Authors Note:
2013 Update: Never realized how much I wanted to tweak this little thing. Usual disclaimers regarding my improbable ownership of KHR which in its entirety belong to the venerable Akira Amano.
11-08-13 – How come tweaking things never ends when one writes? Seriously. I mean everything I re-read what I wrote, I end up tweaking here and there and then wondering if maybe there's something else I could have done with it.
10-11-14 – Wow…it has been a long while now, hasn't it? Gods what was I thinking?
2015: I still don't know what the hell I was thinking—I'm kind of worried that I might've been possessed at the time. How the hell did I manage to write this convoluted mess again?
2017- Have I mentioned yet how painstakingly tedious rereading things can become when you start nitpicking your own work?
TIES THAT BIND
Chapter II: ATTO PRIMO
"People often meet their destiny on the road they take to avoid it"
- French Proverb
Tsunayoshi POV
His childhood will be one of joy and peace...
His mother was crying again.
They were quiet tears…clearly not intended to be heard by any one at all… they were muffled, just like all the ones she has been shedding ever since he was old enough to remember the sight and sound but young enough to still wonder and worry at its cause.
But he hears them all the same…he has always heard them…seen them…felt them… always…he has always felt her pain and it made remembering worse. Made knowing even more painful because then he couldn't escape them. They were always there inside him…reminding him.
They were the kind of tears that tore him up inside and made him feel so utterly helpless… unable to do anything but clumsily wipe her tears away with small hands and fingers soaked with tears of his own. Her tears made him feel useless—like he should know better—do better but so far he hadn't been able to figure what it was that he was supposed to do. A decade has passed and he still doesn't know what to do. A decade has passed and he could still hear her tears…see her tears…feel them soak the tips of his fingers and run down his tiny hands and wrists.
Her tears have stained his hands for so long he wonders if anyone else, other than him, could see them.
Even now that he's already fifteen; the sight of her tears had a way of making him feel and recall that he was nothing more than a little helpless, pathetic child—too silly, too stupid and too inadequate to do more than simply be there for his grieving mother. And with her tears came the familiar surge of anger and resentment because this time…unlike all the other times before, he knows he can do little to stay the flow of her pain. Even when this time around he knows enough to understand what caused her tears there was nothing he could do but be physically there for her.
Knowing the truth behind her tears didn't give him any comfort any more than hiding it had given his mother. Her tears continued to flow and his frustration and helplessness grew into a deep gaping hole inside of him knowing that there was still nothing he could do.
He left. He left her. He left her again.
And yes, HER…he left her. Her—not them, not him. He left her.
He had made that distinction long ago—had to because he knew he couldn't afford to get hurt any further. His mother's pain was enough—and even that he had to struggle to control. He couldn't allow himself to feel what he did back when he was still young enough to have his heart contract and bleed with the pain of being left behind. When he was young enough to allow doubt to assail him and made him wonder if he was the cause for his mother's loneliness.
For the longest time since he could remember he wondered long and hard if he was the reason why the man he called father and his mother called husband wouldn't stay-despite her devotion and her love. He still wasn't fully convinced that his conviction wasn't true.
The man his mother married and who sired half his being was an utter and complete bastard.
That fact was proven by every single drop of tears that ever welled in his beloved mother's eyes and there was nothing in Heaven or Hell that would convince him otherwise. His mother's husband certainly never provided any answer that he could be satisfied with.
He had long banished from his heart the pain of expecting anything from the man that he owed a genetic debt to. The man who came into his and his mother's house like a hurricane, bringing noise and chaos and uncertainty one moment and then leaving behind him without so much as a single backward glance a trail of desolation and despair. He had long made his peace with the sense of betrayal that still stabs him every time he would see that tell-tale redness rim her eyes after that man's periodic intrusion into their lives. He has inured himself to the thankless chore of expecting that this time it would be different, that this time, he might finally come home to stay.
That man comes…and after a predictably short time, that man goes away like he was wont to do…
And through it all she looks at the man she married and fathered her son with a smile that makes her eyes darken with feeling and Tsunayoshi would find his stomach clenching in tension and frustration. His entire mouth would be tainted with the distinctive sour aftertaste of acid and blood that always accompanied the man's visit. The taste in his mouth usually lingered until whatever spark ebbed from his mother's gaze and they both reset into a state of familiar serenity once more.
That man comes like the proverbial storm and when he leaves, as he inevitably does each and every single time—they must shore up their hearts and assess the degree of devastation he had left behind in his wake. They are the ones who had to pick up the broken pieces of each other that he thoughtlessly cast aside like so much worthless debris, never once looking back, never once wondering what kind of renewed hell he cast his wife soul into...never even thinking of what new scar he has carved into his own son's already festering heart.
