Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! does not belong to me
Chapter 6
19 January 2015
Vongola HQ, Italy. 1:00 PM
"Heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there was perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind…"
Xanxus was unable to help himself from comparing such a description with one of the Manor's newest guests. Mycroft Holmes, seven years the senior of the legendary detective, was often labeled as the less appreciated genius—having the sound mind of the reasonable and contemplative scholar, but lacking the vigor and physique which made Holmes, the younger, such a commendable authority in criminal matters.
Truly, there was not a more accurate literary depiction of Ishmael Koenig Miura.
For Xanxus, it was but a matter of time before he crossed paths with the Japanese Professor again. The subject of their first discussion in twelve years—he could almost picture it—would paradoxically be the thing which caused this rift of silence between them in the first place. To elaborate would be to divulge too much of a past long forgotten by those who had it as their personal histories, yet to stay quiet and allow the mind to wonder the stories behind their great names was just as grave and unjust.
Xanxus might as well fill the gaps of our story. After all, his sister had entangled herself too much in our present-day narration for him to simply stay idle. Let us then be candid for it is a haunting thing to know so much yet understand so little. As how Haruka etched herself in the hearts of Vongola's strongest authority, so was it done to the child who saw in her the mother he was denied of, and the sister he always wished for. They could have been genuinely related by blood in some terms, and none would be the wiser.
Truth was indeed stranger than fiction, at times.
An example could be seen in one of rooms of the Manor's left wing, wherein a man of about twenty-three years was seated on a swivel chair with both feet stretched out and one arm tucked beneath the other which held the leather-bound book in between the thumb and the index finger. Preoccupied by the passages of a favorite author, it was not entirely surprising to find the adopted son so annoyed when his momentary leisure was disturbed by a loud ruckus from the outside of his door.
"Hey, what's the—"
19 January 2015
Vongola HQ, Italy. 1:00 PM
Honestly, Haru Miura never saw the resemblance between herself and her mother.
The late Mrs. Miura was a tall skinny woman, with raven bohemian-wave hair and a pair of dark black eyes. Her features, dark and handsome as they were contrasted the paleness of her pure Asian skin.
Haru Miura was nothing alike.
She was small for her age. Petite with the bones, but plump with the muscles. She had brown silk-straight hair, and deep hazel irises that served to complement her beige-tone flesh.
Why people insisted on the likeness was something she'd never understand. Maybe, it was a way of coping. After all, she was the only thing remaining of Haruka. She was what they have left. Had it been a domesticated kitten in her place, they probably wouldn't have noticed. She didn't hate them for it. God knows, how she'd done every method known to man to cope with the trials of her life once. She pitied them, really, knowing the pain all too well. Her advice? Keep on moving. Things would only get rougher through time.
Ironic, wasn't it?
That she, a girl of fifteen would be handing out nuggets of wisdom for men thrice her age. She didn't expect things to come to this. Just as how she didn't expect to be Don Timoteo's doll every day of the week. She was visiting him frequently now. The Ninth had specifically asked for her company. Who was she to deny a mafia boss such a simple request? The Don, much like the other old people whom she'd met with, had this habit of glancing at the bracelet on her right wrist. It was probably worn by her mother a lot. She didn't pry. There was no need.
Don Timoteo was recovering well, and she believed this. The doctors here were seldom wrong. Their years of experience would recommend them as the best, that and some other stuff which she didn't bother to know because it was really worthless trouble. Iemitsu Sawada wouldn't have hired them had he been in doubt. And knowing Tsuna's father professionally (Lal had given her a short background of everyone), the man knew who he was dealing with.
Besides, Vongola still needed The Ninth. And In Haru's world, nothing needed could be taken away.
The Don liked to hear her talk which was a delightful surprise in itself. Pleasant conversations were hard to come by these days. Kyoko was becoming more and more distant to her. Haru had tried—truly, sincerely, honestly tried to get things between them settled again, but all was in vain. The younger Sasagawa appeared to have made her own version of reality—one wherein the average lives they led in Japan continued to remain untainted by the mafia. Lambo and I-pin played along with her.
Haru Miura stayed to watch—to straighten Kyoko with the truth would mean demolition. Demolition of the tall white walls, her friend had built in order to keep herself grounded.
Could Haru Miura bear the guilt of extracting a friend from that paradise?
She could not. Heaven knows her hypocrisy, and had she been able, perhaps, she would've joined in the fantasy.
