Alright guys, finally! Sorry for the long wait. Anyway, this is the first installment of the five features I promised.
Title: Long Way Home (1/3)
Genre: family, drama, fluff, angst
Warning: PG-15 for swearing and mildly graphic elements of gore.
Summary: Life does not have to be beautiful to be perfect; nor is it always perfect when it's beautiful.
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Theme song: Cloud Atlas "Sextet" (Piano instrumental)
Prompt filled: ghost
For puruku and my dedicated, professional beta, Shiary. Thank you both for your thoughtful feedback and unerring support.
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Dame tu mano Paloma (Give me your hand, dove)
Para subir a tu nido (So I can climb to your nest)
Maldicha que duermes sola (You're unlucky to sleep alone: )
Vengo a dormir contigo (I'll come to sleep with you.)
-"En La Mar", Cécile Corbel
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The minute he stirred and slid open bleary eyes, his Hyper Intuition screamed of something being drastically different.
Not that he needed the heads up. It wasn't every day you woke up to your mother sitting across from you; preoccupied with the pictures that lined your dresser. Especially not looking a day over thirty five when she'd already been dead for as many years.
He was certain he was supposed to shout, jump out of bed, question his sanity or check his medications; and not feel this nostalgia. Except he was no longer at an age for any shouting and jumping, and he was absolutely positive that taking Isoptin with coffee didn't give you hallucinations. That, and the fact seven decades of his friends hadn't quite driven him into senility –yet.
Besides, he'd heard that some people don't live that long after their spouses die. And it had already been fifteen winters.
So he sat up carefully and greeted his mother politely like he'd been brought up to (which, he'd conveniently forgot, in much of his teenage years). And he asked, "Is it time yet?" like they're only going for a walk and she got up earlier.
And she said, "No, we have a few more hours."
So he did the next proper thing you do when you have a guest: he apologised for his state of déshabillé and seated her in the living room, while he washed himself and set out breakfast.
(And somewhere in the middle of gargling, he stopped to look for that faded ring of an extra cup on the sink, but there's not a trace left. It had been fifteen winters.)
Odd how the details came back to you so quickly sometimes; even when they've not been put to use for years. How; the more you wore time on your flesh, the more it flirted with your consciousness. You could forget your shopping list on the way to the store, what you said to your son over the phone; but you'd remember how much vinegar your mother likes in her tamagoyaki, her favourite brand of natto. You could remember noting and learning these little things, one by one; afraid of being unable to master it all within the rapidly disintegrating months of her clock.
(You remembered her holding you to her breast for comfort; remembered lying on another flatter, broader and healthier chest for comfort.)
He sighed as he added the miso. This morning, it seemed, was made for remembrance.
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Apparently, she must not be able to see him wherever she was; their eating was seasoned with questions. How were the children? Had his son married yet? She squealed in delight as he told of weddings and births, laughed when he mentioned Gokudera's temper –the separations and "unexplained disappearances" had no place in their conversation. He, too, asked her, though he was careful never to broach on the subject of what awaited him, lest he broke some taboo. Did Yamamoto manage to locate his father and Squalo? What about Oto-san, Bianchi and Haru? Were they still the same? They went through a whole list of names, and moved to the couch later for photos, but he never mentioned Xanxus.
(There was no need to anyway; he was always there between them, in Nana's searching gaze and behind Tsuna's every word.)
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They were going to re-pot some of the herbs today.
Instead, he returned home with the pots; mildly annoyed at Xanxus kicking off his shoes and leaving them as they were again.
But he was determined not to chide him or feel upset. They were going to re-pot the herbs, have dinner at that new restaurant, and visit Uni for her granddaughter's birthday next week. He'd been thinking of gifting the fiorellino with a furisode, in a shade that should compliment her blonde hair and oceanic eyes beautifully.
Then he spotted the bills strewn across the kitchen table and frowned.
That's when he saw the supine body.
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He still recalled clearly how awkward it was the first time his mother met Xanxus.
Never had he been so keenly, suddenly aware as he was then, of how tall and buff Xanxus was, how intimidating he could seem. He'd also completely forgotten the kind of fear those scars and unholy eyes could instil in others, how easy it could be to interpret hostility in that unsmiling face. The cheerful, petite lady next to him couldn't have been a greater difference.
The contrast must've been just as uncomfortable for his partner too, if the expressionless stiffness was any indication. In fact…..even his jaw muscles and right eyelid were twitching minutely from sheer discomfort.
Tsuna thought he'd never seen anything more adorable.
(Alright, puppies and non-gun-toting babies were, but this was Xanxus.)
(If only he could take a shot and frame it. He would find a secret niche for it in his albums.)
Luckily, Sawada Nana seemed to think him cute too, as she pulled his hand and exclaimed happily; the suddenness making Xanxus yelp. (Or, as he would later insist, produce a sound that could be mistaken for a yelp. Either way Tsuna still had to stifle a laugh.)
So it wasn't the chaotic ambulance ride, the overwhelming tide of incomprehensible medical jargon, or the long wait that broke his calm. It was the lightness of the hand in his grasp post-surgery, the memory of how large and heavy it was in his mother's, and the revelation of how it was not this time, not now (not yet) that finally extricated his sobs.
