Summary:
They say it's better to have loved and lost, to have lived and died, than to have never loved or lived at all. Is it really? What then, if you lost before you could love? (If you died before you could live.)
Disclaimer:
I do not own KHR!, the cover art, or the lyrics/song/music. The song is called 'A Realistic Logical Ideologist' by I.A., a Vocaloid. The translated lyrics are Goboumen's, and I got the lyrics from jubyphonic's English cover of the song on Youtube. Check it out; she sings amazingly~!
Dedicated to chrihstie, who inspired me to actually finish this and publish it. She's an amazing writer… mostly Hibari-centric, so check her out if you're into that.
[Staring me down, news on the TV today
Making me feel small, 12-point-font
Headlines with big words, big guns
Pointed at my small mind that can't measure up, so I'm done]
.
"Tsunayoshi Sawada!"
Resolutely ignoring his mother's cry from the kitchen, where she had undoubtedly just received his last test grade report, the spiky-haired brunette boy stormed up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him, and locking it just as quickly.
He didn't want to go downstairs; he knew exactly what would come.
First, his mother would be sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a rumpled piece of paper with undoubtedly low numbers scrawled and circled at the top with bold red ink.
She'd look sad, of course, and then disappointed, which was worse.
But the worst was when she'd turn to gaze at him with that expression of resignation and exasperation and hopelessness,
Like she'd given up on him.
And damned if that didn't strike him the hardest; his own mother didn't even believe in him?
But that was okay.
That was what he was used to by now.
(Or, at least, he thought that he was used to it, but for some reason, it still tugged at him like a fresh wound every. Single. Goddamned. Time. Like, okay, fine, whatever, I know I'm a freaking failure, mom, since everyone says so every day, so I don't need you to remind me that I'm getting nowhere in life-!)
So excuse him if he didn't want to go downstairs and have to bear another droning lecture about smartening up and trying harder and thinking about his future…
(... he thought plenty about a future, for sure, but it definitely wouldn't turn out to be his future, no matter how much he prayed and wished and hoped and dreamed because there was no kami to pray to no spirit to wish to no genie to hope to- no, anything, to dream to…)
Huffing, Sawada Tsunayoshi turned on his TV, flicking idly through the channels for lack of something better to do.
After staring blankly, uncomprehendingly, at the news channel airing a documentary on a grinning white-haired prodigy who had apparently discovered a miracle medical cure for a formerly incurable disease, Tsuna silenced the blaring television with a [click!] and flopped backwards onto his bed, until he was glancing up at his ceiling.
A mildly fond smile draped itself across his lips, as they moved mutely, forming words he just knew to correspond with the bright, hand-painted, entwining rainbow circling-snaking-inching across the white boards.
'Cielo, Nebbia, Nuvola, Tempesta...'
.
[Listening, are you stupid or what?
Just using words no simpleminded person would know
Raining these phrases, my umbrella raises up
To block out the gazes this logic defeats]
.
"Now let's say, hypothetically speaking of course, that there's an idiot who consistently comes late to class, gets rock-bottom scores on tests, never pays attention, has no respect for authority, and is currently daydreaming even as I say this," Nezu coughed the last phrase with pointed emphasis, glaring at the spiky tufts of brown hair by the window.
Tsuna didn't bother looking up from his position on his window-side desk, head turned towards the panes, eyes idly wandering over the rough bark of the trees outside, one arm bent and one hand supporting the side of his cheek.
He'd learned that it was easier, that it was better, if he just kept on ignoring them no matter what they said.
"You're a loser, a pathetic dreamer fool who will never amount to anything!"
Fine.
So he is.
Shrug and move on, clench your teeth and bear it.
"You think Kyoko-chan will ever go out with you!? Hah, don't make me laugh and get out of my sight!"
Alright.
If that's how it'll be.
Silence any protests about how I don't even like Kyoko-chan like that; she's far too naive and lacks any backbone, and do you ever see her sticking up for me? and move on, grit your jaw and hide your demon glaring.
"Oh, Tsu-kun, why don't you ever try in class? It's like you don't even want to go to school!"
Okay.
Whatever.
Pretend to care and don't roll your eyes, mutter vaguely and escape.
(Because I told you I don't want to go to school I don't want to hear them scorn me I don't want to live through my days without my Guardia-!
But you. Don't. Listen.
You never did, did you?
It must be nice, living in your own little world like that.
I wish I could do that.
Just ignore reality, ignore the facts, ignore the pain…
… And ignore the painful fact of reality that I envy for that.
That I resent you for that.)
After a few more seconds of silence that dragged on awkwardly, occasionally punctuated by the odd nervous giggle or unsure snicker, Nezu chalked it up as yet another lost cause, and grumblingly turned back to the board.
