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phoenix, arise

o.
you're dying

please don't—I beg you—you're dying how can you expect me to cope with it I love you don't leave no no no I'll live breathe eat—I won't give up —I'm sorry I forgive you I know I know I know I'm your son you'll be proud of me I promise.

i.
please don't—

The end is loud, angry, full of aggressive energy. Alive.

(Everything he isn't. Anymore.)

"Yamamoto," Reborn says.

"Leave him alone," Gokudera says.

There are loud, tumbling not-whispers of what happened it's a tragedy I don't understand how could this happen poor poor boy.
They screech and echo in his head.

Tsuna stands amidst chaos, a blurred figure in a blurred (blood gunshots savage) background. His eyes are the only thing completely still, the only thing that is clear and sharp. The Flame of Sky glows in his eyes, doesn't burn, blaze anymore. His mouth is an impassive thin line; his hands are relaxed.

Sawada Tsunayoshi does not show any sign of sympathy.

(Takeshi wishes he wouldn't know Tsuna so well. He wishes he couldn't recognize the strength—in showing no weakness, in being cruel. There is no place for understanding on a battlefield, no place for friendships and smiles and humanity.)

"We will take care of the corpse," Vongola Decimo says, "You are dismissed."

ii.
no no no

—chop, chop, chop—

Some words fit perfectly. The sound they make when pronounced, they way they are written—it all belongs to the word's meaning.

Awkward, Haru thinks, is a perfect example for this. Not even O-baa-chan, who taught at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, MIT, for about ten years and who sounds lovely in English, can really pronounce the word without making an awkward face, without sounding the slightest bit awkward. For this reason only, awkward is Haru's favourite English word. She also adores the way suki sounds, like a gunshot but even sharper, sometimes. This word can hurt and can reach and touch—its meaning has as much force as the word itself has. If anyone would ask her, she would call these favourite words of hers onomatopoeia—ancient Greek for "word-fabricating", a word that imitates a sound—although they, de facto, are really not onomatopoeic.

—chop, chop—

She likes to muse about such things. Loves it, actually. It's her only acceptable-enough excuse for not wanting to study a natural science (because for her, science has always been just a little bit too much accurateness and logic and objectiveness). It sounds a little bit like madness, her reasoning, and Tou-san (Papa who wanted a girl, who raised her on his own after the divorce, who wishes the best for her and sees it in Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle and Newton's Laws Of Motion) can relate to that. Madness is something every scientist can relate to—after all, blood is thicker than water.

—chop, chop, chop—

Haru cannot remember a time when she didn't think about this or that (about Tsuna-san or her improved Namahage-costume, whether she liked strawberries more than raspberries, about baseball and the latest article about genetic engineering and Kyouko-chan and Mama-san and How long are they going to stay in Italy? I miss them so much). She dislikes silence—it's too stifling, oppressive. Maybe that's why she is such a busybody. Every single moment in her life must be filled with some action or another.

—chop—

It's somewhat wondrous that Yamamoto Tsuyoshi of all people is the one who understands her the best in this aspect.

When she had been sulking about Tsuna's and the Guardians' departure to Italy, walking through Namimori's streets aimlessly and not knowing what the hell to do about her situation, Yamamoto-san had given her an apron, a shiny knife and a little bit of direction. Don't be, he had said, with cheerful smile and wise eyes, don't be anything or anyone you don't want to be.

That happened nearly three years ago and now she knows how to fillet any fish flawlessly, how to be a waitress and how to fill silence without actually losing track of her surroundings.

Seven months ago the guys (grown-up men, somehow, but still boys with ill table manners and reckless hands, Haru decides) and Chrome-chan returned from their two-year 'exchange program' in Italy (where they learned to torture, she guesses, and to kill and to not leave any blood or wine stains behind) to Namimori—and then it started: the faint unease that claws inside her stomach.

Miura Haru doesn't know what she wants; that's the problem.

She doesn't know: what future she belongs to—is she a member of Tsuna's, of Vongola Decimo's family? Or is she a mere civilian, a small-town-girl that was in the wrong place at the wrong time? What does she want to do, now that she has graduated from High School? Will she study? Will she become something for the sake of Vongola? Does she want to be rich or famous or both or nothing?

Haru laughs quietly to herself (to disperse the silence, for sure): Is it ironic that she doesn't even know who she likes anymore? It probably is, right?

For what felt like eternity there was simply one boy for her: Tsuna-san with his clumsy smile and his messy hair and his wonderful eyes and his incredible kindness. When she first met him she knew he was destined for greatness. Haru knows that all of it … that it was more than a crush. She knows that she was really, really in love with Tsuna-san.

