chapter Text
Lambo blinked, stopping in mid-motion as he tried to understand what was going on.
He knew the feeling all too well, thanks to the knack his younger self had had for tossing him back and forth through the years: the tingle of electricity starting right at his fingertips, shooting up through his body as the world around him flickered like a distorted signal on TV, and suddenly changed shape.
It had been quite a while since last time, though.
Back to the current situation.
No immediate danger, he surmised.
He was standing in a large room he recognized as one of the favorite meeting spots of the Vongola Family’s mansion. On the table in front of him was a box, its contents spread neatly all out.
Lambo glanced around at the five people all staring at him in various degrees of amusement and exasperation alike.
“My bad, I was only wondering if it still worked-- it’s been so long, afterall,” Yamamoto grinned sheepishly at him, looking apologetic.
“Maybe you should learn to stick your hands somewhere el…”
“Gokudera,” admonishing, Tsuna’s soft-spoken voice was just as he remembered, both friendly and commanding as he shushed his Right Hand into silence before turning to Lambo, “it’s good to see you, Lambo. How are you doing?”
He felt dazed by the way they were all smiling in greeting, with such accepting easiness as he had forgot they had.
He didn’t answer.
He was forced to snap out of it, however, as the feeling of a cold stare bore down onto him, deeper and heavier than the others’.
Reborn.
The hitman must have been somewhere behind his back, but even without being able to see him, Lambo was so familiar, so well-tuned with the weight of his distant disapproval, he could recognize it everywhere.
“It’s good to see you guys again, as well,” he laughed the whole incident off, pushing down the despair rising in his throat in order to savor the warmth of their presence, Reborn’s aloofness aside.
He didn’t know what it was that abruptly started his thoughts swirling, his blood racing frantically.
Maybe it was the light of the setting sun, outside the window, making the group’s peacefulness almost glow. Or maybe it was Yamamoto and Gokudera’s bickering. Or Tsuna’s amused exasperation, or Chrome’s shy, soft laugh. Or even Reborn’ haughtiness, crawling over his skin.
Something that’s lost to me, forever.
And then suddenly the time was rushing by, running out, there was no time, no more time…
Lambo’s head whipped around to lock eyes with Tsuna, studying, feverishly considering his options.
Who to trust, what to say, how to explain?
The Tenth held his stare for a moment and then seemed together to nod and to mention at something behind him.
As he flashed around, spotting first Reborn, then, over his shoulder, the door leading to the adjacent study, as he shot forward and propelled him backwards toward it, even as he savored the fleeting look of surprise passing Reborn’s feature, all the while Lambo wondered what had Tsuna been able to read in his eyes, that had him give understanding so easily? Had he seen through the longing, the hopeless knowledge that all of it would be gone soon?
No time for questions or idle thinking.
Lambo could feel the seconds ticking by as if he himself were going back to 20 years later, fragment by fragment.
He pushed Reborn around into the wall, knocking a puff of air out of him, grabbing his wrists before the hitman could reach for his gun.
Reborn’s eyes briefly darted around, scanning the room for a way out, and Lambo gladly stepped forward, effectively trapping him and making it impossible for the hitman to focus on anything but himself.
“Listen closely, it won’t be long before I’m gone,” he was older now, he could hold Reborn’s blistering stare without flinching. He could and would get his words through the bastard’s haughty skull.
Reborn remained emotionless.
“Contact the Varia. The big meeting you have been planning, the one with the other Mafia families, you must have the Varia at hand for backup. Keep them in the sidelines, if you prefer, but don’t let us go in alone,” Lambo paused, wetting his lips. His eyes unconsciously roamed downwards, over the man’s cheekbones, thinly pressed lips about to bust from questions.
He raked his mind to find something that could convince Reborn he was serious, for once.
“I can’t tell you more, not without risking to compromise future events, or make the information null. We agreed about it, and I’ve already said too much. I… You thought it over, afterwards. You and Colonnello and Lal-Milch brainstormed for weeks. The Varia might not solve everything, but they’ll help.”
He halted, meeting Reborn’s gaze again.
Reborn’s eyes were imperceptibly slitted in anger, perhaps at being denied his answers, but mentioning people he had somehow trusted seemed to have done the trick. That was enough.
Lambo stepped back slowly, giving the hitman space.
“It’s not a pretty, the future I come from,” he stated quietly, as he felt the tips of his fingers begin to tingle, a shiver running down his spine. Reborn’s pupils flashed as he caught it, and Lambo wondered if he had always showed this many emotions before.
