notes: Multiple things inspired this one-shot. I'd like to thank Seynee for her wonderful stories that inspire me to keep writing. I own nothing (anime, characters, layout, lyrics, etc.).
hide your key
put your heart where your mouth is.
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"I'm thinking about studying abroad, Tsuna-san."
She stands perfectly straight—shoulders back, chin lifted, brown eyes bright and beaming with fire and life—her hands fiddling with the hem of her pleated skirt. It's been four years since she met him, since she first fell in love with the boy, and she still doesn't know how to talk to him. She's still biting her glossy lips with nervousness, still blushing underneath the dusting of foundation and still fisting the clothing above her heart. He wonders if she's truly matured, or if she's still as nervous a person as she was when they were in middle school.
"Really," Tsuna manages to say, breaking the silence between them. He rises from his desk chair, and crosses the room to stand in front of her. "That's great. Do you have any schools in mind?"
"I'd like to go to an art school in Italy," she replies, tapping her finger to her lips. He notices the moist wet gathering beneath her fingertip, and shifts his hands into his pockets. Her eyes flick to his hands, and he removes them from his pockets. "To design clothes, dresses, shirts, blouses, you know, fashion."
It's hard for him to fully grasp the idea of being excited for her when he's not interested in clothes. He's not sure what he's supposed to say—"Remember, Stupid-Tsuna, whenever a girl speaks to you about something she's passionate about, never insult it."—and thus remains silent.
Haru frowns. "Well, Tsuna-san? You aren't going to say anything? I want to go to Florence, Italy to go to school. Isn't that exciting to you?"
"I'm happy for you, Haru," he murmurs, his caramel eyes soft.
She huffs, and spins on her heel. Her words are flung back at him from over her shoulder: "I've got somewhere to be. Sorry to bother you, Tsuna-san."
It's been four years, and he still doesn't understand women.
—
The crux of his resistance, he realizes six months later, is this: wandering through the same mundane tasks over and over again with blank eyes, always seeing, but never believing, speaking in languages that leave an unfamiliar taste on his tongue, watching the rain fall and color the landscape outside his office with a film of black and white. It isn't living, it's merely surviving from one day to the next wearing a mask over one's face. It's barricading himself behind a wooden door, fenced by white walls, letting hours fly by in flurries of papers and signatures. It's the ache in his heart, the sting in his fingers from holding the shield so long.
Haru visits him in his office one evening. She brings her sketch book with her—he notices the dog ears and scraps of lined paper poking out of the sides, notes the summery scent that she brings in with her—tapping her pen against her bottom teeth, her legs folded elegantly in front of her. At first, they don't talk, until Haru gives in and speaks:
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the inheritance ceremony."
Caramel eyes lock with auburn ones. "It's fine."
"No, it's not."
"Really, Haru, it's fine."
"Can I make it up to you with a cake?"
Her offer is already tempting in itself, but the moment her lips spread into a hesitant grin, he doesn't resist.
—
She's still in love with him.
He knows this in how she tosses him tender looks from over her shoulder, holds her heart to her sleeve as she passes him in the mornings, the way she neatly folds her smiles into boxes tied with ribbons and hands them to him with open arms and gentle hands. It's almost soothing, having Haru around.
He takes her to a boutique one summer day, with the sun beaming from its throne in the sky above them. Her hand quivers close to his as they walk, stride for stride atop the cobblestone. There's wind in his hair and luminescence in his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he feels breathless, but alive.
"Do you still love me?"
Haru blinks, stunned by his question, but still willing to answer. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her skirt, her loose brown hair dancing about her shoulders in the wind, emanating an angelic presence from the girl beside him. "Yes," she answers honestly, her brown eyes soft, "I never stopped."
"I see," he murmurs, turning away from her. His mind is stumbling from thought to thought, blurring through images of possible courses of action, tumbling from emotion to emotion, so wild and fierce that he finds himself unable to speak further.
