Summary:

Fran's not blind, and Fran's not deaf; she can tell she's only a replacement. Yuni was the trusting, benevolent "Aria's daughter". Fran was the suspicious, bitter "spitting image of that-guy-who-married-Aria". She's even born with the "wrong" Flame; a strong primary Mist and a weak secondary Sky. But now that Yuni's vanished, Fran's the (grudging) Giglio Nero Boss. Byakuran's intrigued by a Fran who differs so drastically from her parallel selves. Meanwhile, Yuni being gone has a greater significance than any of them realize.

Disclaimer:

KHR! rights go to Akira Amano.

The cover picture may or may not be mine, depending on which one I'm using. I tend to switch frequently. In case it isn't mine, then this is a general disclaimer for that. So, yeah. Don't sue me, please.

Note:

/insert words here/ are thoughts.

Assume that they are speaking Italian unless otherwise stated or implied. Fran is canon-ly French, so her father here is French, and she is fluent in it. When stressed and cursing, whether out loud or mentally, she has a tendency to slip and slide back into French. So, congratulation, you will probably be picking up an assortment of French profanity.

Extra Note:

Happy Valentines' Day 2015! An extra long and introspectively angsty chapter has been uploaded in honor of this holiday. :] Although, I suppose there is quite a lot of motherly love shown here, so maybe that'll balance out the overload of angsty flashbacks enough that it isn't too depressing for a day meant for love?

Also, their current ages:

Yuni= would be 10, if she aged normally wherever she went

Fran= around 15

Byakuran= around 15

If you think the ages don't fit, well, it's an AU. And that's my excuse for any other inconsistencies (though hopefully there shouldn't be any).

Reviews:

Thank you, 'ADDBaby', for your review. Fran's reply: "Eh, sorry-not-sorry, I'm broke and cheap. And I have no idea what a 'pollow' is. I can, however, offer you a refund on your 'EMOTIOOOOOOONNNSSSSS'; please inquire at the official Giglio Nero HQ Gift Shop to find tissue boxes for sale for your tears." But seriously, I'm glad you liked it and felt strongly enough about it to type up a review. Even if it ends up with an overload of 'feels'. :]

~You'd be surprised at some of the properties claimed to be 'sacred' under the protection oaths and safety treaties of the various Mafia Famiglias. Very few things are sacred in the Mafia, and many would argue, not without just cause, that nothing is really sacred. However, regardless as to them being 'really' sacred, there are still properties marked down as such, and alliances have been broken and wars have been declared over such properties' sacredness being violated. Basically, it's a fool who decides to mess around with and fight in another Famiglia's flower shops, hotels, morgues, funeral houses, and spas. It's never a good idea to get up to any funny business in another Famiglia's properties, actually, but more so with those marked 'sacred' under treaty. 'Sacred' grounds are those under the highest levels of guaranteed safety, and that guaranteed safety will most likely be enforced with severe vindication. It's a matter of pride; if a Famiglia can't protect it's most important pieces, it's checkmate for that Boss. That's why the Vongola-owned properties are typically the safest Mafia-owned places to be, since they're large and powerful enough to ensure your safety. Well, provided that you're a welcomed guest, of course.

Helenium is part of the sunflower family, a fact that shows in it's bulbous pollen-core and it's cheerful yellow-orange petals. Also known as sneezeweed, helenium is supposedly named after Helen of Troy, a famous historical/mythical figure said to possess such beauty, that wars were raged over her.

It can be analyzed to mean tears.~

/It's easier to see bloodstains on white than black./ - Byakuran

Byakuran heaves a bitter sigh, his eyes closing against the harsh scrutiny of the lights.

Currently, the white-haired Gesso Boss and future Millefiore co-Boss is alone in his office.

He had put out a general 'don't bother me unless you're urgently dying of an unidentified and potentially weaponizable disease' warning to his Famiglia, granting himself a couple hours of rest and relaxation before going off to bed; a nice, peaceful end to wrap up a hectic Friday.

