.
.
.
are you ready to light up the world?
.
.
.
(lightning)
The first time Miura Haru is given a ring, she is sixteen years old and it is the most unromantic gesture she could have ever thought of. (It may have been dramatic, and long-awaited, and breath-taking, but romantic it is not.)
It is … an ugly ring made of sterling silver, heavy in her hand, with a small green crest to indicate the nature of the ring.
It is a man's ring, a fighter's ring, and Haru-… Haru curls her hand around the hideous thing and feels more pride than she ever has before.
Tsuna, close at her side, as well as Rokudo Mukuro, smiling enigmatically as usual, gaze at her intently as she puts the ring on the middle finger of her left hand and lets her Flame spike up, just like she's practised.
Mukuro smiles contently (for it was him who suggested that the girls finally shed their cheerleading uniforms), and even chuckles a little as Tsuna sighs, defeated.
"M.M. will be able to train with you," he says with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat look obedient. "She, too, has the Lightning Flame. My dear Chrome-chan and I will work with Kyouko."
Haru is too nice when it concerns Tsuna, which is why she doesn't grin, throw Thank-yous at the-… shadier part of his Mist Guardian, or dance a victory dance. She just nods—humbly, she thinks—and looks at Tsuna for approval.
"Jeez," he mutters and gives her a weak smile, "at least you're better than Lambo … was … fifteen years ago."
Haru is nice, she reminds herself, which is why she kicks him in the shin instead somewhere else.
(Vongola Alessa)
Somehow, Haru gets a lot of rings over the course of her life.
She doesn't really suspect anything when she knocks on the door of Vongola Nono's Lightning Guardian, Ganauche III. Really, how could she? She's eighteen, young and full of ambition and drive; like every other eighteen-year-old, she has no idea what her life will bring.
When she enters the room, the regal looking man sits at his desk, hands clasped together and a small smile on his face.
"You called for me, Monsieur Ganauche?" she asks in French.
"Ah, yes, I did," he answers in fluent but accented Japanese. She doesn't know how often she has told him that he needn't speak Japanese with her, that her French is perfectly alright, but he just smiles that patient, amused smile with raised eyebrows and continues on. She doesn't think he will change this lifetime. "Thank you for meeting me, Mademoiselle Haru."
Well, she doesn't care if they will continue speaking in two languages—her in French with her Japanese accent, him in Japanese with his Belgianaccent.
He motions toward a chair in front of his desk and she complies and sits.
She doesn't start a conversation, opting to sit there quietly, as she wonders what he wants from her, since she didn't really ever have contact with him. He has acted as Lambo-chan's tutor last year and has helped her a little with her Flame—but nothing much, especially nothing warranting a personal interlocution.
"Did you know that I am Vongola Ottava's nephew?"
"You're Nono's cousin?" Haru answers with a question, too perplexed to be mindful of pleasantries.
"Yes, I am." He smiles ruefully. "I must admit, maybe, for the first years, that was the reason Timoteo considered choosing me as his Lightning Guardian. I was not the most–... reliable person in my youth and I am twelve years younger than him." He stops himself before he starts telling tales, as he so likes to do. "However, that was not the reason I wanted to speak with you.
Daniela was my aunt and she passed something on to me— that is, the task of giving the female companions of each generation of Guardians a gift—and a responsibility."
Haru sits quietly for a few seconds, processing what she has been told. "Were there never any … females in Nono's generation, Monsieur Ganauche?"
He sighs and shakes his head: "Not many. No one important. Timoteo's first wife died early, and his second partner never wanted to get involved with the ugly side of the Mafia. And his children, all boys, are dead, too. It was a hard time for the whole Mafia during our active guardianship. Any women or girls romantically involved with the Guardians were civilians; the most they knew was that we were part of a Mafia family."
Haru smiles a little, and scoffs a little, all at the same time. "Also, the Mafia was not quite ready for feminism, right?"
Monsieur Ganauche frowns at first, but then he starts chuckling until it almost sounds like laughter. "Oh, mon cher," he smiles fondly, "you may be quite right. That the eighth Vongola boss was a woman caused quite the, well, ruckus, and Timoteo as her son did not have an easy time. But this is in the past now. Females are, in the eyes of most men, just as worthy as male. Lal Mirch is a good example. The head of the Giglio Nero Family, dear Uni, is another. And Daniela always knew the things females could do—namely, the same men could. She understood it, and she knew that I understand, too. As a convey for her message, I will give you this," he hands her a velvety box and smiles at her as she opens it to see an antique gold ring, so old it looks more green and grey than yellow, but with a stone in the middle that still sparkles and shines.
