IV
Of Love and War
Over the years, Tsubame had woken to many things. Screams, shouts, and curses, to name a few. Nothing new, nothing surprising had been sprung on her each time she rose from the pleasant depths of sleep to the land of the living. Nothing, except the sight before her now.
A group of students – they were students, right? Not an army of clones? – stood to her right. Their stiff stances reminded Tsubame of how battle-hardened soldiers carried themselves, limbs unmoving and heads raised. They were dressed similarly, all the way from the how they tucked in their shirts to the brand of their sleek shoes. The most notable parallel, however, was their impressive hairstyle.
Tsubame rubbed the sleep from her eyes, half-hoping the action could dismiss the sight of all the pompadours before her. "Am I still dreaming?" she mumbled blearily.
"Dismissed," someone grunted, and the Pompadour Army bowed dutifully before exiting the room.
As she watched them leave, Tsubame ran a hand over the supple green leather of couch she was sitting on. There were numerous hushed whispers about the disciplinary committee, how they were nothing but a pack of delinquents that were generally tame up to the point where someone broke a rule. It was the ringleader who was cause for concern – a merciless dictator who lashed out at anyone and everyone; a demon from the depths of hell, one whose glare could simultaneously freeze the sun and melt ice caps.
Tsubame wasn't an idiot; she could put two and two together. She was in the den of the infamous disciplinary committee. That would explain the Pompadour Army.
With much effort on her part, Tsubame pried her protesting body off of the couch and stood before the feared head prefect's expansive desk. She drew herself to her full height (which wasn't that great) and said, in as strong a voice she could muster, "Thank you. For helping me. Again." She probably should have slathered her words with more gratitude, but her helplessness wasn't something she liked to advertise, let alone linger on.
"That's the second time I've helped you in two days," Hibari kindly notified her. He reclined in his chair, icy eyes staring ahead in thought. Behind him, the sun was beginning to droop. How long had she been out for? School must have finished ages ago.
Her lips twisted. "I'm in your debt. And all debts must be repaid, right?" she asked, echoing his previous words.
Hibari dipped his head in acknowledgement, his small gesture almost lost in the shadows consuming him. "And what do you have to offer?"
A smirk bloomed on Tsubame's dry lips. "I have something in mind," she declared, the wary whispers of the student body still fresh in her mind, as well as the image of a certain blonde girl.
"I want to join the disciplinary committee."
"I want to resign from the disciplinary committee."
A deep chuckle rumbled from her right, and if Tsubame's arm didn't feel like lead, she'd punch the perpetrator's leg. It was conveniently situated beside her head, too. As it was, she settled for a petulant glare. Kusakabe merely grinned down at her, the bastard.
As Hibari's second-in-command, Tsubame had expected Kusakabe to behave like…well, like someone directly under Hibari's control: cold as ice and harsh as stone. She was pleasantly surprised when she realised that, despite his alarming appearance, he was anything but. Maybe his benevolence came with age? Sure, he acted like he was in middle school, but he sure as hell looked nothing like a teenager.
"I'm afraid you can't do that, Kishino-san," he said amiably, blissfully unaware of Tsubame's uncomplimentary thoughts. He leaned back on the committee's couch. "Once you're in, you're in. There's no escape." He frowned and stroked his chiselled chin in thought. "Unless it's through death, of course."
He was kidding, right?
Tsubame shifted, careful not to disturb the injuries assaulting her tired body. Though part of her wanted to stay lying on the ground and let the cool tiles soothe her angry wounds, she knew she would end up paying for itin the end. So it was with much reluctance and effort that Tsubame managed to pull herself up in a sitting position, wincing the entire time.