"That's what you don't want to be: slothful, lazy, indolent. Anyway, science test today, students. Remember, tests are the most important part of life, and you should always be prepared for them. Pay no attention to-"
The brunette noted that Nezu seemed angrier than usual today. Girlfriend finally break up with him?
He discarded the notion almost as fast as it popped up.
Nah; who'd date Nezu?
"-Fuchūina Tsuna."
Fuchūina Tsuna?
'Careless Tsuna'?
(Not quite careless.
Smiling mirthlessly, wryly, with just a touch of grimness.
Nope.
Not quite careless…
… but, unfortunately, not quite careful enough, until it was too late to do anything.
'Unfortunate' is an understatement, he thinks.)
Tsuna slides his eyes sideways, skimming over the tops of his classmates' heads, and lands squarely on the seat where a certain 'baseball idiot' should have been sitting in.
Kyoko doesn't notice him watching her.
He slides his eyes away again and frowns, deeply.
.
[From when the sun said it's goodbye to the day
To when it woke from napping, the night was awake
Father on mother thinks under the cover of darkness they're lovers
Makes no sense to me]
.
What is love?
It's a question worth thinking about.
Indeed, millions of people and philosophers have apparently considered it a question worth thinking about, reflecting on, interpreting, preaching, dissecting, analyzing, and attempt to manufacture for as long as human memory reaches back.
To expect a barely teenage boy to understand it is nothing short of preposterous.
At first, Tsuna thinks love is what his mother always proclaims to have for his father.
He's broken of that ideal a few months before he turns five, after witnessing his mother get desperately, hopelessly drunk on their wedding anniversary that his father missed yet again.
How can she be swearing and throwing shot glasses at a framed picture on night, and be all thoughtless adoration at the sight of the picture-in-real-life-standing-apologetically-on-the-porch-steps-with-a-bouquet-of-roses-and-a-stupid-excuse?
That, Tsuna decides, is called torturing yourself for no reason.
And he's no masochist.
(He's right, though, but even he has more tact than to say so when Nana gets a furious, teary divorce with Iemitsu when he's 7, after discovering that Iemitsu's been having affairs and blatantly lying to her.
Perhaps worst of all, everyone in Namimori seemed to know as well, and had never thought to notify her, or do anything other than cast sneers or pitying gazes upon them.
That's when Nana fully retreats into her own little happy haven, where nothing's wrong and everything's right, and her darling faithful husband's just doing some important hush-hush business overseas, and of course he loves her and everything's fine fine fine.
Except when it comes to her son, her disappointment, the only part of her perfect life's that not fine not fine not not not fine at all.
{The divorce is messy and dragged out longer than it has to be, causing unnecessary conflict on both sides. It also marks the moment when Tsuna stopped thinking of his mother as 'kaa-san', and when Tsuna stopped thinking of his father as 'tou-san'. Now, they were just Nana and Iemitsu. They were just human, as human as everyone else, as human as he was.
Let that be reminder to him, Tsuna notes. Let that be a reminder that love is hard and painful and that he could fall into that trap as well.
Never let it be said that Tsuna can't remember lessons when he wants to. And he definitely wants to remember this one.
It is remembered well.})
He can adapt, though, so he revises his definition of love accordingly.
Love, he decides, is not what a mother shows to her child, because people have many faces, mothers are people too, and his mother certainly didn't show him much 'love'.
So then, what is it?
Why, that's easy to say.
Love is the opposite of hate.
But wait, that's not correct.
That can't be true.
Because 3 years later, at age 10, he starts noticing how people interact, how romantic bonds are formed, how platonic bonds are formed, and reads more than his fair share of manga.
If love was the opposite of hate, how come hate could so easily twist into love, and love could so easily blaze into bitter, bitter hatred?
Prepubescent boys taunt the girls they crush on, and prepubescent girls commonly end friendships over a boy they fangirl over.
And none of them, Tsuna knows, none of them know what love really is.
Then again, did he?
So, at age 13, he's finally settled on a decisive definition.
Love is something he'll never understand.
Something he'll never have, outside of his dreams.
(His dreams of kind smiles and understanding looks and warm hugs and gently reassurances and easy humor and firm comradeship and Flames oh my kami I wishwantneed the Flames but they aren't here and-!)
Gasping, Tsuna choked on his own breath and clutched at his chest, eyes wide, and suffering his first panic attack at age 13, alone in the park, on the swings.
No one's there to help him.
So he helps himself, and five minutes later, forcibly calmed down and roughly wiping away tear stains on his face, he heads home.
He's still scrubbing away at nothing with furious, manic, shaking hands when he curls up under his covers and tries to go to sleep, to scramble for his happy little haven.
.