Coward, he thought, as he framed Reborn’s face with his hands, smashing his lips against his and pinning him back once again with an urgency bordering on desperation. The hitman seemed to freeze.
Wrong, wrong, this is all wrong. Too fast, too…
He gritted his teeth as his body fought the pull of time, fraying.
“We fought until all that was left was a bitter taste of regret and anger. Until we didn’t care anymore,” Lambo hated how broken his voice sounded, splintering along with his flesh, “I can’t do this alone -- it’s going to…”
Scared now, but he could not continue, because Reborn had bitten his lower lip and was returning the harsh kiss, grabbing onto him and pressing closer as if to physically keep him from going back.
It didn’t work.
Lambo’s words were lost as he slipped away.
For the first time, Reborn felt the effect of the Bazooka: like a ripple in time, in space, as if the air itself had shuddered, and then it was gone.
Or maybe it was his own body, or the younger Lambo standing stiffly in his arms, staring up at him in fear and wonder.
Reborn felt at a loss.
Time, time, there was no such thing as enough time.
He grabbed Lambo’s hair roughly and kissed him much like the older Lambo had done mere seconds before.
Hard, vengeful. Longing.
“We’re done running,” he shoved Lambo back, turning to leave the room, then seemed to rethink it and flatly added, “You should cry, knowing you belong to me.”
And then he was gone.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lambo blinked and was suddenly staggering in a dark empty room, a dull silence welcoming him back.
For a second it felt as if all of his senses had failed him, but for the feeling of Reborn’s lips on his. It faded away with the last tickle of electricity, hurting almost like a physical blow.
He gradually became aware of the sound of rain beating angrily on the window panes, the complete blackness of the room and world outside only brightened by lightnings, the ghostly city outside appearing and disappearing with them.
The crack of thunder shook him out of his reverie.
Technically, he knew he was in his room, exactly where he had been before the time jump.
Had it really been only five minutes? It seemed like a life time had come and gone. He felt old, weary to the bone.
Another flash of light confirmed his position, and he stepped back until his knees met the couch, allowing himself to fall tiredly on it and lie back.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye-sockets, and swore.
“Fuck.”
There was an annoying prickling at the bridge of his nose, and he cursed again.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
What good had it done, to go back and get a taste of – Lambo snorted cynically – what could have been?
What now?
The creaking of the door opening and the soft light of a candle flickering in the draft had Lambo shooting upright, startled.
His hand was reaching and drawing the gun from his shoulder holster before he could even think about it. He squinted, but the candle was being held at mid-chest height, and all he could see was the silhouette of a man clad in dark suite, Mafia-style. The tie hung loose, the first couple of buttons of the shirt undone.
Lambo had been living alone in the Vongola Family mansion for months, now, and had grown accustomed to its eerie quietness.
He should have noticed the footsteps down the desert corridor.
The shadow spoke, and he almost pulled the trigger at the sound of it, spooked out of his skin.
“Blasted storm blew the light out throughout the city,” a pause, and Lambo found himself shakingly hold his breath, his head reeling, “… Lambo? You there?”
Reborn.
That was Reborn’s voice.
The last time he had heard it, it had been raw with pain and laced with murderous anger.
Now it was collected and very much alive, with a softer edge stressing the question that made Lambo’s cheeks flush, for some reason.
“Lambo?” irritated now, strangely worried. Not dead.
“Reborn?” it seemed stupid to ask such a thing. He half expected the light and the voice and the man disappear, to be a trick of his mind.
He tried to meet the man’s eyes in the dark, but couldn’t.
“What’s wrong?”
The shadow stepped quietly into the room, closing the door. It came forward to place the candle on the low table by the armrest and crouch in front of Lambo.
Yes, it surely looked a lot like Reborn, but there was something off.
Tiredness showed at the corner of his eyes, his mouth twisting in disapproval at the lack of response, yet he seemed curious.
His face was not the impassive mask he remember, it held none of its usual flat coldness and open distaste.
Reborn shifted his attention on the gun still raised in midair and calmly reached for it, grabbing it by the barrel and tugging it out of Lambo’s slack fingers.
“What’s going on, Lambo?”
This voice I recognize better, Lambo thought, the no-bullshit, down-to-business Reborn-patented tone.
He shook his head, feeling vaguely hysterical.
“I must be going crazy.”
[to be con.. -cluded, I guess]