Haru can't help the quiet gasp that leaves her mouth at the exquisite piece of jewellery.
"It's from the Victorian Era," Monsieur Ganauche explains, "one of Vongola Quinta's heirlooms."
"It's beautiful, but Monsieur, I can't accept it."
"Even if you don't like it, you will have to, mon cher," he answers mildly. "But it is not the most important thing I will give you." With these words, he slides a leather-bound, thin book towards her which has the letters to the word NOTES pressed in the front. Haru gazes at him quizzically, puts the ring aside, and opens the note book. There is a letter stuck in the middle of it.
They will never be able to truly acknowledge what we do for them.
That we cook, that we clean, that we protect what does not need protection, that we give them a home, that we give them love, that we are picture-perfect—this they see, and for that, they love us dearly. But what we relinquish to do this, what excruciating womanness is needed to do what we have to do, they will never see.
They are protective, these men of Omertà and Pride and Flame, and they do not know the harm they do to us, every time they leave us behind—when our Flames are burning as brightly as theirs are, when we are not physically weaker than they are, when we are no less cunning than they are.
But I will not give up my hope.
I will not give up my dream of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with these dear men of mine, about protecting what is mine to protect and to love, about not only being equal to men, but be seen as such.
I believe you will not, as well.
Because you love them as much as we all do, have, and will.
Do not give up for there is always hope, and always growth. Someday, there will be men who will be ready to listen to us, to look us in the eyes with all our fire and Will.
All my strength,
Alessa
"Vongola Alessa was the first full-flegded-... probably, feminist is the right word, in the Vongola. However, it was the mistress of Vongola Secondo's Storm Guardian who began the tradition of the diaries. We have a whole chest of them—you and Mademoiselle Kyouko may look through them whenever you want."
"I will," Haru promises with a smile.
Ganauche III nods, seeming content. "How about another cup of tea?"
(Tsuna)
When he gives her the ring (gold with a purplish topaz), she is too shocked to be angry or hurt—so instead, she smiles with cheer and thanks him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise: "I won't let you down." (It's the truth because hurt feelings won't stop the loyalty she has for him.)
Hours later, Yamamoto finds her on a park bench. He doesn't say anything at first, just dons a woollen hat on her snow-covered head and gives her a hot chocolate in one of these stylish to-go cups.
It's impolite not to give her thanks to him, Haru thinks as she curls her hands around the warm, comforting cup. She's impolite. She should at least ask when he came back from Venezuela or Mexico or where ever they went, coo about how tanned and happy and different he looks. They haven't seen each other for a long time, and he must think she's truly an idiot for still being who she is.
Looking at him, that boy who went away to see the world, to breathe, to just be—it's like a punch in the gut.
Because she's just plain Haru. Still same old Haru with flaws so many that her assets just fade into meaninglessness. Still that loud girl who loves too much and breaks too easily—and didn't she promise herself that she would change? That she would be strong?
How can it be that she is still so startlingly weak?
Finally, Yamamoto breaks the silence and asks nonchalantly: "Where are your gloves, Haru?"
"I forgot them," she answers; then, "I'm really stupid."
Yamamoto-kun still smiles like she remembers—as if there was nothing that didn't deserve his smile, which is humble and up-lifting and nice. "You're not. You're the cleverest girl I know." His gaze is on the frozen lake in front of them but his voice warms her fingertips more than any hot chocolate could.
He doesn't react when she leans her head on his shoulder, exhausted, and he doesn't look at her when she starts crying silently. He sighs again and puts an arm around her shoulder. "Please don't tell him, Yamamoto-kun," she whispers. Please don't tell him that I cried because he gave me a ring to bind me to Vongola one day after he gave Kyouko a ring to bind her to himself. Please don't tell him that I'm still in love with him.
Please don't judge me for wanting an engaged man.
Her heart hurts.
"Okay," he says and she hears the reluctance in his voice.
"Thank you," she wipes her wet face with cold, stiff hands, for bringing hot chocolate, for not telling Tsuna-san, for being my friend, for taking care of me. He smiles kindly—such kind, kind eyes—and adjusts the hat on her head.
They only start walking home when it gets too cold to ignore their shared silence over the clatter of their teeth.
And in the darkness of the dim street lamps, she finally finds the courage to tell him what's going on in her mind.
