I don't own Katekyō Hitman Reborn! in any way or form. Credit goes to Akira Amano for creating the series and making writing this possible.
A Most Fortuitous Meeting
She looks lovely. And much too young.
Reborn spots the brunette with the wild mane from the corner of his eye; a chanced catch over the rim of his glass of wine. The ballroom is a crowded place full of ravishingly dressed bodies and beatific faces, drowning in wine and exquisite food, the only sounds the evasive chatter of a thousand voices and those of a faint melody plucked on harp. Perfume permeates the air and is inescapable as he makes his languid rounds.
In this brilliant sea of colors it is sheer luck he stumbles upon her out of all people: a freckle of white unfazed by its colorful peers. The white dress is adorned only by a playful belt made up of tiny orange flowers, and he finds the simplicity endearing. It's a sight for sore eyes to have a blank canvas before you every once in a while.
Only when his eyes wander higher does he notice the obvious lack of curves, further emphasized by the light, airy nature of the dress. When he stops at the unknown woman's face he is twice surprised.
Much too young to set foot in this kind of society, he decides.
And also a face he cannot place a name to.
Thus his interest is piqued.
A good hitman knows his prey before he decides to strike. Crucial timing is important, not only to one's own survival but the success of the whole mission. Reborn considers himself the best hitman the Mafia has ever seen. Coincidentally he's also bored by tonight's immutable etiquette—shallow conversation for the sake of politeness doesn't sit well with him.
He decides to make a game out of it, the way he occasionally does on his missions. If he doesn't recognize the girl's face then there can be only one conclusion for it.
She must be a spy.
And the game of wits starts.
Reborn returns to mingling with the crowd, his trademark fedora pulled lower as to hide his watchful eyes. To this ballroom he is just one of many; a perfect suit and tie, the gait of a gentleman, a smile conjured into a conversation just when it is needed. But beneath the shadow of his hat he sees the world in all its clarity as the playground it has turned into and to which he adapts like a chameleon.
He keeps the brunette in his field of vision as he picks up pieces of conversation and blends with one group or the other. Inconspiciously he draws attention to her, steers topics where he wants them to be. Surely someone must know a thing or two about the nameless girl but to his surprise—as well as rising suspicion—nobody does.
She's as thin, almost wiry, as she is small, but Reborn is quick to dismiss it to her age. Hair a rich, vivid brown mane that seems untamable the way it sticks out to all sides. Even as he follows the long strands fall just past her shoulders they curl up as if they abhorred gravity.
In a very close passing by to the object of his curiosity he finds her eyes most striking, though: a very warm brown bordering on orange. But perhaps the light plays tricks on him.
Like this, his observations of her come and pass in split-seconds. In the Mafia, age restrictions, disparate to the way the rest of the world handles them, are merely a loose directive. If one is capable of handling a weapon and taking care of oneself he is well onto his way to adulthood. Reborn has been a gun for hire since his early teenage years and his first taste of alcoholic liquor comes close to that. The Mafia is loose like that. For all he knows the glass in the girl's hand could be filled with water or wodka. Some things are difficult to tell with brief observations.
Still, there are others which strike him as unusual.
For one: he's never seen Mafia youth wear such a soft expression on their face. Calm, carefree even. The newly-appointed Ninth of the Vongola famiglia may have demanded that weapons stay sheathed for this occasion. It's his coronation party after all. But this is the Mafia we're talking about, even if tonight is a night to be celebrated. Blood is etched into everyone's minds one way or the other and people are thinking of it.
That's why this girl looks out of her league in this kind of environment. He can pinpoint the names of a dozen hitmen casually strolling past her frame. He can see people warily eyeing each other, waiting for an assault to happen. All she does is laugh.
Her expression are bare for the world to see: her eyes light up in excited chatter, lips curve into a smile when there is reason to, cheeks redden when topics follow a more intimate nature. She even hides her face behind her drink in an attempt to hide her embarassment. And contrary to what he's seen on other faces throughout the night, it all looks genuine on her; bloodless.
She's either a ridiculously clever spy or a stray that waltzed into the wrong place by pure, unlucky chance.
A waiter passes him just then, startling him out of his ruminations with the offer to refill his drink. It takes Reborn but a moment to notice the lack of drink in his glass as well as the fact that the waiter is obscuring his vision. The hitman raises the glass in silent answer, eager to return to his little game, and the waiter pours the velvet liquid generously before bowing and taking his leave.
