Authors Note: Standard Disclaimers apply because if it didn't I wouldn't need to write fanfics. Just little segues while I ruminate on my other fics. This has been left in a corner of my mind and now demands satisfaction. Some of it might be deemed good, a few of them could be interesting and a whole slew of them are just random ramblings of a clearly stressed out writer. Again, I humbly beg for your indulgence in what amounts to little more than a writing idiots internal woolgathering.
ALPHABET SOUP
"It doesn't matter if you and everyone else in the room are thinking it. You don't say the words.
Words are weapons. They blast big bloody holes in the world.
And words are bricks. Say something out loud and it starts turning solid.
Say it loud enough and it becomes a wall you can't get through."
Richard Kadrey, Kill the Dead
ACCIDENTS
Genius. Gifted. Prodigy. He's heard of all them all. He's worked damned hard for those appellations. He knows what that 99% of the time, if he puts his mind to it, he could accomplish anything-even the things most people would consider improbable and the kind of things rational people declare impossible.
And yet somehow, someway fate found a way to get even and toy with him. Because he might be a prodigy who tinkers with computers and robotics since he was eleven. He might be gifted engineer who could manipulate the full potential of a cube to build fantastic structures. And he was certainly a genius who could and did solve the riddle of time travel and energy manipulation.
But none of those things could really save him from the reality that he keeps falling out of bed every morning when he wakes up and that he has accidents occur to him every time he takes more than three steps in any direction.
ALARM CLOCKS
He ignored them for most of his early life. It was to his mother's eternal consternation that she kept buying them for him and they never once served their purpose-he never woke up with their shrill cries, melodic thrills or even cajoling words. It was always Sawada Nana who had to trudge up the stairs and personally wake up her wayward, slug-a-bed son.
When Sawada Tsunayoshi reached his fourteenth year of living that he realized how much he missed those innocuous mechanical boxes that gently urged him to wakefulness and felt eternal regret that he never fully appreciated them. Those unsung, under-appreciated simple machines that sought to bring him awake for all those years ago and continued doing so despite being ignored, slammed, hit or even smashed unheedingly to the floor.
At least, not until he found himself being awakened on a daily basis by a sadistic baby that employed the most unconventional alarm clocks. Only when he was being awakened by bombs, landmines, rifles and the ever ubiquitous crash cart that literally jolted him into wakefulness with ten thousand volts that he realized how much he missed those small mechanical boxes who never once punched back.
BELONGING
It baffled so many seasoned Dons why the youngest Vongola Don had so many supporters and so many powerful figures rallying behind him. They talked and they gossiped and they debated on the why's and the what ifs. They speculated that it was the prestige of such an old name that lured the other famiglias to his side, the reputation that could be gained by aligning own famiglias to such an old established one.
Others reasoned that it was the immense wealth commandeered and accumulated over the years that tempted the others to stay for surely the Vongola men are not only well dressed, they were certainly among the most well compensated Mafioso in the world. Most argued that it was because Decimo must be pretty damned convincing because certainly the people he recruited to his side are among the pickiest, most cantankerous—undeniably skilled—bunch of eccentrics in the Mafia World.
When they met with the young man, they felt like they might have solved the mystery but to be sure they actually dared to ask one of those that hover close to the Decimo's sphere. The answer they got only baffled them more. The man, the strongest in North Italy only replied that Decimo made them feel like they belonged.
BROTHER
It remains a mystery to him why he never resented him nor showed any bitterness towards the child that enjoyed everything that was denied to him by his father's absence. Basil watched and continued to watch over his honorable master's son and wait for the day when Sawada Tsunayoshi will turn to him and asks him how he dares.
How he dares to smile at him knowing it was him who grew up with Iemitsu's guidance all those formative years while Tsuna learned how to survive under the shadow cast by his degrading nickname. How he dares to come to his childhood home, seek shelter within its warmth when it was him who basked in Iemitsu's embrace for all those years when Tsuna almost forgot what his own father looked like. How he dares to share in the light of Decimo's generosity and compassion for those around him when it was him who had a father who praised him for every improvement and nurtured his skills and gifts while it was Tsuna who had to smile in spite his loneliness and abandonment.
He waits to hear the recriminations for all the times when Iemitsu chose his devotion of his famiglia—his apparently truer, more favored famiglia—rather than stay as a part of his biological one. He waits and hopes that the day comes so that he could ask for clemency for all his accumulated sins. But the day never came.
