A/N: More Angst ahead, guys. I promise, it will change eventually but I feel it's sort of necessary right now. To be fair, most people don't take losing everything important to them well. Tsuna will bounce back eventually, as is generally expected of protagonists.

Word count is ~5.6k.

Chapter 2

He does not come to with the world spinning in upheaval.

He is not delirious, confused, or without his bearings.

He simply sits up, blinking at his surroundings, a flame flickering wildly at his forehead, and a clarity unimpeded by significant pain or injury.

The room is singed, but only slightly, and he can feel the uncomfortable, strangely foreign burn that his flames produce. His flames themselves are as strong as ever, but un-contained, raw, and scorch him from the inside out—a result of strong will contrasting a weak physical strength.

It is in his own room that he sits, he realizes, the one he had left at the age of fifteen when he departed for Italy after completing middle school. There are signs of its lived-in state, looking a far cry from a near decade of being untouched. Its very existence and immaculate state is a discrepancy to his memory, as he knows for a fact that his parents moved not long after he had ascended to the position of Decimo.

A brief, cursory glance to the calendar on his desk verifies his mounting suspicions.

He is in the past.

Tsuna sighs as his flames recede, wincing at the strange elasticity they hold—snapping back at him with an unfamiliar viciousness, like a taut rubber band. (He would need to rectify that.)

This… Isn't exactly what he envisioned when he thought he was "going to see his family again."

He does not know how or particularly why he is in the past, but he is able to keep a calmed mindset in the situation. Time travel, while rare, is not a foreign concept to him (and even "rare" is disputable, considering how often his lightening guardian had still liked to utilize the Ten-Year-Bazooka in the future) and stranger things have occurred to him. (He had long since stopped his habit of lamenting such a fact, and even regards it with fond, if slightly exasperated, amusement. Despite that, he isn't quite sure how he feels about this.)

The only question, however, is how long he will linger.

Tsuna noticed the differences immediately after awakening, his flames being a major contributor. It had been years since his own flames attacked him from mere activation, and he knows well enough what the cause of such a situation is. Even putting aside the fact that he is, visually, a teen once again (his hands lack their callouses, he lacks the toned and well-defined yet not bulky muscle he had developed after years of Mafia work and being under Reborn's tutelage; it is painfully obvious that he is in some sort of regressed state even without the aid of a reflective object) he can sense the differences with clarity gained from his years of training and experience in awareness.

He isn't quite sure how time travel works, exactly, but he doesn't need his intuition to know that it is a rather important factor for one to remain in their actual body if they are to return to their time, eventually.

Then again, his last moments are of his dead (deceased, gone, wrongly murdered, dead dead dead) famliglia, and he himself had been dying, within the confines of the quickly encroaching fire.

He quite literally has nothing left to go back to, in either case.

Both hope and despair lance through him at the acknowledgement. He had long since passed the mourning period (or so he had thought) after their deaths, because he had still had a goal. To avenge them, bring destruction to the ones that had dared oppose the Decimo and his family, the ones who had dared to kill them.

Tsuna closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. Because he no longer has a vendetta—not only had he successfully carried out his revenge in the name of his family, but he is no longer in the same time—he no longer has a drive to focus, center him, distract him from his grief. The ones that had dared oppose them, the family that attacked, most likely do not even exist in this time.

(And though he has his suspicions that they were not the only ones, that they had help—because how else could a group such as Vongola fall to a group that was otherwise unnamed a mere decade ago?—it is not possible for him to find out at the current time. He can do so at a later date, but he has far too little resources and backing, not to mention motivation, to go on a manhunt for what could inevitably led to a dead end.

… That, and his hatred has already been paid; his anger is quenched. He was never the vengeful sort, and as a result feels no strong urge to eliminate them in the current—especially what with his suspicions of a greater force. If provoked, he will attack. But he has no compulsion to seek destruction.)

