Chapter Text
It was just one of the usual erratic days since Kira had been living with these strange humans. He's not even sure if he should seriously be calling them that.
First, it was a strange buff man with the longest hair he'd ever seen. Then came a blond with weird pointy elf shoes, alongside a priest with an unusual haircut. However, one man with a flamboyant look caught his attention.
Vibrant, long pink hair adorned his sculpted face. He stood out like a sore thumb; his face and form were those of a gorgeous Italian man, but his hair, eyelashes, and hands were just so delicate and feminine. Exquisite even, really—it was quite a distraction.
Anywho, living with these creatures was an absolute nightmare for him. What had he done to deserve this? Had he died and entered purgatory? No, that’s dumb. All he wanted was to live a quiet life. However, these individuals made it quite a challenge to enjoy even a single unbothered day. Not to mention that although he was arguably the most normal-looking, he felt out of place.
With a resigned sigh, he reached for the cooking apron: the frilly, pastel one the stupid Italian had gifted him just to get on his nerves. Kira knew it was a trap the second he unwrapped it, but the man insisted. He even embroidered Kira’s name on the front in obnoxious cursive. That guy had a knack for enraging the blond.
Like that time he had hidden Kira’s nail clippers and had the blond pacing throughout the house for hours frantically looking for them. Or the one where he tied his shoelaces together while he was napping on the couch after a shift at his office job. When he awoke and tried to stand, he fell face-first into the coffee table. His nose had bled uncontrollably for hours.
Why had he let that wretched man torment him? Yoshikage was no stranger to bothersome people.
The occasional little shits on the train who use their phone at full volume, loud chewers on the street, leaving crumbs as they walk by, careless masses littering; you name it. But he wasn’t the confrontational type. Especially not when he was trying to lay low.
Kira scoffed to himself before starting on the food. He had been having a rough week, so he wanted to make something comforting but simple. Not to mention, mess-free, since well— he was the only one that tidied up the house anyway. He grumbled as he grabbed a heavy pot and set it on the stove. He wiped the counter down before pulling up the chopping board.
He heated the stove and cut up some vegetables for his curry, his chopping skills impressive as he diced away at the ingredients. The water boiled familiarly, and he dropped the cut-up onions, carrots, and potatoes. He scrambled in the top cabinet, on his tippy toes, looking for the spices. The blond had a specific way of arranging the powders, so he absentmindedly added them in order. After throwing that in along with the roux, he brought it to a simmer and took a break.
The blond scooted to the kitchen sink with the contaminated cutting board and knife and scrubbed away. Behind him crept Diavolo. He had watched the Japanese man for a while, mocking his properness. He inched behind the busy man and tugged at the strings of the apron, tying them hard around the blond’s waist.
Kira yelped, cursing under his breath before turning back, shooting the pink-haired man a heated glare. Why must he insist on aggravating him when he was clearly occupied?
“What do you need that has more significance than our dinner?” Kira chided.
“I dunnoooo,” Diavolo responded vaguely, dragging out his words on purpose to annoy the blond.
Kira clicked his tongue at the Italian, his face flushed with anger, a visible vein bulging at his forehead, looking like it was about to pop. One more provocation—just one—and he’d lose it.
The blond tried to keep his temper in check, distracting himself by just washing more plates.
It was silent for a while before Kira felt the presence of a body behind him again. He was about to snap, but before he could turn around, he felt a pleasant sensation.
Elegant, nimble fingers massaged his scalp and played with his hair. The sensation was disarming. He shivered as the fingers slid down, tracing lightly along the back of his neck.
“What on earth are you doing?” Kira whined, blush creeping to the tips of his ears.
“Your hair,” Diavolo remarked simply, voice smooth, almost amused. He leaned in closer, resting his nose atop the blond’s head before taking a deliberate inhale. “What shampoo do you use?”
“Ugh… first of all, personal space.” The blond groaned, squirming away from the proximity. “Second of all, it’s just regular lavender shampoo,” he added, now a considerable distance from the Italian.
Diavolo scooted closer to the blond again, “Why the rush?” he asks, his hands snaking through the gap between Kira’s clothes and apron to grip at his waist.
Kira’s brows knitted together, and his eyes flared angrily.
In one swift motion, he shoved Diavolo down and straddled him, his breathing uneven, eyes locked on the Italian's with a fire that hadn't yet decided if it was anger or desire.
Below him, Diavolo wore a smug expression. I’ll wipe that shit-eating smirk off his face. Kira thought to himself hot-headedly. However, before he could follow through with his plan, he felt a hand on his thigh.
His breath caught.
The touch wasn’t rough. It wasn’t teasing. It was slow… possessive.
His hands, once clenched in defiance against Diavolo’s chest, slackened. But only for a moment.
