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Squalo’s been planning this night for a year.
Not a month, not a week; a full year.
Every time he’s woken up sweating from a nightmare of Sadako crawling out of a TV, he’s added another note to the List of Yamamoto Takeshi’s Imminent Demise by Terror. Oh, he’s still mad at the brat (and embarrassed, too), because Squalo prides himself on his composure and intimidation. Getting startled by some punk’s prank had been humiliating, and Takeshi had enjoyed it far too much, rubbing salt in the wound every chance he got. Worse still, Squalo has to admit that, deep down... he might’ve actually kind of enjoyed himself, and that makes it all infinitely more disgraceful.
Now, twelve months later, Squalo’s got a whole-ass plan laid out in three phases, making sure that if one fails, he’s got another idea up his metaphorical sleeve, and a backup for that one, too.
After an entire day of setup, everything’s finally in place in the backyard of the Japanese Vongola headquarters; hours of work have led to this moment, this perfect position. Squalo’s traveled here specifically for this purpose—and forced the rest of the Varia to come along, his shitty boss included (since he’s pretty sure the idiot would either starve or drink himself to death if left unattended). He’s cloaked, masked, wired with sound effects and motion sensors, and carrying enough fake blood to traumatize a small village.
He’s ready. He’s vengeance. He’s—
“Yo, Squalo!”
The voice comes from behind Squalo. Behind him. He nearly drops the prop machete in surprise.
How?! Takeshi was supposed to be inside the HQ and come out into the backyard through the usual entrance. Squalo had set up a portable surveillance camera there so he could track the brat’s exact position and trigger the moving props and audio effects at just the right moment to scare him senseless. He’d even double-checked his position ten minutes ago, just to make sure everything was in place. So how the hell is this sneaky sonuvabitch the one creeping up on him? Where did he even come from? Was there some hidden door nobody bothered to tell Squalo about?!
To add insult to injury, Takeshi immediately approaches and happily drapes his arms around Squalo with the same easy grin he always does, holding two cans of iced coffee, and wearing, what the hell is that?! A black headband with bouncy bat-shaped cutouts on springy wires and a fluffy feather trim along the top. He looks so fucking cute! How dare he.
“What the hell are you supposed to be?!” Squalo demands.
“Scared, I think?” Takeshi says with a shrug, handing Squalo one of the coffee cans. Squalo takes it on reflex and immediately regrets it, because why is he accepting a friendly drink from the guy he’s supposed to be intimidating? “You look like you’re about to film a slasher parody or something.”
“You ruined the setup, idiot!” shouts Squalo at the brat. “I had timing! There was lightning scheduled!”
Takeshi blinks. “You can schedule lightning?”
“I can,” Squalo growls, “when I threaten Levi enough times.”
Shoving the coffee can back at Takeshi, Squalo glares in dismay at the elaborate setup he spent all day assembling: fake tombstones, hidden speakers programmed to whisper “Taaakeshiii…” in eerie voices, and even a fog machine—a stroke of genius that had, unfortunately, choked halfway through and wasn’t producing a single decent puff of smoke (Squalo’s furious, because that thing was expensive to rent, and he’s absolutely going to murder the prop shop guy for this act of sabotage). In any case, fog or no fog, Squalo knows the whole thing looks damn impressive. All of it, of course, is wasted, because Takeshi’s somehow appeared from the most unlikely direction and completely flopped Squalo’s plan.
“Did you do all this?” Takeshi looks around, wide-eyed and genuinely delighted. “This is amazing, I love it! Thanks for the hard work.”
“Fuck you!” Squalo yells, stomping off while still buried under his mountain of Halloween gear. “You’ll regret this, Takeshi!”
*~*🦇*~*
Phase Two is flawless. It’s bound to succeed where Phase One failed!
It involves the bathroom mirror, low lighting, and a Bluetooth speaker under the sink. Squalo’s even downloaded a sobbing track Bel has recorded “for the aesthetics” and which he plays in his room year-round. (Honestly, it creeps Squalo out. Freak.)
Squalo waits until Takeshi goes in to wash up after carving pumpkins with the other pack of dumb runts, and hits play.
A woman’s wail fills the air, distorted and mournful. The lights flicker—perfect, just like he planned after messing with the circuits (not that anyone else needs to know that). Squalo smirks to himself from the hallway, imagining Takeshi dropping the soap in sheer terror.