And things haven't changed that much. He is Tsuna-san, still, and even if he wasn't, that wouldn't change her feelings (not when Kyouko-chan and pitiful glances and the perfect case of unrequited love couldn't). Haru knows her mind and her heart: this changed Tsuna, the one with experienced eyes and an exhausted smile, couldn't sway her, even if he wanted to.

She just … doesn't feel that way about him anymore.

—chop, chop, chop—

Haru shakes her head about herself. She just loves to think, to over-think.

As she continues to cut vegetables for a quick stir-fry—a new side dish she wanted to try out for Takesushi since forever—she hums a little melody.

The problem is: By now she is too good to not hear the slumping, laboured steps that come closer to the sushi bar. She tries to ignore them, to think them away.

It doesn't work.

(The smell of blood tickles her nose as she tries to remember happy days.)

—chop, chop—

(rewind)

I know I know I know

Miura Haru is a person full of surprises.

Yamamoto knew that, but that was all there was to. What would surprising people be without having the element of surprise on their side?

Therefore, he was surprised when he (tired and worn out from the flight from Milano to Namimori) saw her in a brash magenta-coloured yukata that would have looked out of place on any other person than herself, waitressing in Oyaji's sushi bar. He was surprised when she looked older, more mature (prettier in a sort-of-kind-of grown-up way), even more so, when she, too, stared at them, squealed a loud "Hahi!" and hugged him, then the others, one after the other. He was surprised when her eyes were watery and her mouth was curved into a surprising smile. He swallowed and felt tense energy rushing through his body (the same kind of thing happened whenever he used Shigure Kintoki, but he didn't really know what that implied.)

Anyways, this was still Haru, the most loyal and cheerful girl he knew—so when she started chitchatting, he just listened, let himself relax by the warm sound of her voice.

Later, as Takesushi was closed and all he heard was his own breathing and Oyaji's voice, talking in hushed tones with the kid(-who-isn't-a-kid), and Haru's soft humming—he could finally let go and sleep. Even if it wasn't the best sleep he'd had in his whole life—it easily was the best in the last two years.

In that moment, Yamamoto Takeshi didn't want to think about anything: Mafia, swords and guns, friends and loyalty, girls and women (about life and meaning and importance).

.

Yamamoto Takeshi is really, really confusing.

(If she were more prone to similes she would say: He is like the sound that is made by unsheathing a sword. It irritates her beyond possibility, precisely because it doesn't make a noise. And it's irritating, and plain confusing. When you believe for your whole life that unsheathing a sword makes this particular shing sound, and then you come to know that, no, sorry, it doesn't. This is the kind of confusing Yamamoto-kun is.)

Haru had measured that ability of his a long time ago, before she got to know about Mafia (hit men and rings and boxes and Flame and loyalty), even before she met Tsuna-san. She'd decided it when she'd overheard Andou-san, a snotty classmate with rich parentage, confessing her feelings to one Yamamoto Takeshi, and him, smiling sheepishly and saying something along the lines of I'm flattered, but sorry, I don't have the time for girlfriends at the moment.
Haru's not-just-classmate-but-not-quite-friend Keiko-chan who had confessed about a month later, had gotten this answer: "Sorry, but I don't have these kind of feelings for you. Oh, I have to catch the bus. Bye." (To this day, Haru still couldn't understand why he answered to these two girls in such different manners.)

In this aspect, he was nearly as bad as his father, maybe even worse—because he now had been trained to be.

Of course, she noticed changes: his posture was straighter, his eyes more attentive, his height if not intimidating, then at least authoritative. The smile of this more grown-up version of baseball-loving, goofy Yamamoto was still very cheerful, she deemed, a fact that made it even more difficult to read him, and his inability to come up with better excuses than sumo here and sumo there still hilarious—cute even, in an embarrassing way. But there was a lot more that had changed: His smirk made girls giggle and swoon, but, more importantly, made women weak in the knees. The way he was not clueless anymore or how his face seemed to soften whenever he spoke about Tsuna and his fellow guardians—this was, what she admired most about him, nowadays … in a kind-of-confused way, of course.

Still, there was so much in his behaviour that she didn't understand, so much that she wanted to know about the two years her friends—best, most important friends—had spent at a distance of 9992.905 km beeline away from home.

(press play to continue)

iii.
how can you expect me to cope with it

There is a small light bulb that gives Haru enough brightness to work in the small kitchenette that is integrated into the sushi bar. Every Friday night, Yamamoto-san stands there: two sharp knifes, two nimble, fast hands and his easy smile. Everyone says that the sushi which is made in this particular fashion is even more enjoyable than the usual.

