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Chapter One: Gentle ~ Tsuna's Side

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Fragmented glass rained down upon where the projectile landed, revealing an orb of Sky Flames that parted and then dispersed from the top-down, only to flare at the hands of the figure that emerged from the resplendent orange cocoon. In a burst of dazzling color, another six forms shot down from above, leaving the faint impression of a cylindrical rainbow with orange facing most of the congregation, for a nanosecond after they landed.

Shower of glittering facets finally over, it was clear what had just happened:

The Tenth Vongola Generation had just literally crashed the Vongola Alliance's Assembly.

As the veil of flame parted, a vision was ever so slowly revealed. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Every feature and flaw in isolation for a single moment before joining the whole as it slipped through the living, sunset orange curtain. First came the softly rounded tip of a slender nose. Then came sensually shaped eyes surrounded in sinfully thick lashes, looking out at them from a hauntingly familiar face. Hands clad proverbially in Black Death edged and embellished with silver, and alit with the elemental calamity of a furnace grand enough to consume the world completely. As they'd heard in their youth, they mentally chanted the three ancient parameters of peace that had been passed down throughout their families: a purifying pyre for those in his path, cauterizing contrition for those who counter him but repent, and charred carnage for those who persist. Dozens of pairs of eyes hesitantly rose to perceive orbs of vicious, inescapable hellfire.

A monster.

Don Gaston, who had missed the gala, and was thus seeing Tsuna for the first time, actually screamed in horror.

Not that many could blame him, looking at Decimo was like looking at the portraits of Primo. His achingly beautiful face, his trademark mane, even his eyes pierced the same way. The fact that he had grown his hair out a tad bit too long at his nape was completely negligible in light of those long bangs of the exact length as his ancestor. True, he was a brunet, but with his will blazing like a crown, and those amber eyes pressing down upon them…

Like a forbidden glimpse into the past, a renewal of their righteous fear and respectful fidelity to the Head Famiglia, he was a scarily accurate reminder to obey less you be decimated.

And with the rest of his guardians being miniature versions of the first generation, (particularly the silveret in a red shirt, ebony vest, dress jeans and boots, and the raven-haired samurai in his white gi, navy hakama and traditional straw geta to his right and left respectively), that it was all many could do not to join the poor, frightened Don.

Ghosts, the specters of the First Generation had returned home.

Despite the stories that claimed that the Alliance was the fruit of friendship, the fine print was blatant: cordial cooperation existed until some fool crossed Don Vongola and became excrement.

In the end, power was everything.

Apparently heedless of their dramatic entrance, all Nono said was: "Ah, Tsunayoshi! I see you got my report."

Tsuna's already severe gaze narrowed further at that, and he intentionally didn't even deign to turn and meet Timoteo's eyes. Bangs hanging over his eyes as the flame of his forehead all but exploded into greater size and prominence with a brilliant show of light at the mere mention of the accursed thing, the teen breathed slowly and focused on not burning the whole hall to the ground.

You know, followed by leveling the entire estate, and following that up with a spree of annihilation of the Alliance's compounds? Sometimes he really understood Mukuro… But no, letting wrath, in all its inpatient glory, control your actions had led to not just his male Mist's downfall, but also that of Xanxus. Sobering, he raised his head and surveyed all of the trembling assembly out of disapproving eyes. As if he had peered into the essence of their very beings, weighed them, and found them all wanting. His uncomfortably strong resemblance to his Famiglia's founder, whose portrait hung above his head on the wall behind him (just over the seat of the current Vongola Don), had many shifting in their seats, and others more struggling against the irrational urge to lower their heads like naughty children that had disappointed their mother.

None of them, however, could avert their eyes from his laser-like glower.

"You mean the embossed evidence of the noble Vongola Alliance's cowardice…?" He finally inquired. "Yes, we did get something like that, didn't we, Hayato?"

His low voice was soft, tone gentle, and eerily more dangerous than if he had been shouting. But he was no child crying out for attention, he was the next boss of the Vongola Family, and he was going to get what he wanted –one way, or another.

He'd sold his soul for it, after all; it was time he get his due.

"It wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, Juudaime," his Right-Hand Man replied dutifully.

Bristling at the insult, most shook off their initial fear and began to voice their disapproval. Only the wisest of the congregation held onto that first impression and realized that they were dealing with a fatalistically formidable foe.

