Before we begin, all the notes regarding the terminology used are in Chapter 2. I would suggest you open both chapters in separate tabs/ windows for easy referencing. Thank you.
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Title: Becoming Cardinal
Genre: Angst, romance, drama, family
Warning: Character death, potential OOC-ness
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Beta'ed by Shiary, whom I can't thank enough for her hard work and patience with my pig-headedness. ;D
Prompt: dinner
Theme song: Evey Reborn (V for Vendetta), Rue's Farewell (Hunger Games)
A/N:
Sage -a culinary herb which blooms in late spring (the same time as Haru's birthday). In floriography, the sage means good manners; an honest, frank person; a love for family, creativity and passion.
The sage is also called 'higoromosou' (herb garbed in cardinal) in Japanese.
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It smells like Yamamoto's emblem outside.
Bother, she sighs inwardly. A meticulous kill, with hours of engineering prior to lure the target in–then she forgets an umbrella, of all things.
Her attacker coughs, like he's somewhat incredulous she's upset. Quite rightly so, since he's the one with the predicament. Or maybe he's trying to clear the blood in his lungs. Shots in cramped quarters seldom end with direct hits.
She studies him noiselessly. Makes sure to convey the message.
You or me.
You, or me.
Nothing personal about it.
She tucks away her gun and gloves, redoes her trench coat absently.
But not before locking the back door, and setting for the payphone down the street.
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He walks, Haru thinks, like a king.
Not inside the headquarters itself of course. There he was a man strolling through the gardens or checking on Vongola's daily workings while walking its corridors. A leader greatly respected, who was ever cautious never to rush about lest it incited panic, but a man in his own home still. Here, there was a prouder, cooler set to his jaw; a slick smoothness on his smile and a different grace in his gait, like a lordly alpha [1] gliding in at ease to greet his blood-soaked legions.
And what an ensemble it was. Every don who could attend, from powerhouses Cavallone and Shimon to the smaller-sized stalwarts Beccio [2] and Bovino, had gathered under this roof. Those of shadier alliances too; Haru had spotted the new head of Pesca [3] conversing with a Millefiore official somewhere in the crowd. Not plotting some sinister complications, she hoped. Security was already a nightmare without them, even with every guard that could be spared without stripping external defences. In fact, ensuring the safety of the event had been considered a crucial enough priority that CEDEF decided to send in one of its own –someone with a more obscure face, who had a natural right to attend as the Decimo's high-school acquaintance.
It did resemble a reunion of family and friends, to some extent. There was Uni-chan, flanked by the ever vigilant Gamma-san, now blossoming into a stunning maiden. Naito-san, however, was scruffy as usual, and had somehow managed to dunk a bowl of punch down his suit. She had also seen Yamamoto-san and Chrome-chan a short while ago, doing their discreet rounds along the perimeter. And Lambo-chan was already so tall! She knew she was still young, but looking at him being surrounded by giggling ladies (at sixteen, no less) while remembering chasing after a child no higher than her knees-it did wonders to make her feel old.
Good thing Haru hadn't the time to dwell on it then. Most reunions did not come with a truckload of mafia bosses to watch over (and against), but this one did.
Weaving through mafiosi and servers alike, she scanned the upper balconies as if casually eyeing the men. Clear so far, just the way she preferred. One more repeat check, a muttered code to the microscopic transmitter in her earrings and she was through. This was her cue to detach herself from the partygoers and position herself at the appointed station, to monitor and, if necessary, attack.
Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but wait.
(Wait for the sound of Tsuna-san's speech to end, for the kind of thunderous applause that would provide ample cover for chaos.)
Elegant fingers kept their easy, natural grip on a cocktail glass, which did not appear at all as if it could drop in a heartbeat and be traded for a weapon.
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There are also the other heartbeats, silences that do not exist to be broken.
Like working past midnight, tackling endless reports. Like drinking tea in the peace of her apartment, timing her breaths to the clock. Like receiving Basil-kun's true name [4]; like standing in a safe house after a successful assignment; like drawing her arms over a mourner's shoulders. Like turning her face to the morning that always crashes and crashes down again after.
In them, she discovers. That age can be earned; and not merely gained from losing a childhood. That it is shouldered when one becomes responsible, powerless, knowing, vulnerable. It can be exacted when a lifetime's worth of grief and happiness is compressed into a short few years. It can be sensed from the ghosts of past selves in others, that she herself does not own.
Some have grown. She –and Tsuna-san –have metamorphosed.
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They had done it at a dinner-meet like this too.
The thing about amaretti [5] was, the smell was strong. A rich almond flavour, just like C-12.
And Tsuna-san was supposed to love it. Not Kyoko.
Little bitter things indeed.
It hurts. She cried, Oh god, it hurts. Right before the quick-acting poison stole her voice and burned the last of her Dying Will out of her. Her self-awareness had gone by then.
