::You know I've been wanting to try out writing TYL 5986 for a while now, I am getting older and somehow the whole will-they-or-won't-they fluff and stuff of their fifteen-year-old selves doesn't seem to have the same effect as it once did five years ago.
::I don't own KHR.
".What Has Become of Us."
"Tch." Listless, silent, cold – the silver-haired Mafioso twirled the wine glass in his hands lightly, taking in the wine's scent. He sipped and then gave a more-than-slightly frustrated sigh.
"You're late." He retorted immediately upon seeing the short-haired brunette walk in.
She smiled a little. "It's nice to see you too." She brushed off the annoyed glare he gave her and sat on the chair opposite to him. "After years of never having seen each other, I've already managed to irritate you within five seconds." She laughed mirthlessly.
"Tch, some things never change." He muttered. Though he did notice that the laugh was new to him – he's never heard her laugh and not mean it before. It's different – strange, and a little unnerving because she managed to pull it off a little too well. "You were the one who asked me to come here, so what is it that you want, Stup–" the old insult died in his throat, because the person he saw before him didn't seem to fit it anymore, and he was no longer the foul-mouthed fifteen-year-old he once was. He was unsure what to call her for a second, and remembered that the Japanese put such emphasis on formality and the use of first-names, so he had decided on using her last name instead. "…Miura?"
"Can't old friends just get together once in a while to catch up?" she said in mock disbelief. "I'll be here in Italy all week anyway because I've got a few shows coming up, and I heard from Yamamoto-san that you were in Rome, so I thought… why not?" she smiled at him, noting just how much he's changed since she had last seen him, how much taller he was, how broader his shoulders seemed, how mature he was acting, and yet how despite all that, his hair was still the same fascinating shade of silver and his eyes were still the mysterious pools of green that she could remember. "I haven't seen you at all in ten years. Yamamoto-san told me you wouldn't be too busy… it's my first time here, you see, so I thought it'd be nice to see a familiar face."
'Old friends? Well, I guess you could call it that.' He thought.
"So, how have you been these past few years, Gokudera-san?" she smiled at him tentatively, wondering for a moment if he would even give her the courtesy of a reply. Yes, he was impeccably dressed, Italian formal suit and all, as if prepared to conduct the highest levels of boardroom negotiation – but she could never tell with him.
It's been a while since he's heard his last name uttered with a '-san' suffix. He's been in Italy for years and had gotten so used to hearing it with an Italian accent that hearing it from her now seemed almost foreign to him. As foreign as the brunette that sat in front of him was now – gone was the ponytail, the unfathomable energy, the oblivious innocence, the third-person speech… it was replaced by a certain refinement, a certain maturity, a certain charm, a calmness to accompany the enthusiasm that was still there… she was definitely no longer the Haru Miura he knew from his time in Japan, but a different person, not wholly different, but also not the same – a woman wearing her skin, the color of her hair, that certain sparkle in her eyes and the mere hollow shadow of a smile he once called sickeningly bright.
He realized that he had always noticed these little things about her before – that he had always paid attention. It was his job after all, to know everything that was going on. In the ten years that separated them he never really stopped – it was his duty as Tsuna's right-hand-man to ensure the Vongola's safety, and that duty extended to the safety of even those that have left the service of the Famiglia, especially in Haru's case, because he had been partly responsible for her departure.
"Uneventful." He replied. One-word. Dismissive. He looked away and called a waiter's attention so he could take Haru's order. He wasn't being a very accurate storyteller – in fact they've just thwarted an assassination attempt the day before, and it's only been a few months since Tsuna had formally taken the mantle of Vongola Decimo, there was ten years of secrets, of plots, of espionage, of alliances forged and promises broken, of politics and power-play, of battles and bruises and scars and blood… but they were in public and he couldn't risk anyone from a rival family hearing them. But he knew that most of all it was because he really just didn't feel like talking about it – wasn't this why he had convinced her to leave the Vongola all those years ago?
To talk about it would have defeated his purpose. Didn't he come here for a few moments of respite from everything he hated about the mafia? To remember why he kept fighting? Why he had to make sure she stayed away from all of it?
'You deserve better.' Were the words he had muttered to her unconscious form, seeing her broken body lying on a hospital bed, knowing full well she couldn't hear him. That was ten years ago.
The same thought still lingered in his mind. She was an innocent, and he vowed to himself that would give anything to make sure it stayed that way.
She gave the waiter her order and smiled a little sadly at the silver-haired Guardian. "I missed Tsuna-san's inauguration party… I was busy designing the Spring Collection and couldn't get enough time off work. Everything's been so hectic lately."
