note: this might be a little rough around the edges but i hope you like it!
Ten years later, and Tsuna still wakes up not knowing whose body heās in.
He knows where he is. Of course he does. The Iron Fortress, stalwart home to the Vongola Famiglia for decades, has changed so little in some ways. Sure, there are the shallow aesthetic differences which mark every bossā change of taste, or the deeper technological changes which have signaled the passage of timeā¦. But, when Tsuna wakes up with his eyes to the ceiling, he sees none of that. All he see is the same ceiling sheās- heās- <i>theyāve</i>- seen for decades. Them, the bosses of the Vongola.
Them, those people whose bloody memories he was forced to see when he was only fourteen, in a future that demanded such a sacrifice.
Sometimes, the confusion is only brief, a passing thing where heās barely awake in the early morning where his anxiety from the previous night warps into something else. He goes to bed Tsuna, worrying at the idea of a meeting with another two Families over a territorial dispute thatās starting to spill over into strictly Vongola lands. When he awakes, for that half second, he thinks of how heāll have to show strength, how heāll have to demonstrate to everyone that he can carry on, because it doesnāt matter that Ricardo is dead, it canāt matter-
Tsuna blinks both fogginess and decades old power struggles out of his eyes. Heās fully himself again by the time he sits up straight in his bed, and can see his phone blinking brightly over on the dresser.
Those are the average days, for him. Theyāre not perfect days, <i>obviously</i>. Perfect days are when he goes to sleep and wakes up, with the only thing bothering him being how comfortable it is to stay in bed. Yet āaverageā is still average, a simple and unobtrusive medium thatās maybe a little annoying but would be far worse if it lasted for more than a second or two.
Some days, itās not so simple and easy.
Sometimes, he doesnāt even make it to 'dayā.
Was it so bad in Japan? Tsuna isnāt sure. He feels like it canāt have been, can it, or else how on earth would he have ever made it through middle and high school? Maybe it was because so much happened, in those early years, because whatās a quiet month or two? Meeting Shimon, dealing with the Arcobaleno, every other mess that came after that as him and all his own struggled to become polished adults instead of frantic childrenā¦ When youāre having an anxiety adrenaline crash after fighting someone like Xanxus, not counting all the injuries, well, dreams donāt get a chance to grab a hold. The darkness of simple sleep overrules, overtakes them. These days, itās not so simple.
Outright war, shows of overwhelming might, battle royales- those kinds of things arenāt actually the <i>norm</i> in the underworld, funnily enough. Sure, thereās a lot of it in some ways, which he thinks might have something to do with a kind of cultural machismo. Hit and runs to take out enemies in the really violent territorial disputes, self absorbed posturing just enough to skirt the limit of the unspoken rulesā¦ Violence still happens. Itās the mafia, the dark and gory underworld. But the real power playsā¦ No. Those are all in the politics, who does what business where, the kind of allies and enemies a Family makes. Such problems arenāt the kind that can be finished, done and <i>done</i>, with simple fights, no matter if theyāre brawls or locked to the death. Itās just as much as what he dealt with in middle schoolā¦ only it never stops, but it never escalates, either. He has to work so damn hard to keep it from escalating, even if that has it lurking in the background of his every dayā¦
Exhausting, but not exhausting to knock mind and body completely out in the way a brawl can. Itās not enough.
He wakes up, legs feeling weak, soul feeling weak, and he blindly gropes to the side of his bed for the can that should be there. Coyote tells him he should rest more, that heās grown too old for working overnight, but he grew too old for this station <i>years</i> ago. This shouldnāt be his bed. This shouldnāt be his title. Yet if he got so preoccupied on all the things that shouldnāt be, heād get nothing done, nothing at all. Hopefully Brow Jr. wonāt tell on him. Itās justā¦ Thereās no cane nearby, and he swears quietly in Italian. Fine. Heāll get up on his own. He does get up on his own. He has his own two legs, after all, weak though they may be. They shake beneath him, carrying him out of his room, but they still carry him regardless. Maybe he can hold on long enough to hand over the reins to someone else. But to fight his own son, ice over his knuckles- wasnāt it his cane- ?
