The Last Supper
Author: Jusrecht
Warning(s): None, except perhaps for Haru's characterisation
Note: Written for a prompt in LJ community khrfest: TYL!Haru – Guns – Master of silence
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Habit, Haru thinks, defines a person. Habit builds excellence. Habit lends aptitude where there is none. Habit makes water hollow the rock. Habit distinguishes triumphs from defeats.
Above all, habit is telling.
Every Tuesday evening for the last five weeks, she has watched the same man sitting at the same table in front of the same café. He makes his order to a straight-backed waiter with a thin curl of moustaches, and then opens a laptop, pristine black on the cheerful red-white tablecloth. Five minutes later, the waiter brings a bottle of wine, an empty glass, and a plate of cheese cushioned on sliced fruits.
Through her narrow lens, Haru catches the glint of sunlight on the glass, and thinks how easily it will, can shatter, leaving only a thin, beheaded stem and a splash of deep burgundy. It was one of her last lessons, which she had passed with such ease it brought a calculating gleam in Reborn's eyes. Very few, he told her years afterwards in the shifting shadows of a smoke-choked bar, managed to do that on the first try.
He found her talent in a kyuudo tournament, an eternity ago. While Tsuna and the others cheered and clapped, he watched her with narrowed eyes, mouth unsmiling, and for the first time in her life, Haru was afraid of him. Now there is no sting when she casts back her mind to that day, but she still remembers her swift, violent refusal, the agony of fear permeated with hate every time she as much as thought of him.
Now Reborn is no more and no less than a teacher for her—an extraordinary teacher, but then again, she too is an extraordinary student.
The man lifts his glass and sips. Haru waits until he pours a second glass and then switches her iPod on. A symphony of cellos swells; a woman starts to sing, her alto trembling in her ears like that of a bird. Caressing the curve of a hard trigger, Haru mouths the lyrics silently, feeling each slow, descending count. Patience is never one of her fortes, but she is learning. Two failed missions have taught her everything she needs to know, including the torment of a messy kill. Even now, the ghost of a woman with a ribboned throat still stares at her from the depth of her nightmares.
Patience is an exercise, simply another habit. Haru learns to measure the tick of a clock with various inflections of a song. In the dark of night, she prefers the blend of a flute and a tsuzumi, each playing with beats of silence. Long summer evenings, however, offer no such luxury. The remnant of the sun is often too unkind so high atop a building; in any case, the woman's vigorous voice will swallow the invasive sounds of chatters and traffic.
The music ascends, a crescendo, a culmination—ten seconds. Haru's hands are steady and her eyes keep their vigil as the man spears another piece of olive with his fork. He opens his mouth, chews—slowly, to savour the taste—and with a final blare of trumpets, his throat works to swallow.
Her fingers gently squeeze the trigger.
End
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Notes:
kyuudo: Japanese archery
tsuzumi: a small Japanese drum
Thank you for reading and please comment! :D