"Juudaime understood." He said almost consolingly, using 'Juudaime' instead of 'the Decimo' after years of not having done so. He noted for a second how the sound of the title seemed so distant now, like a name out of the past that couldn't seem to apply itself to the world of the present. "You didn't miss much, just a load of old farts and ceremonial bullshit. I'm sure a famous fashion designer like you has been to better parties."
And he's sure because he knew just which ones she's been to. When he left for Italy to work for the Family full-time and she left for college, he had known which classes she took, and which organizations she joined, sometimes he'd send for an agent to keep an eye on her just in case, especially when she'd have to pass the seedy parts of town – this underlying protection was normal for them. He found out that it had already been done for all of them since affiliating themselves with the Vongola, and to Tsuna it had been done all his life. Yet despite knowing most of what had been going on in her life for the past ten years, seeing how much she had changed, actually seeing her before him as she was now, still managed to startle him… not enough to have an effect on his external features and expression, but enough to make him wonder just how much she had changed, what kind of person she had become – and a slight sliver of a strange regret that he wasn't there to see it all take place.
She laughed, sincerely this time. "You'd be surprised at how quickly parties get old once you've been to enough of them."
The waiter arrives with their orders and they settled into a comfortable silence as they eat.
Gokudera eyed her curiously. "What about you, what have you been doing?" he asked without really having to know, deciding that the silence had gone on long enough, far too long – long enough for his thoughts to wander in directions he didn't want to explore… and, though he might never admit it, even to himself, there was something comfortingly familiar about hearing her voice.
She stopped eating and put her fork down. "Lots of drawing, and sewing, and hunting for fabrics… runway shows, and photo shoots, and interviews… but probably nothing nearly as exciting as whatever you guys are up to." She replied enthusiastically, but her expression grew more somber after a pause. "…sometimes I still wonder what it would be like if I never left."
She looked away, and Gokudera felt an uneasiness creep over him, a strange anxiety – maybe guilt. "Do you regret it?" he asked, straight to the point, as he never was one for talking in circles.
"No…" she answered wistfully, her eyes still not meeting his. "…maybe, a little." she muttered. "I mean, I've made my choice, and it's not like I can go back."
The uneasiness inside him builds up, turning into a nagging feeling at the back of his mind – and a small hint of fear at the realization that he actually liked the idea of her return, despite the fact that that would undermine everything he's done clandestinely for her in the past ten years.
Haru smiled at him sadly. "Mostly I think I just miss you – I mean, all of you. Tsuna-san, Kyoko-chan, Yamamoto-san, Lambo-kun, Bianchi-san… and all the trouble and messes we got ourselves in." she laughs a little. "Or, more accurately, all the trouble you guys got me into… sometimes I still can't believe we've actually been to the future and back."
"Yeah, that one's still a little hard to wrap your mind around." He agreed. "We haven't seen anything that tops that yet."
The tentative aura around them gradually disappeared as they laughed and reminisced, and for a moment all the troubles in the world vanished and the distance and time and space between them ceased to exist – they were fifteen-year-olds again, arguing about some petty thing or the other, calling each other names and trying to outdo each other in the service of the Tenth. They honestly weren't actually close at all back then, but both of them found it comforting to find someone to talk to that remembered.
"How's it like, to be home?" Haru asked after they had finished talking about their adventures in the future.
Gokudera cleared his throat. "It's… not the same." He said reflectively, a little too honestly. "Yes they speak the same language, and eat the same food, and breathe the same air, but after being gone for so long, it never really feels the way it should." He chuckles at his own melodrama. "It wasn't really like coming home, you know. I'm not really sure I have one."
"Have you ever thought of branching out? Doing other things?" she asked out of curiosity. It seemed odd that the silver-haired man suddenly seemed so open to talk, as when they were younger he seemed so distant and closed off… but she had often wondered what it was like in the head of the then Silver-haired boy, and thought that maybe ten years was all they needed to finally understand. She would learn later that no stretch of mere time would be enough.
He shook his head. "And what, become a pianist?" he scoffed. "The mafia is all I've ever known - you can't dream of something you know nothing of…" he paused and a contemplative expression showed in his face. "Do you honestly think I'd be able to function in your world?" he asked rhetorically, wondering if his own words had betrayed him – of how tired he was of everything going on, of how ironic it was that what he'd been dreaming of all his life didn't turn out as delightful as he thought it would be… of how incredibly frustrating it was that he felt trapped because this was all he could ever see himself doing, but also the only place he felt like he belonged…
Haru looked into his eyes pensively, as if trying to read his mind, to comprehend what he was hiding under the guise of his words. She felt that he was trying to tell her something, something other than the words he was speaking to her, but how could he expect her to understand when it's been so long and they've been so far apart? They weren't even all that close to begin with. It was almost maddening, how complicated he was – how he never really let his guard down and seemed like he didn't want anyone to understand, and how it seemed like he actually went out of his way to ensure that no-one did.