At least, that is the initial plan.

Unfortunately, "the best laid plans of mice and men are often set awry", or whatever that quote is supposed to be..

Case in point: here he is, sitting by his lonesome in his empty office with the ceiling lights dimmed to shadows, the poster child of a clinically depressed budding megalomaniac of a teen who's plotting to take over the world.

Fiddling absently with the champagne flute in his hand, Byakuran wonders, morosely, when he had started losing hope for himself and his dreams.

When he had started questioning his goals.

Taking a sip of the fizzy drink, the white-haired teen acerbically mutters to himself, "I sure hope I don't start becoming an alcoholic like Xanxus at 15…"

(A brief smile flickers over his face; nah, Francy-chan would definitely stop him from doing so, icy spitfire and oxymoron that she is.

Seriously. Her very existence defies his previous expectations of this world, but he managed to convince her to join him without even resorting to outright threats, so there's that, at least.

Maybe this plan of his won't be a complete failure.

Shaking his head mentally, Byakuran dismisses that thought and scolds himself.

/Think positive, think positive. Agh, stupid alcohol being a stupid depressant. I never think negatively until I start drinking alone. Damn, that makes me sound really, really sad. Sad as in pathetic. Hmm, how angry would Sho-chan get if I decide to go clubbing next Saturday? Go undercover, fib it for 'surveillance' on potential Mafia hotspots, maybe drag Francy-chan and Sho-chan along... Francy-chan needs to relax, being tense all the time will give her wrinkles. And it'd just be like going to school together again with Sho-chan! Ah, we skipped so many classes.../)

Heaving another tired, weary sigh, he lifts his head up from it's position (where it has been protectively nestled on his two arms, which are crossed and laid flat on his desk) and spins his chair whimsically.

Byakuran winds up with his head slung back over his swiveling armchair, cloudy lavender eyes staring despondently up at the ceiling.

"Well," he speaks aloud, mostly to himself.

A twirl of the half-empty glass, a delicate taste of the pink bubbles.

"Since I seem to be in an introspective mood, anyway, now's as good a time as ever to reflect on the original reason for my hopes and goals. Maybe I'll even find out the answers to be questions of when I started losing sight of them… let's see now..."

Fizzle.

Pop.

Burst.

. . .

It all begins with his mother.

"Ran, the Inheritance Trial is going to be coming up soon."

I know immediately that it is my mother who's addressing me; she is the only one who ever calls me 'Ran'.

"My little orchid," she often likes to say.

She sounds drastically different from her average self, however.

Usually, she is confident and witty and always has time to dote on me, her heir and only child.

Now, she looks unsettled, scared, and her lips press thinner until they were a slit of stark bone-white stretching across her skin, threatening to disappear into the folds of milky pearl completely.

Her minutely trembling tone, the hesitance to continue, the micro expressions of resigned despair flickering across her face: they all betray her true fear and weariness.

I still in my chair and wait for her to continue, somehow instinctively dreading what she will say next.

"Ran, you… you know how I'm the Gesso Nona? And you're the future Decimo?"

Mildly confused, I nonetheless nod obediently.

"And, and… you know what Bosses do, right? What the Mafia's like? How… how there's always an Inheritance Trial in order to become the next Boss?"

Even more puzzled, I nod again.

"Well, like I said, your Inheritance Trial is coming up. Coming up very fast. Too fast, really, I mean… you're just 8, you're just a child, still! I… I… I can't just…" she broke down, unwilling, unable, to continue.

She gestures helplessly, frustrated, looking out of sorts and faintly bewildered.

It is the only instance I can recall of seeing her not being the epitome of assertion and neatness.

I glance away, inexplicably embarrassed and abashed at seeing her act of weakness, patiently letting her recover before continuing.

After a few moments, I look back up to her when she draws in a shuddery gasp and stumbles on, suddenly rushing, pouring it out before she can stop.