What hurts him the most though is not that man's predictable pattern—no, that one he wasn't too stupid or confused to understand. That—he understood all too well. But what he never reconciled nor understood despite the knowledge was that there was little he could do to prevent it.
It made him wish in some dark, rarely explored corner of his heart that he wouldn't come around anymore…that he would simply leave one day and finally forget that he has the option of coming back. That he would finally say his goodbyes and be done with it—so that they too, could say their farewells and move past it once and for all. He knows that he shouldn't wish for a thing but for far longer than he could remember his father's presence had been nothing more than a vague montage of half remembered memories and childhood recollections that reassert itself every once in a while—an occurrence rarer than a blue moon or even a red eclipse.
The man his mother insisted he respect and love, the man who she constantly reminded him was his sire was more a half-forgotten memory recalled vaguely when asked rather than a solid, unassailable fact.
For the longest time while he was younger he could almost believe that the man with the appellation 'Father' was a figment of his and his mother's imagination, created to temporarily ease the curious ache and emptiness that would sometimes visit both their lives especially during those days when the casual cruelty of childish words wounded him whenever the question of his father's whereabouts were raised.
He recalls the first time he gave voice to the thought of forbidding the man from coming back, recalls vividly the way he pointed out that she is dying a little bit inside whenever that man would leave and that she will just start crying every night again until the hurting and longing subsides long enough to make her forget and start living again…
The tears that flowed that day still scalds his skin no matter how many years had passed...the burning heat of them shaming him, even as his heart rebels at the silent censure. He has done what that man had done countless time before—he has hurt his mother—and the humiliating realization was the bitterest truth he had ever admitted to himself.
And so he had resigned himself to not reacting to the taunts the same way he had resigned himself to forget that such a figure even existed in his world except when his mother's joy is too vibrant for him to deny even as it stabs into his heart. At least, until he grew old enough to understand that his sporadic appearances into their lives rarely—if at all—caused him no ache…that his presence did to ease or affect him. That's when he finally recognized that the man's visits continued only to wound his mother with his leave-taking, lacerating her heart just a little deeper, stealing just a little bit more of her soul.
That was also the moment the smallest sliver of something dark slithered into his heart and started to flicker into being... He vowed to find a way to destroy the man as soon as he had the chance. He has allowed the man to hurt his mother for far too long. But he will allow it no further. Someday, he will have the means and opportunity to pay the man back with every second of pain and misery he had so generously bestowed on his long-suffering devoted wife.
He will live in the light…
One…no, two…a few more steps…surely less than a hundred…
It can't be more than that…
Is the road getting longer…?
No, that's impossible…it doesn't matter…I still have to go home…
She's waiting for me and I can't—I won't make her wait…she waits enough…
Home … I'm going home…That's all that matter…I'll be safe…home…is…safe…
Mom…she'll be there…Mom will be…there…I will be with Mom and she'll make things all better…
Take care… she'll take care of the gashes and the lashes and she'll-!
Worry .
She'll ask me questions and I can't lie and she will be worried. She'll be worried. I can't make her worry about me…she'll be sad if I don't say anything and I don't want her to be sad over me too…
He can't go home…not like this…not looking like this…she'll worry and she'll be sad again and he can't—won't let himself cause her even more anxiety. He can't be like him…he will notbe—refused—to be like him…he won't give her any more reason to cry. She's had enough of that… enough reasons to cry and he won't add more to the growing list of things that caused her pain and concern.
I can take care of this…I will take care of this…somehow…she doesn't have to know…she never should…
A quick harried inspection, that's all that it took for him to see his current state through her eyes—his clothes were rumpled and dirty from the tight grasp of big, fumbling hands that shook him for being where he wasn't supposed to be. His knees were scrapped, one of the cuts deeper than the rest and is starting to bleed again…he could feel his knees trembling from the strain of keeping himself upright…his palms were stinging from cuts that marked them with the fall he took when those boys pushed him out of the way as he tried to get up on the teeter-totter. His arms were sore and he would no doubt be sporting a colorful array of finger marks on them in the days to come. His chest hurt too, and that means there might be a bruise there somewhere but that would fade by tomorrow once he takes a bath later tonight…
Thank goodness I never seem to bruise for long or Mom would really have something to worry about…
He leaned against the nearby wall and slowly slid down, legs splayed in front of him, his knees throbbing and trembling far too much for him to exert any further effort to tuck them tidily into his body, his hands falling to his side, scratched raw and already filled with small cuts and deeper lacerations from his poor attempt earlier to break his fall, blood pooling into tiny rivulets along the many tiny creases in his palm.
I can't go home…not yet…I need to clean up…I need….
