Décor
The first time wasn't really a first time.
If anything, Haru pretends it never happened, never happened at all because the crown that rests on her head is made of gold and not leaves. She's a queen, not a little princess anymore, she's a mafia lady, she's a mafia wife and if it isn't to the man she wanted it's okay because she never said whose wife she would be. If there had been a moment, the barest of seconds, of hesitation then that's gone, it's gonegonegone because she doesn't belong there anymore. It's cast away and it's not going to come back.
(when she sees him – if she ever sees him – she smiles for as long as custom dictates then turns her head to the side and that's that)
The wedding goes off perfectly.
She marries a man she's not in love with (she doesn't learn to love him, either, not the way she wants, but he loves her and that makes it okay) and it's more for Tsuna's sake than hers. She's a prominent figure, Kyouko's best friend, the unmarried one, so of course she has the ear of the Vongola Decimo, so of course she's good marrying material. Esotico, his sister calls her, exotic, with her dark hair and dark eyes and odd accent.
Haru held hopes (small ones) the day before the wedding, that someone would come, that someone would scream out no, no, you're with us, you're ours. No. The wedding goes off without a hitch, there's a heavy ring on her finger that glints when Tsuna congratulates her, the hint of unease at the corner of his mouth that vanishes at her laugh.
She learns as much as Kyouko, more, and cries.
There are etiquette lessons, dance lessons, manner lessons, history lessons, lessons to get rid of enough of that horrible accent of hers so she can speak clearly but everyone knows she's still not from here. Haru is smart, smarter than anyone seems to remember, and she takes them all with a grain of salt and excels at what she can. She dances, she kisses her husband's allies on both cheeks and curtsies to those he hates, she learns that his family is one that could have, eventually, rivaled the Vongola if given enough time.
Haru finds that she doesn't care that the seals her husband stamps on his paper make their way through the streets of Italy and invoke fear. Doesn't care that people take one look at the ring on her finger and trip over themselves to get the madam whatever dress, whatever drink, whatever she wants.
She asks for a napkin, gets a silk handkerchief, and spends one afternoon in a dingy café crying her eyes out.
Vongola, Vongola, Juliet needs you.
Kyouko is cute at fifteen and beautiful at twenty-five. There is an air of something around her that Haru can't place (doesn't want to place, really) and her eyes are too bright when she greets Haru. They spend the ball laughing together in a way they haven't been able to do for a decade and twirl away in a flurry of red sleeves and white skirts to their husbands' sides.
(she sees him, of course, he's Vongola, she's not. Haru smiles and places her hand on her husband's arm)
There's a scar on his shoulder.
It's evening, early morning, late night – Haru can't tell. She traces the faint line on his shoulder with a nail painted ruby red (not her choice, no, never) and wants to get away from it all. She can't, because the bed she's in is her husband's and the man beside her is clearly not, and eventually she'll face all of this.
For now, for now, the pillow below her is comfortable and her husband is in England and this is all right.
At twenty-seven, she is pregnant.
It's too young, her mother whispers over the phone, too young, come home and at least let me help. Haru laughs, says she can't (of course not, her home is where her heart is, and that certainly isn't in Japan) and hangs up. The baby isn't showing yet, not yet, but her husband kisses her stomach every morning and tells her he hopes it has her eyes and his hair.
Haru laughs then too, pats her stomach. I hope she looks just like me, she answers every morning. It's not that the baby isn't his – she's not stupid – and it's not that she doesn't want the baby. It's just that she wants something like her to mold to be whatever she couldn't, to have everything she couldn't.
A party is held, her baby is born, and all is not well.
Haru wanted a girl, she got a boy. Haru wanted brown hair, she got pitch black. Haru wanted brown eyes, she got grey.
There's an uncanny resemblance between her little boy and Hibari Kyouya, the coloring, and she makes sure to keep the two away from each other during the christening of Tsuna's first boy. Her little boy doesn't take much after his father either, except in the chin, and not after her, either. She claims he is a throwback to her grandfather and it keeps the muttering old women at bay.
She traces his jaw, glances at the reclusive Cloud in the corner, and hopes that the coloring is the only thing her little boy will have in common with him.
His knuckles are white with rage but he's not screaming.
"Him," he says, not asks, and Haru nods. He clears his throat and looks at everything in their room except her. "I see. And our—your son?"
"Our son," she corrects. Her voice is level and really, she's just tired. This has been a long time in coming and if she's sad, it's only that she let it come to this. "Our son. My blood and yours."
His head jerks into a nod and then he's gone, the door slamming behind him. The echo falls with Haru to the ground, but she's not crying, not laughing—she's tired.
Thirty-three and she's a widow.
Nicco holds her hand and rubs at his eyes with the other. He's just barely five and the suit a maid shoved him into is too long at the sleeves and he doesn't care about acting like a big boy in front of Tsuna's brood of children because Papa is dead, Papa's not coming back.
Haru wipes the tears off her son's cheeks but doesn't hold him like any good mother would. Her eyes are fixed on the casket before her, on the face that's just barely recognizable, and she's not crying. It's partially her fault, she supposes, considering she was the reason he took that flight to Paris, and she should be crying like her sister-in-law beside her. She can't, though. Doesn't know why she can't—the tears just won't come.
She thinks she lost all her tears that one afternoon in the café.
She's back, here again, they whisper, glancing at the once-pretty woman who folds a silk handkerchief over and over again.
They don't rush to her table anymore, only give the ring still on her finger a parting glance and ask politely (not worshipfully, as that one boy had) if she's ready to order.
Haru smiles at the young waiter—he's the same age as her Nicco, maybe a little older. She's in Rome, where the Vongola are considered the worst and the best, and this boy has no idea who she is.
"Surprise me," she tells him, and smiles again at the confused expression on his face.
--
AN: I…dunno. I really don't. Angst!Haru…not really, no. More of a 'what could be', 'what if'. Her husband's an OC, Nicco is her son, I dunno who she had a slight-not-really affair with. Really. I don't. Could be a Guardian (I doubt that) or an OC. Probably an OC. For clarification though...Nicco is the son of Haru and her OC husband. =3
Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! is not mine, never will be mine. If it were mine…Colonello would still be alive. T_T