[He plays asleep, a boy that wants just to escape
Can't wait and flips his phone out again
Somehow, I know now this place that I had found
I need to get out
Who do I see? Stupid and small, look through the mirror
And back at the wall, who are you?]
.
His dreams were vivid and peaceful and heart-achingly perfect.
(Not heart-break; his heart had broken up and been mashed together without finesse years ago, and the most he could manage was a throb and a dry gulp and eyes that itched-yes-itched-not-cried-just-itched.)
"Tsuna? Are you feeling fine? You look kinda sad…"
Brushing away his worries, Tsuna smiled up at the concerned face across the table.
"I'm fine; just overthinking things again," he reassured.
- didn't look fully convinced, but accepted the excuse anyway, and offered to refill his cup for him.
Tsuna graciously thanked -, and took the time to take in his surroundings.
The walls were a textured cream paint, adorned with minimalist paintings hung artfully from rustic wooden pegs.
They were alone in a cafe (though faint noises could be heard from the swinging doors of the back kitchen), sitting on stools by the window front, and had a nice view of the equally empty streets, lined with flowerbeds and shining with noonday sun.
Moderately warm; spring?
And it appeared as if they were in the midst of a tea-time chat, judging by the assortment of baked goods and finger foods arranged on the table they were at, as well as the gently steaming pot of tea that - was currently pouring into Tsuna's bone-china cup, an expression of utmost concentration on -'s face.
"Done!" - declared happily, setting the teapot down in triumph.
Smiling, an actual smile that stretched naturally over his lips (and kami how long has it been since he last smiled for real?), Tsuna reached for the cup and thanked - again.
His sleeve was black, clad in finely tailored and professionally fitted black silk. His arm was longer, too. His whole body was, and more toned as well.
Around… early-twenties, he'd guess?
The tea smelled flowery… dandelion?
"It's very good," Tsuna complimented, still smiling over the fragile rim of the cup.
- looked mildly embarrassed and laughed, a carefree sound that rang bright and clear, one of his hands rubbing the back of his head. "Oh, it was nothing. Really, all I did was pour it. How have you been, though, Tsuna?"
Examining the cup a little closer, Tsuna observed that it was a small, handleless teacup, glazed, much like typical Japanese teacups. The streets, however, were cobblestone, and didn't quite fit, though he supposed that they could've been outside of hyper-citified Japan.
"I've been doing well, thank you. And you? Oh, and can you remind me where we are again?"
(He's tried saying other things, tried saying denials, tried screaming and shouting that this isn't real, this is a dream, this isn't real.
But the dreamscape never lets him.
So, with less and less reluctance, Tsuna discovers himself fitting easily into his 'role', here in the Dream World. Sliding and slotting, clicking just right.)
"Great, thanks! I think I'm very close to a new breakthrough with the _ _ _! If only - would stop demanding spars all the time… ahahaha, well, asking - to stop wanting a fight is like asking the paperwork to end, eh, Tsuna? Anyway, we're in Italy, remember? There was that meeting with the Family, and it's lunch break. We chose a Japanese restaurant because we were all feeling a little nostalgic for home, but then everyone else kinda… scattered in their own directions. Personally, I think - and - are on a date, and they just won't admit it. So how's the food? Remind you of -'s cooking at all?"
Tsuna took another sip of his tea, and tried to savor the incredibly realistic taste.
"I haven't really tried anything yet," he admitted. "What do you recommend?"
- grinned, even brighter than his laugh. "Ahahaha, well, in general, I'm loyal to sushi, of course, and my old man's sushi first and foremost. But after that, I'd say-"
Everything seemed to start fading away, greying out and drifting off into nothingness, -'s voice melting into an indistinguishable babble.
Panicking, with a sort of raw desperation (nononodon'tgoletmestayIwantIneedthis), Tsuna grasped for the rapidly receding edgesend(?) of realityfiction(?) with crumbling fingershope(?), to no avail.
The last thing he glimpsed before waking up with a start in his bed, was the happygone(!) face of Yamamoto Takeshi, frozen mid-word, frozen mid-time.
Healthy.
Grown-up.
And oh my kami kami kami kami he was alive-!
With a wordless, silent growl of rage, Tsuna hauled himself onto his stomach, drew back a thin fist, and socked his pillow.
Over and over, until he was shaking and streams of salty water were staining his pajamas soggy.
He stared at his wet clothes for a while, and then sighed heavily, before getting out of bed and resigning himself to another day at schooltorture(-!).
In the bathroom, after brushing his teeth, he stared at his reflection for a long, long time, mentally comparing this to his confident, well-built, content dream-self.
Yes.
Dream-self.
Just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dreamfantasyfakenotreal…
He placed a palm against the smooth glass, and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the cooling surface, eyes closed.