And she's gone.
Reborn doesn't show it on the outside but inwardly he curses the man to hell and back. With learned precision his eyes scan the length of the room; dart from the myriad of suits and dresses over to colors and light but white, he's looking for white, and it's missing entirely.
A thought enters his mind unbidden. Surely she can't have noticed—
"You're making inquiries about me, Mr. Reborn," a soft voice brushes his shoulders, warm breath traveling all the way to his ear. "Why ever would you need to do that?"
He can't help but smirk at her small victory. The waiter has been part of a precisely timed distraction, a setup sneaking past his judgement of her character. He's been wrong in one regard:
She's no stray. She belongs to this world as much as he does.
It makes things easier.
Reborn doesn't turn around to meet her gaze but raises his refilled glass to his lips instead; just enough for the cool surface to brush his lips. "You have me at a disadvantage, miss." He takes a sip from his beverage. "You know my name. What about yours?"
Against the stifling warmth of bodies the brush of her arm over his is almost scalding hot. She circles him with long, precise steps, and absentmindedly he thinks the heels are just for show. She only wears them to cover up the predator in her innocent appearance.
Large eyes—warm flames—lock gazes with him. For someone who knows exactly who he is she is fearless, he'll give her that. Even grown men tremble in the presence of the world's most renown hitman. But they are also the one with the dirty secrets to hide that can easily make them his next target.
Who is she, to be so fearless then?
"Tsunayoshi Sawada," she says with an unwavering gaze.
Younger than fifteen, he guesses on gut feeling. Even with the hint of make-up on her face. "Japanese. How very rare," he draws out between a smirk and a sip and watches her intently. She does the same; eyes firm, checking his face for signs of both truth and lie. "Which one might be your first name? I hear there is a difference in naming conventions."
Of course Reborn knows this already. But a good hitman knows his prey first so he plays the naïve.
Her small mouth curves into a smile. "I was born and raised in Italy, Mr. Reborn. I'm more used to European naming conventions than my own."
She has a soothing voice. Neither too high-pitched nor too deep. It's relaxing and, as the sight of her, refreshing.
He reaches for her hand and draws it close to his lips, placing a featherlight kiss on its back. "Tsunayoshi-san it is then." She raises a brow at the Japanese suffix he's added and Reborn smirks triumphantly. He can never play the naïve idiot for too long. It's beneath him. "Vongola Primo's roots can be traced back to Japan. It would be unwise not to learn both languages of our founder: Italian and Japanese."
To his surprise all she does is chuckle in response. "You're a funny man."
This catches him off-guard. He's a hitman, not a comedian! "How so?" He lets go of her hand.
"You tried to bait me with ignorance. Twice, actually." There is a fire in those eyes that is unnaturally bright. "Your knowledge runs deeper than you let on." Tsunayoshi Sawada inclines her head and for a brief moment he thinks himself dismissed. Instead she does the opposite. "Be my company for a dance?"
It's not exactly common for a female to ask a man to dance, even if they are in the more lenient parts of the Mafia. Reborn scans the crowd once more before finally settling his gaze on her. "You don't have one?"
He's purposedly biding time and purposedly feigning ignorance just to test her words. Again she picks it up, fire dancing with amusement. A quick wit. "Wouldn't you know? You've been keeping an eye on me for a great deal of the night."
If it were any other woman he'd have gone in for the kill. But Tsunayoshi Sawada is just a girl. He's not sure whether she knows the extent of her own words and what they imply to a grown man.
"Besides," she interrupts his thoughts, "I'm a little too young to have that sort of company with me. I came with the Ninth's entourage and he is very protective of me." In an almost off-handed manner she points at the Ninth and his guardians to one corner of the ballroom, the center of tonight's attention. "But surely you knew that as well already."
Reborn raises his brows for two reasons. One, that his prey has turned out to be someone of greater importance than he's thought. Two, that she knows exactly what sort of game she is playing with him. He glances at her glass and wonders if someone didn't actually sneak some alcohol inside. For someone so young she is uncannily perceptive.
And that is going to be the end of that line of thought. Too young. Also placed under the protection of the Ninth himself apparently. It will do him little good to upset the man.