The disciplinary committee's infinitely kinder deputy frowned, the grass twig in his mouth drooping slightly. Tsubame's eyes focused on it intently. Why did he have such a weird habit? Wasn't he wary of the hygienic consequences? Perhaps the twig excreted a nutrient that allowed Kusakabe to serve the fearsome head prefect without any fear. Maybe it was meant to keep others from discovering that the grass was actually a drug which empowered him immensely, but aged him as a drawback. Or maybe—
Before her theories could grow more outlandish, Kusakabe ceased her train of thought by handing her a small container. "It's a salve," he explained, "to help numb the wounds a bit. Hibari-san can get a little…overzealous sometimes." He smiled, black eyes twinkling sympathetically.
Tsubame snorted. "A little? He beat me up because I screwed up his lunch order." Nonetheless, she accepted the balm, nodding her thanks.
"Technically," interjected the smooth voice that Tsubame had come to loathe, "I struck you because you failed to complete your duty." Hibari glided from the doorway to his desk, silent as a ghost and seemingly unaware of the glower attempting to burn holes into his back. "I bit you to death because you, herbivore, tried and failed to retaliate."
"The cafeteria was crowded," she grounded out. Considering she was still seated on the floor, arms crossed over chest, her pathetic attempt at intimidation was lost to all. She probably looked like a child throwing a temper tantrum instead. "Besides, when I joined the disciplinary committee yesterday, I did so because I wanted to, I don't know, enforce discipline, rather than run errands and serve as a punching bag."
Hibari sneered down at her. "Those are stepping stones. The moment you're able to flawlessly fulfill those errands and take my hits, only then will you be promoted."
"Fine," she snapped, hopping to her feet and ignoring the screams of pain from her body. "Let's go."
Hibari's sadistic smirk marred his porcelain features as he rose from his throne. His blazer billowed ominously as he dashed over to her, much like that of a super-villain's. With a flick of his wrist, a tonfa materialised in his fists, and Tsubame's lips pulled back at the sight. Moments ago she had gazed at the weapon doubtfully, almost scathingly – who even owned a tonfa these days, let alone used one? Her initial ignorance and arrogance had led to her immediate downfall, however, and she learnt the hard way to never, ever underestimate Hibari Kyoya.
She skidded backwards as Hibari swooped towards her, barely dodging his strike. The movement caused her leg to bump into the couch and almost collide into the wary Kusakabe. Silently cursing the cramped space, she hastily searched for an exit.
Tsubame's distraction almost cost her her consciousness. She slammed her rear into the seat of the couch, Hibari's tonfa skimming the tip of her head. Her (shitty) glasses threatened to slip off and leave her half-blind, but she managed to force them into place. Ears ringing, the prey shot past her predator, thrusting her arm out in an attempt to catch his side. Hibari wasn't head of the DC for nothing, and he smoothly maneuvered to the left. Tsubame had been expecting nothing less, however, and quickly used his split-second delay to her advantage, escaping the confines of the narrow room and shooting out into the hallway.
Hibari was hot on her trail. He halted a metre or two from Tsubame, eying her panting form with a small smirk of amusement. "You're not fit for the disciplinary committee if you can't even handle such an small workout," he quipped, obliterating her pride.
Despite the rage writhing within her, Tsubame chose not to reply in favour of catching her breath. Her body was still taking the toll from her previous beat-down, and was in no condition to undergo another one. One of the open windows allowed a puff of air to enter the building, tousling Tsubame's ponytail and brushing against her bare skin. She inhaled the air, grateful for the tranquilising effect it had on her nerves.
"Since you're evidently inhibited," drawled her opponent, "I'll give you a handicap: If you manage to land one hit on me, you will be promoted from the position of lackey."
"Swear on it," she grunted, voice somewhat muffled as she pulled her jumper over her head. "Swear on your title as head."
Hibari frowned at the blatant scepticism, but complied nonetheless. "I swear on my title as head of the disciplinary commit—"
In hindsight, Tsubame probably should have waited until he had finished. The verbal contract would possess more weight that way, but then again, she'd lose the vital element of surprise – because, while Hibari was in the middle of his pledge, Tsubame made her move.