He watches Haru's heart sink in her eyes, before she turns back to the path in front of them, falling silent. He wonders how he's become so distant with her, when he used to be as close with her as he was with Kyouko. He turns toward her, and when she doesn't return his gaze, he impulsively traces his fingertips around her wrist.
Once he gains her attention, he whispers, "There's a restaurant just a little further down the street."
With a beaming smile, she nods, "Lunch is on me, then."
—
Haru is an enigma, a puzzle, and sometimes, Tsuna wants to spend hours trying to piece together the possible reasons for her behavior. She doesn't speak first—usually, he's the one to start conversation, which isn't like her at all—but is always soft and hesitant whenever she does, quietly spoken words that whisper into his ear no matter how far she is. It almost seems criminal how beautiful she becomes as time flies by, chocolate tresses tumbling over pale shoulders, strawberry-hued bows enticing and kissable.
The morning her summer vacation ends, she stumbles upon him in the garden.
"Good morning, Tsuna-san," she greets him politely, elegant and graceful in her girly blouse and delicate skirt. Her hair is loose again, her eyes light and glittering shyly in the sunlight.
"Good morning, Haru," he replies, walking toward her, "I thought you left."
Her smile begins falling. "I was supposed to, but Chrome-chan suggested that I say goodbye to you first."
"Really?"
"Yes, really," she replies, slightly irritated. She glances at the snapdragons swaying in the breeze beside her, her eyes lingering over their multicolored petals, her eyelids closing slightly. He watches her reach out to stroke a bundle of flowers, her touch gentle and affectionate rolled all into one. "I have a question for you, Tsuna-san."
"W—What is it, Haru?" he stutters. She seems to relax at his nervousness, as if by hearing him stumble over his words reassured he in some way. He still doesn't understand her, but there's something about the slight curve of her lips that draws him closer.
"You remember when you asked me if I still love you." He swallows, forces himself to stay where he is, forces himself to remember everything Bianchi and Reborn taught him about women after she made him a cake, and that lunch date (he flinches at the word date, it still hasn't settled with him and two weeks have passed). She turns to face him: "Do you love me?"
Because he isn't sure of what to say and how to say it, he decides to answer honestly: "I don't know what love is, Haru, in fact, I don't even understand it. Reborn and Bianchi have tried to teach me what it means to love someone, but I don't get it."
She surprises him by taking a few steps closer, and spinning on one foot. The action is so dainty, so graceful, and light that she reminds him of a butterfly fluttering from flower to flower, merely riding the wind. "Do you want me to explain it to you?"
He holds his silence.
"Love can't be taught, Tsuna-san," she says, shaking her head, "it's a whole bundle of emotions all wrapped up into one. It's the warm feeling I get when I look at you, or the desire to keep someone and never let them go, no matter what it costs you. Love is wanting to be with someone forever and ever, wanting to hold them in your arms and hold them tight, wanting to roll over and see their face in the first light of dawn. Love is knowing that the heart that beats in you is theirs as much as theirs is yours. Do you understand now?"
He doesn't understand, but that doesn't stop him from asking, "How do you know that?"
"Because I'm in love with you," she answers simply, turning back to the flowers, "isn't that enough?"
"It is enough," he responds, pauses, hesitates, "but I still don't understand it."
To his surprise, she pushes herself up onto her tip toes, and presses her lips to his, a light hand on his cheek. She tastes of strawberry and honey, and he can't help but memorize the lilts and rises of her lips against his, the whispers of her breaths, the touch of her skin against his.
"There's nothing to understand," she answers then, her musical voice an octave above a murmur, "it's incomprehensible."
—
It's enough, he thinks when Haru is neatly folded into his arms, the sun in her hair, and her breath warming the side of his neck. Her sketch book lies open on the table beside them, pages flipping in the breeze. It's enough for right now.
He finally understands.
.
end.
notes: There isn't really much plot in this. Huh, I'm losing my touch. Song's The Cab's, Risky Business. I hope you all enjoy this, it's gonna be my last story for a while.