Haru turns the stove top onjust when the door to Takesushi is opened. It's too dark to recognise the person immediately but she locked the door about an hour ago, so it can only be: "Yamamoto-kun. Ohayo," she says loudly and cheerfully. "Why did you come home so late?" She takes one plate from the shelf behind her, and—oh, clumsy, stupid Haru—knocks over two cups. She laughs not-so-quietly about herself and bends down to gather the broken pieces. She blinks rapidly.

"Haru," Yamamoto-kun says.

"Oh, by the way," Haru interrupts while looking at the shards, "do you know where your father is? He still hasn't come home and it's already very late. He just wanted to examine the delivery from Hokkaido, right? Yamamoto-san should already be home now. And he doesn't answer the phone—but I guess I'm just a little tired and overcautious, ne? Ne, Yamamoto-kun?"

He still hasn't moved from his spot in the darkness. She can't make him out and sees only a silhouette against the warm, yellow light that comes from the kitchen. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, a cruel bamm bamm bamm that shakes her to the core.
She straightens up again and puts the chopped vegetables with a spoonful sesame oil in the wok.

"Haru," Yamamoto-kun says and there is something in his voice that makes her want to cry, to weep like a child.

"No." Haru grimaces (it's supposed to be her happy-go-lucky smile. Thankfully there is no mirror for Haru to see) and shakes her head. "Whatever Yamamoto-kun wants to say—Haru doesn't want to hear it. She won't hear it." It sounds strange even in her own ears, her referring to herself in third person now.

Moments fade away. It's not as if she were frozen in shock or something: there are the shards that have to be thrown away, there is the stir-fry and … lots of other things, when she thinks about it.

"Please, Haru." Gods, he sounds so tired. Her heart weeps for him but in her head … in her head there is this small nasty voice that whispers terrible things. How is this possible this isn't happening I don't want to believe it he lies lies lies.

No NO NO, Haru thinks and the voice coos yes yes yes. (In her mind, everything shakes and tumbles and shatters and nothing makes sense and she is so afraid.)

It's a few minutes later, when she smells the burnt food and tastes the salt of her tears, that she regains control of herself again. She turns off the stove and walks slowly (she feels so breakable in this moment. It's a horrid feeling) to the door. Yamamoto-kun leans heavily against it, a hand pressed to his bleeding side. His breathing is laboured.

It's the truth.

He doesn't try to smile like he would do in every other goddamn situation, doesn't even face her—and she knows, knows it with every fibre in her body (brain, stomach, eyes, heart): it's true.

Outside, there rages a storm worthy of this moment (it's so ironic she could laugh or scream or possibly both). There is no moonlight to illuminate them, to make the truth become silver instead of blood red. The world doesn't shatter with thunder and lightning: There is only heavy rain and wailing wind and frantic, mingling heartbeats.

And then Yamamoto-kun looks her in the eyes and, for one moment, her breath catches. Suddenly she is filled with the urge to cry—here he is, this man (this boy) filled with so much sadness, and it's killing her that it's killing him, and she just knows that he can't cry, and—

"He's dead."

It physically hurts to hear those words. She clenches her fists, tears blurring her sight; swallows.

"It's not your fault," Haru says, so loud that her hands, reaching for her friend, shake. She believes it. She doesn't want to believe what stands behind this sentence (never seeing Yamamoto Tsuyoshi's smile anymore; never hearing his voice again; never being patted on the head by him again; nevernevernever ever anymore)—but she trusts Yamamoto-kun, even when, in all objectivity, she might not know him well enough to do so anymore. She repeats the words over and over again, echoes them until they resound from the walls. Blood-soaked Shigure Kintoki falls to the floor, lifeless but still elegant.

As Yamamoto-kun's breathing grows heavier, she hugs him with all her might.

"…'m sorry," he murmurs against her neck—I know, she wants to say, I know I understand I don't blame you I…—and passes out.

She crumbles under the silence he leaves.

iv.
—I beg you—

"Haru-chan, are you fine?" Shamal is worried (it goes with the profession, he thinks). He doesn't know Miura Haru very well, really, he doesn't. She's just one of Vongola Decimo's girls—women, maybe—but this, the way she is at the moment, isn't good. He remembers her as a smiling, beaming girl with really nice hair, and the woman that grips the teacup with rigid fingers resembles her only vaguely.

"Yes," she answers, voice hoarse. She doesn't avert her eyes from Yamamoto's still form. "Thank you for the help. I'm sorry for the trouble it caused you."