A blanket of clouds chose that moment to drift before the sun, choking off any and all sunlight. The hallway darkened considerably, and Tsubame used Mother Nature's gift to her advantage. She mustered all her strength into her arm, and, like a tightly coiled spring, released all the momentum in her limb as she thrust her jumper towards her opponent. The wind assisted her, the burst of air propelling forward both the woollen weapon and its owner.
Caught unaware by the sudden lack of light, Hibari didn't react until it was too late. He furiously clawed at the material inhibiting both his sight and hearing, the buffeting wind working against him. With a growl, the disoriented predator-turned-prey wrenched the jumper from his face, right before Tsubame slammed her fist into his gut.
A hysteric laugh bubbled in her throat, and she bit her tongue to prevent it from surfacing. Still, her lips split into a manic grin, which shrivelled up immediately as her victim glared at her with such intensity it was as if the sight alone would incinerate her.
With a face carefully devoid of any expression, Tsubame stretched her hand before the brooding figure. "No hard feelings," she declared, wary of allowing any pity or arrogance to trickle into her blank voice.
Hibari eyed the proffered hand and its owner with unbridled disgust. "That was foul play," he hissed, gripping his tonfa as if strangling the life out of it.
She shrugged nonchalantly, outstretched hand twitching. "All's fair in love and war. Besides, you underestimated me too much."
Silently, Hibari's pale hand inched forward.
The tension in Tsubame's shoulders unknotted, allowing her to sag with relief. The wind died down and the clouds parted, allowing the gentle sunlight to trickle onto her bare arms like liquid gold. Perhaps Hibari wasn't so petty after all.
But her relief was short-lived, for there was a flash of silver and, before Tsubame knew it, she was doubled over, pain exploding in her stomach. Disbelief seeped into her wide eyes as they met haughty, satisfied ones.
Hibari loomed over her, tonfa returning to the recesses of his coat with a twitch of his hand. The movement allowed the harsh sunlight to graze the blood-red cloth pinned to his sleeve, the gold, emboldened 'discipline' burning into Tsubame's dark eyes.
"Indeed," he noted. "All's fair in love and war."
Contrary to popular belief, Yamamoto Takeshi didn't play baseball for the sake of keeping fit or to "look cool". He played the blessed sport, poured his heart and soul into it, because of one single factor: it made him happy – genuinely happy.
The euphoric game extracted thrilled grins and exhilarated smiles from his person as he dashed to and fro, his trusty bat shouting bam as it smashed against the baseball, which hissed a whoosh as it soared through the limitless blue sky, landing with a satisfied thunk outside the cage. He loved baseball intensely because it forced both his mind and his body to focus on the now, and, no matter how temporarily, allowed him to concentrate on topics unrelated with his mom, or his dad, or his life. It was just him and the game. He loved it.
Lately, though…not so much. As the disheartening thought rudely butted into his mind, Yamamoto's grip on his bat loosened, and he watched it fly from his hands with a resigned sigh.
His now-empty fists clenched. Couldn't he do anything right? First it was his deteriorating baseball skills, then it was with consoling his father, assuring him that he alright, that he was happy – he couldn't even use his smiles anymore. He was being pelted with his own rainstorm, soaked to the bone with icy precipitation, but that was fine. What was not fine, however, was that others were being caught in his outpour: first his father, who was unfortunate enough to be nearby, and now Tsubame, a lone bystander forcibly whipped by the wayward barrage of raindrops.
Yamamoto suddenly found himself out of breath, and it wasn't because he'd been exercising all afternoon. No, this sort of breathlessness wasn't the good kind after an exhilarating workout – it was as if someone had delivered a swift blow straight into his gut.
Yamamoto staggered to the side, silently marvelling at how pathetic he was. He couldn't even protect his so-called friend from his so-called admirers. He had learnt everything from the girls' gossip – how the leader of his fanclub had tracked down Tsubame and lured her away and then proceeded to give her both a verbal and physical beating. No one saw her for the rest of the day. And it was all his fault.
