Summary: ''There is blood on Giotto's hands; The type you can't scrub off.

The first had gone down with a thud. The second with a howl. He didn't keep count after the third. Giotto hates himself; The ease with which he ended lives makes him sick to his stomach.

(He had been in a haze while killing, but he's certain: He intended to do it)''

Giotto's life: A tale of loss, love, religion, betrayal and learning to love yourself.

Disclaimer: I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn.


"I would stop praying to help the beggar at my door, and my god will understand,"

-St. Vincent de Paul to the other priests who scolded him for not praying enough


Chapter 2: Take Me to Church


"You're making a mistake!"

''This isn't up for discussion.''

Daemon slams his hands down on the table. ''Giotto, we're surrounded by enemies on all sides! We can't disband the military force!''

The rest of his friends stare at him, unsure what to do.

Giotto's hand clenches on the crucifix around his neck, body stiffening, bracing himself to take a stand. ''We're becoming the men we fought, Daemon. I'm prohibiting any and all violence within the Vongola. This conversation is over.''

Standing up to one's own friends is terribly hard and it never gets easier. But this needs to be done. There had been fear-filled brown eyes and Giotto never wants to see that look again.

Daemon grabs Giotto's collar and shakes him, face twisting. ''When is it going to get through to you? We're all going to the devil's bloody blazes anyhow! Stop trying to be a saint before it gets not only you but all of us killed!''

Giotto shoots up, shoving Daemon away. '' The Vongola can defend just fine against enemy intruders, but the town's people can't. Not if their own protectors have become the bullies! We aren't warmongers and I'll be damned if I'll let us become dictators!''

For a second, Giotto thinks Daemon is going to spit in his face. He doesn't. The blue haired man looks him straight in the eye and says:

''You're playing with lives, Giotto.''

Daemon turns his back to him and stalks away. The door falls shut with a thud.

Helpless, Giotto gazes at the rest of his friends, slumping in exhaustion. They don't say a word. It feels heavy, terribly so, but it can never outweigh the lives on his shoulders.

Daemon is doing this because he loves the Vongola just as fiercely as the others do. Justice burns in his veins, Giotto knows.

It still hurts.


''He never adjusts to change well. Not unless he initiated it.''

Giotto stares down at the wine glass held loosely in his hand, forlorn. The red liquid swirls around uselessly. It feels a little lost. ''Nobody else said a thing.''

Elena squeezes his shoulder, blond hair glinting in the firelight. ''They'll be fine. It's a whole new way of life. They're afraid right now, just like you are. It will come with time.''

And as Elena says, they do.


''Take care of my people, Rica.''

''Go visit Longlegs already, Gio.''

Giotto laughs, slinging an arm around G and Knuckle, waving at his cousin as they walk towards the coach. ''Have fun!''

There's a last laughing shout from Lampo, Ricardo cat calling back, and then they're off.

He's going to visit Cozart, and he'll be damned if he doesn't confess this time. He isn't sure what his reaction will be, but as long as Giotto's heart beats, it beats in the chest of another, and he can't stand hiding it anymore. He needs the truth. The truth and all his emotions, bared to the world; Naked, pure and clean.

He loves and he will never be ashamed of it again.


Their arrival is quiet. The Simon, ever gentle, live in a peaceful village at the edge of a mountain, drenched in sunlight and surrounded by the soothing sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Lampo moves along, yawning, green hair sticking up in all directions. Asari and G are on either side of Knuckle, falling out of their normal formation. Even Alaude's shoulders aren't rigid for once. Giotto's glad; They need relaxation desperately and Simon village always does the trick.

As to him- his breath catches in his throat the minute he catches sight of Cozart. There are people around them, the whole courtyard thriving with people, hooves clicking on the cobblestones, but Giotto doesn't notice any of it. He only has eyes for Cozart, with his smile attempting to become as broad as his shoulders, sparkling with joy, and Giotto's world is on fire. In a good way, this time.

Warm arms around him, and to his delight, Cozart doesn't let go afterwards. He just shifts, one arm still slung over Giotto's shoulder as they move towards the dining room. Twilight slips into the sky, dyeing it purple.

The welcome party is loud and everyone shovels their plate up 'till the roof, wine flowing freely. It all tastes like ash in Giotto's mouth, the lump in his throat not letting anything through. The dining room is attached to the ballroom- the only true extravagance the Simon indulged in, and it's visible. Huge marble tiles so clean Giotto can see his own reflection, walls decorated with countless creatures, faces, swirls, stories carved into the very soul of the mansion. Instead of a roof, there's a glass dome, the star-lit night sky easily seen. The moon looms over them.