… Does that make it any less real to him?
Droplets of water rolled down into the sink, and they weren't from the faucet.
.
[Shaking me down, my lonely logic finds
'Nother thorn of this envy in my side called heartbreak
Yeah, I give my all, I'm on the ball afraid to fall, and soon to call
"Just shut up and go, you don't know!"
But I'm on hold by people that sigh, "Do as you're told"]
.
There was one time where he decided to try, and see what came of it.
He got a perfect score on his next math test, the fruit of his dedicated labors for two weeks.
He got accused of cheating, and was sent to the principal's office.
Slumped languidly across one of the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting room, Tsuna paid no attention to the silhouettes behind the pane of frosted glass to his left; the door to the principal's private office.
No doubt Nana was sparkling and fluttering and apologizing in there to the balding principal for her 'useless son'.
This is what he gets for trying?
The secretary, a prim, uptight middle-aged man, glared at him as Tsuna let out a woosh of air, blowing his bangs out of his face.
Tsuna ignored him.
Tsuna ignored any future attempts at getting him to try.
Why bother?
It's not like trying will bring them back.
It's not like they were them in the first place.
But they could have been them.
.
[Closing my eyes, sleep but not getting a wink
I feel the glare and staring eyes that seemingly care
Not good enough yet, these enemies just let their words
Fire through me like there's nothing upstairs]
.
Restless, Tsuna turned over onto his side for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.
Blinking green numbers glow softly at him out of the darkness, right at his unblinking eyes.
Closed his eyelids, he flopped around yet again, to avoid his alarm clock's flashing reminder of how late it was.
It's no use.
The cotton sheets are too clingy, the silk comforters weighing too heavily as they slip and slide off of his shoulders.
Summer in Namimori is humid; very humid.
Admitting defeat, his bedcovers were tossed off, and, rising up to swing his legs, letting them dangle a few inches off of the wooden floor, Tsuna scoops up his trusty flashlight from his bedside table and leaves the stifling, strangling prison masquerading as his bed tonight.
Barefoot and nearly noiseless, he skirts warily around Nana's bedroom door with the familiarity of practice, and carefully shines his light so that the stairs are illuminated.
Nana's a heavy sleeper, especially after one of her fits of lucidity, which she attempts to quell with copious amounts of alcohol.
(It's probably going to kill her one day.
Tsuna doesn't quite care, so long as she doesn't drop dead in front of him.
She won't listen to his warnings, anyway, and while Nana is never physically abusive, or (intentionally) verbally abusive, he has an inkling that her obliviousness while in her 'air-head' mode partly stems from willful neglect.
It's okay.
He'll just learn to do things himself, to be self-sufficient,, to not rely on others because he can'twon'trefuses to be so heavily dependent upon a being who is not himself.
It's okay.
It's okay because it has to be okay.
It's okay because he'll make it okay.)
That oftens causes her to pass out on her bed, and be slightly less inclined to notice Tsuna the next morning.
Fine by him.
He treads lightly, lifting his feet before continuing on.
Reaching the kitchen, the flashlight is propped against the toaster, illuminating the higher cupboards.
With a grip of the countertop edging and a sudden heave, Tsuna lands onto the narrow strip of counter, crouched like he's ready to propose.
Steadily, he rummages through the cabinets and shelves, until he hits the jackpot.
Pocketing a pearly white pill, everything is stashed back into place.
Tsuna jumps down, bending his knees to minimize impact.
After quietly pouring a cool glass of water, the flashlight is recollected, and he heads to his room, treading lightly again, and attentively avoiding water spillage.
On his bed, reclining under a thin gauzy sheet, his flashlight replaced, Tsuna gulped the bitter pill, made a brief face, and then washed it down with a swig of water, draining the cup halfway.
He quickly grew drowsy, slipping into unconsciousness with a faint smile.
(Sleeping pills are another reason Nana's a heavy sleeper.
They're probably going to kill her and him one day.
Tsuna thinks that he may very well welcome it, in fact, if death is really like a very long dream.
Maybe he would get to finally stay with them?)
.
[It has to be, are you stupid or what?
Just using words no simpleminded person would know
Rain in my mind, I just know that I can't find
My way now, just tell me the way out
Where can I go?]
.
Rainy days didn't rank very highly on Tsuna's rather short list of 'likes'.
Partly because he never seemed to be able to find a decent umbrella, but mostly because it always reminded him of what he'd failed to do, of who he'd failed to save.
It had been…
Well, he was 13 now, right?
So, it was about … 8 years ago that he'd gone looking for the mysterious figures in his dreams.
They claimed to be from Namimori; the scary-looking one with the fluffy canary was very adamant about it.