When Decimo finally assumed the mantle of the Vongola Famiglia he finally dared to ask—wracked by guilt and the need for forgiveness. When he tried to speak—after all the years of waiting—Decimo shook his head and simply thanked him for all the things he provided for Iemitsu, for being the son Iemitsu couldn't enjoy while he was working, for being there for their father when the rest of his family couldn't and for being the brother he didn't even know he had and always wished for.
COLOR
The mafia world is a world of that has very little room in it for the light. Their activities, their very nature, the very reason for the start of their existence does not coincide with the needs—nay—demands of those that live in the light.
Perhaps nowhere else than in their clothing does this fact become ever so evident. They are easily recognizable in their signature suit of black, snowy white shirt and black tie. The black leather shoes that gave that distinctive patter to their tread and those tell-tale cars with dark tinted windows that seemed tailor made for surveillance and night time rendezvous.
Black is their signature shade. It is the hue of concealment and shadows, the dark suit blending eerily well when one lurks in corners and nooks to conduct illicit talks and whispered plots. It is a shade so useful in concealing the evident stain of blood, of unavoidable tussles and countless fights.
It is the color of mourning and of ageless dignity. The color of death they wear seemingly in preparation and recognition, of obeisance to the grim reaper that walks among them day in and day out. It is the color of respect, the tapestry where their legends are written.
It is a color never meant for one Sawada Tsunayoshi, Vongola Decimo.
For is of the light and everything that it represented—from his autumn colored locks to his pale clear skin to the clear luminescent russet shade of his eyes; from his simple sunny nature to his compassionate forgiving heart to his direct approach to life and people. He is not a man intended for the shadows.
And yet he wears the black mantle of their world with quiet self-possession and dignified understanding. Perhaps because he knows—better than most—that while some would consider and did believe black as the absence of light—in his eyes, black is just a canvas simply there to emphasize its very existence.
DANGEROUS
Crossing a street. The dog next door. Bullies at school. Subject that he can't get heads or tails of. Dismissive teachers that heard of his nickname and condemned him to keep it true. Physical activities and sports that defeat him with the least of effort. People who laugh derisively. Eyes that pass judgment and declares his unworthiness. A future the looms ever bleaker each day that passes. All the dangers of a normal teenager. All the things that frightened him. All those dangerous things that he could never confront or even thought of confronting.
He had no problem defining what danger and dangerous things were. They were all and everything around him. All that exists beyond the security of his mother's warm embrace and the four walls of his childhood home. But that was before. Before a baby came kicking him into oblivion and changed his concept of exactly what dangerous meant. Now dangerous means anything—new enemies, new weapons, new challenges that threatens his family.
Dangerous became I-pin being embarrassed and having no open space to hurl her into. Dangerous became Adult Lambo showing up anywhere near Bianchi. Dangerous is anything crowding Hibari and being anywhere near him. Dangerous meant a visit from Varia in a house with anything precious that might break. Dangerous is Gokudera sitting next to a mischievous teasing Yamamoto. Dangerous meant Reborn without coffee to be found anywhere in the house.
EFFORT
He was a glaring, obvious and undeniable testament to disappointment. The boy had nothing to offer—worse than that—he cannot see anything inside him to offer to anyone else. He not only denied his birthright, he refused to even consider it was his.
He said was clumsy. And yet it never failed to surprise them how graceful his hands looked whenever he reached out to those around him. He said he was dumb and stupid. And yet it was always he who figures out what motivates others to act the way they did. He said he was no good. And yet it was he who consistently found the innate goodness in even the most daunting and blood-soaked men they've met. He said he was a coward. And yet when the business of the ring battle and every other battle therein came, he never backed away no matter how powerful the opponent or how impossible the odds were. He said he was afraid. And yet he never quit the torturous training, never recoiled from the blood that soaked his clothes and skin, never turned from the sight of his own mangled flesh. He said he wasn't strong enough. And yet he never flinched when he looked straight into the dark, fathomless eyes of the greatest hit man in the world and told him that he will protect his family.
He was nothing like what Reborn expected. But he certainly made a lot of effort to be what Reborn needed him to be.