Then:
“Hey, Squalo?” Takeshi calls, voice maddeningly calm. “Your speaker’s dying. Battery low.”
Squalo chokes on his own breath. “How the—” He storms into the bathroom.
Sure enough, Takeshi’s standing there towel in hand, pointing at the blinking red light of the speaker like it’s a polite inconvenience.
“Good effort, though,” Takeshi says with a grin. “Points for atmosphere.”
Cursing at the top of his lungs, Squalo slams the bathroom door shut and storms furiously down the hallway.
*~*🦇*~*
Phase Three is personal. Phases One and Two have already gone down the drain, so this is Squalo’s final shot at vengeance.
Squalo sneaks into Takeshi’s room at the HQ and replaces all the photos on his wall with black-and-white, distorted versions of Takeshi’s own face, of which, to his surprise, he’s discovered he has an alarming number saved in his phone gallery. He rigs one to move on an invisible string. It’s subtle, psychological, brilliant.
Except when Takeshi walks in, he just stares, tilts his head, and goes, “Whoa. I look pretty good in black and white.”
Squalo feels his soul leave his body.
*~*🦇*~*
By midnight, Squalo’s holed up in his guest room, slouched in a fluffy chair and surrounded by the wreckage of what should’ve been his masterpiece of vengeance. There’s fake blood smeared across the floor from a leaking bottle, the rented fog machine has hiccupped and died for good, and Squalo’s wondering if he’s ever getting his deposit back. Varia salaries aren’t what they used to be with the inflation, after all, and he’s spent so much on the other props (he can practically hear Mammon’s snide comments about it already) that he might have to resort to violence if the guy at the rental shop refuses to refund him.
Meanwhile, laughter drifts up from downstairs, where Sawada and the others are gathered with the Varia; every so often there’s the bark of the dynamite brat and a peel of shishishishi giggling from Bel. They seem to be having fun. Squalo, on the other hand, feels utterly defeated, more than he’s ever felt in all the battles he’s fought as a swordsman, and had excused himself from the get-together. For some reason, Takeshi did the same and followed him upstairs, which is why the brat’s now sitting comfortably on Squalo’s bed with a plate of pumpkin mochi, that same damn grin, and that same damn bat headband.
Squalo mutters under his breath, “Unscareable bastard.”
Takeshi offers him a mochi. “Guess you’ll just have to try harder next year.”
Out of sheer spite, Squalo bites into the squishy rice thing. It’s good, he’s gotta admit, and it makes him feel about 0.0001% better.
Chewing thoughtfully, Takeshi adds after a pause, “Or…” He angles his head, studying him. “If you still feel like you’ve got energy left, there is one thing I’m really scared of. I’ve never told anyone about it, though.”
Freezing mid-chew, every one of Squalo’s neurons suddenly fires on high alert. “Mmf—what? Whah the hell’sh it?”
Sitting up straighter, Takeshi looks serious now. “It’s… a ritual.” Sliding off the bed, the brat pads across the room, rummaging through the little decorative junk scattered around the guest suite: a vase, a ceramic cat, a bowl of potpourri. He grabs them all and starts arranging them on the floor. “You have to do it inside a magic circle,” he explains gravely as he sets the cat down.
Eyes narrowing, Squalo rises all the same, curiosity piqued. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Making the circle.”
“With a souvenir cat and potpourri?”
“Don’t question the ancient ways,” Takeshi says, deadly serious. Then he gestures toward the bed. “Come on. You have to sit inside it with me, or it doesn’t work.”
Against all reason and his own better judgment, Squalo obeys. He crosses the circle, plunks down on the edge of the bed, and glares. “Alright, fine. Now what?”
Legs folded and eyes closed, Takeshi starts chanting some kind of mumbo-jumbo nonsense: “In the name of the old spirits, by the power of—uh—whatever, I summon protection from the evil that haunts us…”
Squalo’s pulse picks up despite himself. He really does hate this supernatural bullshit, and will bear it only if it helps him accomplish his goal. “You’re actually feeling something?” he asks the brat sitting on the bed.
“Yeah,” Takeshi says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’m getting chills. Goosebumps. This is really scary.”
Smirking, Squalo feels the thrill of success spark to life in his chest. Finally! Finally, he’s got this smug brat rattled.
That’s when Takeshi opens one of his pretty eyes, glances at Squalo, and says with perfect seriousness, “And here comes the scariest part.”
Straightening, alert, Squalo leans in eagerly. “What?”
