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October skies stretched blue and endless over rural Hibari estate. Kyouya kept the place in working order year round but he preferred to visit in mid autumn when the clouds rising over the mountains were especially spectacular and constant cicada songs died down some with the end of summer. Early in the morning bird songs could be just as loud in the area but Koyouya didn’t mind those as much.
The wooden structures surrounded by thick bamboo woods looked as if they were taken straight out of old photographs or even older classical art prints. Traditional furnishings and well-cared-for tatami floors invited the body and mind to slow down, to wind down from the state of constant vigilance required by living in the city. Hibari Kyouya was a busy man, but he knew how to relax.
Some people went hiking, some melted away into a hobby that left them barely recognizable. Kyouya retreated into the past; the memory of the past he never experienced but found enticing none-the-less. If this memory was built over the state-of-the-art Vongola R&D facility twenty meters deep underground that was neither here nor there.
It was cold. Traditional Japanese housing was famously uninsulated compared to its western or even more urban counterparts. Kyouya had experienced mornings all over the world in his travels—from waking up warm in midwinter Scandinavia to shivering awake in cool and dry climates deep inland Brazil—but there was nothing like rousing, already alert, cocooned in a freshly aired Japanese futon spread out on tatami floors in a traditional wooden house.
The nostalgic, traditional flavor was marred somehow by the heavy, heavily tattooed arms of the Italian mafioso languishing in Kyouya’s bed, but that couldn’t be helped. Kyouya had not yet reached the level of pretense in life that he would choose bed partners to match his surroundings.
A familiar stirring in his belly made Kyouya look down on himself, furrowing his brows. There were few directions this feeling could follow, one as baffling as the next. Working with researchers and inventors prone to experimentation taught Kyouya restraint when it came to unfamiliar, unexpected or frankly unfounded feelings appearing out of nowhere. Over the last few years he had been paralyzed more times than he could count, turned into a woman and—on one memorable occasion—into a tree.
So now rather than reacting in any way Kyouya waited to see how the stirring developed. If it spread lower, that would mean he might have missed Dino more than he thought which needn't be outside influence. But no, it spread up to his stomach, slowly creeping up his chest—
The incredible, still not fully understood effect of Ten Year Bazooka. It had worked instantly in the past but for the future self of the target the effects were perceivable for up to a minute before the switch. Not that Kyouya estimated he had a minute.
He scrambled to pull his yukata to rights at least before the pink haze swallowed him whole.
*
Kyouya gritted his teeth, rubbing the back of his skull where the Bovino brat’s toy missile caught him by accident. This is what he got for associating with a bunch of herbivores—unruly children running around, destroying his property and causing him physical harm. It was one thing to get hurt in a fight, where Kyouya only had himself to blame for not dodging the attack, and another entirely to get caught in the crossfire of a crying toddler’s tantrum.
Growling with irritation Kyouya took in his surroundings, eyes rolling over the walls, the windows, the decor. Falling finally to the body splayed on the ground.
As a testament to his developing restraint Kyouya did not reach for his weapon and smash Cavallone’s stupid blonde head to pieces. Context clues suggested if he did that his future self might be a tad upset.
Soundlessly Kyouya slid down to his knees on the futon, the rustle of fabric masked by Cavellone’s own sleepy movements. He was wearing a blue yukata but barely. It certainly left nothing to the imagination regarding his tattooed back. Kyouya was unsurprised to see some artwork he didn’t recognize from their so-called training sessions in his time. His Cavallone barely had a sleeve done. The one sound asleep here, laying on his stomach with one arm thrown haphazardly where Kyouya suspected his counterpart slept before the switch, had tattoos all over his shoulder blades, slowly seeping onto his ribs.
Kyouya wasn’t surprised to see him. Cavallone was unsubtle in the extreme regarding his interest in Kyoya and intentions towards him. He was also a persistent little pest who had shown some skill so Kyouya wasn’t outraged per se to find the Bucking Horse in his bed. Maybe a little surprised to find Dino in his bed a decade later and—
Well. This was clearly Kyouya’s grandfather's estate. The room was familiar, the decor. The feeling of the salt on his tongue and in the air on Kyouya’s face. The familiar view onto the mountain pass which hid the stunning sight of the ocean extended towards the horizon behind it.
One of the last places on earth where Kyouya, as he was in his own time, could imagine taking Cavallone Dino.
Apparently ten years was a long time.
Waiting for the timer to tick down, hoping he wasn’t stuck in the future for too long, Kyouya laid down on the futon. It was at once harder and more comfortable than he expected. Silk. Wasteful. Then again, if he was bedding Cavallone Dino getting soft was only expected.
Discounting the tattoos Cavallone didn't change much. Still blonde and lanky. He looked content in sleep, bare legs sticking from under the comforter, hair mussed. If older Kyouya left any marks on him, any bruises, a thick layer of ink hid them well enough. His situational awareness was absolutely pathetic, but that was nothing new. He was a finesse fighter in Kyouya’s time. Master of the fickle weapon that was a whip.
Moved by idle curiosity Kyouya looked around to see if he missed it somewhere in his once-over of the room. When he returned to Cavallone's face Dino’s eyes were open.
Warm brown eyes blinked slowly as Cavallone’s sleeping mind ground through the inaccuracies of the picture in front of him. Kyouya couldn’t know how much he had changed over a decade but at the very least his adult counterpart probably wasn’t wearing a school uniform. He better not be. Kyouya was willing to accept some indecency would come with age but he draws a line at actual perversion.
“Kyouya!” Dino’s voice was rusty. With sleep? Probably. Though Kyouya had no way of knowing how exactly he had spent the previous evening. “I—” He stuttered, lost for words in face of Kyouya’s placidity. “I can explain—”
“You can?” Resting his chin on his hand Kyouya made a go ahead gesture swiping his fingers through the air in a circular motion. “Go on then.”