FATHER
When rivals and contemporaries tell him how lucky he was to have been born a son to Iemitsu, he has learned to smile and nod and accept their words without any outward sign of distress or rejection. There were truth to their words—it was Iemitsu's bloodline that allowed him to be a candidate for the Vongola Famiglia. To those that comment that he makes an excellent father-figure to his young wards, he simply smiles and nods and tells them everything he does, he learned from his father. When they ask for specifics, he tells them that he follows a simple formula—he does whatever his father didn't. He had long made peace with his unusual circumstance and it would not do to explain to those unwilling to listen anyways.
He knows there are different kinds of fathers; those like Nono, who cares and continues to care even for those not of his blood because he chose to honor his lost sons and care for the last one fate has given him. He knows of fathers like Yamamoto Takeushi who allows his son to flourish and grow and follow a path of his own choosing; waiting for a time when his son would need help so that he could offer it. He knows that even his own father knew how to care for a son—even if that son wasn't him. Basil needed his father and though he had need for him too, fate gave him another to take Iemitsu's place. The only true father he will ever need.
Sure his pseudo-father was a fedora-wearing, Beretta-wielding, grinning sadistic hit man with God complex and a chameleon as a part time pet and weapon to boot, but he gave him everything he would need for his future. Sure his pseudo-father woke him using a crash-cart, gave reviews and tutored using landmines and bombs. Sure he used blackmail to get the smallest information out of him rather than ask directly. And sure more often than not he threw him in the middle of the fight he had no concept of and fully expected him to win, but he never left him alone to face the fight on his own. And sure he has no affectionate bone in his entire body but it doesn't diminish the fact that one approving look from him makes Tsuna try harder than ever, one word of praise makes him feel like despite all the dangers and the chaos that things will always turn out right. It certainly doesn't change the fact that it took a cosplay addicted baby to show him what a father should, could and ought to be.
GUM
He's heard their reminders and their remonstrations. He knows that he's risking health and whatever years of his life he had left whenever he lights up those sticks they all detest. He acknowledges that they have the right to worry about him, especially when it was Decimo that reminds him with his gentle hints. He knows that ignoring their pleas and requests get harder each year that passes but he perseveres. Because he knows it would be a pretty cold day in hell before he quits. Because until the day they discover a way for a stupid wad of gum to light a fuse, he's sticking with what works for him.
HAIR TIES
He grew his hair as part of a youthful promise. He grew it and learned how to live his life around the voluminous strands that got into nearly everything in and around him. He always boasted that he could fight with anyone and not worry about a single shimmering strand getting in the way. However a mission in a gusty region changed his mind and so he started wearing hairties.
He only wore them three times before he shredded each and every one he owned and declared lasting and deeply felt war on the elastic fabric.
He hates them. He loathes their very existence. They are the bane of his life and not even his sword; his reputation as a swordsman or being Varia's second in command could help him. Cause every time, without fail, whenever he uses them, the same shitty thing happens—he gets hit on by guys who mistakes him for some hot chick with a really rocking platinum blonde pony.
IDENTIDY
He has gotten out of the habit of carrying it with him. Ten years of constantly being hailed by everyone around him using his title, his name, his last name, his nickname, HIS nickname for him, he has admittedly gotten out of the habit of bothering with that piece of plastic.
It wasn't until his car broke down a few blocks away from one of the buildings of the Vongola Financial Group and he'd been forced to walk to attend a meeting on time that he realized he should get back into the habit of carrying some form of identification.
Especially when he found it impossible to get past two guards who assured him he doesn't look anything like the current Vongola Decimo because he was definitely shorter than the man himself.
JUSTICE
When a malfunctioning Ten Year Bazooka hit Sawada Tsunayoshi once again, his mentor and his guardians didn't even blink. They have gotten so used to the sight of dissipating clouds of pink showing them various stages of their boss's life that they have learned to take it in their stride.
However when the clouds finally cleared and they saw what it had previously concealed, it took considerable effort on everyone's part not to stand up, grab a weapon and march straight back into the streets of Namimori.
Because if there was any justice in the world, they would find the idiots with the death wish that brought tears to their beloved Decimo's three year-old eyes and exact some much needed retribution. If there was anything like justice in the world, the bazooka would stay broken long enough for them to wipe away the dirt from that innocent face, treat some of those painful looking gashes and find a way to make those trembling lips turn into a reluctant smile.