Right now, in the quiet of the night, approximately a decade into the past, Sawada Tsunayoshi is a mere teenager with more than enough time on his hands. As a true thirteen-year-old, he had thought his life was miserable with too little time to relax and have fun.

But his mindset, that of the 24-year-old Vongola Decimo, finds it too quiet. Because the dichotomy between himself of then and now are vastly different, to the point where even "oceans apart" does not aptly describe it. And the quiet silence eats away at him, because his sharp mind, his memories still fresh from where he had just died, refuse to let him forget his grief.

He stares out at the blackened sky, and does something he hasn't done in years. Something he didn't have the chance to do before.

(Because he is Decimo, because the few still alive need their leader to stay strong, because even the smallest amount of weakness will invite disaster, because he still has a family to avenge and he has to kill them, bring them down with him so they cannot continue to destroy the world—)

Moisture brims at the corner of his eyes. He does not acknowledge the warm rivulets that travel past his cheeks, almost eerily silent as his eyes blink unseeingly past the dampness.

He mourns.

For his lost family. For the mother and father he never got to say goodbye to. For the friends (Kyoko, Haru, Tetsuya, Hana, Kensuke) that he had to watch get pulled into the Mafia and face the consequences of it. For the comrades (Basil, I-Pin, Fuuta, Ken, Chikusa, Bianchi, Shamal, Xanxus, Squalo, Bel, Levi, Lussuria, the ex-arcobaleno) that were already part of the Mafia but that Tsuna never had the chance to thank for constantly being by his side.

For Hayato, who should never have been forced into a corner as he had been as a child, who should have been loved and appreciated without the need of being "useful." Hayato, who was Tsuna's volatile Storm but stood right there by his side, as calm as he could be (as he needed to be), during the growing chaos.

For Takeshi, who should have stayed on his path of baseball, who should never have picked up the sword, who shouldn't have had to kill to simply live. Takeshi, who was Tsuna's calming Rain yet raged and roared with anger at the times where Tsuna was too weak and unable to do so himself.

For Lambo, who should have lived as a beloved, cherished child, who was already stuck with the Mafia because he was born into it but still could have lived a better life. Lambo, who was Tsuna's dependent Lightning, yet was the first to tell them to "go, I'll be okay, I can't always rely on you guys—please trust me" when they had to move.

For Kyōya, who should have been forced to remain in Namimori, to continue living a peaceful life within the homely confines of the town designated as his territory. Kyōya, who was Tsuna's ambivalent, wandering Cloud, yet never left his side once throughout the whole ordeal up until his brutal demise.

For Ryōhei, who should have pursued his dream of becoming a boxer, who should never have seen blood beyond that of a simple match. Ryōhei-nii, who was Tsuna's healing Sun yet did not hesitate to mow down the threats to his life, alternating between healing Tsuna and their friends and rendering enemies to mere splatters.

For Chrome, who never should have been treated as she had been before joining him, who shouldn't have needed mist organs to continue to so much as live. Chrome, who was Tsuna's stable and meek Mist, yet displayed utmost determination and almost cruelty against their foes when any of her family was in danger.

For Mukuro, who shouldn't have been put through hell as he had been, who might have lived a peaceful life had he not been thrown head-first into the mafia. Mukuro, who was Tsuna's other, far less innocent and more beguiling Mist, yet spoke nothing but truth to him even in the face of painful questions throughout the waging battles.

For Reborn, who might have still been alive had he not joined the Vongola at Tsuna's behest. Reborn, who was technically Tsuna's first friend and was likely killed protecting them all.

For the people he had loved, lost, and failed.

He mourns.

In the morning, he is "normal," and his mind is orderly.

As much as is possible for him given his situation, at the very least.

With a forced smile, he stiffly greets his maman (kaa-san, he silently corrects before he can speak the word aloud—thirteen-year-old Sawada Tsunayoshi is not fluent in French, Italian, and the various other languages he knows and therefore does not use the endearing term for his mother), who beams back at him. If she notices the strained edge to his expression, she does not comment.