Why hadn't he seen them around, then?
He couldn't ask them about it, because the words just refused to come out in his dreams, no matter how hard he tried, or how differently he phrased it.
Therefore, he did what the dream-people advised him to do when they didn't know an answer to something.
Research.
One rainy day at age 5, it had been a Saturday, and Nana had been especially absent-minded that day.
Taking advantage of those factors, Tsuna slipped on his rain parka, colorfully patterned with orange stripes, and scampered over to the Namimori Library.
The librarians had been quite helpful when he'd pulled on his cutest, most pathetically teary "please-pity-me" face, to ask for birth records, phonebooks, and old newspaper clippings.
They hadn't even asked why when he'd requested their aid ("pwetty pwease libwawian-san?") in searching specifically for a few names.
Gokudera Hayato.
Sasagawa Ryohei.
Hibari Kyoya.
Rokudo Mukuro.
Dokuro Chrome.
Yamamoto Takeshi.
Bovino Lambo.
"Here you go, little boy. Are you sure you'll be okay?"
Tsuna accepted the sheaf of papers and nodded, grinning widely to reveal a gap-toothed smile for extra adorability.
"Of couwse," he tried to look earnest, convincing, even going so far as to kick his feet swingingly and head-tilt for emphasis. "Tsu-kun's kaa-chan will be wight back, she said. Vewy soon, she said. Tsu-kun can pway in the libwawy, she said. Is… Is Tsu-kun not wanted here?"
It was horribly demeaning to pretend to pout and sulk mournfully, not to mention speaking with that baby-ish lisp and limited vocabulary.
(The dream-people had made sure Tsuna grew up well-educated since his first dream, before he could even remember.)
Demeaning, maybe, but he still found it worth it all when the librarian immediately began fluttering and cooing and apologizing, scurrying away before the fake tears glimmering at his eyes dropped into a tantrum.
Smirking, which didn't fit too well on his cherubic face, he straightened up in the large chair (on top of a stack of books, in order to see over the top of the table), and shuffled the papers.
Eager, and happily anticipating how he'd introduce himself to the real-life dream-people (and there was never a single doubt on his mind that the dream-people were real; they were far too eccentric, vivid, and alive to not be real), Tsuna quickly began devouring the first sheet of info.
Then he stopped, frozen with shock temporarily, and hastily jerked himself back into action, rapidly flipping through the other sheets, eyes widening with horror with every sheet discarded.
He did end up crying.
A lot.
Not the screaming-red-faced tantrum the librarian had expected the worst of…
Just silent crying.
Tsuna didn't protest when the librarian had come back, gasped upon seeing him, swiftly tried to comfort him, and ended up escorting him home to a befuddled Nana.
Namimori General Hospital Records: Hibari Kyoya, stillborn. Yamamoto Takeshi, died 1.4 hours after a premature birth. Sasagawa Ryohei, died 3.3 minutes out of womb from brith complications.
Internet Search Results: Rokudo Mukuro, none listed. Dokuro Chrome, none listed. Bovino Lambo, none listed. Gokudera Hayato, none listed.
The 'none listed' had given him hope, however minuscule, but thorough grilling of the dream-people and subsequent years of frantic Internet searches had yielded nothing good.
Italy Birth Records Archives: Lambo B., Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Hayato G., accidental death at age 3 [cause unknown, hypothesized as gunshot].
Internet Search Results: Mukuro Rokudo, none listed. _ Nagi, organ failure at 4 months [premature].
He never did find out what happened to the dream-person with the strange hair and creepy laugh and giant fork who liked to scare him but always gave him candy.
(Does it really count as failing to save someone if they were never able to be saved in the first place?
Doesn't stop him from blaming himself nonetheless.
If only he were older, if only he realized sooner, if only he wasn't so useless…
The dream-people are adamant about him not being useless.
If only.)
It was raining that day, too.
.
["We only want those things we never can gain"
"Made by man, ain't it all the same?"
Laughing like I'm dumb, realize I'm feeling numb]
.
Still, whether or not he disliked rainy days or not, he made a point of going out every single rainy day to make his 'rounds'.
Sheltered under a frilly pink polka-dotted umbrella (the Umbrella Curse strikes again; he had to filch one of Nana's to sneak out with, and though she wouldn't have begrudged him a lending, he preferred to limit their interactions as much as possible), Tsuna nodded in greeting to the old man in the dismal-looking building, labeled with fading golden letters as the 'Records Office, located by the rapidly approaching gates.
"Ohayou, Sato-san," Tsuna said respectfully.
The wizened old man nodded back cheerfully, unlatching the gates to wave him through. "Ohayou, Tsuna-kun. Back again? If only all the other children these days were as polite to the old and buried, eh?"