And if there was truly any justice in the world, neither Reborn nor Tsuna would find out the fact that Haru took a photo of a heartbreakingly adorable red nosed Vongola Decimo, sucking on his thumb while cuddling in the arms of a clearly bewildered hit man whose tie he held in his small fist.
KISS
Kisses are districts owned and dominated by womenfolk since the dawn of time. That was a belief held closely and without sway by the strongest men of the Vongola Famiglia. Sawada Nana dispensed kisses of the most potent kind. Her kisses eased the fears of a child that had spent far too long on the run, warmed the emptiness in a child that knew more about death than life and silenced the anguished cries of a baby that was left to carry an impossible task.
They soothed the heartache of a lonely son that longed for comfort in the face of a father's absence and shared warmth with boys that she cared to call her sons. They welcomed home a man that had spent more years living without her warmth than with it. And they expressed her gratitude towards a rightfully fearsome man who came and opened up a world that made her son want to be better than he was.
LOST
He has spent the better part of his life being one. When he found out the bitter, painful truth about the woman he cared about, when he walked out of his father's rule and his childhood home, when he gave up everything he had ever known for a life he no longer cared for.
He was still lost when he tried to survive in the harsh, unforgiving streets of the underworld…lost as blind man who has never known the light and color of day, trudging along one desperate mission at a time, ignoring the aches and wounds and scars that accumulated on his body because they were there only as a reminder of where he has been.
He had no hope left when he accepted that fateful assignment to a foreign land, in a town known to no one, to deal with a child who didn't understand what he would lose once he enters fully into their world. He only wanted to be lost so completely that he wouldn't care anymore.
It's ironic that when he decided it was finally time to be lost that he was finally found.
MAN-HANDLE
Men of the Mafioso never had to worry about being man-handled. Only the deranged, demented or desperate would be reckless enough to even brush up against someone like them. The women of the Vongola however, gave off no whiff of the scent carried by the men in their lives. This fact alone should've made them fodder for those who normally preyed on weaker beings but Haru, Kyoko, and I-pin never had to worry about such things on any given normal day.
After all men who tried it once learned early on that while the women of the Vongola might look and act and sound sweet—they were still Vongola. And no woman who lived long enough with any Vongola is ever truly normal.
Haru for instance laughs like a loon and carries on enthusiastic conversation without a care in the world, but if you touch her without permission you'd end up staring at the business end of her wickedly lethal, custom made baby Beretta courtesy of one former baby hit man. If you tried to attack Sasagawa Kyoko thinking that she would be weaker because of her soft smile and friendly nature, be prepared for a fast acting paralysis spray invented by Gianini that would immobilize your entire body; leaving you to act as an extremely convincing corpse complete with lowered body temperature and pale complexion. And if you were dumb enough to attack I-pin, she just might send your mangled remains boxed up prettily in a package complete with an artistically tied ribbon straight back to hell and then smile at you while she's at it.
NICKNAMES
Xanxus is known far and wide for being an utter and complete jack ass most days of the year. He is also known for being a mean, sadistic bastard with restraint of a sociopath on steroids. He has a set of foibles that would drive a psychiatrist to suicide and most saints into committing themselves into the nearest sanitarium. He also, most definitely, dislikes being bothered remembering other people's names. And so he got into the habit of calling everyone and anyone the ever-useful, all-around "Trash".
He never discriminates and treats everyone equally in the same derisive, borderline abusive manner and bestows upon them the same much used nickname. Even Sawada Tsunayoshi, Vongola Decimo himself, falls under this ever-so popular Xanxus foible. The only difference is that like his much maligned and demented famiglia, the Varia, Sawada also receives a second nickname courtesy of Xanxus.
So while Levi was the Afro-Trash, Bel was the Trashy Prince, Mamon was Baby Trash, Lussuria was the Homo-Trash, and Fran was the Freaky Trash. Squalo being a friend of long standing was given the more respectable choices of White-Haired Trash, Long Haired Trash, or Loud Trashy Shark for his own sobriquet.
As for Sawada, personal enemy no. 1 in Xanxus's short list of people he would love to destroy if Nono would just fucking allow it, was gifted with a cognomen that exercised the full extent of Xanxus' skills at alliteration. On the eve of Sawada's Inheritance Ceremony, he promptly called him the Bastard Baby Boss. To Decimo's utter discomfiture, all the other Varia followed suit.