“The ritual has to be sealed with a kiss to the mouth.”
Squalo gapes. “…You’re kidding.”
“Would I joke about something this terrifying?” Takeshi looks offended at the suggestion. “I know, it’s totally creepy… Look, I’m shaking,” he says, holding up a slightly trembling hand.
Under any other circumstance, Squalo might’ve thought twice about how little sense this all makes, but he’s been chasing victory all night, and this might at long last be it.
So what if it’s weird? If it scares Takeshi, it’s worth it, and that’s all that’s on Squalo’s mind when he grabs the brat by the collar and kisses him, quick and decisive, like every action in Squalo’s life once he’s made up his mind.
There. Squalo did it. Now the brat’s got to be screaming—
Except Takeshi doesn’t scream. Instead, a low, satisfied hum rumbles in his chest, and he kisses back, his hand finding Squalo’s hair and tugging him closer. The brat’s mouth tastes sweet, and when a tongue slips into Squalo’s, there’s no mistaking the flavor of pumpkin from the mochi. Squalo’s coherent thoughts promptly short-circuit.
When they part, Takeshi rests his forehead against Squalo’s, breathing shallow. “Wow,” he murmurs. “That was almost as scary as I imagined.” Then, with a small smile, he adds, “Your eyes are wide.” His thumb brushes over Squalo’s cheekbone. “Are you scared too?”
Squalo’s too stunned to answer.
“I wanna be scared some more,” is the only warning he gets—spoken in Takeshi’s voice gone low and husky, a tone Squalo’s never heard before and one that sends a chill down his spine—before he’s being kissed all over again.
Takeshi’s hand in Squalo’s hair tilts his head just so, and the kiss turns from curious to hungry, an electric surge running backward through Squalo’s nerves, frying whatever part of his brain should be keeping track of what the hell’s happening and why he’s letting it. He’s pushed onto the bed, the goofy bat headband still perched on Takeshi’s head, and Squalo barely resists as he’s pressed into the mattress, mind scrambling to catch up.
This isn’t how Squalo’s revenge was supposed to go! This is an ambush. The roles have flipped, his heart pounding like a trapped animal against his ribs, the shock and—fuck—a traitorous thrill leaving him flushed and buzzing.
Not one to be outmaneuvered without a fight, Squalo shoves at Takeshi’s chest, gasping as he breaks the kiss. “You—you tricked me!”
Takeshi stares down at him. “I did?” he asks, all innocent confusion. “I thought maybe the ritual worked a little too well.” That last line comes with the innocent look dissolving into the smuggest, most self-satisfied grin Squalo’s ever seen, and he’s so done with this.
“VOOOOOOI! YOU SCUM! I’M GONNA SMOTHER YOU WITH A PILLOW IN YOUR SLEEP! I’LL—”
Well, Squalo would’ve liked to finish his train of thought; the only problem is, Takeshi’s mouth is on his again, annoyingly. Insistently. And whatever tracks that train was on sort of melt, buckle, and veer off into some entirely different direction. Some place hot, very hot, judging by the way his whole body’s heating up like a sudden fever.
“Wh’r we… doin’?” Squalo mumbles against Takeshi’s mouth in between kisses.
Fingers grab and pull, and somehow Takeshi’s managed to get Squalo’s shirt open; his palms move over Squalo’s chest, his sides, his stomach. “Somethin’ I’ve been wantin’ t’ do for a while now,” comes the breathless murmur, hands sliding lower, down his waist, hooking under Squalo’s thigh and giving it an enthusiastic squeeze.
Oh. Squalo’s undergoing a full recalibration at that new piece of information, even as Takeshi dips in for another sloppy kiss and Squalo feels like he’s about to lose what’s left of his composure.
“It’s honestly amazing how clueless you are,” Takeshi mutters, his breath warm as it ghosts over Squalo’s lips. “I’ve been flirting with you for ages and you never give me anything. You’re lucky you’re adorable, or I’d have given up by now.”
Their faces inches apart, the brat pulls back, watchung with lidded, molten hazel eyes that seem to set Squalo’s skin on fire. It’s a good thing he’s already half-naked, or he might’ve combusted from the heat flooding his face.
“I’m not adorable,” Squalo shoots back. “I’m a feared assassin who paves the battlefield with the blood of his enemies.” He snatches the stupid bat headband off Takeshi’s head, waves it for emphasis, tosses it onto the mattress. “And all that annoying crap you’ve been pulling, making me watch those dumb horror movies, the Ouija-board thing, that was flirting? You suck at it.”