Those eyes: they spoke of destruction, extermination, chaos… They shuddered as they saw the devil reflected in the glowing golden eyes of one who looked very much like an angel. As if God had sent one of the Angels of the Apocalypse to punish them.

It was said that this juxtaposition was one of Primo's greatest psychological advantages -now they knew why. It was a morally crippling sensation, having so lovely an adversary, teeming with righteousness, and with the remnant signs of a sweet smile lingering around the set of his mouth –as if he was always tending to his friends and family with it. Imagining it in contrast to the satanic scowl made them feel oddly guilty. Maybe it was the nurturing inclinations written into his every movement; it gave them the strangest sensation of being stalked by an adolescent lioness defending her pride's cubs now. Maybe it was the protective way his guardians, despite their various, clashing personas, hovered first with their vulnerable backs trustingly to one another, and now side by side all closely knit. They were unified by the same ardent desire blazing in their eyes. It was as if he were a magnet, except with the sheer force of several solar masses, drawing them irrevocably ever in towards him. Helpless humans against his near galactic gravity, they had become addicted to the pull along the way. The very intensity of their collective glare, and the ever burgeoning power practically pouring off them made it seem as if they would be capable of absolutely anything to satisfy their cravings, to whet their appetite for his very presence.

…all with a background of a scorching spectacle, gushing out of his fists without pause.

In a twisted way though, some could understand. Decimo's flames were so pure, so unbelievably bright. Their quality was startling, and their luminosity breath-taxing. They were almost hypnotic, the way they ebbed and flowed with his breath, fluttering to his pulse, flickering at the edges as if they were dancing. They entranced the eyes, exceptional in clarity, like an infinitely flawless diamond, translucent and tempting, energizing, enigmatic, and enthralling all the more for it. The glistening tendrils of the inferno reaching up to his jaw were so…distracting, that very few caught the whispered order.

"Chrome, summon him."

Bowing, she submissively acquiesced with a murmur of, 'Yes, Bossu.'

The ones that did though, either jolted with terror, reeling back in stunned dismay, or bellowed in protest, their guards flooding forth into the room at the noise instinctively, to protect them. At the commotion, the others caught on, and the miasma of murmurs rose to a roar. Everyone clamored against the very idea of even having his conduit here, having for most part not even registered her presence earlier. The Ninth let it happen, let the horde have their moment to decry Tsuna's command, waiting to see what Tsuna would do.

Sure enough, he didn't disappoint.

"Silence…"

The vehement hiss, in combination with the ridiculously rising Fiamma pressure, cut through the thunderous racket instantaneously, simultaneously muting the mutinous mumblings.

"Kyoya, discipline anyone who even breathes too loudly."

As he gave the command, his stare was suspiciously blank. Expression devoid of anything in particular, utterly stoic, nearly peaceful, he was curiously more intimidating than when he was openly displeased. The very look of the raven that stepped forward was anything but.

His glare spoke of murder, of mutilation, of massacre.

He was bloodlust incarnate.

Appropriately cowed by it, a hush descended. Though a few wondered at the peculiar phrasing of the threat.

Discipline, they mentally scoffed. Is that what he was calling it?

Decimo seemed more maternal the more he interacted with them; even going as far as to call the beast of his little family to the fore to punish the…'misbehaving.'

"Chrome," Tsuna reiterated. "Summon him, but don't tell him anything."

"Of course," she repeated in acceptance with another bow. Amongst potential enemies, there could be no question of Tsuna dominance. Regardless of her –and Tsuna's- own feelings towards the whole idea, his authority needed to be seen as absolute. And though she didn't understand the need to thrust her other into this mess without prior warning, she trusted Tsuna to degrees that would be considered faulty if he wasn't so completely reliable.

Strands of indigo mist began to envelop the girl's form slowly until its silhouette was barely discernable. Then, even that subtly shifted, and from one moment to the next changed. It was a seamless transition, and the eerie chuckles of that trademark laughter that sent chills up many a spine assured that it was successful. But while the Guards all across the vast hall pressed closer to their respective Bosses, the Ninth Generation didn't even blink in response.