OPEN
It never failed to surprise the underlings and visiting bosses of allied families when they are informed that the door to Decimo's private suite of rooms were always kept open at all times. They found such oversight to be, at first, a definite sign of the soft nature of the current Vongola Boss and his complacent nature. A boss never leaves his private domain vulnerable to possible infiltration of theft.
After they met with him and consequently his guardians, spent some time in their company and watched how they interacted, they finally understood the reason for the open doors.
The doors need not be closed against possible intrusion or invasion because it was clear to anyone who cared to look and any boss with half an ounce of brain matter to see that the things the young Vongola Decimo valued could already be found right next to him.
PUSH and PULL
For as long as he would live Yamamoto Takeshi would look at a rooftop and never see it in quite the same light as everyone else. For him rooftops—especially the ones in schools—would forever remain in his memory as the strongest reminder of what a single push by circumstance could bring about and what a determined pull by pale weak hands could accomplish.
He would always recall what ambition and blind determination took from him, pushing him from all avenues of logic, pushing aside his future, his father, his very own sense of self and life. He would look at rooftops and remember that his love of a game once pushed him to the very edge of despair and desolation and that it would take one lonely pull to change everything for him.
Tsuna had weak hands. Unlike his own powerful grip, gifted by nature and harnessed by training, his hands are pale, soft and cold. They were uncertain and trembled with the least exertion. But they had the strength to hold on and pull him back when he needed it the most. Those weak, cold hands pulled him from the abyss of despair and told him to see—see what it was he was throwing away, what he was leaving behind. It was those trembling hands that held on when nothing and no one else could and would, pulling him back, pulling him free, pulling him towards the light, pulling him into a future.
QUESTIONS
Nana never asks. Questions are things she never speaks of, never thinks about and never allows to escape past smiling lips.
She knows that her husband hides his true employment from her. No true wife could ever be deceived and certainly never for so long a time. But she never questions Iemitsu why he couldn't stay with her and their son. Why he never finds time to be with them. Why he spends more time away from their home and why he brought such a dangerous future to their son.
She knows that the baby that commands her son isn't a normal baby. She isn't blind to the guns and the bombs and the very adult language he spouts with the drop of a hat. But she never asks questions. Never asks why he had to come and why he had to change her son. Why he pushed her beloved Tuna-fish into becoming someone strong, someone different. Why he insisted on making her son carry such a heavy burden leading the lives of so many when he was just a child.
She knows but she will never ask. She will never ask her son why he was covered in bruises because she knows that he's undergoing whatever it was that's needed to change him. She will never speak of her fears because she understands that this was for the best. She will never ask because she sees how much her son has grown, how confident he is now and how sweet his laughter has become. That's why she will never give voice to the questions that linger in her heart. Because she has all the answers to all her questions in the smile of the man her son is growing up to be.
REPUTATION
He understood ambition just as well as he understood reluctance. He understood what it was like to live under the crushing, suffocating weight of a name and fate not of your own choosing. He understood well enough to know that there are things that could be done, should be done and must be absolutely done. Of choices that could be taken, fate that ought to be seized, of destiny that cannot be denied.
He went through all that with the Cavallone heir. The boy didn't want anything to do with his own legacy—didn't want the responsibility of being in charge of so many lives, so many people who looked up to him with painful hope. He resisted his teachings every step of the way until he realized that he wasn't a man to be deterred by temper tantrums, threats or tears. His acceptance was grudging, his obeisance a result of resignation.
He understood that he was paid to change a stubborn spineless selfish sow's ear into the expected silk purse. He made every effort to achieve his goal. He had his reputation to consider after all.
SILENCE
He didn't crave it. In spite of the cacophony around him, despite the dynamites going off like fireworks near his offices on a daily basis, despite the loud thwacks of sliced tatamis hitting against hapless marble, despite the grunts of canvas and leather being pummeled by furiously energetic fists. Despite the manic laughter and horrified screams of unfortunate subordinates and guests who wonder close to his Mist's dark lair. Despite the cries and thumps of yet another body joining the pile below the window of his disgruntled Cloud. Despite the recoils of shell casings as yet another underling annoyed his cheerfully sadistic mentor who constantly used underlings as target practice to keep up his skills.
He didn't need silence. Despite the droning chants and demands of a little curly haired child that ordered everyone around. Despite the even louder wails and protestations of devotions to Xanxus of an equally curly haired adult. Despite the teasing , flirtatious thrill of a Sun guardian as he chases after every free male in the vicinity. Despite the deafening roars of a constantly annoyed shark who considers anything less than a bellow as a polite way to greet anyone.