“I beg to differ, Mr. Feared Assassin,” Takeshi says easily, grinning. “You’re the one who wouldn’t notice someone flirting with you if they hit you in the face with a sign that said I like you.”
For all Squalo’s pride, getting offended takes too much effort, and, besides, Takeshi’s right. Between dodging bourbon glasses flying his way and everything else life throws at him, who has time for feelings? So Squalo lets the comment slide; anyway, Takeshi’s moved on to kissing his way from Squalo’s collarbone to his neck, which pretty much ends the debate.
“Happy”—kiss—“Halloween”—kiss—“Squalo.” Takeshi says each word between small kisses along his jaw.
Squalo must be going soft from spending too much time with the wrong crowd, because his heart’s melting, and before he knows it, he’s got his arms around Takeshi, face buried in his neck like some pathetic, clingy idiot.
“Happy Halloween or whatever, brat,” Squalo mutters, words muffled against Takeshi’s shoulder. He knows the brat heard him from the way Takeshi sighs and pulls him closer.
Downstairs, the muffled laughter continues, but for Squalo, the world’s narrowed to just the two of them. There’s something about it that feels inevitable, like it was always meant to happen, and the fact that it’s unfolding amid stupid Halloween props and a fake ritual circle is just something they’ll laugh about later.
It isn’t terrible; in fact, it’s… kind of nice. A good Halloween, and one Squalo’s sure will give him sweeter dreams than last year’s.
🦇~ Postscript ~🦇
“VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOI!”
Yamamoto hears Squalo’s trademark shout echo from somewhere inside the prop shop. There’s a nervous, stammering voice in muffled reply, and he figures it must be the poor shop owner.
Hmmm. Maybe he should’ve gone in after all, even if Squalo had told him to stay out of it.
A couple of minutes later, Squalo storms out, long hair swishing behind him, counting banknotes and loose change in his hand.
“We can go,” he says curtly. “I got my deposit back.”
“Squalo…” Yamamoto starts, gently. “You really shouldn’t bully people like that, you know. I feel kind of bad for the guy.”
Squalo whirls around, indignant. “Bad for the guy?! How about bad for me?! That damn machine didn’t work properly at all, and I’m betting it was already broken when I rented it! Clearly they were after my deposit, and clearly it’s their fault I didn’t manage to scare you, or else I would’ve succeeded!”
Yamamoto’s pretty sure the fog machine had nothing to do with it; he lets it slide.
“And anyway, I didn’t bully him,” Squalo continues his diatribe. “I explained the situation, and the guy agreed with me.”
Oh, Squalo, Yamamoto thinks, amused. He throws an arm around the older man’s shoulders and pulls him close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek.
Freezing, Squalo stares open-mouthed and red-faced like Yamamoto’s committed the most indecent act imaginable. “Oi—knock it off, brat! We’re in public!” He tries to shrug him off, and Yamamoto only laughs and tightens his hold, intertwining their hands.
“I don’t care,” Yamamoto tells him. “Let them see how happy we are.”
“Speak for yourself!” Squalo snaps, finally managing to wrestle free and put a respectable distance between them, something Yamamoto is very much not okay with. He decides to make that point clear later… once they’re alone, behind a locked door. “I haven’t told anyone, and I intend to keep it that way! I’ll never hear the end of it if they find out. Imagine Bel and Luss! And that dynamite brat will give me hell, I’m sure! And Cavallone—”
Yamamoto cuts Squalo off with a well-angled kiss to the lips, and it’s a good thing the older man had been too busy ranting to notice him inching closer.
“If you don’t behave nicely,” Yamamoto smirks against Squalo’s lips, “I’m wearing the bat headband in the bedroom again tonight.”
Jerking back, Squalo’s eyes go wide. “You wouldn’t,” he sputters. “Not that cursed thing—”
“Oh, I would,” Yamamoto says, feeling merciless. “I liked the effect it had on you yesterday,” he adds, counting the way Squalo’s ears flush an even deeper shade of red than his face as yet another victory in his ongoing winning streak.
Squalo mutters a string of curses under his breath, and Yamamoto laughs, catching his hand once more and lacing their fingers together.
“Best Halloween ever,” Yamamoto says, grinning.
Glaring at Yamamoto, Squalo huffs through his nose, but doesn’t let go.
🎃 The End 🎃
