A/N: This is written as a series of drabbles, so each section will be short and primarily introspective, with only a bit of dialogue here and there. I may change or rearrange a few canon details to fit better, but these changes should be mostly unnoticeable. Please let me know what you think!

Giotto
I-V

I.

Sawada Tsunayoshi was four when he first understood why he'd always felt so uncomfortable. It wasn't a sudden epiphany, but rather a slowly dawning realization that took place over the course of a year. The memories had always been there, just not the ability to understand what they were.

Once his name had been Giotto.

"Ah," Giotto said, blinking at the little plastic action figure in his hands. "I was not expecting this."

Giotto smiled faintly. He carefully set down the toy and stumbled to his feet. His body had always felt odd, like it didn't quite fit on his bones, but he'd gotten used to it enough to manage. He ran out of his bedroom, tripping on the edge of the carpet, and then caught himself on the door frame. Without missing a beat, he rushed down the stairs.

The bigger question was why. Giotto had lived a long life and died in his sleep, content and accepting. He'd had a weak heart for a decade before his death, so he'd had years to come to terms with it. Giotto had no dying will burning when he passed, no business left unconcluded. He had his regrets, certainly, but nothing that gnawed away at him; nothing that would, in his mind, warrant what appeared to be a reincarnation.

"Mamma," Giotto called out as he reached the living room. "Avete mai sentito parlare di Giotto Vongola?"

The honey-haired woman who was his mother in this life looked up at him from where she lounged on the couch with a glass of wine, her brow crinkled with confusion. "Tsu-kun?"

Giotto blushed, belatedly realizing that he'd spoken in Italian. Clearing his throat he repeated in Japanese, "Mama, have you ever heard of Vongola Giotto?"

Nana's expression cleared as she swirled around her wineglass, then took a sip. "Vongola? I don't think… Ah!" She brightened. "Not long after Tsu-kun was born, Papa researched his family history. He found out that his ancestor came from Italy and retired to Japan. That's why Papa went traveling, to find out more about his heritage, and now he's become a star!"

While Nana squealed, Giotto smiled indulgently at her enthusiasm. He rather doubted that was what actually happened, especially if Iemitsu had been searching for the Vongola. Added to the fact that the man had only returned home twice in the past year… Well, the situation wasn't exactly uncommon, at least in his original time, but a part of Giotto hoped Iemitsu hadn't found what he was looking for. Giotto didn't want to have anything to do with the Vongola anymore; he didn't even want to find out what they'd turned into.

"Thank you, Mama," Giotto said, and then left the room before Nana could coo over him again.

That explained his appearance at least. Giotto had wondered why his current body looked exactly like his previous self as a child, but if he was his own ancestor… Giotto made a face. On second thought, that was just really weird. At least his hair was more brown than blond. It was a small difference, but somehow it felt important.

II.

Giotto had always been a firm believer that pity was a useless emotion. Sympathy and empathy were good—they helped people to connect. But pity was inaction. It meant noticing a person's situation, then moving on without the attempt to help or acknowledge their struggle. If a person noticed someone's misfortune then they should move to do something about it, or else feel nothing at all.

And yet, Giotto pitied his mother.

He hadn't understood her, initially. She was a distinctly odd woman who kept her head in the clouds 90% of the time. As a toddler there had been more than once instance where she'd forgotten to feed him and he'd been forced to seek a snack for himself. Ultimately Giotto thought it might be for the best—he had the independent mind of an adult and it rankled him to be coddled, and yet…

Giotto had vague, faded memories of his original mother. She was a stern woman who had died when he was a child, but she'd been warm and attentive. Too attentive, he'd thought at the time. Restricting and unfair and… He'd missed her very much when she'd passed, but he thought he missed her even more now. Nana was a kind woman with good intentions, and she always panicked whenever she realized she'd forgotten to take care of her son, but intentions meant nothing without action.

Nana always had a drink in her hand. She wasn't an alcoholic, not quite, but she toed the line daily and it only made her get lost in her head all the more. But… Giotto thought he understood, at least a little. He hadn't seen Iemitsu in nearly two years now, though the man had called five times. Nana drank an entire bottle of wine on their anniversary and half a bottle on Giotto's birthday.

The worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it. Giotto looked a lot like his father, as Nana told him constantly, and the more time he tried to spend with her, the further away she drifted. It took months of awkwardly tiptoeing around Nana before they settled into a distant but warm relationship in which Tsuna mostly took care of himself, while his mother smiled in the background and welcomed him home each night.

At the very least Nana was able to answer all the questions Giotto had about how the world had changed in the years since he'd died. Somehow he wasn't surprised that it had been two centuries, not when he saw all the astounding vehicles and lights. They had televisions to transmit pictures, phones to speak over long distances, refrigerators to preserve food, and a million other gadgets whose functions Giotto could only begin to imagine.

It was a strange new world, and more than just a little terrifying. Nana gave him a "game system" for his birthday and, after taking ten minutes to figure out how to turn it on, Giotto nearly burned it up when it started beeping and flashing at him. It was now collecting dust on his shelf. For the time being Giotto would stick with just his books and let the rest of the world pass him by.

III.

One week into his first year of schooling and Giotto was already struggling. They were starting off with numbers and writing, basic things that all six years olds were able to learn with no trouble. And yet…it was tripping up Giotto up. Because it was so simple he kept getting distracted and slipping into Italian instead, and then confusing Japanese with English and Italian until the elementary five question worksheet he was supposed to be completing was covered in scribbles and it looked like he didn't understand a thing.

And not to mention writing in Japanese… They were learning three writing systems—Hiragana, Katakana, and some Kanji—and almost all of it was different from what he'd learned in his original life. At least Giotto could speak Japanese with ease, though he'd been told he spoke archaically by more than one person already, and half the time the other children just stared at him blankly as though they couldn't understand him at all. Giotto had thought that the first few years of his life would be more than enough to adjust to this time period and suitably fit in, but the way the other children, and even the teacher at times, avoided him clearly said that he'd failed in that regard.

So it was one week in and already Giotto had been ostracized as "that weird kid". Giotto was fairly sure that the primary teacher of his class thought he was an idiot savant and his mother just giggled through the first parent-teacher meeting, too tipsy to really grasp what the teacher told her. With a sigh he resigned himself to sitting at the back of the class, struggling through his language complications alone. Giotto didn't really want to interact with the other literally-nose-picking children anyway. He'd already done the whole child-rearing thing and, as much as he loved his own children and the single grandchild he'd gotten the chance to meet before his death, they were entirely too sticky and screechy to spend much time around.

Miserably, Giotto wondered if there was any way to escape this hell. He wasn't sure that he could survive another six years of primary school, at least not without burning down the building.

IV.

Year 2 of primary school was easier than the first. Giotto's writing skills had improved drastically, though he still made more mistakes than his pride would readily admit. But the concepts were easy, and even though at lot of it was new information (the world had changed a lot in 200 years in he'd only had a couple of years of education originally anyway) he sped through most of it.

But on the first day of Year 3, Giotto saw him.

There was a boy in Giotto's class who sat two seats ahead of him. He had black hair and brown eyes and chubby cheeks, but underneath all that… Giotto knew him. Underneath all the tiny differences was his friend and guardian, Asari Ugetsu.

Giotto hadn't noticed him at first, but then as he settled into his new seat on that first day he heard a laugh that was so familiar it was like a punch to the gut. Giotto's head jerked up and as soon as he caught sight of the little boy, he couldn't stop staring. It was his Rain Guardian, in the flesh. And while part of him said that was impossible—Ugetsu had been alive and healthy when Giotto died—the rest of him whispered hopefully that if he'd been reincarnated, who was to say that others hadn't been too?

Giotto walked up to the boy and opened his mouth—and stopped. What should he say? How did one even start a conversation like this?

"Hi!" the boy said, smiling brightly. "I'm Yamamoto Takeshi. Who are you?"

There was no recognition in his eyes. No spark of wonder, nothing. Giotto stood there with his mouth still hanging open and couldn't find anything to say around the sinking feeling in his stomach. When the other children around them started giggling and glancing between themselves, Giotto let his head drop. He muttered something unintelligible and shuffled back to his seat, then spent the rest of the day with his head in his arms, pretending that he didn't want to cry for the first time in this life.

Giotto was certain—so sure, right down into the heart of his Dying Will—that the boy called Takeshi was his Rain Guardian. He was also certain that Takeshi remembered nothing of his past life as Ugetsu.