He didn't miss silence. He had too much of it for fourteen years. He figures he needs an equal amount of time before he starts looking for some.
TALENT
She knows that her cosplay obsession is just a little less enthusiastic than Reborn. She knows that her smarts and her academically inclined background was nothing special and actually cost her to have no friends to call her own in her school. Her cheerful attitude can be tiresome for others and her streak of stubbornness and her quest for justice for all things cute and cuddly did put off a lot of people. But it doesn't matter to her anymore. Because all the things that other people considered to be strikes against her made her all the more appropriate for the world that she is currently living in. It was for these reasons and more that she treasured the friends she found in the halls of Namimori Middle School and consequently in the Vongola 's a world that's proven to be just the right place for her. Within its crazy, unpredictable and violent walls she found a purpose for her simple talents.
The sewing and make up skills she perfected during her cosplaying craze came in handy whenever infiltration came into play providing costumes and disguises to keep her friends safe and protected. It gave her pleasure to know that her beloved friends wear clothing sewn with her hopes and her prayers.
Her academic and mathematics training at the hands of her university professor of a father gave her great insight into finance and business, the most useful prowess necessary for the Vongola Auditor and Conservator she found ways to save desperately needed money that went to pay for everything her beloved Tsuna-san and his demented family, cronies and the Varia destroyed everytime they ventured out.
And her stubbornness and her enthusiasm proved most important of all—since it kept her going, kept her smiling, even in the face of the knowledge that once—an alternate lifetime ago—there came a time when everything and everyone she loved in her world was taken from her.
TEARS
It was no secret that if Gokudera Hayato's beautiful teal eyes fill with tears, the people responsible ended up getting poisoned and whole slew of others would get a heretofore unknown disease that would cause them to die in some horrifyingly nightmarish and embarrassing fashion.
It was no secret that if Yamamoto Takeshi's laughing hazel eyes fill with tears, a lot of folks would see a mild mannered sushi chef fillet more than Tuna and a whole lot of others would find themselves facing the edge of a lethally sharp sword while being deafened by screamed out threats from an extremely loud-mouthed, obscenity spewing shark.
It was no secret that if Sasagawa Kyouko's cheerful brown eyes fill with tears, there would be entire cities crumbling beneath the fists of a disgruntled extreme boxer who would decimate everything around him and there would be the constant threat of a vengeful cosplaying Namahage that would sic an accounting firm on you to audit everything you've ever owned.
It was no secret that if Chrome Dokuru's gentle purple eyes fill with tears, the culprit would have to live with the fact that they will suffer from the tortures of a vengeful skylark that would bite them to death and then live through the rest of their lifetime with nightmares that might never ever end even when they're awake.
It was no secret that if Sawada Nana's warm chocolate eyes fill with tears, there would be nowhere in the entire island of Japan you could hide that the ranking prince won't know about, no place strong enough to withstand the bombings of one angry human bomb, no army numerous enough to survive a lightning attack in broad day light, no assassin skilled enough to counter the world's strongest hit man and no wealth enough to stop the combined influence of a trained security expert and that of a very pissed off Mafia Don.
And it was no secret that if Sawada Tsunayoshi's lambent russet eyes fill with tears, the culprit better write their will and consign their immortal soul to something or someone beyond human because without a doubt there would be no going back especially when the entire Mafia world is gunning for you and not even an alternate universe could hide you.
UTENSILS
Everyone knows that Xanxus is a consummate carnivore. Everyone knows that Xanxus prefers the finest filet mignon whenever the craving for meat hits him. Everyone knows that Xanxus likes his filet nearly raw and bleeding. And everyone absolutely knows that Xanxus eats his filet using his fingers—no knife, no fork, no eating implement of any sort.
And when Xanxus condescend to visit Sawada's home in honor of the baby bastard boss' graduation from high school, he made it very clear that he wants to eat his usual fare and he doesn't want it any later than his usual dinner time. Nana, of course, was only too happy to oblige her son's newest friend no matter how cranky he acted.