Tsuna had wept, and wept. Hurled his flames, again and again. They blazed high on his forehead too, and lit their engagement rings molten. Haru thought her own tears would never stop. C-12 had been an experimental drug in its first stages of introduction to the mafia market at the time. Few people even knew what an overdose did. Shamal might, but he wasn't there.
Thank god Ryohei wasn't either. There had almost been nothing left to bury of her.
Revenge, Haru found, was overrated.
It could not do away the stifling, deathly calm that had drawn itself over Vongola halls. It could not mend the way Ryohei wouldn't look at the Decimo anymore, even though he had not found fault. The latter had also begun addressing his Sun Guardian by his surname. The previous was cycling through anti-depressants.
Revenge, Haru had also found, could not soothe her.
It would not leave her that she had no bloodstains to wear in Kyoko's honour. Could never have, after they'd run the Famiglia responsible to the ground. Having no standing in Mafia finances, she wasn't even allowed to attack their accounts. Learning of Varia involvement only made it worse: her dear friend's dying pains had been mitigated by strangers.
This is how Reborn finds her, at the shooting range three in the morning. Sees the pockmarks in the fabric of her self-constructed target; so many the stuffing spills in steady lines, multiplying steadily closer to its heart. She has come to accept the cast of his eyes long ago, no longer finds their juxtaposition in the child's face unsettling. But she does not anticipate their understanding.
How many, he asks.
Three, she informs. Actually, this was her twenty-first.
He must know the lie too. But he also knows her desperation, and perhaps, the other things she's gotten too good at hiding: the eye bags beneath her makeup, a recent leanness to her waist.
Are you absolutely certain? He queries instead. It might seem easy now, but this life isn't for everyone.
I'm no longer everyone. Better to choose than be a wraith. Than to exist in this purgatory, where she keeps anointing herself with blood and brain matter through her dreams, even if she has no idea what these combined should smell or feel like.
Better to choose than wait to order another batch of white chrysanthemums [6].
The Arcobaleno nods and steps closer to adjust her grip.
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"Again," he stated.
Haru was brought up as a nice girl. And nice girls do not swear, yet she almost does. It was one thing to undergo the bone-breaking, life-threatening sparring and obstacle courses, but to have warm, aromatic food under her nose after a hard day's training and not be able to touch a sliver….
She snatches the next fork out of agitation, and suppresses a sigh when Reborn finally stops kicking the damn utensil out of her fingers. Apparently, expressing too much emotion at the dining table was forbidden too.
It's not that she doesn't grasp what he's about, nor does she not appreciate it. Inter-famiglia diplomacy demanded absolute emotional restraint, to behave otherwise was shameful and even fatal. And as the mafia crème-de-la-crème, the Vongola had a reputation to uphold, and could not accept into its higher ranks anyone who was uncouth. Hence these etiquette lessons; even though, as Reborn likes to state, he has taught cowherds who did better.
Haru grits her teeth, lets her hair cover up the split-second grimace. Right. Control.
She touches the fork to the slice of chicken.
A sharp thwack to the table. Both pieces of silverware leave her hands at the involuntary spasms.
The hitman sips his wine with an elegant frown. "Handles off the table."
Haru swears.
(To her credit, it wasn't the most vivid piece of vulgarity she'd heard.)
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She sits down with an obvious downturn about her mouth. There's no point in hiding how upset she is; her eyes scream soreness and wear. After all, a fresh coat of makeup can only do so much for her distress: Basil-kun had taken a bad hit while covering for Hibari-san. Brain lesion [7]. The doctors were discussing the possible damage to his cognitive abilities when she left.
Reborn's features are neutral as always, but her instincts detect an unusual intentness. 'Do you wish to stop?' A perfectly innocuous expression of sympathy fit for young woman worrying about her lover –if she weren't his pupil.
She itches to snort. Like she needs that push.
'No.' One syllable, meaning: my place is here, becoming stronger. Becoming more capable of protecting him and everyone else next time. Not crying or feeling helpless, because,
I can't help him or the Famiglia that way.
She's nearly convinced that the shadow of his fedora concealed a wide, open smirk, but they do not say another word while going through the motions.
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"Tsuna's been protesting, you know. Said your father wouldn't want this for you." Still he tests her, in spite of everything.
"Tsuna-san is a good friend,"she answers, serenity incarnate. "But no one decides my life for me." Even, she thinks, a little wistfully, the tiny, ex-workaholic old man residing in Namimori. She picks up the furthest left fork [8].
She must've chosen the right wine as accompaniment this time too, as he hums lightly in response. From her tutor, she's discovered, that says a lot.
Hn. You're even beginning to convince me you'll make a half-decent CEDEF. Work harder, baka-Haru, and you might even persuade Lal to test you [9].
Poker face be damned. She has to grin at this piece of news. His snort turned amused, and she ends up dodging a few goodly whacks. One clips her on a shoulder that's bound to bruise, but she doesn't care.
Sometime later, she blinks, at the comfortable, affectionate manner in which she remembers Kyoko. Comprehends the way a red grimace does not twist her beloved visage anymore. Sits up in the bed, goes to the bathroom.