If he hadn't been such a stubborn brat and badgered her into coming over, none of this would have happened. She could've gotten a peaceful night's rest, gone to class on time, and avoid the entire encounter altogether. But he didn't do that, and now Tsubame…
Namimori's star baseball player grabbed the nearest ball and thrust it as hard as he could, hoping that his frustrations left with it. The teen immediately regretted his action when a loud smack and a sharp cry of "Ow!" soon followed.
Yamamoto raced towards his accidental victim, and spotted a familiar head of spiky brown hair. The brunette was in his class… Sawada Tsuna? Yeah, that was it. Though they were the same age, Yamamoto couldn't help but notice how tiny the other boy was. It was kind of fitting, considering his shy and reclusive demeanour. Still, it only took a baseball to the head to bring out someone's true side.
"Sorry about that," he said, pushing his lips into a smile.
Tsuna paused in nursing his head and peered up at him. Instead of the angry or indignant shouts he had been anticipating, though, the injured boy asked, "Are you okay, Yamamoto?"
Surprise washed over his features, clearing away the dirty, fake smile tainting his lips. Exasperation soon settled in its place. "Why are you asking me?" he demanded, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. Regret nestled into him as Tsuna visibly recoiled. "It's just that…I'm the one who hurt you," he said hastily. As if he did anything else but hurt others nowadays. "I should be the one asking that, not you."
"Oh," murmured Tsuna. He was silently for a painfully awkward moment before blurting out, "I'm sure you had a lot on your mind. Do you, um, want to talk about it…?"
That certainly made Yamamoto pause. He found himself staring at the fidgety boy. Did he want to talk about it? Of course he did. His anxieties and frustration sat like a dead weight in his body, slowly but surely dragging him down.
But he was sick of burdening others. They were his problems, and only his. His lips twitched into a pained smile and he opened his mouth to gently but firmly decline Tsuna's offer, when the boy—probably sensing his discomfort—choked out a jittery laugh.
"Right, sorry," he mumbled, red-faced. "Of course you wouldn't want discuss something so private with me. Sorry for being so nosy, Yama—"
And that was all it took for Yamamoto to start spilling the concerns eating away at him. Though surprised by how forthcoming he suddenly was, Yamamoto figured it all made sense, in a way – Tsuna just had this comforting aura around him, inviting people to talk and confess their secrets without fear of reprimand or judgement. He was that kind of guy.
A frown crossed Tsuna's face, but it wasn't a disapproving one; it was thoughtful. "You think Tsubame-san is avoiding you?" he repeated.
He nodded stiffly, gaze firmly locked on his beaten and battered shoes. "What if those girls did or said something to scare her off? She always seems so lonely, and it's my fault."
"That's not true," said Tsuna, his voice firm with conviction. The notion was so foreign to Yamamoto that he couldn't help but look up in slight surprise. Tsuna immediately flinched at the sudden attention. "I mean, Tsubame-san doesn't seem like a very social person in the first place, you know? And," he added, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, "she's in the disciplinary committee now. Well, sort of…"
Yamamoto let out a breath he didn't know he had been withholding. "You mean all those wounds are…?"
Tsuna nodded, grimacing. "She said it was to get stronger, I think."
"Oh. When did she tell you this?"
"Um, my mom kinda ran into her, and then dragged her over for dinner," he admitted, sighing. Judging from the way Tsuna's body seemed to deflate, Yamamoto deduced that that wasn't a fun night. "Anyway," he added, perking up somewhat, "please don't blame yourself for anything, Yamamoto. Tsubame-san…seems strong."
The way Tsuna looked distinctly uncomfortable was not lost on Yamamoto , but he knew better than to comment on it. So Yamamoto smiled—and it was a much easier, more genuine act this time—and thanked Tsuna, clapping him on the back and accidentally sending him toppling to the ground with a strangled "Gah!" Despite himself, Yamamoto chuckled. His good humour was infectious, and Tsuna began laughing with him.
By the time they parted ways, the sun had set and the sky had cleared, and Yamamoto felt as if a momentous burden was lifted from his shoulders.