A ray of sunshine
{ CozartĀ }
The dream-like expression was quickly replaced by a frown at the bitter tone the blonde adopted. Leaning back Cozart draped one arm over the back of his chair,strange eyes taking on a calculating look. The position was remnant of the one he often took back in the 15th century when encountering someone(s) whom he wished to let know he wouldnāt be talked down or back away. It was one of powerful confidence,a habitual position.
He let silence settle for a few moments,he himself thinking back to the days of old-but instead of just the negatives he also looked at the positives. āSi,I remember how two groups of people with little in common banded together to help the town they loved,how some of those very same people went against the social expectations to find their own bit of happiness,how those two groups rose high agaisnt the odds and began to make that difference. I remember how things had been happy instead of the exile I imposed upon the both of us.ā
Why did the very alusion to Spade always bring up such arguments? If Cozart could erase the man from existance he would. āI remember forcing my own children to grow up on an island away from everything that would have let them to have a normal childhood.ā His grip upon the chair tightened as he worked his jaw,trying to calm himself down. Cozart didnāt like being angry-it turned him into a different more dangerous person. āI want to do right this time,with this second chance Iāve been given.ā
Ā Ā Ā Giottoās eyes narrowed at Cozartās stance change. He knewĀ that position, that look in Cozartās eye, and the implications of his change in demeanour. Heād seen it so many times in the past and it was fascinating to see how littleĀ heād changed at his center since starting this new life. He also marvleed at how his own body language shifted to matchāankle on knee, elbows resting on the armrest with his fingers interlaced before his mouth. It was a position Vongola Primo often settled into when he knew he was in for a longĀ debate but had no intentions of backing down.Ā Cozart was not the only one whose habits remained unchanged by time, it seemed.
Ā Ā Ā āAnd IĀ remember how those two groups met their end. I watched as things spiraled out of control and beyond repair to the point where my own self imposed exile was more an inevitability than a choice,ā Giotto replied cooly, the pads of his fingers pressing hard against the knuckles of his hands.Ā āI was the one who let things slip so badly that not only were your children deprived of a proper childhood, but my own wife and child didnāt even know my real name by the time Iād decided to try at a family.ā
Ā Ā Ā They were dancing around the taboo name that caused nothing but hearache and near explosive conflict between themāand yet the argument itself was the same. Giotto ever defending his guardianās actions, and Cozart never willing to offer any sort of forgiveness for the man and what his betrayl wroght upon their lives. Cozart always saw things as coming back to Daemonās mistakes, but Giotto could only ever start with his own.
Ā Ā Ā āI too, want to live the life we couldnāt back thenābut I didnāt demonstrate very spectaular judgement or parenting ability then, so Iād rather not risk the outcome being the same now for that very childās sake.ā
He could feel it,feel the anger rising the more Giotto spoke. Why? Why was it that the blond could forgive everyone but himself? It always seemed like he even went out of his way to find a way that it could be his fault and not the cause of someone else's actions...even if it ended up causing even more problems down the road. Cozart's hands clenched as the frustration and anger grew- if he still had his ability things would be folding in on themselves. A bitter laugh made its way out of his mouth.
"How humorous that you can forgive the murderer of so many people,the destroyer of families yet can't find the slightest will to even try and forgive yourself." As soon as the words left the red-head's mouth he both regretted them and felt relief at finally saying those thoughts out loud. For centuries he had kept them in a dark corner of his mind,hoping to banish those poisonous thoughts.
Cozart could already see the retort beginning in his husband's mind but before Giotto could speak-anger filling his own blue eyes- the memory Cozart had been trying so hard to forget burst forth in a torrent of anguished words,pain lacing every syllable . "HE IS THE REASON ISABELLA AND THE INFANT DIED!" There,the secret he had told no-one was out in the open leaving him feeling like a hollow shell.