"I honestly don't know why they're pushing so hard for you to replace me. They must think you're ready, I suppose, or maybe someone wants you out of the way. I'm not supposed to tell you anything about the Trial, but it's not a set rule. It's mostly just assumed that the current Boss wouldn't want the heir or heiress to have any advantage to let them win. But I can't just condemn you to lose; you're my little orchid, Ran, and… and… I'd rather die than let you be killed.

"Because you don't get it; I can't refuse the Trial to happen. It's been this way for ages, and the Mafia, the Gesso, they, they aren't… if both of us refuse, they'll simply kill both of us and find someone else to be Boss and heir. The Boss may be strong, but their subordinates will always outnumber them. I'm… I'm just really sorry it had to turn out like this, Ran. They'll be expecting me to show up for the meeting soon, so I can't stay any longer, but just know that you don't need to worry, okay? Trust in me this one last time; I'll take care of it. You'll be perfectly fine. As your mother to her son, trust me, and just wait. And remember… I love you."

Rubbing with one curled up fist at her rapidly reddening eyes, my mother abruptly turns and heads out the door, a soldier marching off to her grim and murky fate.

Feeling as if I have missed something important, I sit there for a second longer, staring uncomprehendingly, mutely, at her rapidly retreating back until she disappears altogether, a task gobbling up nary a single minute.

Then I slowly rise and walk contemplatively to my room to puzzle out the pent-up tangle of emotions warring in my heart and head, trying not to linger on the definite sense of wary apprehension that comes from my mother's ominous and cryptic words; her ominous and cryptic words that seem to feel like her last words.

(And oh, how true that was, though my childishly innocent 8-year-old self doesn't recognize it like that in time, at the time.)

All I know is that my beloved mother, who is by nature pragmatic and openly honest, has just babbled out a rush of words and fuzzy-around-the-edges warnings about my Inheritance Trial, which I have been looking forward to with all the eagerness of naivety.

/Why is Madre so upset about my Trial?

Doesn't... doesn't she want me to be Boss?/

The Inheritance Trial comes in three days, three days too fast.

I have spent those three days mostly in a sulky silence, cooped up in my room, because of my mistaken belief that the reason my mother is so worried about the Trial is because she doesn't want me to be Boss.

Because she wanted to stay Boss.

It... hurt, nastily so, to feel such imagined betrayal from one I have trusted my entire life, a life only made capable by her abilities, by her birthing.

(That can't have been more wrong, of course, but I didn't know, I didn't realize, what she really meant.

Until it was too late.

Until she'd already made her sacrificesacrificesacrifice and the hands of time were set in stone, chiseled out by the folly of humankind, a flawed species who should've never set foot out of Eden.)

It doesn't really help that she appears to be avoiding me.

Before, I will see her maybe a couple times each hour, quick moments snatched here and there.

A peck on the cheek, blink-and-you'll-miss-it embrace, tousle of hairs and confided little jokes, walking alongside her minions, er, I mean, her subordinates, in the hallways, or snapping out orders from her throne-like chair in her office, or trying to glare holes into her paperwork with laser eyes.

In those three days, I only see her maybe a half-dozen times, and those times are all little snippets and cut-off glimpses through the window's of my room that face out into the Gesso base's hallways.

She always looks fretful, preoccupied, her brow furrowed with tense thought and her hands constantly clenched into furious fists.

The one time she meets my eyes, she flinches and wears a look of intense guilt, and sorrow, and fiercefiercefierceutter love, with a truly heartbreakingly tragic smile that whispers of worry and mutters of martyrdom.

(I am put under 'Room Lock-down' by the Gesso Advisory Council, who overrule my mother with a unanimous decision. Even her Guardians keep quiet and subdued, knowing that the rest of the Gesso are only loyal to the Famiglia as a whole, not to the Boss and the Guardians themselves.)

One the third day, around noon, a pair of nameless lackeys let me out of my room and escort me through the rabbit warren of twisting routes.

We stop in a section of the base that I've never wandered in before; a section that is declared off-limits for as long as I can remember, and the usually eager-to-please Gessos have earlier refused every time to tell me anything about it, no matter how many times I ask, or how long I work on my puppy-dog look.