"It hurts, and I have to let go," she says.
His smile is slow—steady, comforting. "It does, and you have to," he answers finally, and Haru is not quite so sure whether he sounds wistful or sad.
(Kyouko)
It's her best friend who gives her her fourth ring. It will be the only modern, fashionable ring in her collection (she's more of a statement-necklaces-silver-bracelets kind of girl) and Haru falls in love with it the moment she opens the present box.
"Kyouko-chan, you shouldn't have …" She trails off to take out the silver ring and examine it more closely. "But it is gorgeous." She grins at her friend. "Thanks so much, Kyouko-chan! This is the best birthday present I've gotten—yet," she ads with a twinkle in her eyes.
Kyouko just smiles and curls her fingers around her tea cup. "I'm happy you like it, Haru-chan. You only get twenty-four once."
"Yay," Haru grins drily, "behold the importance of turning twenty-four."
Kyouko shakes her head a her friend, amused.
"Did you plan a surprise birthday party?" Haru, after sipping at her cappuccino, asks mildly.
Kyouko shakes her head, causing the long honey-brown locks of hair to fly around her head gracefully, and makes the universal motion of locking her mouth and throwing the key to it away. "If I would tell you, it wouldn't be a surprise party anymore, would it?"
"Vongola surprises make me uncomfortable," Haru admits into her half-empty (half-full? Half-filled) cup. "Don't you remember what happened at your engagement party?"
Kyouko twist her engagement ring a little—a habit she has adopted since accepting Tsuna's proposal—and says: "Of course I do." She adds in afterthought, smiling: "Don't act like you don't love them."
"Oh, I do," Haru answers, "very much. That doesn't mean that they don't make me uncomfortable once in a while. I honestly don't want to visit the future again just because Lambo-chan and Gokudera-san squabble all the time. I still have these strange nightmares about frogs and exorcists in aprons …"
When the waiter comes to ask if they have any other wishes (he's a flirt, both women know, but of the sweet no-strings-attached-café-flirting kind), they both answer in negative, so Kyouko asks for the check, and because they've been friends for so long, Haru doesn't even argue for pleasantries' sake to pay but lets her pay for the delicious pastries and beverages they had.
The whole time, she wills herself to speak with Kyouko about that. That which slowly contaminates their friendship. That what weighs them down.
It'd be so easy.
Kyouko-chan, we both know that we liked the same boy, and that I never stood a chance, and that I was just too stupid to give up—so it's not your fault that I'm sad right now. My heart won't break. There are too many people who take care of it.
I don't begrudge you the happiness you have with Tsuna-san. I'm so happy that you two are going to marry—but it still hurts a little bit.
Is that okay?
But the words don't want to leave her mouth.
(Vongola Party Association)
"You know," she tells Tsuna as she sees the full extent of the surprise birthday party they have thrown for her, "if I didn't love you all so much, I would rather hate that I always know only about 55 per cent of the people who get invited to my birthday parties." She gives her friend a plate with a ginormous piece of her birthday cake—delicious as always, with a white truffle glaze that would be too sweet if it weren't for the tart passion fruit flavour, and hilarious as always, in the form of a gigantic ring, little figurines of Haru seeming like gemstones. Then, she punches him in the shoulder and hugs him. "Thanks a lot, Tsuna-san. You shouldn't have."
"Well, you deserved it," Tsuna says in a low tone, with that stunning smile on his lips she fell in love with all these years ago.
She doesn't quite know how to respond to that.
It's only the memory of years of her parents trying to hammer some sort of manners into her that makes her say, "Thank you, Tsuna-san," and then, as he smiles with his mouth full of cake and raising his eyebrows a little bit, like he'd like to ask what for?, something bright, something like peace sparks in her, and she explains, "For everything."
(She means it, she realises. Her heart breaks a little more, but at the same time, she finds that it mends itself together so quickly, too.)
—
Later, after cake has been eaten and (lots and lots of) champagne has been drunk, the not-so-surprising surprise party quiets down a little. Sure, Lambo and Levi (who stays in Japan for a month) still run around like lunatics, fighting for the last slice of cake, and Reborn and Collonello still butt heads (literally), and it's still much too quiet at the Poker table for it not to mean that something will explode very soon—
but, it has quieted down remarkably.
Haru sighs contently as she sits down on a lawn chair on the veranda, in one hand a gin tonic (she's still much too sober for her own birthday party), in the other the flower Shimon's Mizuno Kaoru has given her an hour ago before he passed out next to an already much too intoxicated Gokudera.