Then he leaned in.
Not hesitating, not questioning; just moving, as if his brain was on autopilot. His mouth crashed against Diavolo’s with the same urgency he’d had when tackling him, lips parted in fury and an indescribable ardent feeling in his chest.
Diavolo’s hand slid higher, dragging over the curve of Kira’s thigh as he welcomed the aggression, responding in kind. The kiss was messy…teeth grazing, breaths tangled…but neither of them pulled away.
Kira broke the kiss first, panting softly, eyes blazing. “You’re insufferable,” he hissed.
Diavolo smirked beneath him, lips slightly swollen. “And yet… here you are.”
“You..” Kira barked, but the word came out strained.
His voice caught in his throat, betraying him. Heat crawled up the back of his neck as he realized just how close they were; how quickly the lines had blurred between anger and want.
Diavolo’s fingers tightened slightly against his thigh, grounding him to the moment.
“You what?” Diavolo murmured, his voice low, coaxing. “Say it.”
Kira’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say it. He couldn’t.
Instead, he grabbed a fistful of Diavolo’s shirt and kissed him again, harder this time, like the answer was buried in the way their mouths met.
Maybe it was.
Kira’s body stirred with a familiar warmth that set him ablaze. He pulled back, letting the saliva string that connected their lips snap. The blond looked down gingerly at the figure beneath him, thoughts running through his head.
Suddenly, there was a thud at the front door. It swung open, and through it came the bustling noise of his roommates.
Oh.
Kira’s mind scrambled as he quickly pushed himself off the Italian and situated himself in the kitchen. He begged his breathing to regulate.
Breathe in… Breathe out… he reminded himself, still shaken from earlier.
A booming voice came through the door :
“Man, I'm starving!” said a shrilly pompous voice.
“Spare some silence,” another adds, more soothing.
Kira peeked over the kitchen doorway where the bundle of roommates stood and glanced back at Diavolo with a scowl, motioning for him to get up.
The Italian, still a little dazed, got off the floor and situated himself on the dinner table, arms splayed across the dark oak wood and forehead pressed against it.
The three men waltz into the apartment complex like they owned the place.
Dio steps foot first, tossing his coat aside carelessly as he struts to the dining table. “What’s up with this one?” he points to Diavolo, practically melted on the table. “Perhaps he had a rough day.” Answered Pucci, trailing behind him and pulling the chair back for Dio to sit.
Kars came last, his long purple hair flowing as he joined the rest.
Kira looked back at everyone at the table. What a strange assortment of people. He thought to himself. A silence fell over the room for a second before Kars interrupted with a question: “Who’s gonna get rid of that corpse?” he exclaimed, pointing at Diavolo, his sea of hot pink hair sprawled out across the table like roadkill.
Diavolo lazily raised his head and stared at them through his lashes. “I’m alive, you cunts.” he grumbles before faceplanting back into the table.
“Language.” Pucci scolds, folding his arms in disappointment.
“You’ve seen better days.” Dio chimes in, and Diavolo flips him off.
Kars leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “If he’s going to be useless, can we at least move him? His hair is in the fruit basket,” he paused, slowly trying to pick the strands out of the basket before Diavolo smacked his hand away.
Kira, still standing in the kitchen, pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he stayed still enough, they’d forget he existed. He could only hope.
“Oi, hand fetish,” Dio called toward the kitchen without turning around. “Where’s our dinner?”
Kira scoffed. Why was he always getting kink-shamed? He brushed the thought away before speaking: “Get up and serve yourself.”
Dio tilted his head with exaggerated offense. “Excuse me? You’ve gotta contribute something!”
“Like you do anything,” Kira muttered.
“I do.” He insists, crossing his arms and putting his legs on the table.
“Get your dirty elf shoes off the table. It’s bad manners.”
Pucci let out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Everyone. Please.” He gestured to Dio to put his legs down.
Meanwhile, Kars had already stood up, taken a plate, and begun methodically separating the vegetables from the meat. “So many unnecessary toppings…” He groans. “This would be much easier if Diavolo wasn’t using the dining table as a mattress.” He adds
Diavolo mumbled, “This is harassment.”
“You’re harassment,” Kira shot back, barely audible as he set down a curry bowl near Diavolo silently. He got his own and started eating.
“Hey! That’s not fair! He didn't have to stand up for it!” Dio shrieks at the blatant favoritism.
“Dio… you didn’t either. I brought you a bowl.” The priest butts in, trying to calm him down.
Dio clicks his tongue and goes silent, realizing that Pucci does have a point. He grabs the spoon and stirs the curry before cutting the silence. He narrows his eyes at Kira before speaking, “You know, you’re awfully tense today, Handman. Hiding something?” he teases. The usual banter. Though this time, he hit the nail on the head.