He frowns: "Five minutes after your message arrived, Reborn called and ordered me to come here as well. It's my job. Don't worry." It's stupid to say such a thing in this kind of situation—of course she won't stop worrying: Yamamoto should have woken up at least one hour ago, the soporific Shamal administered for easier treatment isn't that strong—but it's a set phrase that leaves his mouth automatically while handling a patient's loved ones (he isn't surprised: love is unpredictable). "I can't do anything for him at the moment. The wound still starts bleeding too fast, so even if he wakes up and wants to lay in his bed he mustn't move. Do you understand, Haru-chan?"

She grips the cup tighter and nods.

"I'll give you some painkillers. He has to take two of those when he wakes up, and when he's in pain, give him another one—he can take about six per day. And you have to change the bandage every five hours. When the bleeding reduces, move him to his bed." Shamal stands up and pats her shoulder, awkward. "I know that everything is a mess right now. Vongola's HQ was partly destroyed by the Trafficantes' and Balistieris' betrayal tonight but I promise, by the day after tomorrow the infirmary will be re-erected and then we'll treat Yamamoto there. Call me whenever his condition worsens."

As he puts on his jacket, Haru looks him straight in the eye—the first time this night—and asks with quivering voice: "It's not that bad, ne? Yamamoto-kun … he … he'll be fine again, ne? He'll wake up and smile and play baseball and wield Shigure Kintoki." Her eyes are full of tears. She's trying to smile.

The gash isn't the problem, Shamal thinks, and Miura Haru knows it isn't. He reminds himself of Yamamoto—grinning, laughing, living—and says genuinely: "He will. Don't worry, Haru-chan. I'm sure he will."

Before he steps out into the rain, he turns his head and sees how Haru-chan sits down, leaning against a wall, and beds Yamamoto's head on her lap. She murmurs: "Did you hear, Yamamoto-kun? You'll be fine. Please—I'm begging you, Yamamoto-kun, please wake up."

He'll be fine.

(But he is still a doctor so it is in his blood to worry.)

v.
don't leave

(Takeshi dreams.)

It's a cold, unforgiving night but moonlight guides them through their favourite park and for a few moments, he thinks he can hear Kaa-chan's laugh with the whirling leafs and the soothing moon that is half-hidden by clouds. They talk about everything (school, universities, baseball, sumo competitions, girls) and nothing (one girl, bushido, Mafia, truth) and it really doesn't surprise him that his father knows so much and shows so little of it.

The ring tone echoes too loud to be real; when he answers the phone it's Dokuro, with a voice laced in indifference and anxiety, both at once. She says: "We need you at head quarters. It's urgent."
Then

bang bang bang

and the line is dead.

(Dreams are crazy; they don't make sense and in this, they are so similar to reality that it's difficult to tell them apart.)

In the blink of an eye (not figuratively) they are there, father and son. Chaos reigns this moment; she laughs with shrill voice and glares at everyone who doesn't. Storm fights against five others. Sun and Cloud, back to back, attack another dozen.
Where are the others?, he wants to think, but Chaos shrieks: everything shakes, shatters, falls to pieces. Rings flare, boxes fall.

There's blackness and the clang of swords, the sound only a gun's trigger can make, his ragged breathing. (He fights.)

After an eternity, his vision becomes sharp again: Everything ends with an abrupt halt.

Tsuna stands with sagged shoulders, Gokudera leans on Dokuro, Hibari leaves without another glance back, Sasagawa-sempai holds his left shoulder where a bullet shot through. It's not true, he screams, but no words leave his mouth. This isn't happening, it can't.

(Reality: Yamamoto Tsuyoshi never belonged to mafia but he is an exceptional fighter, inheritor of the world's strongest sword style, so he smiles when he dies: This is how their world works and Tsuyoshi has long ago accepted that.)

(Dream:)

this is your fault son im dead because you werent stronger because you lied to me because you failed its your fault your father died how could you let this happen you were careless i wont forgive you now you are alone and theres no one to blame but yourself

Oyaji's voice mixes with Kaa-chan's until they're one, together.

THIS IS YOUR FAULT SON IM DEAD BECAUSE YOU WERENT STRONGER BECAUSE YOU LIED TO ME BECAUSE YOU FAILED ITS YOUR FAULT YOUR FATHER DIED HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN YOU WERE CARELESS I WONT FORGIVE YOU NOW YOU ARE ALONE AND THERES NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF

I'm sorry, he wants to say, but can't. I'm sorry, I know it's my fault, forgive me, I love you so, so much, it was never my intention to …

THIS IS YOUR FAULT SON IM DEAD BECAUSE YOU WERENT STRONGER BECAUSE YOU LIED TO ME BECAUSE YOU FAILED ITS YOUR FAULT YOUR FATHER DIED HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN YOU WERE CARELESS I WONT FORGIVE YOU NOW YOU ARE ALONE AND THERES NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF

("Wake up", someone says, "please wake up." It's heavy with sadness and grief, but also with strength and wishes and love.)