"You see, my first solution to any problem is a bribe, or a threat – and if that doesn't work, I blow everything up." He said almost jokingly. "There's no place in your world for my kind of diplomacy." He says, mostly to himself, to remind him of his place.
"It's hard to believe Tsuna-san would consent to such methods." she stated, remembering the kindness and strength in every decision the old object of her affections had made. It made her wonder just how much he too might have changed.
Gokudera sighed. "Yes, well, that's why I'm the right-hand-man. When negotiations don't work out or things get really bad, I ask them to leave it to me…" his expression turned serious. "…the Tenth knows most things, but he doesn't have to know everything." He said, a pang of guilt almost making its way to his features. He always knew that he would have to keep things from the Tenth, the horrible things, the unspeakable things, to preserve the way he was the Sky that embraced everything, to make sure he still viewed the world seeing the good there was in people – this is why Reborn and the Ninth had assigned him to be the Decimo's Tempesta anyway. "The mafia was never about fun and games, even you know that."
Haru nodded in contemplation. "You made it so clear ten years ago, so how could I not?" she asked, a tinge of hurt she had kept hidden for so long had escaped into her words. "You were the one who told me that I'd be better off as a civilian because I'd only get in the way…"
She saw a the irritation in his eyes – and half-expected him to start berating her as he had always done all those years ago, but he surprised her when he shrugged it off and sighed. "Do you want me to apologize?" he asked, frustration evident in his tone, the guilt that's been nagging at him finally surfacing in his words.
What did she want? Why did she bring it up? Haru questioned herself. Why did she ask to meet him anyway, after all these years?
He paid the bill and they stand up and walk in silence – she led, knowing instinctively that he would insist in showing her home even if she swore she could handle it herself, or at least she had assumed it to be so, since that was what they had always done. She distinctly remembered those few silent walks when he had insisted on seeing her home, and how it had seemed that he was a different person in all of those occasions… like the walls he built around himself slowly crumbled away in the breeze and the silence, their footsteps the only noise to bear witness. But the walks were never long enough, and the wall between him and everyone else instantly repaired themselves as they reached her front door.
All the wonderful sights of Rome and the sound of their feet on the cobblestone sidewalks faded away when the memory slipped to the forefront of her mind, taking her back ten years – the impeccably clean, cold hospital floor, the smell of antiseptics, the medical equipment beeping away to the tune of her heart.
It was the way he seemed so sincere and concerned when he had told her she didn't belong, when she asked her to leave the Family – asked – and not commanded, not ordered, not yelled… if he had shouted to her face how she never belonged in the Vongola, how she would always get in the way, how she was useless and stupid, she most probably would have shouted back and would have stubbornly stayed, and would have tried to do everything to prove him wrong… but this, the quietness in his voice, the disquiet in his eyes, these things he's never seen from him before – she couldn't stubbornly fight back against what seemed so much like kindness.
Perhaps it was because of the painkillers, because she was still recovering from her injuries, that she had neither the resolve nor the energy to argue… but what she remembered most was the pained look on his face, how his green eyes which had always fascinated her, were almost pleading. It was as if she saw him for the first time in all her life – if she wasn't strapped on to an IV pumping her with numbness, she probably would have laughed and teased him about how vulnerable he looked.
She wondered for a moment if anyone else had ever seen him in such a state.
He told her he knew it wasn't his place to decide things for her, that he had no right to – and she remembers mumbling something akin to "damn right you don't" but wasn't sure if he had heard her. He told her the Tenth would probably be too nice to tell her the truth, so he had taken it upon himself to do so.
She wondered if breaking hearts made any sound - the heart monitor continued to beep steadily, not revealing just how much she had hated the truth in his words, how hard she had been trying to push those very same thoughts to the back of her mind every single time the rest of them risked their lives and fought while all she could do was prepare hot meals and perform domestic duties.
And most of all, it didn't reveal just how infuriating it was for her that she couldn't hate him, because she knew that he was only telling her the truth.
After she recovered and told Tsuna and the others that she'd decided to leave to study abroad, she did not breathe a word of her conversation with the Storm Guardian, not to a soul. Weeks passed in normalcy and they do not talk to each other again – it was unclear who was avoiding who, but nevertheless, not a word passed between them, she last saw him just before boarding her flight and the way the relief on his features was marred by a sadness she was never quite able to understand.
"I don't know." She finally answered him. They were still a few blocks away from her hotel.
He looked away from her, took a cigarette from his coat and placed it between his lips. He passed a glance at her, expecting her to scold him for not having dropped the awful habit, but she doesn't. In fact it surprised him that she didn't even react to it – perhaps she was too deep in thought to care.