Kira freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth.
The table watches him.
Diavolo, still eating, raises his head. With curry still on his face, he muttered; “He was straddling me before you came in.”
The words hovered in the air.
“…I beg your pardon?” Pucci finally asked.
Kira blinked once. Twice. Spoon still suspended mid-air. He shot Diavolo a glare.
Dio squinted. “Straddling…?”
Kars didn’t even look up. “Is this going to affect dinner?” he responded, his mouth full.
Kira’s eye twitched. “I tripped.”
“With intent.” Diavolo jabbed.
Kira didn’t look at him. “You were in the way.”
“Shut up and eat.” Kars demanded at both of them, scarfing down the remains of his curry bowl.
Diavolo grumbled something in Italian under his breath and finally sat up properly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced sideways at Kira with the faintest smirk.
Meanwhile, Kira continued eating, stabbing the food with his fork like it owed him a debt.
Pucci cleared his throat. “Let’s keep it civil, gentlemen.”
The room fell silent again.
“This tension is more suffocating than space,” Kars complains, getting up to put his bowl in the sink and walk out of this mess.
Diavolo leaned back in his chair, elbows splayed, “I was being civil.”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” Kira mumbled.
Dio scoffed into his bowl, putting a hand to his forehead in distress. “You two need to either fight or fuck. The ambiguity is killing me.”
Kars returned to the dining room only to retreat once again after hearing that.
Pucci, horrified, nudged Dio. “Language.”
Kira stabbed at his food again, only for the spice to suddenly hit.
His eye twitched again as his throat burned.
What? It wasn’t supposed to be spicy.
His mind flashed back to when he was preparing the meal; he hadn’t looked at the spices he added. Had someone tampered with the arrangement?
He saw Diavolo snickering from the corner of his eye. But then, he leaned in and murmured, “He’s shy,” and the burn intensified.
Kira slammed his fork down. “Fuck off,” he yelled in a fit of rage. Diavolo’s teasing mixed with the spiciness of the soup overwhelmed him. He brought a hand to his swollen lips to cover up, and realized he had stepped out of line and cursed.
“What’s up your ass?” Diavolo sneered.
“You.” Dio interrupts. He cackles before the kick of spice hits him. “This curry is spicy as hell.” He wheezes, eyes watering.
Pucci shut his eyes and muttered a prayer under his breath. He placed his napkin down with careful precision. “This is getting out of hand.”
“Don’t say that, blondie here might get excited,” Dio remarked, laughing through his coughs.
Kira gritted his teeth but stayed silent, quietly enduring the fire in his mouth.
“I suggest we begin having proper meals. No insults. No threats. Just peace.” Pucci insisted.
Everyone stared at him.
Diavolo, through burning lips, asked, “Are you high?”
“... I’m a priest.”
“You didn’t deny it.”
…
Kira got up, silently bringing his bowl to the kitchen sink. He scrubbed away furiously, muttering complaints to himself as he washed Kars’ abandoned bowl. Seriously, is it that hard to clean up after yourself? He seethed. There was arguing at the table, but he learned to tune it out.
He sighed, finally calming down a little, finding peace in the way the sink water gently ran down his hands. The warmth soothed the sting in his lips.
Suddenly, he felt a presence too close for comfort,
“Where’s the apron I so generously gifted you?” a voice rang out behind him.
Kira didn’t turn around.
He gripped the sponge tighter.
“You know why, asshole.”
Diavolo leaned closer, just enough for Kira to feel the heat radiating off him. “I don’t. Care to enlighten me?”
“Seriously?” Kira hissed.
A pause. Then Diavolo hummed, “You looked good in it.”
Kira ignored him, scrubbing harder.
“Get away from me.”
A tinge of red adorned the tip of his ears.
“Awh. You’re blushing.”
“I'm burning. From the curry.”
Kira dries his hands and brushes past him, shoulders stiff.
Diavolo didn’t move out of the way. He let Kira bump into him on the way out.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like the attention.” He jeered.
He was met with the sharp slam of a door.
He stared at the closed door with a frown before trudging off to the couch and collapsing onto it, limbs sprawled. “So stubborn.” He groaned into a nearby pillow.
“How romantic,” Dio commented flatly from across the room, perched on the arm of a chair like a cat.
Diavolo didn’t bother to lift his head from the pillow. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
Dio inspected his nails. “Not really.”
Pucci, still on the table, chided, “Dio, leave him be.”
“I’m just offering commentary.” The vampire spoke, rolling his eyes.
Diavolo groaned again, deeper this time. “I liked it better when Kira was yelling.”
“You like anything he does,” Dio added, crossing his arms.
Pucci sighed, “Dio, think before you speak.”