The brunette sat on the foot of her bed, alone but not in want of company. She held out a typewritten copy of a song her mother used to sing to The Ninth. The verses were in a Filipino dialect, and though they were hard to read at first, it came to her eventually. She didn't review her scales. Just as how she didn't went over her mother's old videos to get the tempo of the song. Everything was an act of remembering. And this lullaby was something Haru could never forget.
Haru Miura was eight months old when she first heard it.
It was a sick blessing to be given a memory beyond life's scope. Then again, maybe it was God's way of making it up to her.
Or maybe it was another one of fate's twisted games—an illusion that she kept because it was too precious to forsake.
Regardless, she could see herself bundled up in a pink blanket being rocked back and forth by a woman who looked so young to be a mother. From the silence of that room which looked so much like her own, there would be a melody from that lady's lips, ethereal in harmony and mellow in tune that was gentle enough to cradle and strong enough to protect. Along with it, came the unspoken promise to welcome the first blossoms of spring—
19 January 2015
Vongola HQ, Italy. 7:00 PM
Once upon a time, Tsunayoshi Sawada was a normal teenager leading an average life. That was a long time ago. The story was different now.
"Neo Vongola Primo."
It took all the strength in Tsuna's character to smile at his ailing grandfather. There was no way of putting the scene before him into a pleasant sentence. Might the Don be strong enough stay reclined during visits, it was still heart-wrenching to see the once independent boss rely so heavily on the assistance of the seemingly omnipresent nurses. With a wave of a hand, the great Timoteo dismissed them as imploringly as he could, though it was only through the reassuring glance of Sawada were they convinced to leave the invalid.
"You gave yourself quite the title."
"Reborn was the one who made it," Tsuna answered shyly taking the seat nearest to the bed.
"But you are the one who defines its extent."
The Ninth was getting better, they all said. If it were true then the man before Tsuna was certainly a very impressive facsimile. The young Decimo saw no one, but a struggling patient wanting to appear in the best of health. Don Timoteo shook his head knowing the face of worry too well to mistake it for anything else.
"I'm fine. I'm more concerned on what's happening beyond my walls. Care to tell me what's become of Italia?"
"Ahhh," Tsuna struggled in discussing the current issues of the country. His grandfather was an avid follower of Italian politics, and had favorites in almost every region. The fact that Tsuna had not been acquainted enough with the national government, and the doctors advised them not to discuss anything that might incur stress further worsened the boy's position. Not knowing, what else to say, he settled for the relative truth. "Everything is fine outside, grandpa."
It was, at least, an acceptable reply as it met with a nod from the Don. "And your friends?"
Honestly, Tsuna didn't know anymore. His time was mostly spent either with Reborn to settle legal matters or with Mukuro to deal with the not-so-legal ones. Gokudera assured him that everyone was doing their best to cope, but it still opened the question of how good was their best.
"I haven't been able to check on them lately." Guilt surged in, along with the longing for the childhood that was lost on their flight to Italy. "Sorry, grandpa."
"No. It's a hard thing, what you're doing right now." The veined weakened hand reached for his. The palm though foreign in texture was familiar in warmth. "I should be the one apologizing for putting you through this."
"I wish I could do better," For everyone—he wanted to add. For everything. Yet The Ninth shook his head gently and looked at the boy forlornly but with pride.
"You've done what you can for the Famiglia. I can wish no more from you, young man." In another world, in another time, perhaps, Tsuna would've believed him. "Someday when you take on my office, you'll realize how selfish I've been to appoint you my role."
"Grandpa—"
"No, Tsuna. I need to speak and you must only listen. The saints of heaven know how little time I have left." He wanted to argue, but seeing the Don, weak and without power prompted the teenager to obey. Little could be done to the soul who was convinced of ascension. The will to live was no longer present. "You will meet with great and dangerous men in the future. When the time comes, I want you to have allies whom you can trust with your life. The people around you, are you sure of them?"
Sawada painfully looked at his grandfather who was weaning on the threshold of life and death. The weight of the question brought up remembrances—awful, amusing, horrific and the like—all at once. There was no way of putting it to a single sentence. He was thankful for Gokudera and Yamamato and Lambo and all the others who went through time and space to support him in his endeavors. Yet when the colorful rings and burning flames all return to ashes, the sum of all verities was that he, Tsunayoshi Sawada, had dragged all of them in this mess.