Breakfast is a quiet affair—(quiet to him, because meals in the Vongola mansion never ended without an explosion or several, whether involving actual gunpowder or colorful expletives in several languages)—with Nana chattering mindlessly and Tsuna giving the occasional nod or grin around small bites of breakfast to show that he is listening.

He quietly basks in the petite woman's presence, relishing the homely atmosphere and peace that surrounds her like a comforting shroud. It eases some of the tension he himself feels, and allows his guard to fall ever so slightly. Not completely, never completely—he may never be able to accomplish such a feat until he finds the rest of his family again.

The bittersweet sting of seeing her again is not as strong as it could have been, but he is not surprised. They had gone after his separated relations first, his mother and father.

A warning, it had been labeled as, when Tsuna was notified of the brutal ends his parents had been met with. A vow, a promise, that Vongola would fall.

Tsuna had been beyond livid. Because, even if he had grown somewhat more distant from Nana and Iemitsu due to his position and Iemitsu's lack, not only had he vowed to not leave his family an ocean away as his father had once done, but they were still his parents. They were his blood, and even if he could quite readily say that his guardians were his family, his brothers, his sisters—

They were his parents.

And they had killed them off as a warning, a silent, almost dismissing thought to their existences.

Tsuna takes a moment to calm down, to ease the burning that threatens to make itself known. And calm, quiet serenity takes over once more.

(He acknowledges that, perhaps, he is somewhat too outwardly settled for the situation; the darkness festering beneath. In his defense, his entire life up to that point has been chaotic—every spontaneous, outlandish happenstance an ex-Vendicare convict could think of, has very likely occurred at one point in time during his life.

He isn't exactly used to this situation, specifically. He isn't as put together as he forces himself to be, but what he is accustomed to is taking things in stride. Panicking in the past never truly got him anywhere or anything aside from a few extra beatings and more screaming. Forced, tenuous calm is what he has adopted as his automatic reaction over the years and it is all that he has at the moment.)

It is with slight disappointment that he departs for school without any mention of tutoring or a mysterious flier. It was never something he had noted the exact date of, but he silently regrets not documenting the day that started the metaphorical avalanche that swept him off of his feet and flung him into the Mafia world.

His balance is strained without them. And his forced calm isn't as useful when he uses it against his internal conflicts as opposed to the tiring—but nostalgic and, admittedly, amusing—conflicts that his family had once partook in on a daily basis.

He misses them.

Any doubts he may have had about being in the past are viciously slain by the time he stumbles into his classroom.

He didn't really have doubts, per se, but it is one thing to be presented with an idea and to be shoved face-first into the undeniable truth. And truth tends to hold various shades of pain.

The children (because that is what they are; children) laugh and jeer at him, at Dame-Tsuna, but he is far too focused on centering himself (calm, control, stop panicking, think) to pay any mind to their hot air.

Sasagawa Ryōhei. He had crashed into him on the way to school, and had darted away almost immediately after, leaving the young boxer confused even beyond his usual shouts of extreme. (He's passionate, he has his innocence, he is happy, carefree, nothing like the Ryōhei you know, the Ryōhei you foughtbledperservered with against them, he doesn't see—)

Hibari Kyōya. His breath seized upon seeing him standing at the gates, observing each passing, wary student with a scrutinizing gaze. (He is alive, he is whole, he's young, his world does not exist beyond Namimori. He has always been sharper than most, do not make eye contact, don't let him see you because he doesn't know and he isn't the same—)

Tsuna has had nightmares before. He has had more nightmares than dreams, more nightmares than hours of sleep. This is all too real to be any sort of nightmare, and all his doubts that he didn't realize he had have disappeared without a second consideration.

He has only just recently said farewell to those that he loves, and seeing them again so soon (young, carefree, innocent, different) is worst than the twist of a scalding-hot knife. The hesitant, emotional part of him wants to stay away, wants them to keep their distance. Because he feels that even the smallest touch, the briefest exchange, will cause death.