“I think plenty!” He insists, then drops his voice low, “He totally has a crush.”
Diavolo rolled over and dragged the pillow over his ears.
Far down the hall, behind a closed bedroom door, Kira blinked at the ceiling.
He was doing his usual nightly routine. Fresh out of the shower in his pajamas, he did his stretching, grunting as his joints cracked satisfyingly.
His room was quiet. Dim. The scent of his lavender soap filled the room. He sat down on his bed with a sigh, his hand searching his nightstand for a glass of milk, groaning when he was met with nothing.
Annoyed, he got up and hovered a hand near the doorknob, mentally bracing himself for the idiocy awaiting him.
The door creaked open, and his eyes squinted from the bright lights. When they adjusted, he saw Dio dangling upside down by his legs, Pucci stirring some tea, and Diavolo sleeping, his arm dangling from the couch.
There was a surprisingly pleasant silence.
He noiselessly made his way over to the fridge and retrieved a carton of milk. He poured it into a glass with steady hands, ignoring Dio’s intrigued stare.
“You drink milk at night?”
Kira didn’t respond. He took a slow sip.
“He says it helps him sleep,” Pucci explained.
“It does,” Kira said dryly.
Dio hummed thoughtfully, still hanging upside down. “You know, I always thought you'd be more of a wine guy.”
Kira raised a brow, “I don’t drink.”
“Not even for special occasions?”
Kira paused,
“... We’re a houseful of criminals. What’s there to celebrate?”
Dio clicked his tongue. “No wonder you’re so tense. All that repressed rage with nowhere to go.”
“Sleep.” He says, as if answering Dio.
“That’s not ominous at all,” Dio retorts flatly.
At the other end of the room, Diavolo stirs, mumbling incoherently in his sleep. “Kira smells nice...”
Kira freezes mid-sip.
Pucci stares.
Dio let out a giggle, “He’s hopeless.”
Diavolo’s already back to snoring.
Kira slowly set his glass down.
“I’m going to bed.”
“You’ve got him wrapped around your finge– wait, no, never mind. Don’t get too excited.” Dio called out with barely restrained laughter.
Kira didn’t respond. The slam of his bedroom door spoke volumes.
Kira collapsed onto his bed, his shoulders heavy from the weight of the day.
This was nowhere near a quiet life.
He stared into the dark room for a hot minute; thoughts from earlier in the day flooded his mind. Replaying in his head like a broken record was a specific memory–him on top of Diavolo, their lips pressed together, flush against each other.
He wills the thought away, flipping himself straight against the firm mattress.
He lets out a shaky sigh, sliding his eyes shut to at least attempt to sleep. However, the incident seeped through the cracks of his mind and engraved itself there.
“It was a mistake.” He tells himself
“It meant nothing.”
But the weight in his chest didn’t clear.
He feels the ghost of Diavolo’s hand pressed on his thigh, his warm lips–
Kira’s eyes snap open.
The darkness in the room seems to warp in time with Kira’s increasingly hard-to-ignore thoughts.
He shuts his eyes tight but still feels the lingering touch.
And beneath it, a shameful truth bubbles to the surface :
He didn’t hate it.
He turns his head, smothering his face into the pillow, exhaling sharply.
…
A while passes, and he remains sleepless.
Then,
There’s a slow, deliberate creak at his door.
Kira doesn’t move.
He doesn’t want anyone to see him right now; his mental state is in tatters.
“...Kira?” A cautious voice says.
He feigns sleep.
He knows who this is.
The footsteps continue, quiet and careful.
“I know you’re awake.” The voice accused.
The blond furrows his brows. He keeps his back turned.
Silence follows.
“I know it wasn't… planned.”
A weak laugh. “You nearly gave me brain damage.”
Still nothing.
“But, I didn’t hate it,” Diavolo adds, and something in his voice changes; no teasing, nor arrogance.
Just sincerity.
Kira finally speaks, his voice muffled against the pillow.
“Then you’re an idiot.” It came out strained, and he felt his face get hot.
Diavolo opens his mouth, as if to speak, but walks into the room, hovering near Kira’s bed.
“I know I can be annoying.” He admits, referring to his relentless pranks on Kira.
“I apologize…” His voice drops solemnly.
Kira tenses under the covers.
He wasn’t expecting that.
Not from him.
“I just… don’t know how to be normal with you.”
Kira shifts, “You’re not normal with anybody.”
A faint smile adorns Diavolo’s face. “That’s fair.”
…
“I can leave if you want...” He offers.
Kira doesn’t respond right away.
The silence stretches.
Then, quietly:
“...Stay.”
Diavolo nods, sitting on the edge of the bed, a considerable space between them.
Kira doesn’t look at him.