After all, the circular groove carved into the ground from their repeated use of Difesa A Circolo around the dais where Timoteo sat, as well as their decades' worth of experience, proved that throwing it up to defend their boss was a task both instinctive and instantaneous. Many a time, back in their youth when they were still perpetually on edge, they entombed him in flames for the most ridiculous things. Like the time when a flower petal fell from the open skylight during an assembly; the other famiglia heads were so surprised that one of the old and physically feeble actually peed himself. Or that fiasco when a mosquito entered through a previously unnoticed crack in the corner of a window in the grand ballroom next door, and the maids accidentally let it in when they were cleaning. The poor girls in question avoided Coyote like the plague for weeks after that. Or, rather infamously, the unfortunate incident where their stupid Boss made a pained sound because the sun got in his eyes as he walked out of the house and they had it enclosing him in immediately, right in middle of a garden party with over a thousand guests.

Timoteo still laughed at that one to this day.

And the sight of his smile is why they still occasionally brought it up- you know, how hair-triggered they all were back then? They were always ready to 'die' for him or whatever nonsense passionate young people sprouted when drunk on Sky Flames, and their most precious person's happiness. Proclamations like that were plentiful, varied and so theatrical in retrospect, that Bouche had entertained the thought of wiping some of the more melodramatic ones from everyone's memory aloud more than once. But then that old Casanova would send him those profoundly amused looks, with those aggravatingly adorable twinkles in his usually tired eyes, and he'd just melt on the inside a little more –if that was at all possible.

One thing they'd learned about Skies, it was always possible.

Their timeless devotion and attraction to Timoteo said as much. Here they were, ancient sacks of memories, and they still had room to fall for him more and more with every single day. Looking at how bad off the Decimo Guardians were already, made them both equal parts sympathetic and vindictively eager. Especially since Decimo was even more potent a Sky than theirs, and didn't even realize the power he had over them all. Poor things, they were just being dragged along behind him, squabbling like children for his attention. Those idiots were sure to be even worse than them…!

It'd be hilarious.

So, when even Mukuro obeyed Tsuna's call and unveiled himself in all his flamboyant fashion, it was all Bouche could do not to snort. Ganauche, the one amongst them with the least self-control, actually had to bite his lips and turn away; his shoulders shook with silent laughter. When a muffled chortle escaped him, Schnitten put a calming hand on his shoulder while Coyote sent him a warning glare. Behind them, Brow Nie smothered a yawn with the side of his right fist, and across from him, Visconti shook his head in exasperation.

Their attention was reclaimed straight away, however, when Mukuro Rokudo finally decided to stop playing with the guests by projecting vague shadows of himself in random spots just to spook the more weak-willed.

"You called, Sawada Tsunayoshi?"

As he stepped out of seemingly thin air before his Master, he gave a bow embossed with grandiose gesticulation and sank to his left knee. Miraculously, the blaze of one hand shrank back quickly, until it was naught but faintly sparkling wisps that slowly dispersed into nothingness. Accepting the cue, right hand laying across his chest over his heart, Mukuro tellingly passed his weapon over to his Sky's as of yet flaming fist, and reached out reverently with his now free hand to grasp Tsunayoshi's cooling right hand in his left.

Drawing it close he pressed a devout kiss to the X of the glove, then affectionate pecks to each finger, and finally, with a filthy leer aimed up at the brunet, gave the gem of the Vongola Sky Ring a long, languid lick, dried it with a few heated puffs upon it, and kissed it obediently.

Needless to say, the Assembly was scandalized and only further incensed when the blasphemer gave them a taunting smirk over his shoulder before shifting to address his Sky.

"All clean," the Mist declared softly, smugly, turning adoring eyes up to Decimo and batting his lashes provocatively as he wrapped his arms possessively around the heir's leg and leaned his weight on it.

Idly petting the head whose nose was pressed into the clothed jut of his hip, Tsuna suppressed a sigh and swung half his upper body back to languidly survey his predecessor.

"Nono," He began. "Before all gathered here I would like to plead my case. Have I leave to do as I please to convey my point?"

There was a pregnant silence before, suddenly, the two Skies auras were unleashed to battle against one another, probing at each other's intent and prodding at weaknesses. Many a Mafiosi winced at the virtually invisible pressure of the two, impossibly potent pulses of energy clashing. The walls thrummed, the furniture rattled, and the air sang with the ever building power that didn't seem to have an end in sight. Things carried on like this for a few minutes, escalating to even more unfathomable heights, and just when they were all writhing from the resounding vibration in their very bones, the double doors slammed open once again to admit an explosion of glowing Sun Flames that challenged even the younger Sky with the sheer force of, not a supernova, but a hypernova.