A place to clean up. Somewhere near, somewhere like…the park! Yes, The park… there… the park has restrooms…with water and sinks and soap…he could get cleaned up… Yes….that's it…The park will work…he could think while he cleaned up…he'll be late but that's okay…the park will be a good excuse…he can tell her that he fell…it won't be a complete lie…then she wouldn't have to know…she wouldn't have to be sad and cry…she'll shake her head and smile at him and tell him that he shouldn't be so clumsy all the time and then she'll forget about him and she'll be okay….
Yeah…the park…will work…
Now if he could only find the strength to stand up again and get going then everything will be fine. For now, at least. He'll be fine. Not always, not right now but he'll get there. He'll also remember to avoid the playground for the foreseeable future. The pain wasn't worth the fun. Maybe he'll try the library tomorrow. Yes, the library would be fine. At least the books wouldn't try to hurt him and they certainly wouldn't laugh at him while they do that.
He will never be lonely.
A box…? No…it's a closet this time...the supply closet, yes that's where I am…
He wonders what other place they would find to stick him in…he's so small that his size never seemed to create any problems for his tormentors only a seemingly endless list of options. In some cosmic sense of injustice, the school seemed ready made with available blind spots and convenient nooks that worked so well with whatever the bullies wanted and needed.
At least the school doesn't have lockers big enough to stick a person in or else I really would be in trouble then.
He recalls seeming the huge lockers that seemed to be the norm in American films and shuddered at the possibilities that would've afforded his tormentors on a daily basis. He guesses that he should be thankful for small mercies. That and the fact that the janitor is thankfully professional enough not to leave the utility closet unlocked at all time. He is well aware that it could've been worse. The garbage shoot isn't accessible from the student's area and he could always find some escape from the bullies when he reaches the roof—if he's lucky enough to reach it in time. There are monitors from the Disciplinary Committee patrolling the corridors most hour of class and the teachers still notice when he's not around…well, most of the time anyways.
But today….unfortunately he wasn't that lucky.
They jumped him right after fourth period and his classmates' raucous laughter provided just the right cover for teachers to be distracted, giving the bullies time to grab a hold of him and make off with his lunch money. When they found out exactly how scant his allowance amounted to, they decided to stick him in the first convenient place they could find, in this instance the narrow single storage locker where they kept cleaning supplies. He could still hear their loud jeering laughter echoing loudly as they walked away.
Thank god my mother likes cooking and making me a bento every single day since kindergarten or I would've died of malnutrition from all the times I didn't have a single yen left to my name.
He will never know what it means not to be free.
Dame Tsuna…Yeah…he guesses that's all he could ever amount to be and whatever it was would always be 'dame'. It's not the most flattering of nicknames and certainly not the most enjoyable of reputations to be had but there is was and there's certainly nothing he could do about it. Certainly nothing he has done in the past made any difference in the eyes of the kids around him. To them, every incident since just proves over and over again that they gave him the right sobriquet. He will never amount to anything worthwhile…anything good.
But better a bad nickname than no nickname right? Better be seen and ridiculed and remembered than bullied and broken and forgotten and unknown, right?
That's what he tells himself every day when he steels himself against one more morning in school, against one more subject he knows he will inevitably fail, against one more incident that would prove how he never amounted to much. But there are days when even his own sense of resigned acceptance couldn't tide him over. When he wishes just once…just a moment really...when he wishes the world could stop picking up on him and all the other bullied kids in school and just let things be. He wished for one day to wake up one morning and just be like everyone else—just a simple, ordinary student—just a faceless, nameless member of the crowd, ignored by those seeking to prey on those too weak to fight back.
He often wished that there would come a morning when he would wake up to a world where he would have no bad reputation to live down and no impending sense of failure just waiting in the wings to yank the rug of complacency from right beneath his feet.
He wished with all his being that for once he could wake up to a morning and know that something good will happen to him. And in the very depths of his heart he prays and yearns and pleads that just once…just once, he could have someone to come and help him out of the dark…not because they accidentally found him or because they came looking for the bucket and found him
instead…no, just once, he wish someone would open the door and tell him that they had been looking all over for him…that they opened the door hoping that he would be the one waiting on the other side.
And yet, even as he desperately made that wish inside his heart—he knows that he is only fooling himself and that dream would never, ever come true. No one—save his own mother—has ever wanted him. Not even the man that sired him—and if that utter waste of a human being couldn't stand to be next to him despite the presence of his sainted mother—who did he expect would?
He will be made safe and free and normal for however long the power this cursed throne holds. Tsunayoshi will have the chance none of them had. He will not be hunted. Not forced to run. Not forced to fight. Not forced to be someone who he is not. For the family he must endure. He must wait and play the long game because there is no other choice.
Tsunayoshi wakes wishing he didn't have to. He wakes in a world that seemed determined to hurt him in a myriad of ways. He lives a life that is hardly a life and everyday he goes to bed hoping tomorrow would be different. He spends hours upon hours hoping that he wasn't who he was.
Title Translation: ATTO PRIMO = "THE FIRST ACT"