(Reality:)
"Can you forgive me, Takeshi?" Yamamoto Tsuyoshi says, "I don't want to leave you alone, but how's it say? … That's the way the cookie crumbles." Tsuyoshi tries to grin. Coughs blood. Is serious again. "Don't—don't ever blame yourself for my death. Do you hear me, Takeshi? Never." He smiles with so much of himself and Kaa-chan and even Takeshi in it. "I love you, Takeshi."

(He is a simple boy, beneath everything, so when someone tries to wake him up, he wakes up.)

vi.
—I'm sorry

Everything aches.
That's the first lucid thought he has when he wakes up. The second is: It rains, and he raises his hand to wipe the raindrops on his cheek off.
"Don't move, Yamamoto-kun."
He yanks his eyes open, body tensing, alertness rushing through his body. Then there is a touch on his shoulder, and warmth—and maybe comfort, too.

Haru.

"You have a bit of a temperature, so …" It's only now that he notices the damp cloth on his forehead and the soft fabric beneath his head. He tries to move a bit, but is stopped again. "Don't move," Haru says in a low voice. Her eyes are red and puffy. She looks sad and tired but tries a smile when she feels his eyes on her. It's a little lopsided. "Here," she gives him two small pills and a glass of water and helps him swallow them. "Do you remember anything, Yamamoto-kun?" Before he can open his mouth, she tenses and looks away, discomfort plain on her features. Sorry, it says. "Shamal-sensei was here after you passed out. He gave you some medicine and patched you up. You're not in any danger anymore. The wound still reopens if you shift too much, so he ordered me to pay attention that you don't have to move around. I know it's not very comfortable," on her lap, "but I couldn't think of anything better and …", she rambles on. It's confusing and gives him even more of a headache, but the alternative is thinking and—just no.

Outside, the sun rises, shining in soft hues, nearly oxymoronic to the weather yesterday.

He swallows and it's salty, his throat sore. Haru quiets down, attempts her smile again, and gives him something warm to drink that tastes like ginger and honey. She runs her fingers through his hair in smooth, slow movements; it seems as if she doesn't even realize she's doing it. The steady throb in his side makes him tired but his head can't come to rest.

Yamamoto doesn't know why Haru starts the conversation again (maybe it's because she hates silence so much); it hurts her so much to talk about it (he isn't an idiot, you know) but her voice simply grows steadier now: "You do remember, right? About yesterday."
Her fingertips are warm against his skin.

"Ah." His head hurts. "I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry, Haru."
He never really understood the friendship of sorts between Oyaji and Haru—but he saw it: The laughing fits, the long conversations, the understanding between them.
"This isn't right," she tells him. "Everything. Everything about this … this incident is horrible and awful and terrifying and wrong. But you—you can't blame yourself, Yamamoto-kun. No one was prepared for this fight—no one expected it."

Of course he remembers: It's not your fault, she said, again and again and again.
"It's not your fault," Haru she says it aloud, "so please, don't blame yourself."

Yamamoto takes a deep breath.

vii.
I forgive you

He doesn't know what time it is, falls into a doze, sleeps, wakes up again. He can't see the sun behind the windows, only the azure sky, so it must at least be past noon. Haru's breaths are too measured for being asleep but also too deep to be fully awake.
Eventually she asks quietly: "Ne, Yamamoto-kun … what do you think are my top three charm points?"

For a moment he is dumbfounded by her sudden question and the next he thinks, trying to distract me?, but he is still tired and sleepy thanks to the medication, so he lets himself be.

He thinks for a long time about her question. Before she gets too impatient, he tranquillises her with: "Your legs, I think. Your eyes. And your smile." Yamamoto is too worn out to really care about saying such things (her legs? Really …) but still too much of a Mafioso, too wary, to tell her the real things.

(Her wit, her strength, the warmth she radiates.)

Even now, he thinks, rather dumbfounded, as Haru starts humming a little tune, even now. He is surprised, wonders whether she is really so damn cunning or if she is god-blessed, in this way. ("Let go, Takeshi. I'm happy.")

"Forgive me," he says and Haru smiles because she understands right away. "He said forgive me."