"Hey," Yamamoto says to her right, and then, "Happy Birthday." He drops a wrapped gift into her lap and leans against the side of her chair. It means they can't look each other in the eyes, that position, and Haru breathes out quietly, relieved and simultaneously ashamed of it.
Her life isn't easy right now.
Tsuna and Kyouko are engaged. Kyouko doesn't know what Haru feels about that. Tsuna doesn't know that Haru feels anything about that.
Yamamoto knows it, probably.
Lambo and I-pin kissed.
It's just awkward.
She ignores all of it and opens the present her friend gave her. She breaks into a smile: "Thank you very much," she whispers, sincerity lilting her voice, as she sifts through the small stack of CDs, all recently released. It's hard getting your hands on Japanese music in Italy, and he knows that she feels bad about downloading tracks online (which is weird, honestly, considering that she works for a big Mafia family in Italy, doing all kind of illegal things on a daily basis).
"You're welcome," he says gently. Rubbing the back of his neck, he adds in an explanatory tone, "I didn't really have the time this year to go look for something special, you know. And I mean, everyone knows you like Hikki a lot, so …"
"No, no, it's really fine!" Haru exclaims, blinking rapidly, "I really love it …"
Yamamoto puts a hand on her head, stroking her hair gently, "So those are tears of happiness?"
"Yes," she says through her tears, laughing watery when she hears his faint snort, "Flavour of Life changed my life, you know?" Not everyone knows how much I love Hikki, you know. She doesn't say it—
"Haru," Yamamoto-kun remarks in a low tone, "sometime in the close future, you'll have to start telling me the truth."
—but she can't help feeling that she doesn't really need to.
Be patient with me, Haru thinks. Then she sighs, and smiles, because she believes he can be that without her needing to tell him, as well. Yamamoto-kun rolls his eyes at her, tweaks her nose a little and dabs away one last tear from the corner of her eye.
(Gamma)
"Again."
Haru has heard stories—well, rumours, at the least—of the tragic love story between Uni's mother, Aria, and Gamma. She has seen him care about Uni, deeply and loyally and fiercely. She knows how good a person he is, and she admires him for the raw strength he pulls out of his Lightning flame, and the inner gentleness he possesses despite it.
Still.
She is so sore. And she just can't anymore. There is not one muscle in her body that doesn't scream in protest at even the tiniest twitch.
"Gamma-kun," she hears Uni protest from the sidelines, as she struggles with the simple act of standing on two feet again. Her legs quake beneath her.
"Again," Gamma repeats without sparing either woman a glance.
She kind of hates him right now—
But he's still the first person to take her completely serious, and Haru knows that she shouldn't have to appreciate that, but she also knows that the Mafia is still so ridiculously testosterone-driven that they don't see women for what they are, and that they think she has come this far only because Sawada Tsunayoshi—their foreign, timid, new leader—let her, indulged her—
So she stands up, despite everything, and grips her weapon tighter, tighter, tighter. Her knuckles are white.
"Gamma-san," she grits out, "shut up." And she lunges.
—
"Miura, wake up."
Something hard hits her on the forehead.
"What? I didn't sleep! Hahi. What? Can I help you, Gamma-san?" Haru fires off, almost jumping out of the kitchen table chair. Then she hears a sound like metal on the concrete floor, clank clank, and bends down to retrieve Gamma's weapon of choice.
"You fell asleep on the table. Again."
She moves her head from left to right, and cringes a little at the pain shooting along her spine. She tries to lessen the stiffness in her neck by moving her shoulders a little and feels herself waking up sluggishly, uncomfortably.
Of course, it's a ring. A worn one, with scratches and blemishes all over the matt metal, and of course, the oh-so slight shine of green in it. A Lightning ring.
"I don't normally take that many naps," she assures him, sheepish and a little groggy. "In fact, they make me dizzy. And I hate them. And if I take a nap, I don't do it in the kitchen." Napping also seems to make her chatty and rambly, but Haru supposes she doesn't have to tell her tutor, by the sight of his raised eyebrow and sceptical scowl. She begins to twirl the ring in her hands and sighs. "I'm sorry."
"Uni worries about you," he tells her with a little edge to his tone.
"I'm sorry," Haru repeats. "I've just … I've never been this physically exhausted. One moment, I'm walking with Uni, and the next, I'm asleep."
"Your stamina is already building," is what he says after a few beats of silence.