Cries.
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It's not at the ceremony where she receives her codename and takes her oath.
Nor does it come with the cards and gifts from her well-wishers. Not even her mentor's, of a Leon-made suit.
It occurs at the CEDEF-only welcoming party, while she sits next to a sighing Basil-kun. As Lal scolded an inebriated and happily blathering Iemitsu, who'd outdrank Oregano seconds ago.
It is as she laughs, sweet (bittersweet), and views them as home that she truly becomes Miura "Salvia" Haru [10].
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Ryohei-onii-san had already resumed exclaiming his motto one-and-a-half years ago. Quite by accident, actually. The scars on his fists and across his nose would always harken to an indelible past, when living had ceased to matter, but for everything else there was Gokudera Hayato. Dear, reliable, irascible Gokudera-kun, whose intellect and disposition could never back down from a challenge–much less one attempted at Tsuna-san's behest. And it wasn't just the boxer's restored cheer: even the densest could guess that their sessions had changed something between them; probably for the better.
All the same, Haru is rather surprised to find Ryohei's foot detaching itself hastily from Gokudera's ankle under the table. If she'd not ducked down to grab the 2-year-old Lambo –who had switched abruptly to this side in the middle of an important discussion again–she might not have stumbled upon the secret. How they behaved above the wood surface had been a different story altogether.
She wanted to congratulate them. Wanted to tell them it wouldn't matter, that those who would celebrate would celebrate, and those who were indifferent would never care, while the rest of the world could go screw itself.
But the ragazza [11] who devoured chic lit [12] had been left far behind; the woman in her place had tasted a slow love. So she hides her smile behind the toddler in her hold alternately, and thanks genetics for his sizeable afro.
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Maybe this was what they were supposed to do: prepared her for Xanxus.
She's not around any furniture this time. Typical, just when she needed a seat the most.
Plus a glass of Ramandolo [13].
She shifts and dips her head in greeting instead, the only sign of nervousness she would reveal. Reborn has truly drilled composure into her too well. She has to wonder who did it for Xanxus, as he responds in like fashion.
Tsuna, for his part, does not look the slightest bit unsettled. Hyper Intuition, then. Either that or a knowledge of others who also frequented this plot. Which begs the question of why he hadn't bothered to visit alone: Bringing someone else to your former fiancé's grave spoke volumes, and that was without the comfortable, matched pace in which they'd walked, or the brushing shoulders.
But maybe Tsuna has glimpsed what lay between his Sun and Storm. Maybe those eyes have read that same knowledge within her. And she is likely the first to acquire this confidence from her boss –aside from the fallen princess slumbering beneath them, of course.
Still….Xanxus? She inspects the man critically, who, as if realising her intentions, scowled at her over Tsuna's back with a glare like awls.
The CEDEF member shook her head internally. There was no way to gild this one: Xanxus was a violent, arrogant and short-tempered prick. He drank worse than a sailor, made impossible demands and treated his attendants like shit. Haru had no reason to support this.
Except, she has not witnessed any elation in Tsuna persist for this long. Not since this tombstone.
And perhaps, from the unconsciously possessive–protective?–closeness of Xanxus's body to Tsuna's, she can have faith that whatever they share isn't fragile.
So she shrugs with a very judicious expression–plus a casual tap to her concealed holster. And observes his sneer turn into a smirk, with unconcealed annoyance. Really now.
Her warning was probably going to be the most polite among all those he would receive too.
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She still pauses for Kyoko sometimes.
On a lazy Sunday, baking cookies on an impulse. Calling the names of ingredients, waiting for them with outstretched fingers. Or cleaning out the storeroom, startled to find the air heavy with a familiar scent–only to unearth a dusty bottle of perfume. And when she's about to drop dead from exhaustion at her doorstep, it's not always Basil's reply to her perfunctory "tadaima" [14] she expects to hear. Post-it notes, cards, gifts and photos; sheaves of yellowed omamori [15] with tear-stained characters. A pang, a shred of melancholy, sorrow's dried up remnants.
Then softness. Tenderness.
She also recalls her on purpose sometimes. The woman who should've sat between her and I-Pin, laughing over cake. The lady who should be clapping and crying next to her, as Lal and Colonello exchanged their vows. The sister who would've taken Haru's place, in sprucing Ryohei up for his dates with Hayato (whom he still calls 'Tako-head'). As Tsuna's woman friend. Watching him and his partner stand side by side, covert but obvious. Feeling strange thinking of him on such terms; this man who'd sprouted from the boy of her dreams. But never, not even once, regretting her choice of someone else, for the remainder of her life.
In these moments, Haru tastes loss, alongside an aching fondness and lightness.
And in these moments, she believes to the marrow of her spirit, that their lives have not been survived –but won.
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Not for victory
but for the day's work done
as well as I was able;
not for a seat upon the dais
but at the common table.
- 'Te Deum', by Charles Reznikoff
[end]