"Do you?" Haru asks softly. "Can you?"

viii.
I'll live breathe eat—I won't give up

It still hurts. It hurts with every breath he takes; in every cell of his being it aches with the longing for his father, for the man who raised him, loved him, made him who he is. It's ironic, cynic, cruel—this forgive me, because what is to be forgiven?

Takeshi still thinks it's my fault and everyone else still thinks no, it's not. But he understands now: That it's not self-hatred anymore, just anger (for being too weak; no one can deny that: growth doesn't stop until you die) and fear (of being alone, of losing family, of loss) and everything else in-between.

His father is dead and he should have saved him because he was at the same place but he couldn't, didn't—and it's not fine, not in the least, it's horrible and it's cruel … but he'll live on. What else is there to do?

—

"Takeshi-kun," Tsuna's Mama smiles (it's a simple smile with very much impact and he is again reminded why kids and adults and Mafia revolve around her like she is the sun) and touches his arm softly. He can't help but smile back. "Everything is ready for the cremation, dear."

"Thank you," he answers and sees her leave to talk with O-baa-chan and O-jii-chan; they're holding hands, dignified even in their grief.

Most people have come together these last days to mourn the tragic car accident that cost Yamamoto Tsuyoshi's life.
He knows that it's better that way. The Japanese CID isn't suspicious of Namimori yet and it has to stay that way for Vongola to continue operating from Japan—anyways, he's glad, somehow, that he doesn't have to tell the truth. It's much easier to not face all his relatives with this kind of information. At least his friends (second family) are here to pay their respect for a man who died protecting.

Yamamoto sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily. The last week was really exhausting. It has taken Vongola two days to cover the whole affair for the civilians (which means bribing and threatening several people, re-erecting high quarters, calling for backup from Italy, and simulating a car accident to explain Oyaji's death), and then another two for Tsuna to finally look him in the eye again.

"Are you … alright, Yamamoto?" He now asks and with the feelings of guilt and the tiredness around his eyes, he looks at least ten years older than he is supposed to be.

"Don't blame yourself, Tsuna. You couldn't have done anything—I know it's not your fault. And … and Oyaji knew, too." Yamamoto almost smiles because it's so typical of Tsuna to have the same guilty conscience as he himself—and so typical of himself to repeat the words about everyone has thrown in his way these last days. ("That's because they're true," Haru said, following Tsuna with soft eyes, when they talked about it, "it gets rather repetitive and boring after a while—but from a rational aspect, that's the only good argument.")

"Ah," Tsuna agrees, "I know. And … I'm sorry that I burdened you with my inability to be a good leader." Tsuna has less and less time, nowadays, to let the clumsy, no-good part of his character show through, but whenever he does, Yamamoto understands again why he fights for this man, why he works with this man and what Mafia means to them (reforming cruelty, believing in a brighter future). He remembers from middle school times, that Haru once said after seeing the leader of CEDEF, Iemitsu-san, that Tsuna was nothing like his father. And now, years later, he can kind of see it. Tsuna's way of inspiring other people is all Sawada Nana's handwriting.

"It's fine."

"But you … ?"

He considers lying, but Tsuna looks nearly pleading, as if asking not to let him see through the lies thanks to his hyper-intuition.

"No. Not yet." I'm not fine yet.

But that's okay. Struggling is okay. Someday, he will be fine again. He won't give up—it's what he promised, after all.

ix.
I love you

Haru has cut her hair.

It surprises him more than he thought possible, to be honest. It's short and different and very unexpected.

When he opens the door to his flat (it's different somehow, this his when all these years, it was theirs, Oyaji's and his—although it's only makeshift and the official period of mourning isn't over yet, so he'll think about all the changes after that) Haru smiles, comes in while singsonging a "Sorry for intruding!", and goes straight to the kitchen where she takes a kettle from the cupboard to brew tea.

She babbles about this and that, acts as if nothing has happened. (He is only the slightest bit confused.) They sit down at the kitchen table to drink the tea which tastes faintly of nothing—somehow, after his time in Italy, he has come to sort of hate tea—and eat the strawberry daifuku that she made.

After his tea is cold and she offers a prayer at Oyaji's altar in the living room, he can't help but state: "You cut your hair."

"Why, yes, I did," she agrees and her eyes twinkle with mirth.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Why?"

Haru opens her mouth (to say the truth), but closes it again, takes time to consider her answer. Then she says "Doesn't it look good?", very coyly.
He wants to laugh out loudly (or slam his head in the wall) but settles for running a hand through his hair.