But when he sat at the dinner table, sans the feet up like usual, and picked at his filet with his fingers, the Varia and Xanxus finally discovered where Sawada inherited his subtle scary genes. Because only a moron would argue with a woman who tells you not to play with your food and use the fork she so thoughtfully provided, just as a famed hit man loomed behind her frowning and cocking his Beretta in your face. And if you're like Xanxus who had a doctorate degree in sheer stubborn assholery and had to be told twice, then the sight of the same woman smiling at you and reminding you again as she sharpens a huge carving knife would probably be incentive enough to use a utensil just this once.
VIOLET
Hibari did not prefer any color at all and save for his not-so-secret dislike of the hues and presence of the sakura, he didn't think he exhibit any partiality towards any shade save the serviceable black of his middle school uniform. But when he looks down at eyes of his box weapon or the timid ones of the one-eyed Mist, he finds that he could learn to adapt to just that particular shade of violet.
WORTH
Chrome didn't not like being touched. Her parents were not affectionate—it could be more accurately stated that they do not have the faintest concept of affection within them. They could only imitate regard for the sake of maintaining appearances.
For most of the thirteen years of her life, she only vaguely understood the difference between her family and any others. She didn't know what set them apart, what she lacked and had been lacking ever since she could remember. She only wished she could figure it out and find it. Every night she would pray and make the same wish until the day of her accident.
And until she met her beloved Mukuro-sama, the Boss and the rest of the Vongola it seemed like her accident paved the way for her wish to come true. It allowed her to meet her adored Mukuro-sama who gave her life a sense of purpose and direction. It gave her a chance to find Boss and bask in his warmth and honest affection. It gave her a place to belong to and people that to care for and who—surprisingly—cared for her.
Her wish might've been paid with pain but it was certainly worth it.
X-CHROMOSOME
For the rest of his life Gokudera would never understand the female of the species. The intellectual in him has long decided that the reason for such dissonant nature comes from possessing that one gene that makes all the difference between logic and just plain infuriatingly complicated.
Miura Haru is just plain confusing with her costume obsession, her nosiness, her temerity to argue with him and her infuriating demand that his beloved Decimo be hers. Sasagawa Kyoko is eternally blind to his beloved Decimo's affection and even more so to the fact that her brother gives the lamest excuses for working in the Mafia. Kurokawa Hana is a shrew that guards her friends like a lioness protecting a cub and has the temerity to call his Decimo 'Dame' no matter how much he threatened her and insists that his dynamite are nothing more than toys. Chrome Dokuro could not even see how demented and just plain insane her beloved Mukuro was and seems to find Hibari somewhat helpful—something she obviously needs to see a good psychiatrist for.
And of course there was his sister manages to turn everything that was once edible into something destructive, dangerous and just plain wrong on every level known to man. Every and all female in his world just plain baffles him. Obviously, that X-chromosome is just a plain pain in the butt. Of course talking about it out loud is another thing. He isn't that dumb. He knows that X-chromosome is also good for exacting the kind of revenge even Vendice Prison couldn't imagine.
YOUNG
Mukuro lost his innocence even before he knew he had it, stolen by those adult around him. Those self-same adults who were tasked by God, society and everyone else to protect and nurture it. So it didn't take a genius figure out why he had such a deeply ingrained distrust of those older than he was. He distrusted the old because the older they are, the more cunning, corrupted and conceited they become.
He will never place his trust with an adult. But maybe he would in someone young. Because despite living through six lives and six hells, it was only in the eyes of someone young did he finally find the absolution he had been secretly yearning for…
Only in the eyes of a young man who has seen pain and violence and betrayal could he find a means to rid his anger, cleanse his darkness and remove the stain of his wicked past. He needs the young to show him how to innocent. And who knows...maybe be one again.
ZOO
It was the last place they would ever bring him to. Mukuro didn't like zoos. He didn't like watching animals—both predator and prey—locked in a small cramped space, spending their days peering at curious creatures that walked past them as they remained confined and still.
He didn't want to see their eyes staring emptily at him, feel their forlorn eyes following him, reminding him of what it felt like to be the one kept behind a wall of glass and water…seen not as a human being but a thing—a possession and a curiosity—a trophy for the powerful.
He dislikes the feeling of helplessness that assails him when he walks by cages, coops and enclosures. He flinches when he hears the tell-tale clink of chains and the cold feel of bars brushing past him. No, he doesn't just detest zoos…he loathes the reality and memory that reminds him every time he closes his eyes that once—a long, long time ago—he was in one.