He shrugged with a faint smile, not answering, and passed through the gates of the Namimori Graveyard.
Neatly brushed cobblestone paths paved various ways through the orderly rows of tombstones; with the ease of familiarity, Tsuna chose the one that branched off to his right, and set off on his trek.
It was peaceful, what with the soft rustling of tree leaves and grass, and the muted background chatter of falling raindrops and falling footsteps.
Hibari Kyoya's grave was in the specially reserved Hibari section, amid the grave of his proud 'carnivorous' ancestors, and those preceding even them.
Simplistic but striking: a smoothly hewn slab of slate, under a carefully pruned sakura tree, and inscribed with just his name, birth date, and death date.
Or rather, just one date.
Tsuna brushed his fingers over the cool stone, picked off a few straggly weeds, checked on the nest of canaries he'd so laboriously tracked down and transplanted here a few years ago, and then left.
Yamamoto Takeshi's grave was humble and unimposing, but kept it's own sort of self-deprecating cheer.
Rough granite, sandpapered on the edges, dug into the loosened soil by a small stream and weeping willow tree.
Takeshi: A warrior who died before he could live. May you find your sword in the next life.
Tsuna propped up his umbrella, bent down to clear away the leaves and misc. debris, checked on the stray Shiba Inu that had made it's home under the roots of the willow a few months ago, and then left.
Rokudo Mukuro, Dokuro Chrome, Gokudera Hayato, and Bovino Lambo had memorials that he'd constructed to the best of his mediocre ability as a child, slowly reinforced and remodeled as time went on, being added to with every visit.
In a copse of straight-backed elm trees, the grassy clearing was marked with a sprinkling of asphodel flowers, and 4 large rocks, spray-painted with streaks and splatters of dark blue, violet, silver, and black.
Dropping his umbrella and kneeling in front of the dark blue rock, Tsuna reached for the hand-shovel wedged underneath it, busily digging up a patch of wet ground that bore signs of having been dug up plenty before.
A battered tin box, plain and unremarkable, was lifted out.
Flipping back the cover, Tsuna reached into his pockets, rifling and fumbling until his hands closed around a thin, curved piece of metal.
Triumphant, he dropped a cheap pineapple keychain into the box, letting it land in a nest of various pineapple-related paraphernalia, trident/fork-related paraphernalia, owl-related paraphernalia, several depictions of a slyly smirking young man, and several sheets of handwritten kanji for 1 to 6.
The box was placed back into the ground, and covered up.
For the violet rock, another battered tin box was unearthed.
This time, a handsewn imitation of a skull-embossed eyepatch was deposited, among dozens of other eyepatches, some cat figurines, and a few renditions of a shyly smiling young woman.
Another rock, another box.
A string of dead sparklers join enough fireworks for 10 years of festivals, enough folded paper airplanes for 10 fleets of miniature aircraft, some papers labeled 'G-Code' with scrawled nonsense symbols all over them, and many drawings of a stoically scowling young man.
Last rock, last box.
Handfuls of grape candy fall onto handfuls of stale grape candy, numerous lollipops and sweets, swaths of cowprint fabric, wallpaint swatches of vivid pink and purple, and more than one picture of a sagely snoring young man.
With a mild grunt, he rolled the black-patched rock back into place, and stood up, stretching his shoulders and neck next.
He took a step back and surveys the boulders with a wistful sort of fondness.
The rain kept falling.
Tsuna's getting wet, but he barely noticed that; for he suddenly doubled over with nearly hysterical laughter that trails off into gasping giggles.
There's something profoundly sad about him tending to graves for people he's never known and who might not even exist.
And there's something profoundly funny about that sadness, so because he had enough tears for now, he decided to choose laughter instead, and left the graveyard feeling inexplicably lighter, his umbrella on his shoulder as he walked down the streets in the drizzle.
/They exist in dreams, don't they? I still know them in my dreams. So why mourn them in waking-world when I can celebrate them in dream-world?/
That revelation, a flimsy bandage on his gaping wounds of deep yearning, doesn't stop him from continuing to visit the graveyard. Tsuna sees much of Sato-san over the years.
Sato, for his part, always wondered what the polite little boy was doing in a forlorn place like the graveyard.
Then he joined his ancestors in the graveyard.
Tsuna, very thoughtfully, included him in his never-faltering visits.
And he never did manage to throw off the umbrella curse.
.
[Life like a ghost as thin as air
It doesn't matter if you're gone, you're here nor there
If I left today, would they even know my name?]
.
"Why won't he wake up?" a certain silver-head hissed, glaring at the doctor with a glare that stated, in no uncertain terms, if he didn't like the explanation he was given, well, the doctor most definitely won't like the consequences.