Split in two, face drawn and blood-splattered. Slashed and tortured, left hand severed and right limb gone entirely. Both dead, the Invincible and Overpowering, both inexplicably and irrevocably dead—

"Dame-Tsuna?"

Tsuna does not flinch, but the tension in his shoulders grows exponentially. He does not need to lift his head to verify the voice, he knows the man—boy, he's only a boy—standing before him, and he does not wish to chance his tenuous balance any further.

(It shouldn't hurt so much. He knows that Yamamoto Takeshi holds no real ill-will towards him, never had, and merely calls him that because everyone else does. But it is yet another reminder that he is not the same. He is not the Yamamoto Takeshi he knew, the Takeshi that knew him. Sawada Tsunayoshi and Yamamoto Takeshi are not friends, here. The ten years of friendship he experienced means nothing in this time where it hasn't happened. Where it doesn't exist.

They are not friends.)

He roughly shoulders past Yamamoto Takeshi (he does not hear the gasps and insulted yells from his classmates for Dame-Tsuna shoving Yamamoto) and collapses into his seat, dropping his bag to the ground and resolutely fixing his gaze to the window.

Tsuna does not know how much time passes, but eventually, everyone settles into their respective seats as the sensei comes in to begin the lesson. His gaze drifts to the worn desk before him, and his mouth curls into a small, rueful smile.

He is… Not as centered as he wishes. It is a fact he acknowledges with a hint of bitterness within the confines of his mind.

He needs to calmly think through his thoughts, attempt to resolve and recover the fragments of himself that had been lost. To settle. He is no psychologist, but he knows enough about himself to know that the "farewell" he bid to his family the previous night did little in the way of reconciling this drastic change.

If only it were so simple.

"Sawada!"

It takes Tsuna a moment to respond. (How long has it been since he has been referred to by his surname, and not "Jyūdaime," "Decimo," "Neo-Primo," "Tsuna," "Tsunayoshi," "Vongola"—?)

Once he realizes that, yes, it is him being addressed, he blinks up at the irate visage of his sensei, glaring at him from across the room.

Nezu-sensei sneers, jabbing a finger at the board. "Since you're so sure that you don't need to listen to the lecture, Sawada, come up here and solve the problem." The children's ensuing laughter buzzes in the background.

White noise, a distant hum. He is still focusing all of his efforts on holding himself together. From what, he isn't quite sure—but he knows his fragile stability is greatly due to his two (not friends, they don't know him) upperclassmen from earlier and a specific classmate within the very same room.

Tsuna stands up.

He walks to the front of the room, picks up the chalk, glances over the simple algebra problem, and quickly jots down the answer.

"Done," he states placidly, dusting the chalk residue from his fingertips absent-mindedly.

The classroom is silent as Nezu, dumbfounded, eyes the completed equation. Tsuna can visibly see the man deflate as he checks and double checks the problem, before he murmurs a quiet, "… That's correct."

Silence resumes for a few brief moments as his classmates process the fact that Tsuna solved it correctly, before Yamamoto lifts a hand to cup his mouth and shouts.

"Nice, Dame-Tsuna!"

Tsuna jerks and stumbles, as though physically struck.

He needs to center himself.

Now.

Tsuna calmly and quickly places the chalk back in its place, and pivots on his heel towards the door.

"S-Sawada, where do you think you're going?" He hears Nezu-sensei call, sounding pained. "Class is still in session!"

He stops at the door and turns, forcing a genuine-enough apologetic smile onto his face. "I'm not feeling very well, so I'm going to the nurse's office."

He steps out of the classroom and shoves the door closed with more force than necessary.

Tsuna takes a quiet breath, the action echoing in his ears with the silence of the halls surrounding him.

And he runs.

Steel-grey eyes, clouded in thought, stare blankly at the finished wood of the desk.