Gokudera finds him standing dully in the hallway, staring blankly at a reflection he expected to have wrinkles and graying hair instead of wild messy brown and bags under his eyes. āTenth!ā he says, because some old habits never leave, and often have a tendency of popping up under stress. He corrects himself a second later, even as heās rushing over, one hand lighting gently along his shoulder. āTsuna. You should be asleep."
A little more awake, he looks up at Gokudera. His hair catches the attention of the dim moonlight, here, and he almost looks like a ghost this way. Yet he is a ghost of his own making, not one of crawling tattoos and dark eyes. That, at least, is some reassurance. Itās one thing to lose himself; he couldnāt bear it if he lost his friends at the same time. That enough draws a faint smile onto Tsunaās face, although he imagines his exhaustion takes away from some of the sincerity. "Iām pretty sure I could say the same for you,ā he says, looking his right hand man up and down. Itās the exact same suit, plus a lot more wrinkles, he saw him wear at dinner- or maybe itās ālast nightās dinnerā by this point. He canāt remember looking at a clock. āHypocrisy is why Lambo doesnāt listen to you sometimes."
In a lot of ways, Gokudera has grown. His face still scrunches up into an almost scowl, however, and the old familiarity of it is soothing. "Lambo doesnāt <i>listen</i> because heās a brat,ā he says, which is the same thing heās had to say about Lambo for a decade now and only sometimes really means it nowadays. āBut thatās besides the point.ā
āWhich is that we <i>both</i> need to be asleep,ā Tsuna points out. Gokudera looks like he wants to protest, but Tsuna doesnāt let him. Instead, he takes his hand away from his shoulder, and takes in the sensation of quiet burn scars on the fingertips. Yeah. Yeah, this is definitely Gokudera. Gokudera Hayato, and no one else. āIāll go to sleep if you do, too. Howās that for an offer you canāt refuse?ā
That last line draws out a slight huff of a laugh from Gokudera, eyes crinkling in faint amused fondness. āWe need to stop you from watching dumb movies like that,ā he tells him, all the while surrendering to Tsunaās quiet lead. āItās going to influence your work something awful."
He wakes up beneath the same ceiling his cousin once slept under, the sound of quiet movement in his ear, and fire burning in his veins. Thereās no need to think twice about it. In the blink of an eye, he tears off his blanket with one hand. On the other, flames spark into life, crackling along his knuckles and flaring from his fingertips. They donāt burn as hot as he wants them to, as they should, but he can worry about that later, after heās taken care of the assassin in Giottoās- in his bedroom. Thereās no doubt itās him theyāre coming for, however. Day after day, he has to worry about being so unpopular, and he knows why. Giotto was the charismatic one, the charming one, the one whose sky spread out so encompassing. In contrast, his sky is a stormy one, a red one that sailors tell each other to watch out for instead of going out to see. Sure, itās through him that the Vongola is growing stronger and strongerā¦ but strength breeds enemies. Breeds resentment, even from allies, that heās not that warm sky, that Giotto isnāt still here instead of who knows where in the whole world. Many are morning his absence, still.
Do they think he isnāt mourning, too!? Him, the one whoās actually been by Giottoās side for so many god damn years?!