They dance, and by the name of the Lord, it's what the Simon do best. Except, of course, producing red-headed boys that make the world spin with a smile and steal hearts with their every breath. But then again, Cozart is whirling over the dance floor with feet made of lightning and a presence larger than the sun at noon, and Giotto knows wine-eyed men and melodies are one in all the ways that matter.

Cozart is harmony, for all he might be earth.

Cozart catches his gaze, laughs brightly as he makes his way over, and big hands close around Giotto's own, pulling him onto the dance floor.

His hands tingle, and it feels like sparks, like fireworks, like singing Hallelujah and screaming it from the rooftops.

It's warm and alive, electrocuting, and Giotto wants it to last forever.


Wheezing, they stumble onto the balcony. They're out of breath, but can't stop laughing, the wine going to their heads. The cold night air fills his lungs, a shock to his system. He feels lightheaded, his entire existence focused on Cozart. It's too much, filling his mouth, his ears, his lungs, until Giotto's breath is stolen, and in order not to drown, he looks away. Leaning against the stone balustrade, he attempts to control his breathing. Cozart is still talking in the background, beyond the haze. In the distance, behind the trees, he sees the tomato fields. The smell of earth is heavy in the air.

It grounds him, the ordinary things.

The sun will rise again tomorrow and the Simon will dance and pick tomatoes, regardless of whether or not Giotto confesses. Whether or not he is rejected.

He swallows.

Inhale, exhale, turn.

Don't get a heart attack.

Cozart is standing there, so utterly perfect, and God, Giotto can't. His breath stutters.

The most beautiful creature on earth frowns and leans forward. ''Are you alright?''

And, oh God, oh God, Cozart closes in, putting a hand on Giotto's forehead. He's concerned, thinking Giotto might be sick, but the blond has never cared less. Because Cozart just put his hands on him, and Giotto can't handle that either.

His lips part. Cozart's eyes dart down, distracted by the movement. His hand is warm on Giotto's face and the blonde's heart is in his throat, drumming against his sides. It's now or never.

''Cozart, I need to tell you something. You... You mean the wor-'' The door leading to the balcony slams against the windows.

''The Vongola are under attack!''


The ride back home is a blur. They left the coach behind. Cozart lends them horses, and the hooves pounding are unable to drown out the sound of Giotto's heartbeat. For once, there are no shaking hands, only Giotto forcing himself to breathe. Keep breathing. He goes as fast as he can, but no faster. He doesn't want to hurt the horse.

At home, they're getting hurt too. Maybe even dying.

Concentrate. He forces himself to focus on the muscles shifting beneath the horse skin.

The wind blazes against them, forcing tears into Giotto's eyes. His feet burn. Concentrate.

(What if they're dead already?)


The doors of the mansion are wide open, the gaping maw of a monster, leading straight to the depths of Hell. Giotto stares through it. The mansion is in ruins, ripped apart. Sandstone walls have fallen down, you can look straight into the building. The dinner table is clearly visible, even from this distance. The carpet beneath it is red, and… Giotto's breath hitches. What else will be stained scarlet?

It's like looking at Giovanni's corpse again- the intestines spilling out.

Yellow bricks from the ruined walls are scattered across the courtyard, sinking into the mud. The flowers have been trampled. A children's glove is half buried underneath them, its edges signed.

He walks up the stairs. The teeth of the monster's mouth. Wait- is that?!

He scrambles to get closer, eyes widening in horror. Draped over the topmost steps is Ricardo, blood staining the side of his white blouse like bath oil pouring into water. His chest tightens and twists. He can't breathe.

As if in trance, Giotto kneels and reaches out, cupping Ricardo's cheek.

It's still warm. He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, before steeling himself. Ricardo needs him. His men need him. The Vongola needs their leader, and as Cozart said so many years ago: ''Giotto, there's no one but you.''

G squeezes Giotto's shoulder. ''Go. I'll handle Rica.''

Asari, Knuckle, Alaude, and Lampo stand behind the redhead, solidair. And Giotto is so goddamn grateful for them. ''Thank you,''

He stands up, turns around and walks into the mansion, not looking back. Rica is his son in all but blood- this is how much he trusts his family.

Now, if only he could find the remainder of them…


''KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HER!''