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Like every other parent, child, sibling, friend or spouse that'd discovered mortality, he became a lot more careful with the volatile man after.
But this was Xanxus they were talking about, who of course did not let him. It wasn't one of their full-blown arguments, but it was no discussion either. There was certainly no compromise in the Varia retiree's tone when he mentioned not being phony or treating him like some invalid shit; and if that didn't get the message across there was still his flinty countenance.
And the seasons Tsuna had spent decoding Xanxus, which tell him: I want your scratchy hair, your undiscriminating concern for others and your overthinking. I want your prudishness, your liver spots and hyper-reactivity.
I want everything.
Tsuna just kept silent and listened; to both the icy rant and the unspoken. When Xanxus was done lecturing, he smiled and drew the man into his arms.
(And perhaps his fingernails dug a little too tightly into the solid back; he drew breath a little too long from where his temple rested in Xanxus's shirt.
In any case, this was as good an occasion as any for the embraced man to feign ignorance.)
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They didn't exactly run out of things to say –there was thirty-five years' worth to catch up on –but it was one of those lulls in their chatter when Nana pulled out a curious little sundial from her dress and declared, "Oh my, look at the time! We must get going."
Tsuna didn't bother to remark on what he hadn't mentioned earlier as he gathered his cane. Those extra minutes he took to bend down and tie his shoes would give him away anyway.
"It's the kneecap, isn't it."
He nodded, standing. There was no "It's fine; I'll be good," on his lips; no further invitation for unwanted pity. Instead, the words sounded in the gentle tap of his cane as he opened the door and gestured into the last vestiges of spring.
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The Varia patch must've ripped off mid-delivery (such inefficiency), and they'd misspelled 'Xanxus'. They weren't small-fry though, not even the best of those could kidnap the Varia head and challenge the Vongola. On that last, the note had been crystal.
And if it wasn't, the hoarse curses and snarling screams rattling their sound system also sufficed.
Tsuna never thought he would ever see the Varia and his guardians populate the same room quietly. Neither had he imagined Gokudera feeling anything close to empathy for Xanxus. That might be due to the sight of flesh though, all vivid, pockmarked and exposed; flashing large over the screen under a combination of sandpaper and glass dust. Which was not unlike the acid burns the Storm had acquired over his forearm a year ago.
Another enraged, wet howl was cut off. Reborn's face was as unaffected as ever even though he was the one who clicked the remote.
(But not Lambo's, Tsuna realised. For him, shock, nausea and horror had gone to war. And there was a very miniscule but present grain to smile about there; just, not now.
Not right after he'd watched the video, and was still holding onto its main star's bloody coat.)
And the cold, aftershock-silence was precisely what gave him the right amount of reprieve to be sure –he wasn't angry.
He was livid.
Maple eyes closed, opened. Turned back to Sawada Tsunayoshi's, the man who moved his fists as if in prayer.
"What do we know of this new famiglia, Yamamoto?" He picked up his teacup, and the collective tension dissolved.
The mentioned man blinked but recovered the fastest. "It seems they've been setting up shop in the coastal cities. Drugs and money laundering, mostly. And children." He winced. "Genoa's the main base, but the officials of its neighbours have been rather receptive to greasing in recent years." Squalo sneered; a sharp look from Reborn killed off the retort. "Savona and La Spezia are practically in their hands now."
"I see. Send word to Mukuro requesting his speediest return. Squalo, I'll need you to marshal your men from the nearest areas, have them checked into nearby towns and shanties as discreetly as possible. Gokudera-kun, Chrome, please assist him in coordinating the information. Every scrap of intelligence you find on their operations; the exact establishments, amount of manpower for each and blueprints of their layouts, everything you can find.
I want the stats the day after, by three o' clock."
Some sat, stunned. A few fidgeted in discomfort. Those orders had not implied a physical assault. A shortage of manpower, a famiglia could recover from, so long as it did not involve the utter elimination of its core. But targeting the economic lifeblood of a small-sized famiglia, one with no powerhouses among its allies, could very well spell its annihilation. After all, it was the guns and bread that built empires. And in the whole of Tsuna's pre-induction, one-year rule, the heir had always taken pains to avoid such confrontations –it didn't exactly bode well for external relations if you were perceived as oppressive and arrogant.
Until now.
"About time you woke up, baka-Tsuna."
A mirthless smile arose at that nostalgic moniker. "On the contrary, Reborn.
I was only hoping to stay away from this course as long as possible."
Because he wasn't stupid, or naïve either. Sawada Tsunayoshi might move his fists as if in prayer, but the child who was adamant about keeping his hands clean was gone.
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(to be continued)
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Notes:
Isoptin: hypertension medicine.
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Tamagoyaki: a type of Japanese omelette
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Miso: a kind of seasoning. Usually added in soups after they're cooked to preserve the live cultures.
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Fiorellino: An Italian endearment, means "little flower".
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Furisode: a formal style of kimono worn by unmarried women.
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Heir: my headcanon– Vongola's heirs traditionally undergo a prelim, one-year rule before they are officially installed as dons. An evaluative measure, also aids the candidates in gaining experience.