"It does," he utters matter-of-factly, reaching his hand out to touch the strands of hair that curl softly at her chin. She should blush now, he muses distractedly, or fidget or at least giggle or something. She doesn't: She looks at him in that heart-wrenching way of her and sighs a little and somehow she manages to make it sound amused.
"My legs, my smile, my eyes—right?" She grins almost sheepishly. "Yamamoto-kun didn't say anything about my hair. And then, yesterday, I walked past this hairdresser and thought, why not? … I like it," she adds, as if to remind him of it.

He recalls Fuuta's rankings back in middle school and how great value she placed on her hair after the boy had told her that her number one charming point was her hair. He remembers how long her hair has grown, all these years.
But most of all, he remembers her voice, when she asked him about her top three charm points three weeks ago, and how it was quiet and determined at all once.

Eventually, she does this Haru-smile again and answers his question genuinely: "Actually, I just wanted to have my hair trimmed … but the hairdresser looked very much like my Kaa-san, you know?—and I remembered how she cut her hair every time something special happened in her life—when she got the divorce from Papa, when our dog died, when she got promoted … she would always go to her favourite hairdresser and had her hair cut. I didn't understand it back then. But—", her eyes are watery and pale, "you know, Yamamoto-kun, it feels different. My hair is so short and my head feels light and I can't even put it up in a ponytail anymore."

"Haru—"

"Did you know that in some cultures cutting one's hair is a death custom? For example, members of the Shoshone-Bannock tribes believe that long hair is an extension of people's spirit. When it's cut, out of a loss of a relative, it's burnt as a sacrifice to support the loved one on their journey to the other side—I read a lot about it in High School for an essay." She looks down into her lap, where her hands are folded. "After I got my hair cut, I went to the cemetery and burned it in front of Yamamoto-san's gravestone."

Yamamoto pulls her close and puts his arm around her shoulder, rests his chin on her newly-cut hair. (It's soft and warm and new.)

"I wanted to do something for him. You understand that, don't you, Yamamoto-kun? I mean, all the burial customs we carried out … they're familiar and habitual, but I wanted to give Yamamoto-san something. Something only I would've done. Something that maybe would reach him and would, I don't know, make him laugh or shake is head or something. Burnt hair really stinks." She giggles a little, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighs. "He did so much for me and I could give him back so little."

"He would've understood, Haru."

"I know." She sounds puzzled, as if she never had a doubt about it. "That's what amazed me the most about Yamamoto-san. He was very perceptive and understanding." She clenches her fists, thoughtful. "I think I did it more for me than for him."

Then they're quiet again (everything's said, right?), it's a late summer evening—warm and ripe and tangy—and this is it.

It (life) won't get much better, Yamamoto supposes, and he's really okay with it, he's content. As if knowing what's on his mind, Haru turns in his arms, rests her hands on his shoulders … and kisses him. It tastes like the green tea they had and her lip balm (—it feels like friendship and hope and sunlight and more). She sighs, quiet and soft, when they deepen the kiss, and she smiles when it ends. Giving him a peck on the lips, she mouths: "Is that okay?"
That: kisses and smiles and holding hands and having faith and promises for more.

He imagines that his smile is a tad bit too silly, that his sword is far too sharp, that she is way too stubborn to not find a way to work for this new generation of Vongola, that her love for tea and loathing for coffee will cause serious arguments, that they are both too much of believers and, perhaps, have too-soft hearts—he imagines it all and grins a little broader.
Haru embraces him tightly when, suddenly, she starts laughing loudly and it comes from deep inside her, from the bottom of her heart; gasping for breath and doubled over with laughter and still not letting go of him. Yamamoto is astonished when he finds himself not wanting her to: He holds her even tighter and laughs with her.

Her hair is tousled and her eyes glow with a softer, lighter tone of brown and, still with that pretty smile on her lips, she kisses him again (she has never been more stunning than in this moment and he reckons that he's kind of in love with her).

x.
I'm your son you'll be proud of me

Yamamoto never thinks about what ifs and next year and next decade and future. He doesn't really has the time to—and even if he had, he's just not that type. Even when he and Haru are together-together, that doesn't change. Yes, Miura Haru is the type of girl to celebrate every celebrate-able holiday which puts him in a permanent situation of having to think of just another present, and yes, he's pretty sure, nowadays, what's going to be in his future: Mafia, of course, Vongola and Shigure Soen Ryu and Tsuna and the other guys; his family, in some way or other; Haru.

(Takeshi loves it all, so he knows that there's the possibility of losing it—a high possibility even. That's the risk of living.)

But that's that—it'd be really stupid to wrack his brain about things that haven't happened yet. Anyways, he doesn't just brush aside his worries; he still plays baseball here in Italy, and dedicates himself to the sword his father passed on to him, and watches out for his friends, and encourages the idea of Collonello and Lal Mirch teaching Haru and the other girls self-defence and basic training with flames and boxes. (He tries.)