It was painful to be so close to his dearest friend and have him still not recognize him, and yet… Giotto couldn't stop watching him. He never directly approached Takeshi again but he still kept an eye on him at all times. It helped that he sat behind the boy in class and then he could carefully follow him home, making sure that Takeshi was safe. Giotto dithered back and forth, wondering whether he should wait until Takeshi was older before trying to befriend or stay away entirely and let the boy live his life.

It wasn't stalking, Giotto assured himself. Just…concerned watching.

V.

It was in the middle of the summer of Giotto's seventh year of new life when every changed. He had followed Takeshi home again, walking about a block behind him and keeping the little boy just in sight in case anything happened, but far enough away that the boy wouldn't see him. Giotto had just started to relax because the restaurant Takeshi's father owned—named Takesushi, amusingly enough—was in sight. But then, just as Takeshi reached the door, a loud roar erupted from the back of the building.

Giotto froze in place for nearly a full second, then before he knew it he was flying across the street, racing for the building. He bounded inside two steps behind Takeshi and pulled the boy back with a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay here," Giotto ordered, barely seeing the shocked and scared look on Takeshi's face. "Wait until your father comes out."

Almost before the words left his mouth, Giotto was already running across the room toward the door that led into the back. The restaurant was empty—unusual for this time of the afternoon—even though the sign on the door said Open. The loud clanging of metal on metal rang from the back and got infinitely louder as Giotto dashed through a hall and shoved open a traditional Japanese sliding door.

There was a dojo in the back of the building—the traditional kind, which was little more than a long, open room. Giotto saw flashes of silver and felt the prickle of Dying Will Flames filling the room, invisible to the naked eye, as two men fought. Despite himself, Giotto stopped in his tracks for a moment to stare.

Both men were master swordsmen, that much was instantly obvious even to Giotto. The first was Yamamoto Tsuyoshi, Takeshi's father. He looked grim and determined, and there was a line of red slowly growing on the material of his right sleeve. The other man was more a teenager than anything—he couldn't have been more than 17 or 18—and had short silver hair that spiked up in the back. He yelled with each clash of their swords, grinning widely and looking like he was having the time of his life.

"Voi!" the teen crowed. "Just you and Tyr, and then I'll truly be the Sword Emperor—!"

"I have cut all ties with them," Yamamoto snapped, but the teen didn't seem to be listening.

It was over in an instant. One second they were fighting and the next… Yamamoto faltered as he blocked with his sword, wincing in pain from the wound on his arm. The teen took advantage of it and, faster than Giotto's blink, his sword was buried nearly to the hilt in Yamamoto's chest.

Giotto's Flames flared up instantly and he flew across the room and crashed into the teen while cursing himself wildly in his head. How could he let himself hesitate for so long? He should have stopped the fight immediately, he should have protected Takeshi's father, he should have—

The silver haired teen snarled, but without his sword he wasn't nearly as powerful and even in a child's body, Giotto's Dying Will Flames gave him more than enough strength. Giotto slipped into Hyper Dying Will mode like putting on an old glove, and casually threw the teen across the room. The boy tried to regain his footing, but Giotto crossed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, grabbed him by the throat, and then slammed him into the floor.

Giotto hesitated for moment as the boy shouted out in pain and tried to grab at Giotto's hand. Despite everything, the boy was just that—still a boy. Still young and— And then Giotto heard Takeshi come running into the room, screaming his father's name. Giotto's eyes hardened. With his back to Takeshi, the child's voice sounded even more like Ugetsu's.

Giotto didn't even have to control his Flames. They flared up on their own, growing as hot as an inferno in the span of second. The teen only had time to open his mouth to scream, and then his entire body was on fire. A second later the white fire faded away, leaving only blackened, brittle bones behind.

The Flames dimmed, but Giotto still held tightly onto his Hyper Dying Will. Slowly he turned back to where Takeshi was crying over his father, but didn't approach. Yamamoto was still alive, but only barely. The sword that was still in his chest had prevented him from bleeding out immediately, but he was drowning in his own blood, if the wet coughing was any clue. He had a minute or two left at the most by Giotto's estimate.