His flame doesnāt grow any brighter in his hand, doesnāt feed off of his rage, but he feels comfortable as it wraps around him and the flame flares forward in a violent burst. For a brief flickering moment, his room- Giottoās room- is so bright that it could be daytime again instead of cool night. Bright enough, with his flame before him, that he doesnāt immediately see who it is thatās so bold as to come after him in his own home. Then thereās a flare of purple, ravenous and strong, that burns through his own flames, sets them scattering like embers. There, past the burning orange, he seesā¦ He seesā¦
Thereās a face he sure knows, beneath that stupid mop of hair he definitely knows, and he feels his lip curls. He would have understood it coming from any of Giottoās, and maybe itās no surprise, not really, to see that itās Alaude who broke from his cousinās wishes and is here now with those unreadable eyes of is. Cold and vicious Alaude, distant from Family and kin alikeā¦ He had respected him, once, for his power, for the friendship which tied the two of them to Giotto.
But he doesnāt respect him so much that he wonāt shatter his fucking jaw for coming after him.
He leaps over his bed, fingers curled into a burning fist, and a flurry of blows are exchanged between them. His blood heats up all the hotter as heās reminded of Alaudeās skill with each parry and dodge. Maybe this is what heās wanted. All the political bullshit, that was Giotto, but this- His hand jerks up to stop a weapon from slamming into his face, still brilliant with his will. A good chance to disarm, or just to tug him right into another hit-
"Youāre not meant to do this,ā Alaude says, tone the same but the language- different? Japanese? For a split second, he pauses, and his eyes follow the gaze of his would-be assassin, his cousinās treasured friend. Heās looking towards where his fingers are curled around the tonfa, knuckles pressing out sharply against his skin, andā¦ Theyāre burning, skin drying, splitting, and what the <i>hell</i>, that isnāt right, his flames should never hurt him, heās not that weak, he doesnāt need gloves like his cousin- except he does, he should, where-
The <i>other</i> tonfa comes in hard, slams into his skull, and sends him crashing right into the floor.
Sometimes, heās grateful that he was made to learn the English his schools insisted upon or the Italian required for running a mafia. Sure, that meant Reborn did such things like dropping him in the middle of Germany Ā with the bare minimum of preparation, ordering him to make his way back to Italy, somehow, but now Tsuna knows all sorts of languages, even if some are better than others. More importantly, he knows the most important part of other languages, which are the swear words. Tsuna makes sure to swear a whole <i>fucking</i> lot as he writhes there on the floor with his hands clutching at his head. Thereās a certain comfort to any languageās foul subset, and he wrings every single one he knows for what heās worth.
Standing over him, Hibari clearly has no sympathy for him as he hooks his tonfa back onto his hip. Displaying weapons so openly is a privilege he tries to restrict to the Vongola base, his own various headquarters, or Namimori. After all, as wild as it may sound, there are <i>some</i> places in the world which donāt know to back away quickly at just hearing his name. Hands free, he leans down and hauls Tsuna up by the back of his pajamas. āAwake?ā he asks bluntly while Tsunaās heels drag along the floor.
āIām awake,ā he groans, not protesting when heās deposited on his bed with all the grace of a discarded toy. āAnd with a headache.ā
Hibari tilts his chin up, a clear sign that he doesnāt care in the <i>slightest</i>, and merely holds one hand out expectantly. Well, itās not as if Tsuna cares to wander around with his injuries bared. He has some sense. Silently, he surrenders both of his hands to Hibari and watches his Guardian get to work. It takes a certainā¦ <i>something</i>for someone to have their Flames burn openly on their skin without any medium or harm. The Arcobaleno can do it, because thereās a reason theyāre the best. Xanxus can do it, because Tsuna is pretty sure his level of spite acts as a protective barrier against his own rage. Tsuna is neither the best at anything or spiteful enough. Thus, wellā¦
Thus the way his fingers quiver from little bursts of pain, and patches of skin so burned and dry that the blood is creeping down already. Despite the distant expression on his face and the way Tsunaās skull is still pounding, Hibari holds his hands so delicately while Cloud flames curl out from his ring. There are still some days where it seems like it might have been a mistake to ever let Hibari meet Skull, quick as he was to pick up on the unique way the stuntsman could regenerate from his injuries. But some daysā¦ Some nightsā¦ Itās alright. His hands are just cool enough against the heat that still seems to burn from beneath Tsunaās skin, and his Cloud flames push away the torn skin and hurt. From underneath his bangs, messier than usual in the dead of night, Tsuna looks up at Hibariās face.