Hibari Kyōya thinks about the not-exactly-outstanding yet strangely memorable incident from earlier that very morning. It had been a simple routine, a uniform check, and as per the usual he stood vigilance at the school gates to evaluate the passing students (and suitably punish the ones that failed to meet the standard).

One student in particular had caught his eye upon coming into view, and it had puzzled the prefect, initially.

Sawada Tsunayoshi, his mind had instantly supplied upon seeing the slight, weak frame, the disheveled and wild hair. Outwardly, the boy had been normal, unassuming, but Kyōya knew better than to simply ignore the strange discontent that hummed at the back of his mind. There was something off about the herbivore, and he hadn't known what.

He had seen the herbivore in passing, and was privy to the words others spoke on him ("Dame-Tsuna," the other students usually referred to him as) and Kyōya had always known that the herbivore known as Sawada Tsunayoshi was every bit the grass-eater everyone thought he was.

However.

That particular morning, when the herbivore had walked by Kyōya, he had seen what set him off so. There was a haunted, distracted look within the boy's eyes, a look that was equal parts wary and harmed but somehow not weak.

Puzzling.

It was something far more than what Kyōya had seen in the eyes of the other herbivorous students—even the ones that had, reportedly, made suicide attempts, or come upon certain misfortunes in life. There had been a certain gravitas to this herbivore's aura, and Kyōya had immediately identified something wrong.

Suicide attempts were frowned upon, and he would not be having willing death in his peaceful Namimori.

He reaches out, a deft, quick movement, prepared to snatch the twig-thin arm and deal with the depressed herbivore, to stop him, to demand an explanation and set him right.

But something else happens, that Kyōya does not expect.

The herbivore suddenly snaps to attention with a ferocity in his eyes that speaks battle-hardened, and ducks under the arm, twisting and grabbing it with one hand while the other, formed in a fist, is suddenly held at Kyōya's throat.

Kyōya's eyes widen at the same moment the herbivore's does—he had not seen the other move, and in the blink of an eye was in a compromised if strange position—but he recovers quickly, and makes note of the amalgamation of emotions that flash through the herbivore's eyes momentarily.

Fear. Sorrow. Surprise. The last, he is unable to identify, before the other's eyes shutter and he regains himself.

The herbivore—no, he is not quite an herbivore, but Kyōya doesn't know what he is—releases the arm suddenly as though burnt, jumping back and turning away in a fluid movement belying his moniker.

Kyōya, at the time, had been too stunned to pursue the (tentative) herbivore, and he had his duty to attend to, first. So he had simply shaken himself out of his stupor and gone back to the uniform inspection, deciding he would simply deal with the issue at a later date.

But the subject had never strayed far from his mind since that morning. Because Sawada Tsunayoshi's reaction had been something different, something dangerous. And it had been automatic—an ingrained reflex, with the surety and practice of a veteran.

And yet… Even with that shocking show of proficiency, that is not what intrigues Kyōya the most, oddly enough.

His intrigue lies in the emotions he had seen in the herbivore's eyes for that brief moment.

At first, the fear he had seen was written off—after all, most in Namimori knew his name and the threat he posed should anyone attempt to disrupt the peace—but then he had realized. Now, he knows.

(The odd, strange glint of something else. Something that isn't quite fear, isn't as bland as wariness, but not as straightforward as anxiety. It is in the noticeably hopeful glint that he realizes.)

Sawada Tsunayoshi's fear was not of him, but for him.

(He is Hibari Kyōya, demon prefect of Namimori. All who have seen him in action know of his strength, cower in the face of such power and will.)

And the at-first unidentified emotion was concern.

… But why?

Reborn would scold me for my current behavior.

Tsuna snorts at his own thought, practically able to envision the dark figure of his ex-tutor standing beside him, a menacing glare in place.

"You're being too emotional," he would say, tone and gaze disapproving. "Your behavior is not befitting of the Vongola Decimo."