His conscience had often sought him to do something of his friends. He was fated to go down with the Vongola if he couldn't change it. If it was so, then let him face his destiny alone. There was no need to endanger the lives of his comrades as he had continuously done in the past.
And yet.
Vongola wouldn't be Vongola if it weren't for the people who believed in its principles. Of family. Of blood. Of giving justice when none is found. Of obtaining the truth. Of conquering the untouchable aristocrats who impose their elitist beliefs on the general poor. The great Vongola which Giotto had once presided over, and what Tsuna had promised the first generation, he'd restore.
All of it could only be made possible through them. If and only if, the people who had faith in the new era would usher it in, themselves.
"I am, grandfather." Reborn would've retired satisfied, had he seen his student so grown and learnt. "I really am."
"Then the best of luck to you," The humble state of The Ninth turned out to be his most regal one, for not even the kings of eighteenth century could be at par of his self-mastery as he gave his final benediction to the young Sawada. "And may the blessings of God, be with you all."
Once upon a time, Tsunayoshi Sawada was a normal teenager leading an average life. That was a long time ago. The story was different now.
19 January 2015
Venice, Italy. 3:00 PM
Colonello held his breath.
In retrospect, he should consider himself lucky. He was given an assignment outside the Manor and with the current tension inside there now, anyone who'd be fortunate enough to do something productive while staying away held an enviable position. Yet seeing the lab-coated scientist wave at him so coolly as if there was nothing wrong in the world, prompted the blond to make a contrary claim. Verde stood under a small pink umbrella which was more ornamental than useful. It was a disturbing sight, really—to find one of the shrewdest men in Italia so casual and unrestricted.
Colonello approached the small café. The kind employee bid him a good afternoon.
"Would you like to try our today's special, sir?" The girl was probably no older than twenty-two. Italian by accent but surely American in bearing. She smiled and offered him a menu.
"None for me," Colonello answered with a smile of his own. He could already hear Verde laughing in the background. "I just came to pick up a friend."
The girl nodded as she picked up the used coffee cup—probably an earlier order from Verde. The scientist grinned at him. The blond could feel a warm growing itch on the nape of his neck.
"Nice to know you consider me a friend now."
Colonello froze. Though they once shared the arcobaleno curse, the blond was nothing more but a replacement, a sacrificial lamb of some sort, a substitute for Lal. Hence, he wasn't entirely sure of the characters that lied behind the stoic facades of the other arcobalenos. Verde though, had already made a reputation for himself in the underground forces, and needed no introductions.
"The Ninth wants to see you."
"Oh," Verde said with a downcast tone. "It already came to that? Well, don't give me that glare, soldier boy. Don Timoteo must really be in a critical condition if Iemitsu allowed my coming."
Colonello dropped a heavy sigh. A part of him knew there was no point in this. Verde might be a brilliant mind but that was all he was. Nothing more could be said to recommend him to the service of the Vongola. Nothing in his character. Nothing of his soul.
"Verde, please. Just…be kind. Things are bad enough in the Manor as it is."
"Kind?" Verde repeated in question with a devilish vivacity. "Who am I to be kind?"
Colonello resisted the urge to punch him in the face. The cruelty was not an act. It was Verde's actual state of being. Why The Ninth insisted on having this man inside the Manor was something he'd never understand. It was like keeping a cobra unrestraint, waiting for its next fatal strike. Verde held on his mask and wore it as effortlessly as if it been his face. The expression of wrath was forever buried behind that elusive smirk. A black car stopped in front of them and with a mocking gesture, Verde made the blond go first.
"Better not be late, soldier," Verde said with relative composure. "I might be wanted there a little sooner than you think."
Colonello raised a brow as he held the door open for the lab-coated man.
"How can you say that?"
"Oh, I've hit my mark."
Replies to Reviews:
xNightDreamerx: Hey dude! Yeah, thanks for the review. Well, the truth will set you free right? XD
Drika-Veras: HAHA, thanks. This relax-thing that you speak of, I shall try it next time. ^_^
nevertheless: I'm having second thoughts about the pairing. Is romance still necessary in this fiction? Not so sure now. :/
Sandstorm3D: Thanks! Hopefully, I won't disappoint. Where am I taking this? To infinity and beyond! (I need to stop with the references).
Ace Clover: Thank you so much. I would really appreciate constructive criticism for the latest chapter.
The last scene was inspired by a scene from Great Expectations. I recommend the book. The movie? Meh.