He remembers Alaude. Not because he really <i>wants</i> to, but he remembers. Hibariās skin is a little darker than his, he thinks. A little more tanned, as a consequence of having fights anywhere and everywhere no matter whatever. Ice blue eyes are also strikingly different than Hibariās gray ones, eyes which look night black right now, with none of the lights turned on. And, wellā¦ Quite obviously, Hibari isnāt a blond. How on earth could he have mistaken him for a blond? Tsunaās gaze slides back down to their joined hands. It must have been the light, the burning flare of his own Flames, washing everything in such bright color.
The light, and memories that donāt belong to him.
But Hibari is here. Heās here. Leaning in just a little closer and not being rebuffed for it, Tsuna closes his eyes and lets that be enough.
She wakes up, mist on the back of her tongue, and thinks <i>I am going to drag that shit-sucking ghost off to meet the saints by his nostrils with my own two hands, so help me God</i>. For whatever reason, heās right by her bed, which is good. By her bed means heās in easy reach, all the moreso since heās crouched down. She thrusts her hand out, seeing through his illusions and going a little more to the right in order to grab him by the hair. Different hairstyle, just a little, and it might even be better than what heās had previously, but that was never a high bar to pass. Doesnāt really matter. However his hair is styled or cut, itās still too long, and thus perfect to dig her fingers in so that she can slam his head into her bed frame.
Her own personal ghost snarls out a swear, startled for once, and thatās just fine by her. Sheās the one who should be really swearing! Theyāre in the middle of a <i>war</i>, a fight against the utterly selfish, and she doesnāt need some gaudy specter hovering over her shoulder. Pushing herself forward, feet digging into the mattress, she forces them both onto the ground. Yet even as she does so, something is already wrong. Her body doesnāt feel right, doesnāt have the subtle weight in her hips sheās looking for to help keep herself anchored. In the brief moment where sheās trying to account for that, the hair in her hands is already twisting away into nothingness. God Almighty, if she doesnāt hate illusionists.
Pushing herself up from her knees to her feet, she narrows her eyes at the jackass whoās already forming on the other side of her room. Heās wearing such a smugly amused smirk underneath those sharp eyes of his, it makes her fingers twitch for her crossbow. Where is it, anyway? She needs to grab it before he can pull any nonsense, needs to grab it and put an end to all for this, for Family, for country, for her son-
āNow, Tenth Vongola, I thought you said I was <i>always</i> welcome in the Vongolaās home base?ā
Tenth? But thatās at least two- Squeezing tired eyes shut barely helps, but any help is good enough, right now. No, not a ghost, but a stupid self-named corpse-
When Tsuna opens his eyes, he makes sure to look down over at his bed and groans, softly. The back of his head is still cotton-thick with old war strategies, guerrilla tactics, but he pushes all of that aside. āStop stealing my snacks! I have to beg Kusakabe to get them!ā
Because heās a jerk, and some other words Tsuna tries to restrain himself from using too often because heās not Xanxu, Mukuro carelessly dismisses the complaint. āSo stingy,ā he says loftily, as if he wasnāt the one who broke into a mafia donās bedroom atā¦ What time is it, even, midnight? No, not midnight, two in the morning. As if he wasnāt the one who broke into a mafia donās bedroom at two in the morning to dig underneath his bed for some Kit-Kats. āTrouble sleeping?"