He stays curled up beneath the blanket, breathing softly.
Diavolo’s still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of Kira's breathing– which was strangely comforting.
He carefully rests his head on a pillow, testing the waters.
Still not touching.
Just there.
Kira’s fingers twitch.
He grumbled something under his breath before asking in a low tone;
“Are you gonna stay here all night?”
Diavolo shrugs, “...Unless you tell me to leave.”
He doesn’t.
A comfortable silence fills the room.
Kira’s fingers shift slightly, just enough to graze Diavolo’s forearm.
Not on purpose. Of course not.
Diavolo notices and doesn’t move.
Gradually, Kira finally drifts off to sleep.
The Italian remains still, eyes fixated on the ceiling; occasionally glancing at the sleeping figure beside him.
…
…
Then; whack!
Kira’s arm flings out from under the covers and smacks Diavolo in the chest.
The mafia boss flinches.
Another moment passes… and Kira shifts again, curling up close like a cat with no boundaries.
A leg brushes his.
Then settled on top of his.
Diavolo blinks.
“...Seriously?” He whispers to himself.
He's gonna kill me in the morning… he thinks, before dozing off.
Morning rolls around.
Sunlight spills from the curtain-covered windows, casting soft light across the floor.
Kira stirs.
He feels warmth pressed up against him.
…?
He opens his eyes and is met with…
Diavolo.
Asleep.
Far closer than he remembers.
Worse: Kira’s leg is draped over him.
He nearly falls off the bed from how sharply he jerks back.
Diavolo groans groggily, “Hn… what…?”
“Get off.” Kira scolded, sharp but hushed.
“I wasn’t even– you were on me.” Diavolo squints, disoriented. Then he pauses, “You cuddled me.”
“BASTARD.” The blond practically leaped at him with rage, and their bodies scrambled together in a tangle of limbs.
Diavolo rolls on top of him, pinning him down by the wrists. “Enough.” He said breathlessly, pink hair draped over his face.
Kira squirms underneath, trying to free himself.
The door swings open.
Dio stands there, toothbrush in mouth, unimpressed. “...So this is how it is now.”
“Get out.” Diavolo spat, not bothering to turn around.
Beneath him, Kira’s heart beats out of his chest. The moment seems to slow as he stares at Diavolo’s face: closer than it should be.
Dead silence; only ragged breathing.
The vampire shuts the door, bored already.
“Get off of me already.” Kira stumbles on his words.
Diavolo doesn’t move right away.
He’s just looking at him. No smirk. No jab. No punchline.
“You’re really freaking out about this?” he asks.
Kira looks away immediately, a pink flush blooming across his cheeks.
“I’m not.” He lies, breath hitching.
Diavolo raises an eyebrow. “You won’t even look at me.”
“C’mon…” The Italian coaxes, bringing a hand to gently grip Kira’s jaw, guiding his gaze back up.
“Hngh…” Kira’s bottom lip quivers.
His breath catches again, and his eyes dart everywhere but Diavolo’s.
“You’re being dramatic,” Diavolo notes, amused.
Kira swats the hand away, his face burning now.
“This is humiliating.” He whined.
“You’re cute.” Diavolo teases, tracing a finger along the other’s jaw.
Kira jerks his head away like the touch burned. “Stop saying stuff like that!”
His voice cracks.
Diavolo hums, leaning close, lips hovering over Kira’s. “I can’t resist.”
He pauses, giving the blond time to pull away– but he doesn’t.
The gap closes, and their lips press against each other.
Then, slowly, Diavolo slips his tongue in, reveling in the taste of a man he didn’t fully know he ached for.
Kira lets out a small noise, startled—but doesn’t pull away.
His hands fist into the sheets, unsure of what to do with all the heat— all the unraveling of something he’d tried so hard to keep neat.
Diavolo’s hand slides up to the side of his neck, steady.
Kira breathed sharply through his nose.
And, (for once) he doesn’t think about what’s logical.
He just… kisses back with mutual hunger.
The pleasure crashes over his body like a wave; he trembles under Diavolo’s touch.
Suddenly—
A teardrop rolls down his cheek and Diavolo pauses.
“Everything okay…?” He checks up on him, gently lifting Kira to sit up. He swipes his thumb over the teardrop.
“Yeah…” He sniffles.
Diavolo rests a hand on his back before pulling him close, and Kira buries his face at the crook of his neck.
The Italian brings an uneven hand to card through the blond’s hair while the other traces slow, soothing circles along his back.
He plants a soft peck atop Kira’s head.
Kira clings to him weakly.
He retracts his face from Diavolo’s shoulders and gazes at him through tear-filled eyes. Wordlessly, he initiates the kiss.