The area is frigid, pristine, and smells strongly of antiseptics and obliterated hopes, much like a hospital.

Or a morgue.

I shiver lightly before the closed door, a primal part of me knowing instinctively to beware what lies beyond.

(It is painted white, just like nearly everything else in the base.

White appears to be the Gesso's favored color, and not just because all of their Bosses have traditionally inherited the dominant genes of white hair; indeed, I vaguely remember one of my Gesso nannies chanting a disturbing lullaby to me, once, when I was a toddler, that bore the eerie lines, 'it's easier to see bloodstains on white than black, and that's an honest-to-truthful fact, but blood bleeds the same from front and back, like a sharpened tongue lashing out with tact'.)

The two escorts stand behind me in the tiled hallway, watching me with expectant eyes.

'Go ahead', they urge. 'Open the door. Open the door to your doom. Don't worry, we'll make sure no one attacks you as you open the door. Of course, we'll also make sure that you don't try and run...'

Just for something to do, something to delay the inevitable, I slant my vision to the left, settling upon the room plaque that was definitely not there the past dozens of times I've crossed paths with it.

Room 100, Inheritance Trial Testing, I read mentally.

A pointed cough from my back causes me to stiffen, before flushing a slight rosy tinge at my stalling.

My hand reaches for the doorknob; my fingers rest on the smooth, cool brass.

Then I jerk them away like they stung, stung with dread and fear and panic, before gritting my teeth and opening the door, fearing I'll never be able to if I think about the action any more.

It is a large room, reminiscent of a testing room.

To my left is a wall of glass, that is covered by a thin layer of pure diamond, and probably slicked over with a film of Flame-proof or Flame-resistant solution.

Nearly indestructible.

Behind the wall are the current Guardians, as well as several highly-ranked Gessos and people from the Gesso Advisory Council, all there to see the show and testify if anything goes horribly wrong.

(Or horribly, horribly right.)

I label that as the 'Spectator Half'.

The 'Trial Half' is the actual room where the Inheritance Trial is clearly supposed to take place.

It is surprisingly different from what I had thought that it would be; it is spartan, stark, and basically an empty white-washed concrete room with smooth surfaces and rounded edges.

My mother is already there, leaned up against the far wall and looking grimly determined.

She meets my eyes and wilts, before mouthing, 'Trust me. I'll get you out of this perfectly fine.'

Unsure of what to do, unsure of how to react to that, I step forward a few paces awkwardly and stop in the middle of the room, a few yards away from her.

Waiting for further instructions, I glance to the side.

The instructions come in the form of a large sign that the Head of the Council (a shrewdly cunning old man who I idolize-, no, who I have formerly idolized as a grandfather of sorts) lifts up.

In clear, blunt, blocky black letters, it spells out with no uncertainty, "Kill the Boss to become Boss."

I gape in shock and freeze, paralyzed.

/But, but, but… what!? I could never kill Madre!/

Then a terrifying suspicion rises up within me, and I dart my eyes over to the only other figure in the 'Trial Half' with me.

/Was that why she was…?/

My mother suddenly moves towards me, and I tense, flinching away instinctively, eyes wide and certain that she is going to kill me.

Talented I am, skilled the instructors praise me, but still, I am no match for my mother, a strong Donna who has over my lifetime of years of experience fighting to gain respect and recognition in a subsociety ruled by male Bosses.

A sorrowful, bitter look slides over her face when she sees me flinch away, and she pauses.

"I see…" she says lowly, head bowed with her long white tresses cascading over and concealing her face.

"So now even my own son shall fear me? Is that what being Boss has reduced me to?"

No sound leaks out of my throat; how are you supposed to reply to something like that?

A despondent, self-deprecating laugh tears its way out of her throat with jagged claws of desperation, however, and my mother sinks to her knees, bones trembling, staring up mournfully at me with those eyes, those eyeseyeseyes, so terrifying similar in their resemblance to my own.