From anyone else, it would be concern. From Mukuro, it comes off intentionally condescending and arrogant, and Tsuna looks back at him with his hands dragging down his face. "I mean, youāre the one who woke me up, because you were stealing the snacks I have under my bed, because youāre apparently too cheap to buy your own, despite the fact that I know you have plenty of illegal money,ā Tsuna points out rather bluntly. He got used to Mukuroās melodramatic nonsense sometime around the start of middle school, a fact which heās pretty sure the illusionist is still sulking about even all these years later. Normally, he tries to play nice with him, but, well. Itās two in the morning and heās down a whole box of Kit-Kats. āBut, sure, I guess Iām having trouble sleeping.ā
Mukuro huffs out a small laugh, as if Tsuna is just lying and not, in fact, calling him out. He can still tell heās a little put out, however. Since the time they were teenagers, Mukuro has become a marginally better actor. Itās just that heās still at the level of skill that, without his illusions, Tsuna can pick up on his tells. Or maybe itās just hyper intuition coming through yet again, as it has for every Vongola boss in the previous generations. āYou may want to be careful, Vongola,ā he drawls, his pace around the room matching the roll of his voice. He really is acting as if he hasnāt heard him, hasnāt he? The absolute <i>child</i>. Sometimes it amazes Tsuna how immature so many criminals in the underworld are, but, then, that probably explains why heās so good at his job. Mukuro continues to talk, snapping him out of his own mental bubble. āIf youāre so out of it, who knows what could happen to a mafia don in middle of the night?ā
Itās probably supposed to be threatening. Tsuna just blinks at him. āAre you worried about me?ā
Yep, there goes the act, and Mukuro scowls while bristling. āYou are my future vessel,ā he sneers, already emitting enough mist to successfully woo a fog machine. āAnd I wonāt have anyone touch what is mine.ā
āGay!ā Tsuna calls into his room, even as the mist dissipates quite rapidly through the barest cracks of his window. Considering his own orientation, itās not like thatās an <i>insult</i>, but, you know. He wonāt miss out on a chance to mock Mukuroās inability to admit to caring about anyone. Whatever. With his room now fully empty, none of his senses hinting that something is hidden and lying in wait, he rubs his face and looks around. Two in the morningā¦ Yeah. Thatās still early enough for him to try and get some more sleep again, he thinks. He might wake up a little late, the adrenaline leaking out of him still taking its sweet timeā¦ But not late enough to matter.
Itās right as heās tugging the blankets up over his shoulders that he comes to a pause, and buries his face into his pillow with a loud groan. āI should have asked him if he knows how to deal with this sort of thing-!ā
Everyone brings with them their own bloody memories, their own pain and misery and trials. It weighs on him, tires him, but, even for all his wondering if it will ever stop- surely it has to- Tsuna thinks he could manage it. Ricardoās bitter and blinding rage, Danielaās heavy war, the exhaustion which dragged down Timoteo with every passing year- he could manage it. He really thinks he could.
But their memories arenāt the ones that visit him the most.
Hands shake him awake one morning, a laughing voice telling him things in Japanese, and he blearily thinks <i>Ugetsu, I canāt understand Japanese so easily yet, slow down, slow down</i>. It takes him five minutes of sitting up in bed, listening and blinking consciousness into his eyes, before his mind clears and he sees Yamamoto sitting there on the bed with him, gesturing and laughing still.
One night he wakes up, the weight of the ring hanging from his neck too heavy for sleep, and goes wandering through the halls. A lanky teenage figure, trying to slink in a way that doesnāt really befit someone who was once nobility, emerges from the kitchens with an armful of sweets and freezes up. He hardly notices, just rambling about how he was looking for Knuckle, he feels better when he speaks to the priest, donāt you agree, Lampo? Every response is quietly noncommital, enough to keep the converation going as heās herded back to his room. Tsuna doesnāt even realize whatās happened until heās woken up, and thereās a small tray of cookies by his bedside.
Chrome is the only one who wakes him up immediately, whose appearance doesnāt drag him down into the depths of dead peopleās memories. Even better, her success rate of being around always seems to be more rather than not- finding him in the halls, waiting patiently in a library older than his parents, even sometimes just sitting at the end of his bed as if it isnāt the middle of the night and this wouldnāt be mildly worrying behavior from anyone else. (Or maybe itās still worrying. Hibari has his excuse, but Tsuna has some questions about Mukuro and Chromeās habits.)