Tsuna pauses, shifting on the infirmary bed. "Not exactly the Decimo right now, Reborn," he mumbles, burying his nose into the crook of his arm as his eyelids droop. "You aren't even here."

Focus, he berates himself, mentally shaking off the sorrow that grips him. He had come to the infirmary for the necessary peace and quiet needed to think, to plan, to organize.

(Perhaps peace and quiet is the opposite of what he needs.)

Plan for the future. It was the only way he could think of to calm down, to set his emotions and grief over his family aside. Occupy himself, make it so that he is simply unable to stew in his less-than happy thoughts.

(Work, despite his aversion to paperwork, was always his go-to whenever his guardians were wreaking havoc that he simply didn't have the energy to be privy to.)

What am I to do with my memories, my knowledge? He thinks quietly, starting at the simple, easily answered questions. Prepare. Ensure that the future I came from does not come to pass.

… But, Tsuna thinks with a grimace, his fists clenching. In order to do that, I need to recall what happened to us.

What led up to Vongola's Destruction.

Tsuna lets out a quiet, feral hiss that is not entirely from mental strain or otherwise. Yes, he remembers, he remembers, the death and destruction, the ones responsible.

The "Alfero" family. Them.

The strange, oddly powerful famiglia that quite literally came out of no-where—no documents, no history, no information, just the very apparent wish to see the demise of the Vongola.

There hadn't even been an established base from what Vongola's best agents could find. The members just seemed to appear out of thin air at the most inopportune of times, prepared to strike at Vongola's weak points one by one.

Not to mention, no matter how much probing had been done, nothing could be found on their boss.

The most anyone had managed to gather regarding the hierarchy of the Alfero was the existence of six individuals—guardians, they had assumed—that seemed to spearhead every major operation.

Worse yet, in the one conflict that Vongola had managed to gain prisoners, the men were fiercely loyal and said not a word. Though admittedly, "loyal" was stretching it, because there was clearly something wrong—the captives they had managed to obtain either didn't know anything or would get a blank, eerie look before bursting into uncontrollable flames.

Due to the immense lack of substantial information gathered, suppositions and hypotheses had been made and largely relied upon despite the obvious folly in such a reliance. The theories ranged from the Alfero being unhappy with the changes the Vongola had made to the mafia world, to the absurd notion of Vongola having accidentally killed their Sky.

It was a completely ridiculous idea—because how would they have accidentally killed off a Sky that was the leader of the group without knowing—but, somehow, the most plausible as well.

Absolutely no one knew about or had even heard the Alfero name in passing. Tsuna knew that any rival families that still held a grudge or two against Vongola would not have been able to successfully pit the Alfero and Vongola against each other if it was a mere ploy, if simply because there was no information on the former. (And the few that still held grudges were pitifully small, weak, and lacking—it wasn't possible for any of them to manipulate the Alfero, whom Vongola had already recognized as a sizable threat by that time.)

There had been no ploy, no manipulation. The Alfero had a vendetta that they sought with the strength of the dying, and it had been clear that somehow, someway, the Vongola had done something to incur the wrath of the unknown family. They just didn't know what.

Within the confusion, Tsuna had attempted countless times to extend a peaceful hand—this is not the way, we do not need to fight, please cease this ruthless slaughter, can we not peaceably come to an agreement?—but each time, his attempts ended in nothing but more bloodshed.

The Alfero refused to talk, and wanted the Vongola destroyed for reasons unknown. The Vongola had tried peaceful negotiations, but in the face of an enemy, they refused to go down without resistance.

So they had gone to war.

Tsuna winces, reaching up with a hand to rub at his temples. From there on, his memory is a blur, and his mind is not clear, or stable, enough to accurately sort through the hazy memories.

He'd just… Lost, lost so much. He'd lost his entire family and he knows that he had been running on autopilot for his last few months in the future, his will and life slowly draining from him as more and more casualties were suffered on the Vongola's side.