And Haru smiles because that's just how Gamma gives comfort, she has come to know. She's grateful for the times he doesn't say a thing, for the times he doesn't tell her things will get better.
Most of all, she could hug him to death for never asking if she wants to give up.
"Does that mean that I'll be able to kick your arse in a few weeks?" Haru asks instead, smiling cutely.
Gamma snorts. "Never."
And Haru laughs, ignoring the pull and ache in her stomach muscles, "We'll see. We'll see."
(He never reclaims the ring—it's only C-class of course, just a little gadget that sends a shoot of electricity through your opponent when channelled with the perfect amount of Lightning flames, rather like a stunning gun—but she can't help but think that maybe, that's just how Gamma gives presents to the pupils he takes.)
(Takeshi)
This is not a date.
This is not a date.
This is not a date.
(It kinda is.)
This is not a date.
(Sure, sure.)
A date—a rendezvous—shouldn't be happening during a mission's aftermath, fleeing from a few stray mafiosi with their boxes and flaring flames and utter idiocy. It shouldn't be about running and catching your breath at the same time, realising that it's not really possible.
It shouldn't happen at four in the morning, and the girl should really not wear trainers.
So thanks to all the gods above and below for it not being a date, because if it were, well. Haru doesn't even want to imagine her 7k run-from-the-bad-guys-with-the-mean-weapons with even the tiniest kind of heels.
"Y-yamamoto-kun," she pants (as quietly as she can but god do her lungs feel like bursting), "I think … we cast them … off."
Yamamoto, barely out of breath and still frustratingly impeccable in his dark suit and darker tie, nods slowly while he scans their surroundings. "Guess so." He breathes out, quiet and slow, and turns around to look at Haru. He looks kind of sorry which, to Haru, doesn't seem very logical (because what is there to be sorry about?)
(It's not like this is a date or anything.)
"I have to ask you a favour, Haru," he says.
"Of course." No hesitation. She knows that he would only ask if he truly sees no other possibilities. She knows that he has a grasp on her abilities, that he would never ask something of her that she cannot do.
Her trust in him is quite strong, she realises.
But alas, the evaluation of this night will have to wait just a little longer.
Yamamoto puts a ring on her ring finger. It's silver (or white gold? She's never understood the difference by looks alone) and it's gorgeous in the shiny, chunky diamonds scattered on it kind of way. She'd never wear this kind of jewellery.
Calandra Ricchezza Galloni however, does.
Calandra Ricchezza Galloni, the uprising opera star from Naples to whom her beloved (effing) Don Vongola Decimo just can't to say no to.
Galloni, whose father is notoriously known for not paying loan money back. (And whose father is also cocky enough to incur debts with low-life mafia guys.)
"Are you serious?"
Yamamoto at least has the good grace to look adequately sheepish and uncomfortable. "Haru …"
"Galloni? Calandra fucking Galloni is the reason why I've been running around a foreign city for the last two hours?!"
One needn't be an expert on Miura Haru to know that there is really only one person in the world that she loathes with the passion of a thousand burning suns.
Calandra fucking Ricchezza fucking Galloni.
"I—oh my god—how can you—this is not what tonight was supposed to … I mean-" Haru grapples for words. She stumbles over the sentences, and the quick beating of her heart that's supposed to be all anger but is kind of not, and stops at the feeling of his hands on her shoulders, anchoring her (like he always does, doesn't he?) She sighs, three parts annoyed and one part (in love) amused. "You owe me big time, Yamamoto-kun! And—and don't think this will be the end of this conversation. When we're back home, I'll bitch at you until your ears'll fall off."
Yamamoto grins, just a tiny curving of his mouth (that really doesn't make her heart skip a beat, or something equally embarrassing and girlish), and says, "Can't wait."
And then, he leans down. And quickly, he kisses her. And presses a piece of paper into her right hand. (And kissed her, OMG.) "Just follow the instructions I wrote down. Gokudera should wait for us at the usual spot. Tell him what happened, and leave ASAP. You hear me, Haru?"
"I'm a little dazed, not disabled," Haru manages to utter. "Don't think your kisses have that kind of power, Yamamoto-kun."
He smirks cockily, still bent down to her level, and before she can react, his lips are on hers again, and she feels him say more than hear, "We'll see," and then he kisses her again. Properly, this time.
After a few moments, she pushes him away with all her might. (She can't help it if her hands seem glued to his chest somehow, can she?)