āI just wish theyād stop happening so <i>much</i>,ā he tell her in the quiet of his room, woken up particularly early by the bitter taste of something that almost tastes like betrayal and misery. Theyāre scrunched up together on his bed, legs crossed, facing one another. Chrome has his hand balanced carefully in hers, carefully working on applying polish to his nails. Unlike Kyoko, Haru doesnāt have the privilege of being related to a Vongola Guardian, and all the money and services which come available with that. But because theyāre Family, it seems all three girls have decided to not have their nails painted by anyone but each other. So Kyoko takes care of Chromeās, and Chrome takes care of Haruās, and sometimes a guinea pig is needed before anything is tried. At least, Chrome likes to use him as a guinea pig, and Tsuna lets her. Tonight, itās a practice in gradient.
Itās not very 'manlyā, but Tsuna kind of gave up on <i>that</i> years ago even before he started talking regularly to Mammon, who discarded gender before he was born. Or Mukuro and Chrome, who seem to easily exchange it as much as anything else between them. He thought maybe Reborn would have problems with it, the first time he saw it on Tsunaās fingertips, but all his hellish teacher did was ask Chrome if she would have the time to do his, sometimes. Tsuna isnāt sure why he expected anything different from the guy who regularly wears whatever he wants, skirt or trousers or whatever.
So, yeah. He lets Chrome practice on him sometimes. As the head of the most powerful crime syndicate in the entire world, everyone else can die mad about it if they have a problem.
āYou should go into the ring and tell them to stop bothering you,ā Chrome says quietly, head bowed in concentration. Adding on an even coat is truly a trial, as it turns out, and thatās half the hardest part. At least theyāve moved onto applying liquid latex over the now brilliant white of his nail. He thinks he likes it. The color stands out nicely against the scars of his hands. āThatās where it started.ā
A soft huff of dry laughter slips out from between his teeth. āI donāt think thatās how it works." Ā It would sure be nice if it did. Now that heās no longer a teenager in way over his head, having no idea what to expect, he thinks he would have a lot to say to the parts of the Vongola that are still lingering in the ring. Some admonishments, some concerns, questions about them now that he has such intimate access to their lives in more ways than one.
With the latex applied, Chrome moves onto applying polish to a makeup sponge. Holding the colors up to what meager light filters in through his window, she hums. "Did the Eighth ever wear nail polish?ā she asks.
Itās so strange, to hear their titles instead of their names. He knows so much about each and every one of them, more than he could have ever asked for. Giotto, the first, bright fire burned down to embers from something bigger than he could have dreamed, big enough for betrayal to be an inevitability instead of a nightmare. Ricardo, the second, tossing all his rage and bitterness and loss to the fire which burned out in a blast because heād never have it any other way. Miserably, heād never have it any other way. The stories, the memories, go on and on, from Callisto sliding his dagger into unsuspecting backs to keep his own safe, all the way to the Daniela, the eighth, surviving a bloody war to try and make a Family her predecessors would be truly proud of.
āNo, I donāt think so,ā he tells Chrome, watching her apply a second gradient coat and layer it with something clear. āIt was kind of a luxury for along time, and then she just didnāt bother.ā His door handle clicks a little, drawing his attention, but he already knows the drifting cloud that is right outside his door. Itās fine.
Others survived these memories and, with Chrome painting his nails and Hibari inviting himself in like always, Tsuna feels like he knows why.
ARC 2 - Oslekharbour (Finch)
ARC 3 - Pickingweeds (Choi)
Hope you enjoy these lil doodles! I had a lot of fun drawing the golden trio + hibari as reindeer!
(p.s. Reborn is totally responsible for this)
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