Diavolo responds with matching gentleness, his hand cupping the back of Kira’s neck, the other slithers up and tugs at Kira’s bottom lip with his thumb, deepening the kiss.
The blond moans into the kiss, his body tensing up. Diavolo smiles against his mouth, hand sliding down the other's waist, pulling him closer.
Kira lets out a muffled whimper, feeling the warmth of Diavolo’s body flush against him.
Their lips part.
“I… I can’t.” The blond mumbled, his voice barely holding together.
He pushes Diavolo away(harder than intended), then bolts.
The bathroom door shuts behind him, leaving the Italian dumbfounded on the floor.
He gets up with a huff and leaves the room, closing the door with an audible click.
Yoshikage, hands gripping the sink, looks at himself in the mirror; disheveled from the rough-housing earlier. His usual neatly combed hair was sprawled out as if lightning had struck him and…
Shit.
Why did Diavolo decide to wear lipstick today? Kira grumbled to himself, looking at the smudged black stain on his lips and forehead. He rubs his temples, leaning his body against the tiled wall.
He can’t walk out with these marks.
He could already hear Dio’s snide remarks in his head: “Looks like someone had fun.”
No. Absolutely not.
Then, he got an idea.
Usually, when the hallway bathroom was occupied, the villains would use Kira’s to get ready. So, if he was not mistaken, there had to be makeup supplies in the cabinet. Among them: makeup remover.
He swung the cabinet open and rummaged around before his hand brushed against a thin packet. He read the label and–sure enough, the text read– ‘Makeup Wipes’
Kira let out a sigh of relief as he opened the packaging and frantically scrubbed off any trace of Diavolo. When he was satisfied with the result, the wipe was discarded.
He stared at his reflection, the soft hum of the overhead bathroom vent filling the silence as he carried out his morning routine.
He tried to focus on the constant noise;
On the pesky grime stuck between the tile crevices his cleaning supplies could never reach, on the dingy light that was on its last limbs—-flickering occasionally.
Anything to distract his thoughts from drifting to a certain pink-haired devil.
He was hopeless.
Kira (reluctantly) joined the others.
His hair was tamed. His expression, indifferent. Not a trace left of what had nearly happened behind closed doors.
“Hey, lover boy,” Dio chirped from the couch, wearing a smug grin.
Kira immediately tensed up, his eyebrows knit together in a scowl after hearing such a grating voice first thing in the morning.
“You missed breakfast. That lipstick on your collar better have been worth it,” the vampire added.
Kira froze mid-step.
He quickly glanced down at his collar–just in case–before refuting, “There’s nothing on my collar.”
“Oh, I was joking,” Dio replied with a knowing chuckle.
Kira let out a sharp exhale through his nose, doing his best to block out the annoying pest lazing around on his couch.
He made his way over to the kitchen, his eyes settling over the mess in front of him: piles of dishware cluttered the sink, ominous stains of who knows what littered the marble counters; To top it all off, the trash was overflowing.
Disgust curled at his lip.
Was he living with broody, lazy teenagers?
He rolled up the sleeves of his striped button-up shirt, muttering under his breath, “Filthy.”
He began rinsing the plates with ease and tried not to think about how his own hands had trembled just minutes earlier.
The faucet ran hot. Scalding almost. He didn’t mind.
It was a nice distraction.
Better to burn than to feel again.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Diavolo lean back in his seat, watching in silence.
Kira didn’t look at him.
He didn’t have to.
He could feel the heat of his gaze from across the room, and he hated the part of him that liked it.
Yoshikage Kira did not like messes.
Yet there he was–caught in the middle of one, physically and mentally.
A whirlwind of emotions swelled in his heart. He couldn’t help it. His feelings were messy, like someone had mixed vibrant watercolors together and turned them into a brown, complicated sludge.
Diavolo tugged at one loose string of his and unraveled the whole, neatly woven tapestry that was Yoshikage Kira.
Or at least what he pretended to be.
So, he distanced himself.
He turned away, avoiding any contact. That night, he cleaned the kitchen three times, folded the laundry with shaking hands, swept the house…
Speaking? No.
Favors? No.
Occasional glances in the hallway? No.
If he ignored the problem long enough, it would go away.
He’d have to put a wall between them.
One brick at a time.
Diavolo has a secret.
Well—it’s pretty obvious.
When did he start liking the blond? Somewhere along the road of living under one roof with him, he had caught feelings.
However, he could never express these feelings in a normal way.
He’d always pull off stunts just to get Kira’s attention, anything for those captivating dark violet eyes to look at him.
Recently, Kira had been acting differently.
It felt like they were growing apart.
Something sour pinched his gut, silently hoping it wasn’t true.
Why wasn’t Kira looking at him?
He wanted to– no, needed to hold on; No matter how difficult.