"Still not powerful enough?" He mumbles close to her jawline. He's more breathless from this than from the run and—(when did he get that close again? How fast is that guy?) (Why do her legs feel like jelly?) … Well.
"Nope. Not one bit." Yamamoto smirks at her as if telling her what a ridiculous liar she is and she feels her cheeks heat up. "We still have a job to finish. Let's get going, Yamamoto-kun."
He hums his assent, and Haru bites her lower lip.
"See you later. I'm still not finished with you, Haru."
(This is not a date.)
(It would have been a terrible date. But it isn't. It isn't. It isn't.)
(Oh god, what will she tell her grandchildren? 'Yep, on our first date your grandpa and I kind of made out in a dark alleyway while hiding from a rival family's hitmen'?
Ugh.)
.
.
.
coming full circle
.
.
.
(Miura Haru)
Haru … Haru is is one of those girls.
The kind that has a scrapbook full of beautiful wedding dresses, full of ideas for DIY projects, full of girlish dreams and happy ambitions.
Of course she imagines how her engagement ring will look, from time to time. It's just … natural for her.
But Haru is also one of those girls—the ones who would rather stay late at work seven days in a row with her ugly (nope, not nerdy, or dorky, or any of those things that seem to be so in these days—just plain old ugly) glasses than shave her legs (because what are leggings and thighs and pants for?), the ones who are adamant that they pay the bill in restaurants (the whole one, that is).
For a time, growing up, Haru never knew how to work with that. Maybe that's the reason why she endured the boys' secretiveness for so long … because even when she hated, despised it with her whole being (that feeling of being weak, of needing to be protected, of being treated like a porcelain doll waiting to be thrown on the ground, breaking)—she still liked doing the cooking, doing the laundry. Because she liked being domestic, housewifely. She still does. She still likes to bake mini-muffins, and make home-made chocolate for Valentine's Day, and get manicures, and giggle about dreamy young George Clooney.
But on the other hand, she always had that itch to do more, to be more than that. It was a desperate urge, much louder than the quiet, feminine things that she liked, so turning sixteen, she did just that. Learn to fight, learn to protect. Get strong.
Now that Haru is older, more experienced, she is happy how she turned out to be. She is proud of her fighting spirit, of her ambitiousness, of the way she can light her rings and do things. But somewhere along the lines—between learning to let go of Tsuna-san, maybe, and playing Shogi with Gokudera-san, and making pralines with Nana-san, and kissing Takeshi-kun in a dark alleyway—she has learned to be proud and glad of all the other facets of Miura Haru too. Sometimes, she thinks about the letter Vongola Quattro's wife Alessa wrote, and she thinks that this—how she is now—is her personal way of reaching that goal.
She has all the possibilities, that's something she fought for (against Tsuna's wish to protect, against the bias in the Mafia, against the bias in society in general), and so what if she also enjoys the possibility of being a mediocre cook, a great baker, and a kick-ass seamstress.
Miura Haru could be anyone—everyone she wanted to be.
The thing is, she's totally satisfied with how she is already.
notes about stuff:
1. I have that idea that everyone who has an important kind of position is called "Vongola *whatever*." Like, is the group and you're part of it, so I'll call you Vongola. Also, the wife of a Don should just be called the same name as the Don, only in female form: Kyouko, in this case, would someday be called Vongola Decima. :D
2. Calandra fucking Ricchezza fucking Galloni. I love her even though I know nothing about her xD Calandra means skylark, Ricchezza opulent, and Galloni cocky. I mean, what the hell did her parents think? xD
3. This was primarily a coming-of-age story. Because I've honestly always loved those the-girls-get-kickass story line, but as of late, my perception of "being kickass" has changed, in a sense. It's got a lot to do with the roles society lays down for males and females, and also about self-value, and what strength means for one personally. I do think Miura is the kind of person who enjoys being "traditionally female" but also has the ambition to be more than that. And people tell her no she isn't as gentle as Kyouko, or people tell her she's not strong enough to fight, and the whole point of this story is that Haru tells all of them to fuck off, and just does her own thing, whatever that is.
notes about the writing:
1. This is unbeta-ed.
2. Still no English's mother tongue, so grammatical/syntax/etc errors pointed out would be wonderful :)
3. Reviews would be heavenly (like Sucuk on Knäckebrot, or homemade vanilla bean Quark with passion fruit, or ... rice noodles. Man, rice noodles.)
Thanks for all the support, I'm grateful to every single one of you wonderful people :)
Err ... DFTBA, I guess?
—bells