Body after body. More and more people admitted to the hospitals, some needing to go to the civilian hospitals because their private ones were under-staffed and full. More and more bodies sent to the morgue, more than three mass funerals within the span of four months—

Tsuna smiles sardonically. Reborn would have, no doubt, chided him—in the most brutal of ways—for not remembering clearly. Mukuro and Kyōya, as well.

He himself is beleaguered to not allow himself to fall to self-deprecation, because of all the things to turn a blind eye to…

He should have remained sharp and vigilant, even after he had lost most everything. He should have searched for information as well, not just turned to desperately trying to protect his family and blind vengeance. He should have…

… There was much he should have done that he didn't. But much of the past few months are a blur, mere snippets of memories that he cannot place.

Perhaps it has to do with his travel through time, maybe it has to do with his grief and loss as he suspects. His family was, and always would be, his support in every facet—they were there for him in the aftermath of his first kill, they were there in every conflict that would have ended in his death had they not been there, they were there when he took on the mantle of Vongola Decimo and he had just been so happy, because they were there—

Tsuna's form goes still as something clicks in his mind.

White hair.

Pain lances through his mind at that, and he can't recall anything past that.

White hair… His intuition is screaming at him and he knows that little fact is important. But how so? Was this the instrument that led to Vongola's destruction? Had they been tricked? And who was it, Kawahira or Byakuran?

Both cause his intuition to jolt, and Tsuna frowns.

Yes… He had come to this conclusion before "dying" in the future, before that odd wash of peace and content took hold and he relinquished the thought, thinking he was going to die. (Odd.)

The Arcobaleno. The Pacifiers and the Tri-Ni-Sette, particularly, were involved. And the Tri-Ni-Sette tied in with both Kawahira and Byakuran.

But Tsuna has no way of finding out whether or not they truly were involved in the future. Because even if the Byakuran of this time already has his "miracle" from the Mare Rings and Kawahira… Well, is just himself and simply knows, Tsuna can't go to them for answers. Because he doesn't know where they are.

For all that Tsuna had formed a strange bond with Byakuran (not quite friendship, but stronger than mere acquaintances and somehow still close) and held a mutual respect with Kawahira (the man even came by to check in on Tsuna, his Guardians, and the ex-Arcobaleno on occasion—a strange individual, he would linger on the sides and merely observe them as they went about their day-to-day lives, something Tsuna didn't mind), never had the subject of the past really come up in their interactions.

Tsuna had never found out about Byakuran's childhood or where the man had lived prior to gathering his famiglia and meeting them, and everyone knew that Kawahira preferred to keep his whereabouts—past, present, future—unknown.

… Regardless, he muses, turning onto his back. I know that I'm far from prime condition to challenge anything, or anyone. I'll just have to focus on preparing for Reborn's arrival, and preparing myself and my family for the future.

He will need as much information, strength, and help as he is capable of obtaining, in identifying the enemy that threatens his family.

Despite how it grates on him, he would need to set aside that goal for the time being. That is scheduled ten years in the future, after all—he should focus on having a family to defend from the threat, to begin with.

Family.

Tsuna plays with the word, mulling over it within his mind.

My family.

The words ring hollow, despite how he thinks, knows the people he associates with it being the ones he cherishes. He winces at the feeling.

He is… Calm, now, but he doesn't like what he feels in exchange, either. Apathy. Emptiness. He can sense his flames, flickering under his skin with an eagerness for release… But his fierce will does not have that same element that it once held.

Tsuna sighs, shifting to look up into the sky from where he lies on the bed.

Vast and far-reaching. The sun is not in view, there is not a cloud in sight, and the sky almost seems to be colored a morose, plaintive blue.

Lonely.

Tsuna is and has never been one to wax poetic, but in his current setting, he feels he can understand the urge for the obtuse, fanciful metaphors.

He misses his Guardians. His friends.

In a quick, smooth movement, he kicks his legs over the bed and stands, walking towards the infirmary doors with a surety in his gait.

They are his friends. His family.

He will get them back.