.

"Oi, Yamamoto! Did you bring your part of the surprise pres—ahhh! ATTACK! WE ARE ATTACKED!" Ryohei screams across the garden when Gokudera grabs him in a headlock, putting a hand over Ryohei's mouth and grouching about Juudaime and it's called surprise for a goddamn reason, idiot! and lots of other absurd Gokudera-like things.

Yamamoto shakes his head in amusement and joins his fellow Guardians. "Maa, maa," he makes good-naturedly, clasping his hands behind his head, "Tsuna is still distracted by Sasagawa-chan and Lambo, I just saw them on the front porch."

Ryohei starts laughing loudly, punches Gokudera's shoulder and walks away to search for the others participating in Tsuna's surprise present. "Che," Gokudera grunts and walks away to check over the rest of the party.

Yamamoto grins; Vongola Decimo turning twenty is apparently a very big deal; it's in Gokudera's panicking, the amount of staff that walks around the Sicilian villa and the size of the birthday cake.

.

"Hey, handsome." Haru embraces him from behind, hands clasped in front of his stomach. He turns around and greets her with a grin. "Hey, yourself." He leans down to kiss her. "How much longer does Sasagawa have to keep Tsuna away?"

"Oh, I don't know," Haru giggles, "poor Tsuna-san. How many times more will he have to act surprised on his birthday? Really, Hyper Intuition can be a dreadful curse." She shakes her head, short hair twirling with the motion.

He hums in agreement and drops a kiss on the hollow of her throat. "I like the dress," he comments.

"Oh, I taught my boyfriend well!" She exclaims joyfully, wrapping her arms around his neck and patting his head as if he were an obedient dog.

It's almost a year since Oyaji died and, somehow, it affects his mood, so, instead of laughing and quipping and teasing like he usually would, he says, all enforced nonchalance: "I love you."

He grins stupidly when she blushes deeply and smiles, girlish and shy. Even now it takes him by surprise what an impact such words have on her, his usually self-confident, outgoing Haru.

"Thank you," she replies like always—and, like always, he can't believe how happy his words can make her. It's a wonder, he sometimes thinks, because she gives him so much and he has so little to return to her. (Whenever she sees his expression in this kind of moments, she pulls him close and kisses him until there's nothing much to do with his brain anymore.)

"Love you, too." She loosens her grip on him, pecks his cheek and walks towards Sawada Nana-san, Fuuta and I-Pin, all the while grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The soft fabric of her dress sways gently around her legs; her hair bobs with every step she takes; she gives off an aura of happiness and contentment and strength. (This is the kind of Something she enthuses about when she gets tipsy, Yamamoto thinks, and laughs because she doesn't seem to notice it at all.)

∞
I promise

I'm not afraid of death. It's the stake one puts up in order to play the game of life. — Jean Giraudoux

Firstly, some Author's Notes that maybe make it a little easier to understand phoenix, arise:

1. One day, after reading xxkoffeexx's wonderful oneshot "Charmpoint" (I highly recommend it, it's awfully awesome :D) I had this train of thought: What kind of reason would've made Haru cut her hair? It started like this and ended with over 7,000 words. I had one scene played out in my head: Haru, how she chops vegetables at Takesushi's and then injured Yamamoto, entering. And it's just all this tension and suspense and somehow, Haru knows that something terrible happened and tries really hard to deny it. So I knew Tsuyoshi must've died and piece for piece, this story was written. It was all pretty dreamlike in my mind which kind of explains why the circumstances of Tsuyoshi's death and The Attack and his killing are so vague and fogged. The title was, which is unusual for me, added after I finished writing.

2. Onomatopoeia: I love them. Also, this unsheating-a-sword-doesn't-make-a-sound? A believable source told me that. I was really shocked when I heard it.

3. Shamal: When did I forget what a pervert this man is? So, he is actually a women-loving, flirting asshole-doctor, who doesn't treat guys. As you can see, yes, I forgot that. And then it was too late to change it because I needed him to say this totally cool "He'll be fine"-line. I tried it with another awesome butt-kicking female doc, but as an OC she couldn't know that much about Tsuna, and therefore Haru and blabla. So, in conclusion, I beg your pardon for his heavy OOC-ness.

Questions, critique, suggestions for improvement (reviews!) are welcomed with open (virtual) arms . English is not my mother tongue and I didn't have the time yet to search for a beta.

Thanks for reading and possibly reviewing or faving! :D

Love,

— bells