Having all experienced this before, they understood immediately what had just happened.

An Arcobaleno had arrived –and not just any Arcobaleno, but the infamous, World's Greatest Hitman, and alleged strongest of the I Prescelti Sette, Reborn.

"Ah, I was wondering where you were, Reborn!" Chirped the elder in greeting as he nonchalantly kept up the battle of wills; it was the most excitement he'd had in quite some time. Darn his dutiful Guardians for limiting the risks of what might be the most dangerous job on the planet. As an avid adrenaline junkie, he was ashamed to say that he was aching for a fix, and had purposely provoked his cute little successor to get it. After all, he could have naturally swayed the Assembly in favor of his ward; he just didn't want to. Hell, he could have simply over-ruled them if they proved stubborn, or agreed to it privately and sent them all a declaration with his decision; such was the power of a well-established Vongola Don. But that'd be too easy, and, having grown up with a mother like his, he understood that rewards had to be earned.

And with this, the boy was most certainly doing just that.

"My apologies, Nono," the infant nodded in deference. "I stopped by the kitchens to get my afternoon espresso. Try it, its Giannichi's newest blend. "

"No harm done, old friend," replied the Don, taking a sip from the proffered cup.

"Good?" Inquired the hitman, ignoring his student's strained grunt as he grit his teeth in frustration, in favor of chatting with his pal. Poor kid was beginning to struggle between restraining himself so that he wouldn't hurt his friends, who were already squirming in discomfort, and releasing all he had to keep up with the far more mature and experienced Sky.

It was a testament to his self-control, however, that they weren't clawing at themselves in agony, considering how vulnerable they were because of their sensitivity to his flames. They were so attuned that they had begun to sense when Tsuna was within a particular distance, which was unique to all of them respectfully, and unanimously even in which direction. Thus, pleased with his progress, Reborn wasn't mad that his Dame-Decimo was losing; he wasn't nearly as skilled as Nono.

That he was faring this well was astonishing in and of itself. Kudos to him for surviving.

The fact that Timoteo's Guardians were utterly unharmed just decided for him exactly what was next on their collective training regimen.

"As always: excellent…" the wizened heart-throb praised, glancing at his Right-Hand through the corner of his eye with that signature twist of his lips. "Of course, it's only to be expected considering that Coyote helped, and he knows exactly what I like."

The other Ninth generation Guardians carefully refused to react to the sight of their esteemed second-in-command flushing ever so slightly, but Reborn knew that they would clearly be remembering it later in private. It was almost a pity that he would be back in Japan and miss the resultant teasing – decades' worth of unresolved sexual tension was always amusing. Still…

"Don't you think that he's done well enough for today?" he remarked idly, watching with apparent indifference as Tsuna's canine, which had been biting into his bottom lip as he aimed his absolutely concentrated will at his senior, finally split it open. The single scarlet drop slipping down his chin becoming the stunned focus of his Guardians, who then turned their wrathful eyes on Nono.

Alas, not wanted things to deteriorate into a pointless squabble, and quite frankly more than a little impressed that Tsuna had held his own even half as long as he'd managed without more serious consequences, the man sighed in exhaustion. He may have over done it… Well, he comforted himself, he definitely wasn't as young as he used to be after all, and Tsuna's burgeoning will felt like nothing he'd ever dealt with before the child. Wrestling with him took energy that Timoteo rarely had any more, and unconquerable control to not lash out and cut his budding potential short in the most brutal way possibly out of the sheer instinct. The situation as akin to that of an aging lion perceiving a promising cub as a future rival and striking it down for the sake of its own survival.

He'd be a terrifying thing, Sawada Tsunayoshi, a monstrosity the likes of which no-one had or hopefully would ever see before or again –when he was all grown up, of course.

Reborn must be so proud…

Timoteo, eyes closed in both resigned acceptance and reluctant approval, gave Tsuna a firm nod.

"As you wish, Vongola Decimo."

If nothing else, maybe getting tricked would add some caution to that naivety.

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