Reborn sneaks an arm under hers and leads her towards the dancing floor. "It would be my honor." They discard their drinks on a waiter's plate on the way and he takes the brief window of time to go through their conversation. There's something bothering him: she's not entirely right in her assumptions. He's feigned ignorance over her language and its naming patterns as well as over her lack of companionship. But he definitely hasn't known about her very important existence beforehand.
Is she playing with him? No, she sounded too confident for that.
He knows nothing about her but maybe it is to his advantage that she thinks his inquiries are merely for show and not for lack of actual knowledge. In that single aspect she's been too over-confident and that's a dangerous weakness she's exposed. In some aspects it's a good thing she's still young and inexperienced. Better than most but still inexperienced.
He takes her hand in his and guides the other to his shoulder. She looks at him with a smile and they pick up a slow dance.
Tsunayoshi Sawada is not as pure as she looks. Nor is she as witty as she might think. But she is a change of pace with her contrasting nature and his curiosity is piqued, at least for the night. She may not be a spy—which is too bad because he could do with a little shootout—but instead he finds her to be a small, unfamiliar girl that is part of the newly-appointed Ninth's close circle.
Now that's a new set of rules in his game he's willing to play with.
One dance becomes two becomes three. And with each new dance the disparate layers around her fall apart under his scrutinizing stare until he finds himself wondering what sort of game he's entered into this time. And whether the rules are actually all set by him.
At the expense of heels drilling into his shoe he finds out that, for all her quick wit, she is a terrible dancer.
When her hand latches onto a nearby woman's necklace and nearly rips the adornment in two he concludes that she has awful motor functions in general.
Reborn pulls her out of the way of a waitress carrying a plate stacked with numerous tiny cakes. She doesn't even notice that she's almost knocked her head into it but her cheeks are burning red, and its not from exhaustion.
A white dress with orange petals; soft features and bright eyes to drown in; a personality that can play on par with his. It makes for the perfect kind of woman. But this?
Is she playing with me? He asks himself again. But he knows the answer this time. He's been blinded by her over-confidence.
His thoughts must have shown on this face then because the blush wanders to her ears now: he's never seen anyone this bad at even the most basic bodily functions. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?" he asks in a straightforward manner, completely foregoing their previous banter. He wants an answer before his illusion of her pops entirely.
Tsunayoshi bites her lower lip and looks at their moving feet instead. "I'm trying my best?" she eventually says and this time she's the young girl he's first seen from afar: the one that is thrown into an adult's world by chance and luck and in which she does not belong. Her presence diminishes under his dominance.
Reborn snorts at the thought. This prey of his... "I should change your name to something more appropriate," he muses and releases her waist only long enough to readjust his fedora hat before pulling her along with him, deeper onto the dancing floor and away from prying eyes and ears and incidents.
It takes all her concentration to keep up with him. "And that is?"
Gut feeling tells him he is about to reveal the last layers to this once blank canvas. The time of pretense has passed. And he may just enjoy it all the same. "Dame-Tsuna."
Her eyes widen comically and she slips—both in composure and in real. He catches her just in time. "That's mean!" she exclaims, instantly accomodating to what he does; no longer pretending when he doesn't. She probably doesn't realize that she's fallen into step with him instead of being ahead. Ah, inexperienced and so easy to goad, now that he knows her weakness. He isn't going to fall for it a second time. It's a good thing she doesn't notice her dazzling effect fully.
"But fitting." If what she has heard of him is even remotely close to the truth then she should be prepared for his bluntness. "You are No Good at this," he translates back to Italian.
Throwing female courtesy out of the window she gives his shoulder a little shove. "Reborn!" The fire in her eyes roars with indignation.
He can't help the lopsided smirk. The night turned out more interesting than he initially anticipated. "I believe you forgot the Mister." He's feigning ignorance again.
"I believe we're both above any form of formalities now," she answers, catching him red-handed again. She crosses her arms over her chest and her presence spikes as wildly as her hair. "You're insulting a lady after all."
She looks lovely. And much too young.
But she's entertaining, he'll give her that.
Enjoyed it? Leave a review! See you next time. :)
Behind The Scenes: I got the idea for this story after reading AkaMizu-chan's fic called Waiting. If you like to read something Fon-centric with a similar outset, that's a good place to go.