"—Under the stove," Yamamoto was whispering to his son between coughs. His breathing was shallow and measured. "C-call the number. He'll help. I'm sorry, Takeshi. Be careful—"

He coughed again, loud and rasping, and Takeshi sobbed harder. Even with his emotions held back by his Flames, Giotto wanted to look away. He didn't. This was his fault, for not stepping in sooner. He would watch and remember each moment of the pain he'd caused his Rain Guardian, as penance.

One minute later, Yamamoto stopped breathing. Ten minutes later, Takeshi stopped crying and instead stared blankly at his father's corpse. His hands, stained with blood, hung limp at his sides. When Giotto finally stepped forward, he looked up slowly, blinking lethargically. His gaze was glassy and distant, and Giotto frowned internally, recognizing the look.

"What did he tell you to do?" Giotto asked softly.

"There's…a box…" Takeshi said slowly. "He said…the stove…"

Giotto cautiously pulled the child to his feet, half expecting him to break down again. Takeshi was definitely in shock and he walked to the kitchen like a ghost, barely noticing where they were going. He pointed to the main stove—a huge metal thing that resembled no stove Giotto had ever seen before—then watched silently as Giotto ran his hands around it, searching for some kind of latch. After several minutes Giotto was finally able to pull off a panel on the bottom, then lifted up a loose tile underneath the stove.

It was lucky that he had small hands, because Giotto was barely able to pull out the old wooden box that Yamamoto had hidden away. Giotto wordlessly slid the box over to Takeshi, who stared at it for another few minutes before opening it.

There was a gun inside. At least Giotto thought it was a gun. It had the same shape, but otherwise looked entirely different than the pistols Giotto was familiar with and was made of a strange, smooth black metal. Underneath were several thick wads of money in different currencies, passports, credit cards, and other things that a sushi chef had no reason to have.

Takeshi stared blankly into the box. "H-he said he used to be an assassin. He said he used to work for the mafia," Takeshi mumbled, more to himself than Giotto. "What…" He looked up, and even though his glassy eyes were brown instead of gray, Giotto's heart constricted because all he could see was his old friend staring at him with that lost, empty look. "W-what do I do?"

"The number," Giotto reminded him as gently as he could. "Your father wanted you to call a number, didn't he?"

Takeshi nodded jerkily. He reached down toward the box, then stopped and stared at the blood that had dried on his hands. Wincing, Giotto took Takeshi over to the sink to wash up, then started sifting through the box himself. There was only one number Yamamoto could have meant, though Giotto stared down at it dubiously. It was written on a scrap of paper, clearly torn off from some kind of form and hastily scribbled down. There was no name to go with it.

This was what the mafia did to people, Giotto thought bitterly. He could only imagine what the mafia had grown into in the years since his death. And the Vongola… He didn't even want to think about them. If he was lucky, they had been destroyed long ago.

When Takeshi kneeled down next to him, Giotto wordlessly handed over the number. Takeshi pulled down the corded phone hanging on the wall of the hallway and, after several tries to punch in the number with shaking hands, wordlessly handed over the phone. Giotto held it awkwardly, having never actually dialed a phone before, but managed to press the correct buttons regardless. He held the device between the two of them as it rang.

Two seconds later there was a click and then a rough voice said, "Hello?"

Takeshi swallowed audibly. "U-um, my dad told me to call you. He's Yamamoto Tsuyoshi. He said— he said—"

"What happened?" the man asked.

"I don't— He was—" Takeshi's voice hitched and Giotto gripped his shoulder, knowing the boy was only inches away from crying again, but thankfully the man caught on quickly.

"Are you at your father's restaurant?"

"Y-yes…"

"Is anyone else there?"

"My friend," Takeshi said, his eyes flickering over. Giotto stilled, not sure how to respond to that label. What did Takeshi think of what he'd done? He'd seen Giotto burn a man to death, but he hadn't said a word about it yet.

"Stay there," the man said shortly. "Don't go outside, and don't call anyone else. I'll be there in an hour. Understand?"

"Yes…"

The phone clicked again as the line went dead. Takeshi stayed where he was, staring at the wall with the phone in his hands until Giotto carefully took it from him. He guided Takeshi up the stairs, away from the open door that led into the dojo, and then sat with him on the top stair. They stayed there in silence for the full hour, neither looking at the other.