"Well, it won't matter very soon. Didn't I tell you not to worry, my little orchid? Mama will take care of it for you…"

She unleashes a bolt of pure Sky Flames directly at the wall of the 'Spectators Half', blasting straight through the Flame-proofing like it isn't even there, causing a large explosion and thickly obscuring cloud of smoke, granting us some measure of flimsy privacy.

All without taking her eyes off of me, like she is trying to commit my features to memory.

(And maybe she is, maybe she was.

Now I'll never know, will I?)

"...one way or the other."

As I watch, still frozen and paralyzed in shock, she forms a tightly controlled, intensified and condensed "blade" of Flames around her right fist, before lunging forward, grabbing my hand, and forcing my hand to plunge hers directly into her heart.

She falls limply to the ground, a mere marionette who has finally freed itself from the ensnaring strings of its masters.

She falls limply to the ground, a cherished mother who has finally freed herself and her son from the manipulations of the Gesso.

She falls limply to the ground, a faithfully devoted Boss who has finally freed herself and her beloved progeny and her Guardians from their honor-bound duties to those who seek to control them.

I stagger forward numbly, caught off guard, using my other hand to reach for her body and shake it with trembling fingers, trying to revive some of that spark and resolve that has kept her going all these years. She looks directly into my eyes, and then curled her lips into a blood-splattered grimace of a grin.

Her arms flop to her sides, and her fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach up and stroke the side of my face one more time.

Too lost to give her that last wish, I instead bend over and tighten my grip, horror-struck eyes looking back at her and my own hand, sunk deep into her flesh.

/Don'tgodon'tgonodon'tgoandleavemealone...!/

She simply grimace-grins harder, vicious and victorious and vindictive (but not at me, her eyes are already glassing over and clouding in, unfocusing, confused, dazed in the worst possible way).

"Not my finest hit, hmm? Should've aimed for the head; instant death and much less messy and mentally traumatic for you. See, kid, the thing about life is, no one gets out alive. At least now you have a bit longer until 'game over'. Let an old woman indulge her son, eh?" she jokes in a cracked, whispery croak, with her usual morbid (now literally) sense of gruesome humor.

Then her eyes soften, melt around the edges, wearing away the crusted crusts of life's hardships.

"But hey, remember, your Madre loved you, okay? Change the Trial for me, change the Gesso for me, heck, change the world for me, why don't you? You've got it in you to be great… just like your old Madre, heh. And I promised you'd be perfectly fine, my little white orchid. No, Byakuran, the Gesso Decimo. I promised…"

Her voice trails off, and her grimace-grin smoothes out into a serenely tender smile.

"I died for you, my son, so live for me, alright now? Smile for me. The only thing I regret is not telling you about the Trial earlier..."

And, with a ghost of a peaceful exhale that tickles warmly against Byakuran's right cheek, Bianca ("White") Gesso, the Gesso Nona, sags as all her Dying Will Flames escape from her body, leaving behind a corpse with a small, pale hand still stuck in her heavily scorched chest cavity.

She died with a whisper, not with a shout, and it all seems so wrong.

The smokescreen finally disperses, just in time for the people in the 'Spectator Half' to view the scene of a wide-eyed heir clutching the clearly dead remains of the Nona Boss, one hand still in her singed heart.

Some stifled cries erupt from those who have been close to Bianca.

I pay them no mind, instead wrenching my hand out and focusing on the corpse of my very much deadgonedesertednevergoingtocomebackandsmile mother.

"M-M-madre? Madre? MADRE!"

/No, you can't just… you can't just go ahead and die like that! I… I never got to tell you how sorry I was for flinching away, for ever, ever believing, even for a split second, that you could possibly want to attack me. ... I never got to tell you, 'I love you too...'/

But I don't say any of that. I can't, not with everyone staring and analyzing and watchingwhisperingwondering.

So instead, all I say, burying my head into her cold, cold chest, with my words muffled right into her burnt heart, is, "You were right. I'm perfectly fine. But why couldn't you have been perfectly fine, too…?"