Giotto whirls around in the middle of the corridor and takes a turn to the left. Daemon. Screaming. Daemon never loses composure. Giotto's mouth is dry.

Just a few steps more and- Giotto freezes in the door opening.

The outer wall of the room has been ripped out by an explosion. Rubble is spread all over the room and the ironwork from the fireplace lies wrangled against the pit. The luxurious pillows have been torn apart, their feathers prey to the wind, eddying all around.

On his right, next to a broken chair, sits Daemon, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by mirror shards. He's holding someone up, golden strands spilling through the gaps between his fingers. Elena. Who else would it be? He relaxes, relieved.

Her skirt is belled out all around them, and Salvatrice, one of Vongola's nurses, is walking around them, huffing. She walks straight towards Giotto, wiping her brow with her apron. She's a formidable woman, broad and strong, about forty years old.

''We need to move her, he's not letting us.''

Straight to the point as always. Giotto wets his lips, gives her a jerky nod.

Elena's face is in the crook of Daemon's neck, the man carding through her hair gently. Giotto approaches them, mirror shards cracking underneath his heel.

''Don't touch her.'' His voice is hoarse.

Giotto grimaces. Daemon has episodes sometimes. He's a mist, their very mindscapes are traps, always moving, hiding, changing. It makes them a mental fortress, but also unstable. The more powerful the mist, the more fragile their mind often becomes. And Daemon has power in spades if nothing else.

But Giotto doesn't want to assume. ''Daemon.''

The blue haired man raises his head. It takes a second or two before Daemon's eyes focus on his face. His features twist into a sneer, his arms tightening around Elena. ''You.''

Daemon raises his hand, but before he can activate his flames, Giotto punches him in the jaw, knocking him out. Catching both Elena and Daemon, he waits until Salvatrice carefully takes Daemon from him and lets him lift Elena. It's a practiced maneuver.

Giotto sighs as Salvatrice lays Daemon down. He knows Daemon will be grateful for it later, the man hates being out of control, but it's still awful, having to do it. It never gets any easier.

But first things first. He adjusts Elena and begins to walk towards the left side of the building.

Salvatrice gives him a funny look. ''Where do you think you're going?''

Giotto frowns. ''The hospital wing, of course.''

Salvatrice stops dead in her tracks and covers her mouth, the light falling onto her wilting features. ''Oh, sonny boy,'' she croaks, ''That one's bound for the morgue.''

Giotto stiffens, the world reeling around him. The only thing keeping him standing is sheer force of will and the fact that he's holding Elena- Elena's corpse.

Her cold skin makes sense now, but he wishes it didn't.

(By God, he wishes it didn't)


He blacks out for a while after that. He doesn't remember carrying Elena's body to the morgue, but he must have, because when he wakes up, he's settled against the door.

He takes a deep breath, sees Daemon, his head bowed, dressed in black, next to a table up ahead, and flees.

He can't take this. He can't.

''We're all going to the devil's bloody blazes anyhow!'' He remembers Daemon screaming.

Giotto knows he is. It doesn't make it any easier to deal with Elena's death.


Him fleeing ends, of course, with him facing his problems again. The hospital. A long row of full beds, moans everywhere. Sunlight colours the sick- it does not help their paleness. The white sheets only makes it worse.

It seems like the row of beds goes on forever. Long, daunting, unconquerable

Then again, there is someone in those beds that Giotto cannot abandon.

He takes a deep breath and walks.

Underneath the window in the back, Ricardo lies. His side is heavily bandaged, and Giotto moves closer with a gasp. He'd hoped it would look less bad when he saw it again, but all he can see is the gaping hole that must be underneath it.

No, he tells himself, no, this is not like with Giovanni. You have suns. You have healers. You got there in time.

He sits down, scooting the chair closer to Rica's bed. Wiping the sweat-drenched black hair from the young man's forehead, he smiles. Caring for Rica is like coming home. So quickly, the boy has aged. So young, Ricardo still is. It feels like yesterday that Giotto took him from his aunt's tired arms, cradled him, then put him on his hip, then carried him on his shoulders, until the boy became too big for even that.

Ricardo is precious, and age will not change that.

A few hours later, Rica's eyes flutter open. Sleep slides off him like a mantle, slow but sure, until he comes to completely.

Then the panic hits.

''What- how- Gio, I-''

''Calm down. We got here.''

Ricardo grabs his hands with a wild look in his eyes. ''In time?''

Elena flashes before his eyes, and Giotto cannot answer. The silence is obviously answer enough for Ricardo, however, because he deflates, burying his head in his hands. ''Dead.''

