a/n: poetic repetition is important to me.
tw: child handling weapons?
"elderberry wine iii"
.
bianchi's resolve is tested.
SHE BELONGED IN THE GARDEN.
A mafia daughter with thorn-green eyes and hair the color of rose gold, "rosa rosa" is the perfect nickname for her. Flowers woven through her hair, she flaps feathered wings and hovers above the ground, bare feet weightless.
The garden was her world. Her dominion. The wild little kingdom where she roamed free. Bianchi was its centerpiece, the rose.
Mamma was the moon. Stunning and still, soothing in her chill. She was gentle fingers brushing through loose hair. A perfect picture of timeless beauty. Silent and soft. The companion to the sun.
Papa was distant but blazing fierce, the sun. A desperate, dying star. He was wrath and retribution, the pink and red stretches of burned skin that peel. The light leading the way, casting a path for the rest to follow. And, apparently, warm in his pride.
This is how Bianchi has always seen them. Bianchi, rose. Mamma, moon. Papa, sun. But, but, but—
Then, Papa becomes Father and brings home his son and Mamma, now Mother, turns and Bianchi is blinded with the rage in her eyes and the realization that the moon can scorch the sky just as brightly as the sun.
(She's five, almost six, and the garden feels small.)
...
[elderberry wine]
danger level ranked: LOW.
...
"SIT DOWN, BIANCHI."
Seated behind his dark-wood desk, the gravity of her father draws her in. Thick fingers interlocked, the large ring on his pinky gleamed with inlaid diamonds. Papa never called her into his office, especially at night. She takes a moment to glance around. Shadows and a portrait hanging on the wall loomed behind him. Picture frames are orderly on his desk.
She sits. Tucks one ankle over the other and folds her hands into her lap.
Father talks. Her back is rigidly straight.
When he has finished reciting his commandments on famiglia and duty and respect, he returns to the stack of papers on his desk.
She remains sitting until he glances up at her and frowns as if wondering why she had not left already.
Bianchi looks up at him, tilts her head, and opens her mouth.
The furrow between his brows grows the longer she speaks, but he nods jerkily eventually.
.
Uncle Toni flashes her a hint of smoke-stained teeth and upturned lips as he closes the door behind her.
.
[pluck]
.
The child is small. He has wispy silver hair and tiny fingers and toes. She creeps into his nursery sometimes to watch him between the green wooden bars of his crib.
She's curious.
He's her brother, Father says.
Half-brother, Mother adds.
A brother. She's never had one of those before, even half of one.
At night, she haunted by a dark-haired boy with angry eyes and a dream to kill a certain man, his older br—
Bianchi wakes, sweat-soaked and scared, but can't remember why.
.
Later, she flinches when the sunny-cloudy brother-boy reaches for her with an inquisitive cry. She looks at him, sweet and small, and thinks of how fragile he is.
(Delicate like the little dolls thrown across her room, hitting the floor head-first; porcelain tea cups slipped between shaking fingers, dropped over tile; shattered and broken.
Breakable.)
.
[mash]
.
The Glock 42 gun is all smooth lines and sleek curves. Bianchi fiddles with it in her lap beneath the crisp white tablecloth. It's not loaded. She flips the safety on and off.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Mother breaks the yolk of her egg with a jab of her fork. Her plate shrieks. She lifts the gooey yellow mouthful to her mouth.
Bianchi slowly eats some fruit and nibbles on a pastry. One hand raises to wipe her mouth with a corner of the thick cloth napkin. The fingers in her lap twitch around cool metal.
Clink.
Uncle Toni ambles over to the table, eyes drowsy, and presents her a dainty thing of a knife. Mother frowns and pointedly looks away. She doesn't say anything about the ash on his collar. Bianchi reaches for the sharp little treasure eagerly and while the hilt doesn't fit quite right in her hands, the weight is familiar.
Clunk.
Her lessons begin today.
She smiles.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
.
Thumb up, she points her index and middle finger at her brother's soft face.
Bang.
He blinks, then grins gummily.
She lowers her hand.
.
[ferment]
.
Hayato babbles sorella and when he is old enough, follows after her in the hallways, clutching at her skirts and begging for the shiny things hidden within their folds. He watches her like she is the sun and moon and garden.
He has thorn-green eyes and she is compromised.
[tbc in pt. 4]
notes:
hayato!
.
i'll write a drabble or special or something for the commenter who guesses correctly, or closest, to how bianchi's and hayato's relationship will be like when "canon" begins.
i won't confirm a "winner" until we reach an interaction between them during the "canon" time period, but only comments made before the end of the NEXT arc (there's one chapter left for this arc) will count.