To her credit, Dr. Ross stood firm against the Vongola X Storm Guardian's ire, and delivered her report in cool, clipped words.
Weak-willed medical employees did not last very long in the Vongola mansion, where each day was a clash of warring personalities and powers. It was a delightful sort of chaos; some thrived on it, greedily latching onto the mayhem that is the Greatest Mafia Famiglia in the world. Others died on it, from shock, terror, or the unlucky stray bullet.
… Which was, actually, the source of the most recent medical headache and household hubbub.
"Sir, Vongola Decimo is in as stable of a state as we are capable of enacting. Rest assured, the Vongola medical staff are very much capable. Unfortunately, the Tranquilizing Flames from the Furbo Famiglia's sniper's bullet were purer and stronger than we expected. The bullet had also pierced deeper into the Decimo's skull than we expected. They were both extracted, of course, but by that time the Decimo had already been affected greatly. It was a miracle in and of itself that he's still alive. Now all we can do is make him comfortable, and pray for another miracle to pull him out of his coma. His Sky Flames have been muted as well, but are slowly making a recovery. With any luck, they'll be able to tug his mind back into consciousness as well. If you'd like to visit, Dr. Shamal is with Mr. Reborn in the Decimo's room; Room 27. Perhaps familiar voices might spark some more brain activity. Though, curiously, his monitors show that he is dreaming quite solidly… just not reacting to any outside stimulus. Maybe a rewinding loop from the counteracting Flames…?"
Looking like a lightbulb had smashed over her head and muttering rapidly to herself, Dr. Rosso unhooked a pen from behind her left ear, smoothed her chin-length brunette bobcut into place, and began scribbling fiercely onto her clipboard, striding off towards the Analyzing Labs, apparently forgetting all about Gokudera.
Gokudera stood there for a moment, then pressed two fingers to his forehead, before letting the tension in his shoulders seep out with his sigh.
"Alright, panicking isn't going to help the Tenth," he reasoned, although he longed to overrule his logical genius and do something, anything, to help the Tenth. "Anything, huh? What was that room number again?"
Minutes later, he's stalking down the infirmary corridors, mulling over how the Tenth had ended up in the infirmary.
And in a coma, no less.
"You look like you're thinking awfully hard," a familiar voice commented in a subdued tone of voice, easily falling in place next to him.
(Him on the left, he on the right, flanking the spot where the Tenth should have been and-
No no no no, don't think about that now, don't think about that now.
Don't think about how the Tenth would've been fine if you'd just been a little more aware, if you'd just taken out that sniper a little more quickly.)
Not turning to look, Gokudera snapped back, "And how's that any business of yours, baseball idiot?"
Even his insults were lacking their usual vim and vigor, hollowed out to sound defensive and bitter instead of irritated.
Yamamoto's grin never faltered.
"Hey, hey, hey, no need to be like that, Hayato."
It never faltered, but it did harden.
He slung a (friendly?) arm around Gokudera's neck, tightening his hold until it nearly resembled a backwards chokehold.
"I mean, Tsuna's business is always our business, isn't it? As his Guardians? Right, Hayato? It's our job to keep him safe," the Vongola Decimo Rain Guardian questions, his breath warm and heavy, brushing against the silverhead's ear, carefully modulating his voice to keep it pleasantly airy, even his pointed words were anything but that.
None of the other Guardians come outright and say it.
Their silent accusations are enough.
And as much as Gokudera may call Yamamoto a 'baseball idiot'...
He acknowledges, somewhere in the very back of his mind, that the genial swordsman's delightful malice is the worst, is the accusation he fears and hates and despises the most, because he can't even begin to retaliate against something said so nicely without sounding petty and paranoid.
Yamamoto would undoubtedly deny ever meaning to make him feel uncomfortable, and maybe that's honestly true.
Subconscious double-meaning aren't exactly purposefully posed.
"... right."
They enter the subject of their thoughts' room quietly, silenced by the sight of the pallid brunette lying limply on his bed, silenced by the sight of the glowering hitman watching them with an air of oppressive unfriendliness, silenced by the shock and fear and guilt in their own minds.
"How's he doing, Reborn?" Yamamoto murmured softly, a near-reverent gaze cast upon the boss he'd follow to the ends of the universe.
"Not good," Reborn muttered, curling his lip slightly at the obvious answer.
He glanced sideways, sudden and swift.
Gokudera was kneeling at Tsuna's unresponsive side, clenching the guardrails and focusing desperately on the gentle-shallow-sluggish rise-fall-breaths of his chest.
They allowed the torn Storm Guardian his moment of prayer-wish-hope uninterrupted.
"Please, Tenth, you have to wake up, please wake up, please please please wake up, we need you here, we need you here, Tsuna, please wake up, wake up wake up wake up…"
.