Minutes passed by in silence. She whiles it away looking around at the sights around her, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. He walks without saying a word, smoking the time away.
"I'm sorry." He muttered, crushing the cigarette on a nearby trashcan.
Haru broke from her reverie. "I didn't ask you for an apology."
"Well I can't take it back even if you've decided you didn't need one." He said, a familiar irritated tone in his voice causing Haru to smile just a little.
"It's no fun when you're being this nice." She laughed, opting for light-hearted small talk, because she wasn't sure if she was ready for where their conversation was taking them.
"Then would you rather I wasn't civil?" he asked, the grin on his face mirrored hers. "Would you like me to insult you in five different languages, or would you rather we used the good old 'stupid woman'?"
"I'd rather you just call me Haru." She said plainly, her smile widened when she saw the surprise in his eyes. "And you're still being nice. I don't get it."
"You're the one I don't get." He said. "Why is it you called me out here anyway, Haru?" he found it so peculiar, how her name sounded when it came from his mouth, how it sounded like it belonged and like it didn't at the same time. "If you didn't want an apology, then why me?" he sighed. "If you wanted someone to reminisce 'the good old days' with I'm sure Yamamoto would've been happy to oblige."
She stopped walking and looked back at him; they were in front of her hotel now. "Why did you come then, if it was so much trouble?"
"I-" the response dies in his throat when he weighs which answer he was most willing to give. "I wanted to remember…" he looked away from her, a little embarrassed at how dramatic he was being. "…that there was a time before all of this."
That there was a time of normal life, of school, of little victories and simple joys – when you could trust someone without fear of betrayal, without intrigue, without ulterior motives… when things were true at face value and a constant threat wasn't hounding him at every moment, where negotiations didn't involve casualties and he could still sleep in peace.
She was a window to a world he had never really known.
'To remember why I'm doing this… what it's all for.' He kept the thought in his head and doesn't voice it out. 'For innocent people like you to go on with your innocent lives.' He mentally scoffed at himself, knowing full well his cause wasn't at all that noble – he was no hero, but at fifteen he'd decided if he could keep even one person safe, if he could keep her safe, then that would be enough. "You're evading my question."
"I'm not really sure how to answer you." She replied honestly. "I just… felt like it."
She doesn't tell him that she had wanted to see him hoping to find an answer - that maybe if she met the person who had convinced her to leave, she could once again convince herself that she was now right where she belonged… but what she got instead was a glimpse into a life she couldn't come back to, filled with faces and names that crossed her mind every so often – increasingly often, too often.
And it showed her an enigma of a man an insistent feeling inside her told her she wanted to figure out.
"Tch." An annoyed noise escaped his mouth. "I'm not a slave to your whims, woman-"
Although this, he told himself, was not entirely true.
The retort is cut short when Haru suddenly had her arms around him and his eyes widened in surprise at the contact. It takes nearly all he has to not return her embrace, fearing that he may have misread a friendly gesture as something more – fearing even more that he might linger in it longer than he should, that he would give in to something he's suppressed to near perfection for so long just because of her touch… that he would find too much comfort in something he'd already decided he couldn't have.
He smells of expensive cologne, and tobacco, and gunpowder, just as she had imagined he would. "That's the Gokudera-san I remember." she muttered, and he felt the smile on her face widen, and it almost, almost breaks his control. He's never been this close to her before – he wondered for a second if maybe it was something in the wine, or maybe she had always been this impulsive, or maybe he was just thinking way too much of it.
She let go of him and it's almost painful to lose the contact. "I think I just… I wanted to thank you. So, thanks."
Gokudera smiled – one of those rare smiles that he reserved for special occasions, and wondered why there seemed to be tentativeness in her sentence, why it seemed like there was more she had wanted to say… and why finding out what it was suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world.
"Will I be seeing you again, Gokudera-san?" she asked almost wishfully.
He paused for a while, considering all the possibilities – and inwardly berating himself for almost replying with an immediate affirmative. And there was no word more haunting to both of them than the one that escaped his lips as he puffed out the smoke on his newly-lit cigarette and turned to walk away: "Maybe."
No commitments. No affirmations. No obligations. No empty promises.
Maybe.
The word that encapsulated all the possibilities, all the hopes… all the regrets.
She walks towards her hotel, but turns to look back just before entering the front doors only to find that he was no longer there. She smiled albeit sadly, questioning why she had nearly expected anything different.
::So this is pretty new to me. I just really had to get the TYL!5986 bug outta my system… and try writing something where there is so much more going on in their heads than in what they're saying. Yeah.
::Thanks for reading!