Diavolo was used to chaos. He had spent most of his life surrounded by it, ruled by it, becoming it.
But this?
It was worse than any fight.
At least when someone hated you, they looked at you.
At least when they hated you, you mattered.
He couldn’t bear being so close yet so far.
His chest was heavy; it felt like being in a room where the walls all closed in on him.
He knew how to dull the ache.
No. He told himself he wasn’t going back.
He’d left those habits behind. He wanted to be better.
But better didn’t matter if no one wanted you.
If Kira didn’t want him.
He paced around the empty living room, fingers twitching. His nails dug anxiously into his scalp, threading through the pink mess. He was caught between the choice of going back—opening up an old wound, and letting it bleed—or wallowing in the crushing defeat of rejection.
Kira was his oxygen, and the withdrawal was suffocating.
It was quiet.
The house was still.
Only the soft rattle of the windowpane could be heard as the winter breeze passed by.
Diavolo trudged aimlessly toward the entryway as if he were treading through viscous honey, draping a coat over his hunched form. Without a sound, he slipped out the door and into the night.
The frigid air infiltrated his sinuses, making him regret going out. Snow floated down, coating the empty streets in a thin layer. Shadows warped in the distance, spreading as if beckoning him to come closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and then skittered down the sidewalk, settling against a nearby wall.
He slumped over, digging in his pocket for his phone. He begins to dial, fingertips numb from the cold. A distorted voice crackled through the speaker:
“Boss?”
A stretching silence fills the night, only broken by Diavolo’s ragged breathing.
He leaned harder against the wall, head lolled back, eyes burning.
“You there?” The question came softer this time.
“...Yea.” Diavolo spat, voice hoarse and hollow.
He felt empty, like the icy wind could pass right through his chest, and he wouldn’t even shiver.
“Same as last time.” He commanded, though it came out weak.
“Boss, are you sure? You haven’t asked for this in mo—”
“Just bring it, Doppio.”
There’s a brief pause before an address is stated.
Then, the line disconnects.
He let the phone slip from his fingers and into the snow, uncaring of where it landed.
The numbers echoed in his mind, repeating like a prayer; trudging along the snowy streets until he arrived at his destination.
A brown bag sits in an alleyway, and Diavolo hesitates.
Nausea blooms in his stomach; pupils blown wide. He fidgets with his nails for a bit before shakily peeking inside the bag.
A handful of syringes, a cloudy solution in one of them. The smell was familiar, almost comforting, like a forbidden pleasure. Was he really doing this?
Kira’s name derailed the thought.
His vision blurred, throat tightened. The cold pressed harder against his skin, and he found himself wishing for the warmth the blond had once given him.
But it was taken.
Crushed gradually, right in front of him, like a dying light.
Why wasn’t he looking at him?
Was he not worth a response? Not even worth a glance? Just some rotten thing to ignore?
Even so… he couldn’t bring himself to hate him. It was unbearable.
There was no strong emotion to shield him from the vastness of grief.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Just a pool of diluted feelings.
He laughed– Humorless. Bitter.
Backing away a step, he found his feet wouldn’t carry him far.
The ghost of Kira lingered, temptingly cruel.
With a slow exhale, he sank beside the wall, gaze still on the crumpled bag. He shuffled closer, bringing a hesitant hand to inspect one of the substances; grainy, as if it had been crushed, but liquid enough to inject.
There’s a pause; Diavolo stares. The glass tube catches the moonlight, glinting cold and sterile in his hand.
He grazed the sharp edge along his forearm, and— the needle kissed his skin like an old lover.
His body jolted.
A wince. A breath. He pressed down, inch by inch.
An overwhelming warmth surges through him, feeling heavy; his limbs grow sluggish.
However, that gnawing feeling was gone.
Dissolved.
Diavolo scoots drowsily to rest against the alley wall, now in his own carefree world.
His head droops down, forehead pressed against his knees.
The shadows envelop him.
Yoshikage Kira’s eyes flutter open.
Strange, he usually has no problem getting his daily eight hours of sleep.
There was a sinking feeling in his gut that he just couldn’t shake. He stared at the darkness, lost in thought and anxiousness.
He decides to slip out of bed, walking through the hallway and into the living room. Every little motion elicits creaks and groans from the house.
His eyes scan over the area; Kars is asleep on the floor, cuddled up with a random stray cat; Pucci and Dio were probably in the guest bedroom.
Wait… something was missing.
A hint of pink, that’s what.
Kira knows he’d been ignoring Diavolo—but he still cares.
Maybe way more than he would like to admit.
Where the hell was he?
The blond turned the whole place upside down, swinging doors open and even checking the porch, but to no avail.
His stomach started to twist, tying itself in knots.