[Shaking me down, my lonely logic finds
'Nother thorn of this envy in my side called heartbreak
My shakey memories and logic can't deny
Maybe my past wasn't bad a lovely lie
'Cause I know
I'm the one thing that's saving what's beating in everyone
Well, that's not reality
But it's alright, I can at least try in my dreams]
.
So, Tsuna remembers, Tsuna lives, Tsuna sleeps, Tsuna dreams, Tsuna does this and that and these.
More of this and these than that now, he supposes.
It's a… lacking existence to him. A pale, washed-out, half-hearted imitation of the life taken away from him, stolen and robbed and mercilessly left in tattered fragments, painstakingly pieced together as best as he is able to recall.
(Once you leave the Garden of Eden, you never may return.
You never know what you have until you don't have it anymore.
The copy may never best the original.
[... The copy must bear the burden of knowing they'll never surpass their forebearer
It's a lonely existence, a lacking one, true.
At least it's still an existence.
But then the question is, is that existence a true existence?
Or…
Merely a copy?
Delusions of grandeur driving one to madness and grief?
They say that every human being, in order to maintain a healthy psyche, must maintain a balanced mind, heart, soul, and body.
Well then, what happens when a human being's mind is broken, heart is weakened, soul is torn in two, and body is shrunken and strained?
Well then?
What then?])
He can't help but feel like there's something more, something better, just waiting for him to discover it and flourish like someone learning to breathe for the first time.
He can't help but feel like that something is trying to reach him, call to him, shake him awake from this ghostly reality he's trapped in.
… Nah.
Tsuna shakes his head at his ridiculous flight of fancy, a wry twist of the lips livening up his usually solemn features, and flops backwards with a sigh.
He's on the roof today, the school roof, flat-eagled on the gritty concrete surface, cloudwatching the dull grey sky.
'Skywatching', he corrects himself, the wry twist twisting deeper.
(It seems wrong for the roof to be so empty. Some part of him, that same part that feels there's something else, expects someone to come barging through the rooftop door, or to already be on the roof.
Strangely, that someone that the part of him expects, is expected to be wearing a black gakuran and a red sash around their upper-arm.
Now do you see why Tsuna dismisses that part of him as the source of his 'flights of fancy'?)
It's overcast today; going to rain.
Another trip to the graveyard then.
Most likely plagued with the Umbrella Curse once more.
Chuckling once, softly, an action he rarely performs outside of his precious Dream World, Tsuna relaxes his expressions and sighs.
He dozes off peacefully, spread out on the floor of the ceiling, under the ashen welkins above, and slips silently into the place he loves most dearly.
His dreams.
...
"Hey, welcome back, Tsuna!"
Cheerful laughter, clinking glasses.
A smile, a shrugged-off jacket.
"Yup, back again! Miss me much?"
"Ahahaha, well, Reborn probably won't admit it, but yes! Was the cruise fun?"
"If being attacked midway by pirates is what you consider fun, than sure."
"Oya, oya, what's this? Hogging Tsunayoshi-kun all to yourself, ne?"
"Tenth! You're back! Argh, is the baseball idiot annoying you again!?"
"A-Ano, welcome back, Bossu…"
"Greeting to the EXTREME!"
"Hmph. Stop crowding the small animal, herbivores."
"Did you bring back the candy I wanted, Dame-Tsuna?"
Gunshot.
Pistol-whip to the head.
"Slacking off, are you? We can't have that, now can we? Why don't we all play a game of good old-fashioned tag… Vongola-style?"
"E-Eh, Reborn-!"
Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot.
"No complaining~! That'd be unbefitting of a Mafia Don, wouldn't it? Get running!"
More laughter, alcohol swishing in moving glasses.
Jump over a vase, dodge a statue, grin recklessly and set your hands on fire.
Yes.
You're home.
This is your home.
Wake.
Up.
We need you, Tsuna.
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To clarify, Tsuna's in a coma after a bullet of Tranquilizing Rain Flames hit him during a Famiglia skirmish. In the coma, Tsuna's dreaming of living life in this alternate reality where things didn't go as well as they should have, while unaware that his 'reality' is actually a dream, and the 'dreams' in his 'reality' are actually memories from his real life, or at least subconscious similar simulations of them, likely brought about by his Guardians trying to wake him in real life. He's been in the coma for around 13 months. 1 year of 'reality' = 1 month in real life.
If he's OOC, that's your own opinion, depending on how you think he'd cope with these half-remembered things and this depressing 'reality' he's stuck in.
Also, this is unedited and un-beta'd and I lost inspiration a couple of times in, so it's rough. Really rough. To be honest, I just wanted to finish it and get rid of it at this point.
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~Please Review~.