Then all of a sudden I am crying.

Crying the kind of tears dredged up by the jagged, hurtful remains of painfully wishful dreams, distorted and finally cracked, time after agony-filled time.

Crying the kind of tears where you can't do anything but sob, sob your goddamned heart out, because you know, you just know it won't get better.

Crying the kind of tears that blistered like hellfire and were as salty as sin, but oh, oh, they felt so good to that deep, primal part of you no one wants to admit they have.

(At the very, very, very back of my mind, I note with a numb sort of detachment that bloodstains are easier to see on white than black.)

After a while, nearly everyone has filed out solemnly.

My mother's Rain Guardian (no, I remind myself hollowly, my mother's former Rain Guardian) approaches my position gingerly, the way you would handle a spooked horse.

She touches my shoulder, lighter than a pixie landing, and crouches down until she can whisper into my ear.

"Hey, little Decimo," she murmurs softly, eyes downcast.

A pause comes, before she continues with choked, trembling voice.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay. None of the Guardians blame you; Bianca already told us of her plan beforehand. We protested, of course, but you know how she is; how she was. Adamant that she had to do this, had to protect you. Stubborn as a cat who was confronted with a bath.

"Ah, but… but that was all part of her charm, you know? Her charisma. That thing that inspired all of us to follow her to the ends of earth and back. Heck, even now, we'd probably all willingly suicide just to follow her into death, if she hadn't told us not to, before she entered the Trial Room.

'Live for me,' she said. 'Don't go and disgrace my memory by stupidly dying for me, that's not the fucking point you bunch of idiotas.' So I guess my point is… it's not the end of the world. Not yet. There's still stuff to be done and mundane everyday routines to be fulfilled. And though you'll have to find your own Guardians, and though all of us former Guardians will probably disperse and maybe even vanish from the Mafia, if you ever need us or want us to come for a cuppa and a nice long chat about Bianca, we're here for you. One way or another."

Her touch remains there for a few more moments, as they commiserate in silent mourning of the wonderful woman who had existed as Bianca Gesso, mentor, student, leader, coworker, madre.

I clear my throat awkwardly.

"Th-thank you," I mutter.

"That... means a lot."

(It's a lie, it's all a lie, nothing means anything to me right now, nothing means anything except Madre's corpse which means everything and the world-)

Though I can't see her, I can sense that the Rain is smiling.

(Chiara Corvi, 35, 5' 4'', wildly curly black chin-length hair, lean and long and lanky, darkly tanned skin, smile-lines around her angular face, intense brown eyes and thick lashes, been a freelance thief since age 9, been the Gesso Nona Rain Guardian since age 19, probably Madre's best friend and closest confidante...

And my godmother.

Who apparently won't be sticking around after my mother died.

If I were any less in shock, I'd feel enormously angry, and more than my fair share of bitter resentment.

As it is...

I can sort of get where she's coming from.

I don't really want to linger here either, and see traces of Madre wherever I go.

But I don't want to forget Madre either.

I don't ever want to forget Madre.)

She squeezes my shoulder once more, and then lets go.

"My pleasure, little Decimo."

And she leaves.

Just like that.

Just like that, my godmother is gone, along with, probably, the rest of the Nona Generation Guardians.

The rest of my mother's most intimate connections.

(Arturo "Art" Bassi, 37, 5' 9'', stick-straight strawberry blonde buzz-cut hair, lithe and languid and lady-killer, olive skin, an unfortunately crooked nose for his otherwise handsome clean-shaven features, dark blue eyes and a charming wink, been a military brat since birth, been the Gesso Nona Storm Guardian since age 16, takes the role of Main Gesso Negotiator.

Caseareo "Casear" Alamanni, 35, 5' 10'', wavy wheat-brown 'Brit pop crop', cool and calm and considerate, 'golden glow' skin, classic 'chiseled' features, serious amber eyes and slight bags under them, been an 'errand boy' since age 10, been the Gesso Nona Lightning Guardian since age 18, takes the unofficial role of Madre's go-to lawyer and walkin' talkin' legal referencebook.