A desperate noise fights its way out of Giotto's throat as he scrambles to engulf his cousin in his embrace. Ricardo grabs his shirt, holding on even tighter than he did when he was a baby- as if he was scared to death someone would pry him off his favourite human.

''I… You left them in my hands, and I failed them. Failed you.''

And it is the truth, except that- ''You could never fail me, Rica. Not even if you pulled down the moon and made it crash on top of us.''

It is true, except his cousin is eighteen, and has never led so many people before. Has never have to carry this kind of burden on his shoulders, because Giotto was always so incredibly careful to keep it anywhere but there.

Ricardo led the Vongola, and people died. There have been many situations in which Giotto was leader first and father second, but this is not one of them.

So Giotto leans forward, his forehead against Ricardo's, and whispers: 'I'm so proud of you."
Because he is, and that's the only reason he needs to tell Ricardo so.

They boy lets out a broken sob, and cries into his shirt, and if anyone thought Giotto's eyes stayed dry, then they did not know him at all.

A warm feeling envelops him, even through his tears.

This child is his. Hallelujah.


Dark shadows approach through the night. The church is long and cold, the shadowed statues in the niches along the side tower over Giotto as he walks down the stone path towards the altar. Their eyes seem to follow him, stoic faces creasing, judging him from above. The large windows at the end of the church allow the light of the moon to fall down onto the single candle still burning, flame flickering on top of the altar.

Giotto stops in front of the stone steps, closes his eyes, bows his head, folds his hands and prays.

War is approaching and he has no idea what to do.

There comes no answer. Tired, the fatigue of battle still in his limbs, he sits down on the pew. Slumping, he rests his head in his hands.

What to do, what to do? His enemies won't stop, but he can't take the violence anymore. The thoughts are too heavy, dragging him down, and his lids fall closed with them.

He sleeps in the House of God.


When he opens his eyes, he's facing a gate. The gnarled, curling metal creates the illusion of tree branches wound together. It's dark, though, burnished and black, sucking up the little light that filters through the trees around the dirt path towards it.

There's something ominous about this place, and it is not simply the gothic design.

The gate rattles. Teeth gleaming in the low light, yellow eyes glowing in the dark, blood-shot and baggy. Wet snouts and furry heads, drool dripping onto the ground. Dogs.

Giotto gasps and takes a step back, crossing himself to ban out evil.

Behind them is a graveyard, and he knows, instinctual, as if this knowledge is engraved in his bones, that these are the dogs of war.

They jump up against the gate, throwing their heavy bodies into the It's not the loud rattling, the clang of the metal that concerns him, but the creaking at the sides. The gate hinges are about to break.

No- he's got to stop them!

…But how?

The dogs crane their necks back, worshipping the moon like a god, their howls their prayer. ''Hallelujah!'' they cry.

Anger rises in Giotto's veins. War is an instrument of the devil. It is not made for the love the Lord preaches. "You dare use the name of the Lord in vain?!"

As if one, the dogs stop howling, looking him straight in the eye, glowing eyes studying his every motion as they move in unison. Their eyes hold the glint of intelligence, supernatural knowledge in their gaze.

Giotto shivers.

Simultaneously, they speak up, their low baritone vibrating. A growl, yet so civilized it startles him. "Why would it be vain, sire, when we rejoice that we might once again be useful? War is coming, and we must be set loose. Please turn the key, so that we might fight."

"But you hurt mankind!''

"Mankind hurts itself, sire, and those who do not defend themselves are the first to die. War can only be avoided when two parties put themselves into a vulnerable position, unto the mercy of God. But he that be damned, is he that forgets the Earth for the Heavens, so die he shall.''

Clutching the gate, Giotto presses his face against the cold metal, desperation seeping into his voice. ''What do you mean?''

They call him sire, but he feels like a child in their presence, so young to their ancient power, so foolish compared to their wisdom. A grandson in his grandmother's lap, knowing everything there is to know in his youth, yet knowing nothing simultaneously.

The dogs look at him knowingly. ''Consider carefully when choosing not to fight, sire, what the price might be.''

They howl again, the heralds of the approaching storm.


The church bells sounds, Giotto wakes up, cries Havoc and let slip the dogs of war.

(Havoc, war is, because it is useless. A step one takes when they see no other option, a cry of chaos and destruction were there should be love.

Choice? Ye have one.

Die, son, flee or fight.

Peace be no more, when Havoc's cried)