Amidst all the ruckus, he manages to wake his roommates. But by the time they went to see what had happened, he was already gone.
The frigid winds blew wildly, a snowy veil clinging over the blond as he sprinted.
His breath came in shallow, fogging up the air around him—cold bit at his cheeks, he willed it away, body chilled to the core. In the rush of getting out the door, he had forgotten to wear proper attire.
Socks sodden, thumping against the snow-covered pavement. The thin layer of fabric from his pajamas did little to mask the cold.
Street lamps stretched as he ran—though aimlessly.
He allowed his legs to lead the way.
His mind was a blur: inside, the guilt weighed heavily. This whole ordeal would’ve never happened if it weren’t for him and his stupid, complicated emotions.
Oh god. He felt sick to his stomach.
He… He hadn’t meant to hurt Diavolo.
It had been easier just to bury everything. Easier to put up a wall, to ignore that unfamiliar ache in his chest whenever they were close.
It was too messy.
Too much of a hassle to untangle the bundle of wires in his heart.
A memory surfaced, and it hit him like a blow to the head; stopping him in his tracks.
One particularly somber night, the pair sat together on the burgundy colored couch. The constant timbre of Diavolo’s voice soothes Kira’s nerves as he zones out.
He caught a change in the pink-haired man's tone and perked an ear up.
“I don’t know what this means for you, but for me, it’s not just…” He spoke tentatively, as if choosing his words with care.
Kira cut him off, without a word—Just silence.
He remembered wiping off his sweaty hands, adjusting a cuff that didn't need adjusting. "I should go," he said, no room for reply, his face unreadable.
Diavolo didn't follow.
It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't fear.
It was panic in disguise—the type that sneaks up on you when you're least expecting it, when you're at your highest.
There was no point in holding onto anything real; it would all slip through his fingers.
He didn't deserve love.
But to turn a blind eye, to pretend Diavolo didn’t cherish him…
It was cruel.
Even if he didn't intend for it to be.
And now?
Diavolo was hurting— and it was all his fault.
Kira ran faster, unrelenting.
It was all his fault. If only he weren't such a fucking coward.
Crunch.
Broken fragments of glass pierced through his socks, reaching the sole of his foot. Pain jolted him out of his thoughts.
The shards tore through his skin, embedding into the epidermis. He didn't care. Maybe he deserved this.
He couldn't give up.
Wouldn't.
He limped down the empty streets, each step driving the pieces deeper. His nerves were begging him to stop, but guilt was louder.
He focused on what he could control: his breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Everything was melting into a disorienting blur. The miserable, colorless shroud of the streets seemed never-ending.
But then,
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
He stared into the half-lit alleyway, waiting for his vision to adjust.
There he was.
A pang of relief flowed through Kira's body, but worry soon accompanied it.
Hunched over, pink hair draped over him like a blanket, shoulders trembling. Next to him, an empty capsule of a needle; the remaining liquid sloshing around. A faint chemical scent hung in the air, making Kira scrunch his rosy nose.
An ugly truth flashed through him.
He approached frantically, shaky hands examining Diavolo's slumped figure. Tracing down the upper arm, he found it: A slight tear of skin, bruise blooming around it, the faintest bit of blood trickling down the forearm.
"Diavolo," He whispered, voice low and scratchy.
No response.
Kira's chest tightened. The silence was eating at him—his heart stumbled, hammering wildly against his ribs.
"I'm sorry…" the words tumbled out brittle and uneven; burned on his tongue.
They didn't seem to reach the other. His knees nearly buckled from anxiety, but he didn't hesitate. He slid his arms beneath Diavolo and hoisted him up, slack against him. His arms trembled beneath the weight, a shudder running through him as his body threatened to give up.
The shards in his foot screamed with each heavy step, yet he pressed forward. Step after step, leaving a trail of crimson in his wake.
His world bled in and out of color, leaving only raw instinct to continue; fueled by guilt and an overbearing feeling he was too afraid to name.
There was a blinding ache relentlessly pounding his head. The freezing air tore through his lungs.
He forced his gaze upward through the blur
There it was.
The house. Barely recognizable.
Everything distorted, as if peering through warped glass—walls bending, stretching—Nothing aligned with reality.
Just a few more steps.
He clung to the thought, drilling it in his mind.
Trying not to tumble over, he reached the porch—wobbling up the steps.
Temporary relief flushed through him.
A hand hovered over the doorknob, fumbling with the keys. They rattled uselessly in his grip. His tremors prevented him from unlocking the door.
The strength drained from him in a final wave. The keys slipped. Darkness surged in, heavy and absolute.
He collapsed against the doorframe, his head striking hard as he slid down. Consciousness was torn from him before he could fight it.
Exhaustion had claimed him.