Flavia "Vi" Donati, 34, 5' 5'', stuffy ol' mint-green librarian bun, deceptive and darling and dreamy, pale skin, plain face, heliotrope-purple and perpetually wide eyes, been a drifting artist since age 13, been the Gesso Nona Mist Guardian since age 17, takes the role of drafting up legally binding contracts.

Guglielmo "Elmo" Leoni, 36, tousled dark brown curls, witty and winning and warm, sunkissed skin, a thin white tracery of scars across the left side of his sharply-defined face, bright green eyes with the right one being darker than the other, been an orphan apprenticed to a gun-maker since age 5, been the Gesso Nona Sun Guardian since age 20, takes the role of judiciously sniping all that need to be sniped and pistol-whipping those who underestimate the sniper.

Rinaldo "Rin" Montagna, 33, smooth black shoulder-length hair gathered into a neat ponytail, sweet and sly and seraphic, perfectly maintained fair skin, delicate and rather androgynous features on a heart-shaped face, holly-green left eye and glacier-blue right eye with fluttery feathery ravenwing lashes, been a cafe waiter and barkeeper (sometimes waitress and crossdressing barkeeper if need be) since age 15, been the Gesso Nona Cloud Guardian since age 21, takes the unofficial role of 'seducing and confusing the hell out of everyone when the stunning-woman turns into a drop-dead-gorgeous-man stabbing you until you're dead'.

[Rinaldo takes on 'Rin' as his typical alias, and crossdresses on a daily basis, at ease with either fashion and moniker. Also refuses to shorten his unofficial role.])

And I am alone again, cradling a corpse with a bloody hand.

/I'll do those things you asked, Mama. I'll do them for you. I swear I'll do them…

... with my Dying Will./

. . .

A touch of wistfulness strikes Byakuran at the end of his reminiscing, as he looks down and flexes his fingers, covered in ghostly remnants of blood from blood.

(The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

No.

No, it isn't.

The blood of the womb is far thicker than the water of the covenant.)

If only Bianca hadn't been a Boss and loving mother who cared too much.

If only his father hadn't been a classified assassin who'd been murdered before he was born.

If only he hadn't been a heir who was so blindblindblind to everything.

Because, really, that's what it'd been.

If only.

Shaking it off as more "what-if" fantasies, the white-haired teen lowers his head and spins his chair, until he is facing the only picture that hangs on his office's white, white walls.

(Blood is easier to see on white than black-!)

Byakuran closes his eyes.

(A picture of a stern but smiling white-headed female with lavender eyes and a face eerily similar to the one he sees whenever he chances upon a mirror.)

(There is a reason he never allows mirrors in his offices or bedrooms. They all remind him too much of her.)

/Hey, Mamma. I met a real interesting person today. Someone I couldn't predict and plan for too well. It was… refreshing. Had to watch my toes around her, you could say. Ah… if you could say. Sometimes… sometimes, I wonder what you'd say of me now? I wonder what you'd think of me now… I try, I really do, but sometimes I just look at myself and wonder if I'm actually managing any progress towards what you wanted from me. If it was what you wanted from me…/

And on that lonely Friday night, Byakuran grieves, with a weighted heart and a weightier mind.

He grieves for the figure who had once been so vibrantstrongalive.

Then he stands up, stretches once, twice, and yawns, before heading outside with "happy" crescent eyes and a curved smile, to give out orders and micromanage endlessly.

/I'm still living for you, Madre. I'm still smiling for you. Would you smile at my life right now?/

Fizzle.

Pop.

Burst.

Revised 7/4/15.

Added: Nona's Guardians, present tense, flower thing, simplified quote, bits and pieces here 'n there, Mamma=Madre.

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And here you have it, folks, more character insight and depressing flashbacks that cause you to pity the "villain"! The writing style is a bit different in this chapter... dunno how, it just popped up like that.

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